I dug into my pocket, fished out the baggie of apple slices, and let him have his fill before sliding in beside him, hand on his dark brown side, to start saddling him.
“Two old dudes out for a nice, easy ride,” I said as I draped a blanket over his back. The horse stood quietly, patiently waiting. He still loved to stretch his legs now and again, but given his age, I didn’t let him run too hard, if at all. “Okay, I have used the word ‘dude’ at least ten times today. That needs to stop.” As did my thoughts. They’d strayed to the Cali professor with the bun far too often today. “I’m just worried about the granola-fueled fool out there all alone,” I explained while setting my saddle on T’s wide back. “If he ends up in the belly of a lion then that falls on me. My worry is totally justified as a work concern.”
Tiberius blew out a breath as if bored.
I dropped the professor talk because…well, just because, and led my horse from the stall a few moments later. Sliding a foot into the stirrup, I hoisted myself up and settled my ass into the saddle. Tiberius was anxious to be gone, and so we set out, the sun still warm on the back of my neck. I let the old man have his head. He trotted along, head high, ears pricked, gait strong. We left the stables, closing the gate after we’d gone through. Before us lay hundreds of acres of pastureland. The ground was muddy in spots yet, in the low-lying areas, but it was greening up rapidly. Off to the right sat the snow-capped Tetons.
Keeping a gentle hand on the reins, we plodded along, a soft but cool breeze on our faces, picking our way along one of a thousand cattle paths. This one would lead us to the Jante River, which snaked through the countryside and acted as a natural property line for miles. Riding along with nothing but the wind in my ears and the rhythm of my horse under me, I felt at one with the land. Funny how a boy born and raised in Chicago could end up here. Life surely did lead a man into strange places, changing our present, altering our destinies. T snorted. I looked around and spied an elk cow staring at us with wide, worried eyes. Her calf wobbled to its feet.
With a soft tap of my knee, Tiberius veered away from the new mother and her gangly babe. Smiling softly, we made our way along the river, keeping an eye open for bears or mountain lions. I had strapped on my holster and pistol just in case since my rifle was with Bishop. Our land did have some big undeveloped tracts, mostly by the big house and guest cabins. People liked to be among the trees. The hands and I lived close to the barns, so no Ponderosa or Lodgepoles to offer much shade, but we still had the mountains to stare at on lonely summer nights.
The Jante was swollen a bit with spring melt and the water was cold and muddied, but once we reached the pinch point, Tiberius waded through the shallow with ease. The water barely tickled his belly. Now that we were on our surly neighbor’s land, I rode a little taller in the saddle, my attention sharper. The feud between the two ranches had drug on far too long. I’d wished more than once that the bitterness would abate. That old saying about wishing in one hand and shitting in the other came to mind. The McCrary’s seemed more than willing to hang onto the hostility, and if anything it had been escalating of late.
I had to assume the toxicity was due to two things. One was the high numbers of Native workers we employed. The second was that Landon Reece was an openly out gay White man married to an openly out X-dressing gay Black man. The three McCrary boys, Clayton, the eldest, Morgan, and Shepherd, were not at all happy with all the diversity at the Prairie Smoke, I presumed. Which was just too damn bad for them. I had little time for bigots but as the foreman, it fell to me to play diplomat nine times out of ten. Tiberius crested a small knoll covered with stubby green grass.
“Whoa,” I cooed. The gelding stopped, tail whipping, ears flicking, as two men on horses galloped our way. Down below was the big bi-level house worthy of a city. It sprawled out in two directions with a breezeway and a circular stone driveway. The McCrary’s owned close to twenty thousand acres that they raised Gelbvieh cattle—a reddish-brown beef breed—and grew hay and barley on. Resting my hands on my pommel, I waited for the two riders to draw close. When I saw that one was Shepherd McCrary I sighed inwardly.
