Page 25 of Cowboy Dreams

One of the other council members said, “He’s right, Morse. We’re not going to turn down a good new business because you don’t like something about the guy running it.”

I told the council, “You all received my background check and resume, including my past ownership of a luxury hotel, in the information package with my application. I have the funds and expertise to make the Circle K a success and contribute to the bottom line for the county. Taxes alone will be substantially higher on a business like this than on fallow ranchland.” I figured that would put little light-up dollar signs in front of some of their eyes. “I understand what makes a hospitality business a success.”

“What about a ranch, though?” Morse demanded. “Do you have any idea how to run a cattle operation?”

“I grew up on that ranch,” I said. “But you’re right, I’ve been away for years and that’s not my area of expertise. So I’ve hired a consultant with decades of experience. Joe, you want to answer the man’s questions?” I felt bad for putting Joe on the spot, but he’d been twitching and clenching his jaw, hands in fists on his knees there in the audience, so I thought he might like his say.

Joe strode to the front with that rolling gait of his and pulled the mic stand over when Morse didn’t step away. If Morse could’ve set something on fire with his eyes, Joe would’ve been charcoal.

“I’m Joe McNeil,” he said. “Lots of you folks know me too. I’ve worked on local ranches for the last twenty-five years. Mr. Georgiadis—” He pronounced it just about right. “—hired me to consult on the ranching side.”

“There,” the second councilman said. “You can’t claim Joe doesn’t know a thing or two about ranching.”

“Oh sure,” Morse drawled. “I bet Joe McNeil knows a bull from a steer.”

Joe didn’t even look at him. “I promise, Mr. Chairman, there’ll be no bulls on the Circle K. The beefs will be for show, not for breeding. No safety concerns.”

Morse turned to face Joe. “Gonna be allsteerson any place you run, huh, Joey? I mighta guessed that.”

“A few cows, too,” Joe said, still looking at the chairman, not Morse. “Probably some calves every year. We’ll likely buy heavies from someone local, your bottom-of-the-line cows, and let them calve on the Circle K. Tourists like calves.”

“Is it going to be a gay ranch?” Morse demanded. “You gonna plaster those rainbows all over everywhere and invite big city queers—”

“Enough!” The chairman thumped on the table. “We all heard your concerns by now, Morse. Give it a rest. Sit down and make room for people with actual questions to ask.” Morse huffed but the chairman said, “Sit. Mrs. Barrett, you got a question back there? Come on down and take the mic.”

Morse backed up with obvious reluctance and dropped in a chair in the front row, his arms crossed over his chest.

The woman came down and asked a relevant question about whether the dining facilities on the ranch would be open to the public and if so, would it compete with her local restaurant. I was able to tell her that wasn’t in the plans for this year. We got a few more questions about the renovations that mostly seemed to be people working out how they and their friends could get a piece of the money I planned to spend. Then the chairman closed our agenda item, telling me we would hear from them within the month, and moved on to a request from a local bowling alley to serve hard liquor.

I sat next to Joe, barely listening to the discussion and watching the back of Morse’s head. Twice, the old man turned and aimed a glare at us, before facing the front again. When the meeting adjourned, I headed out quickly, not sure if I trusted the old bastard not to key my car if he got out first. Joe followed, but just outside the doors, we got snagged by three folks from the local Chamber of Commerce who wanted to make it clear they welcomed the new vision of the Circle K. Morse passed us as they talked, got into an old beater pickup, and pulled away.

When we were safely in the SUV, driving off, I said to Joe, “That guy Morse doesn’t like you much, does he?”

“Nope. And his brother the cop purely hates my ass. I never have more than one drink an hour in a bar and I drive under the speed limit all the time. He’s waiting for any chance to put my ass in jail.”

“Why? I mean, I get it, he’s a total homophobe, but there are other gay men in the area. Or is he like that with all of them?”

“I guess he don’t like any of us, but he has a particular hard-on for me. So to speak.”

“Why?”

“Ah. Well.” Joe turned his hat round and round on his knee. “Frank Morse— that’s the cop— had a boy. Pride of his eyes after his wife ran off. For which I don’t blame her but she left the boy with Frank. Young Frankie that was.” He paused, staring out the windshield, his face a mask.

“Was?” I gentled my voice. “Is he dead?”

“Huh? Oh, no, not so far as I know. Gone, though. When Frankie was seventeen, he started working for my boss as a barn boy after school, mucking out and hauling stuff, stacking bales in the summer, riding the mower. Hardworking kid and quiet as can be, nothing like his dad. Then, the day he turned eighteen he came to me. He said, ‘I heard you’re gay.” I said, ‘Yeah, I reckon.’ I didn’t figure this was a beatdown, even if he had his daddy’s name. He didn’t have the cold eyes. He said, ‘So am I and I have to get out of here before my dad kills me.’”

“Oh, shit.”

“Right? He said, ‘I got no money but I’ll blow you or whatever, if you lend me enough cash for a bus ticket.’ I asked about his wages and he said his dad kept them. I asked where he wanted to go, and he said, ‘San Francisco.’ I told him living was pricey out West and jobs were scarce but he said he’d rather be on the streets out there than in his father’s house.”

“Poor guy. What did you do?”

“I tried to persuade Frankie to let me figure something out, find a contact in Denver, someone who might help. He was set on running west, though. Said if I didn’t want to pay him, there’d be someone down at Max’s who would. He was a good-looking kid, all pouty lips and big eyes. He was probably right.”

“I guess.”

“No shame in buying or selling, if both folks are adults and know what they’re doing. I’ve bought it a time or two. But not from a boy who was probably a virgin.”

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