Page 17 of Cowboy Dreams

“Yes.” He sat up and gave me an intent stare. “I trust you.”

That seemed like it meant more than whether I could make toast. I scooped up my boots and socks. “I’ll get going on that.”

“You don’t have to.”

I shrugged and left the room, figuring some distance might help my whirling brain.

A little looking around, with a detour into a downstairs bathroom, found me the kitchen, which was about as big as you’d expect for a house with ten bedrooms. Acres of Formica-topped counters, painted cabinets, a double sink and a single, and an older stove with a second oven beside it. The fridge had a black plastic front, as old as the rest of the room, but I didn’t see a single fingerprint. I wondered who Sylvester had cleaning for him. I was willing to bet he didn’t mop his own floors.

Luckily the gas range lit right up. The fridge was half empty but the food he promised was in there. I was halfway through frying a pan of bacon when Sylvester finally made it down to the kitchen.

He’d dressed, right down to cowboy boots, and I felt exposed with my feet bare on the tiles. Ignoring my discomfort, I said, “How do you want your eggs?”

“I don’t usually eat much breakfast.”

“Gonna change if you want to get this place working.” I scrambled up four, divided them between plates, added bacon and toast. I hadn’t figured out the coffee machine, and for a minute I’d thought about making cowboy coffee boiled in a pot. But knowing Sylvester, he’d give me a hard time if he choked on the grounds. I’d found filters and a strainer and improvised. It worked.

I set his mug in front of him.

He eyed it. “Maybe I take cream in it?”

He didn’t seem like the type, but I said, “There’s milk in the fridge. Your legs ain’t broke.”

“Fair enough.” He lifted his mug and took a long swallow.

I fought the impulse to get the milk for him and sat down instead. “Too lazy to walk ten feet?”

He grinned. “I actually don’t take any.”

“You just like to stir the shit, don’t you?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Actually, if you asked around, they’d tell you that Joe McNeil was a quiet guy, never any trouble, kept himself to himself. Sylvester brought out the worst in me. Or maybe the best. Watching him crunch a strip of bacon between strong white teeth, then lick his fingers, I began to warm up to his morning-in-bed idea.

To distract myself, I asked, “Were you serious? About the dude ranch thing?”

“Completely.” He eyed his eggs like he wasn’t sure what they were, but ate a big forkful and nodded. “These are good.”

“Been cooking for myself for thirty years.”

“Thirty? How old are you?”

“Forty.” I ate my toast and let him make of that what he would.

Something dark flickered across his face, but he didn’t push for more than I gave him. Just said, “I’m forty-four.”

“Old man,” I teased, although of the two of us, I had a lot more mileage and looked older.

His lips twitched. “So, Joseph—”

“Joe,” I broke in. My dad had called me Joseph and I didn’t want to hear it from Sylvester.

He cocked an eyebrow, but something in my tone must’ve made him think better, because he said, “Joe, then. I have this ranch, I have ideas, but I’m not sure where to start. If you were me, looking at this place and trying to decide if you could make something of it, where would you start?”

I’d been tensed up to have a discussion about us. Maybe about feelings, which had never been my strong suit. So I was happy to dive into something practical instead. I suggested, “Buy a horse.”

Sylvester blinked at me. “Seriously? Why that?”

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