Page 31 of Cowboy Dreams

In the night, someone had come by with black spray paint and decorated the weathered red boards with “NO FAG HOTEL” in big, fat letters.

The workman asked, “What are you gonna do?”

I took a breath, because my first reaction was “kill somebody” and the second was “hide this before Sylvester sees it” and both of them were wrong. “I’m going to take some pictures. Maybe a paint sample. See if there’s boot prints. Then I’m going to let Sylvester know, andthenI’m going to get you guys to paint over it.”

“Cold for painting,” the man said. “Won’t dry right. Are you really going to tell Mr. Sylvester?”

“Of course.” I wanted to protect him, but I was only his… whatever we were. Future partner? In any case, I was not his mother.

“He’ll be really mad.”

I am too.But Sylvester had made a bit of an impression with his sharp tongue a few times. They worried about his anger, not mine. “He needs to know.”

“You don’t think he’ll stop building?” The anxiety in the man’s voice was no doubt for his paycheck and not concern.

I laughed, though nothing was funny. “Not a chance. Sylvester doesn’t bow down to anonymous bullies.”

Another truck came down the drive trailing a puff of dust and stopped behind us. Morales got out and came over. “Well, that’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“One word for it.” I asked him, “You think red paint will cover that, or should we go black?”

“In summer, I’d say you could just do enough coats. In this weather?” Morales made a face.

“Okay,” I told him. “You go get enough black to cover it, even if it’s a crappy job. We can scrape and repaint in the spring. I’ll go get Sylvester.”

“Are you going to call the cops?”

I thought about it. One chance in three that Morse would be the responding officer and fuck if I wanted to see his pleasure. “I’ll report it. But they don’t need to come on out here.”

“Well, it’s your barn. I mean, Mr. Sylvester’s.” Morales gave me a sideways look. “I’ll go get that paint.”

I unsaddled, checked Donner’s hooves, and turned him loose to go play with Ro. Then I washed my hands well in the tack room before heading to the house. Was I delaying? Hell, yeah, I was.

But Sylvester was a big boy and he didn’t need me to protect him. When I entered the kitchen door, he was standing at the counter, sipping a cup of coffee. “You made an early start. There’s fresh coffee if you want it.”

“You look better,” I noted, coming at the problem sideways. And slowly. “How’s your back?”

“Definitely better. I think this will be a short bout. Give me a couple of days and I’ll be back in service.” He grinned at me with a hint of his usual wickedness. “So to speak.”

Man, I hated to squash that light. “Good enough to walk over to the barn?”

“Right now?”

“There’s something I need to show you.”

He hesitated, then set his mug on the counter. “Not a good thing, I take it.”

“No.”

“Remodeling problem?”

“Not directly.” I turned away, back toward the mud room. “You want help with your boots and jacket?”

“Might be smart.”

Sylvester braced a hand on my shoulder when I knelt to hold his boots, and let me guide his arm into his sleeve without cranking around too much, but he walked okay as we left the house. Morales’ truck was gone, and the workman guy had pulled on down to the bunkhouse, so it took Sylvester a moment to notice the graffiti. When he did, he stopped short.

“Well, fuck.”

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