Page 27 of Cowboy Dreams

“Money talks, huh?”

“Yeah. Just, for once, it’s on our side.”

I was used to having money on my side especially since Mom got together with Cassie. I’d lived with its cushion, knew how to use it to get what I needed. Joe’s story was a good reminder of how an old truck and fifty bucks could stand between life and death. Once we got the ranch up and running, maybe we could find something good to do with my money around here. There were probably other queer teens who couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and escape. Once we were settled, once I knew what we had to work with, I’d ask Joe what he thought.

He tugged at his tie, loosening the knot. “Okay, that’s my time in a monkey suit put in. Me wearing a tie tells you how much I… like you.”

“Or how much you like the ranch,” I said, because I wasn’t ready to hear anything more from him. He was my smokin’ hot cowboy lover, and my ranch consultant, and was becoming a good friend. And yeah, maybe now and then, my inner romantic tried to poke his head up, but I had enough on my plate without that.

“The ranch, of course. I can’t wait to get up close and personal with that sexy gatepost,” he agreed.

“Ooh, kinky.” I stopped to let him out to open the gate, drove through, and he hauled it shut behind me. We didn’t have any cattle running around loose, but Joe said closed gates were a good habit to learn and keep. When he got back in, I said, “What about that post? You into bondage? Want to get tied up to it while I fuck you?”

Joe tipped his head back and laughed. “You are a seriously weird man, Sylvester Georgiadis, that’s all I can say.”

I watched the way his mouth curved, the line of his neck, the blue-sky color reflected in his gray eyes. “Let’s go get these fancy clothes off,” I said, driving a little faster than the gravel was designed for to get to the house, “and I’ll show you exactly how weird you'll like me to be.”

“Game on.” Joe turned to me, the remnants of that laugh still shaping his mouth and deepening the creases by his eyes. “Game fucking on.”

Chapter Five

Joe

Istaredoutthewindow of the parlor Sylvester used as his study. The sun had already set, in this early November gloom. Leafless branches marked the changing season, usually my least favorite time of year. Mr. Ford didn’t like using seasonal hands, didn’t want to count on newcomers every spring. For years, he set it up so me and Carlos and Jordy and the rest worked six days a week all through spring, summer and fall, and then got four days a week off in winter when there wasn’t much to be done. He paid us the same year round, so that kept us all going.

Some of the guys had kids— Carlos had five. They liked getting the time off around Christmas. But most years, I was left at loose ends, November through January. Sometimes I’d take a long weekend in Boulder or somewhere, go to gay bars, pick up a man or two. Mostly I wandered around the ranch, fixing stuff, mending tack, painting the bunkhouse. Doing a lot of chores I also did when I was on the clock, because I needed to be busy.

I’d never had anywhere better to be.

This year was different. Having four days a week for Sylvester and the Circle K was a pleasure. Literally as well as in general.

I shivered as Sylvester came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder. “What are you thinking about, staring out the window, cowboy?”

My cock perked up just at the sound of his voice. Joe Junior was turning into Pavlov’s dog around Sylvester. You’d think I’d be old enough to control wayward body parts, but apparently not. “I’m watching the guys,” I lied, waving off to the left.

The end of what had been the Circle K bunkhouse was visible, where a construction crew worked to get new windows in place before the cold was supposed to hit tomorrow. Sylvester had decided to turn the bunkhouse into a home for himself. The big house would be the guest space. He’d said early on, when we were lounging around in his master suite, and I asked if he planned to keep living there, “We always lived in the hotel. We had a section of the second floor that was for family, and I had the whole hotel to hang out in, including the pool and weight room. Living on premises meant Mom and Cassie were right there if they were needed.”

I’d asked him, “Did you like that?”

He’d wrinkled his nose. “It made a lot of sense. But, I don’t know, it felt like Cassie was never really off work, unless they went away on vacation.”

Perhaps I was flattering myself, but my suggestion of, “Maybe build yourself a real home that’s not so close to the guests,” had made Sylvester smile and seemed like it dropped a bit of weight off his shoulders.

He’d just said, “Maybe you’re right,” but he’d had his architect start drawing up plans to convert the bunkhouse the next day.

Now they’d gutted the interior and the exterior was almost done with bigger windows including a bay off the kitchen, and a new roof. It was still a long, low box of a building, but the changes made it prettier. The crews would move to the inside soon, turning a space where up to a dozen men had bunked into three bedrooms, two baths, everything brand new. Having money was wondrously fine. I wondered how that felt, to want something and be able to wave and say, “Make it so.”

“They’re doing a good job,” Sylvester noted, watching the crew over my shoulder.

“They’d better.” He’d hired local firms but emphasized that there were other options if the work wasn’t up to standards. First time I saw him put on the powerful executive mask was when Nate Corso suggested cutting corners on the roofing. Sylvester set him straight in a few icy words. Got me hard, to be honest. I shifted my feet, remembering.

A clatter on the stairs behind us reminded me we weren’t alone in the big house either. Sylvester let go of me and stepped back at a knock on the door. Rick Morales, the head contractor on the guest remodeling, stuck his head around the door at Sylvester’s, “Yes?”

“We’re going to call it a day. We’ve got the plumbing roughed in for the new bathrooms and started putting the drywall up. Back tomorrow at eight?”

“Sounds good, thank you.”

Sylvester and I waited, staring out the window, as the sounds of the folks working overhead petered out and were gone. Voices out front faded as trucks and cars pulled away. A worker at the bunkhouse window waved to someone unseen and then unbuckled her toolbelt. Looked like those guys were packing it in too.

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