Page 29 of Cowboy Dreams

When I brought him up the broth off a can of chicken noodle, with the noodles and veggies blendered so it would go through a straw, I wondered if he was asleep, but he murmured, “Smells good.”

“Here you go.” I sat on the carpet by his head so I could hold the mug and straw for him.

He drank in small sips, then sighed deep. “How’d you learn to take care of an incapacitated guy so well?”

I thought about blowing the question off, but a little conversation might take his mind off the pain. And to be honest, I wanted him to know me. Not many people I let see the Joe McNeil under the surface, but I wanted Sylvester there. “My mom died when I was ten.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. My dad was a gambler and a drinking man. He held a job, but he was hungover more often than he was straight with the world. He’d go off to some poker game, sure he was going to turn our fortunes around, and come home smashed. It was my job to feed him pain killers and fluids when he woke up too rough to move.” And clean the puke bucket, but that was one truth more than Sylvester needed.

“I don’t want to remind you of your father.”

“Ah, hell, no. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, that’s where I got some skills. You know, nothing feels better than using something Dad taught me in a far finer cause.”

“Was he… hard on you?”

“If you mean, did he hit me, nope. Of course, I wasn’t out back then, so who knows how that would’ve played out. He wasn’t a mean guy.” Might’ve been easier if he was. Probably not, though. “He just had problems.” A thought occurred to me. “Maybe that was part of why I was sympathetic to Frankie Morse.”

“Huh?”

“His dad taking the money he’d worked for. See, I left school and started working for Mr. Ford when I was sixteen. He paid me into a bank account, and of course my dad had access, since I was a minor.”

“Oh, no.”

“At first, he said he’d just take a bit if we were short on rent. It was me paying my way, you know? Seemed fair. Dad had a silver tongue. Opposite of me. Could make everything seem like he was right.”

“You do pretty well with your tongue, cowboy.” Sylvester’s attempt at a sexy drawl made me smile.

“The one place I beat my Dad. No wait, eww, not thinking about that.” I coughed. “Anyhow, about a year in, he drained every penny I’d saved and took a trip to Vegas. He was going to win our fortunes, of course. Left me a note.” I’d raged around the place, breaking things I couldn’t afford to fix, because I’d thought he was doing better. Living without a microwave for months afterward was a reminder about keeping my temper. “’Course, he came back broker’n ever.”

“What did you do?”

“I moved out. Begged Mr. Ford to let me live in the bunkhouse, got my dad to sign permission for it when he was drunk.” I was doing most of the cooking and cleaning. He’d have refused, sober. “Asked Mr. Ford to pay me in cash, minus the deduction for room and board, and he was obliging.”

“That should’ve worked,” Sylvester said. “Your face says not really, though.”

I shrugged a shoulder, like the old wound didn’t still sting, somewhere inside. “I hid the cash in my room at the bunkhouse. One time, when we were out on the trail moving cattle, Dad came to the ranch drunk, wanting to borrow money. When he realized I wasn’t there, he tossed my room, found the cash.”

“Stole it?”

“Yeah. I mean, he probably thought he had the right. I was still under eighteen.”

“That’s not how the law works, though. Teens are entitled to their own wages, and their parents can’t just take them.”

“So I coulda taken him to court.” I chuckled, though it wasn’t really funny. “With the money neither of us had, to collect the money he couldn’t pay back because he lost it at the track.” I shook my head. “Didn’t mean to make it a sob story.”

“It’s okay.” Sylvester bent his elbow enough to lay his palm against my cheek. I nestled into his hand foolishly. “I want to know what makes you tick. That stubborn independence that won’t let me pay you any wages for all the work you’re doing here came out of your history.”

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want us to be like that.”

“I know.” Sylvester stroked my cheekbone with his thumb. “That’s why I’m not fighting you on it for now. Until you need a living wage, I’ll pay you in shares of the business, like partners. I’m keeping track.”

“I didn’t mean that—”

“Shh. You can’t change my mind on this. Cowboy?”

“Yeah?”

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