Not that I objected to looking at Shepherd. He was one fine looking young man. Dirty blond hair, neat beard, well made and rangy, with striking sky blue eyes. No bun. Who the hell wore a bun other than dowagers and librarians? I shook my head to clear Bishop from it as the co-owner of the Hollow Wind Ranch halted in front of me. While my eyes enjoyed the sight of him and his foreman, Clint Sully, approaching, my mind was setting up barriers. Shepherd McCrary wasn’t outwardly homophobic. That would be unacceptable in today’s society. Shep tended to be one of those silent smirkers. The kind who never really said the nasty thing but stood off to the side simpering. His older brothers were a little more vocal in their dislike of our hands and new owner, tossing out off-color jibes that were “just jokes” when someone made a face or called them on their words.
“Sully, McCrary,” I said as they rode up and came to a halt.
“Pearson,” Shep said, reining in his nervous black quarter horse stallion. All the McCrary boys rode stallions. I think they were projecting but who was I to say. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Yep.” I gave Clint a quick nod of recognition. Clint was my age, heavier, a bulky sort of build that told of the fullback he used to be back in high school. Clint was an okay sort. Professional, reasonably friendly, he was a leftover from senior McCrary days. An honest cowpoke. “Just wanted to let you know that the fishermen have been told not to cross the river into your land. Do I need to ask for permission for hunters to track wounded game onto your property?”
“No,” Clint said and got a dark look from his employer which the old cowboy ignored.
“That’s mighty neighborly.” I tapped the rim of my hat.
“We would appreciate a call before your guests show up on our land though,” Shepherd tossed out.
“That can be done. Thanks for being so understanding. It’s much appreciated,” I tacked on, inclined my head, and gave Tiberius a tender squeeze with my calves as I led him to the left.
We rode back the way we came, crossing at the pinch point of the Jante then taking a sharp right that would lead us past the guest cabins that sat by Smoke Lake. I stopped to relay the rules to our guests about staying on the Prairie Smoke land and what to do if wounded wildlife crossed the property boundaries. They all nodded and agreed to the rules, once more, and vowed to study the online map that we sent to all new guests. With that settled for the moment, it was a yearly thing with new visitors, I headed to the lake.
Smoke Lake was small in comparison to some others in Wyoming, only fifty acres or so, but she ran deep and cold. Runoff from the mountains kept the water chilly, so chilly that only the bravest—or drunkest—of souls would dive in. I had once, many years ago, when I was young and filled to the gills on whiskey. I thought my heart had stopped it was such a shock. To this day, I can’t decide if I made the drunken leap out of bravado or some deeper and darker reason. There had been low times back then when dying had seemed preferable to living.
But here I was so I had to guess living won out. Tiberius stopped to drink. I looked out over the surface, the small waves rolling placidly to shore. In the dark waters lurked all manner of game fish from trout and bass to Kokanee salmon. Moose, elk, and mule deer came here to quench their thirst, but nothing was to be seen this evening. When my horse had drunk his fill, we rode along at a pleasant clip. I didn’t like to push the old man too much. An hour passed as the sun sank lower. Birds were still flitting about, diving to catch the swarms of bugs that were warming up. Soon we’d be inundated with flies, mosquitoes, ticks, and all manner of stinging insects. Seeing the snow melt was a double-edged sword.
Clearing a small hillock I looked down to see the flapping yellow tape surrounding the dig site. Tiberius stomped a foot, a sign that he had winded the men at the dig. His alert posture said that he knew a stranger wearing a bun was down there.
“Try not to stare,” I said, rubbing his powerful neck before leading him down to the mound of fresh dirt.
The closer I got the louder the music from Perry’s old Jeep grew. It sounded like some sort of alternative rock. The song wasn’t familiar to me at all. It made Tiberius’s ears twitch. Both men were lying in the dirt, mouths going steadily, brushing at something buried in the ground. The whicker of my horse managed to get through the screaming rock tune. Perry and Bishop glanced my way. Perry blushed. Bishop grinned. A funny, fuzzy feeling spread out from my stomach at his smile. His bun was a mess, and so was he. Dirt smeared, globs of white stuff on his cheeks and arms, sunny hair dancing around his face, he radiated joy.
Perry scrambled to his Jeep to turn down the music. I slid down to the ground, letting the reins dangle so T could nibble at the short green grasses. A fly zipped past my face as I neared the two giddy fossil hunters.
“Sorry, boss,” Perry said as he came to stand beside me. Bishop stood up, stretched, and my eyes darted to that exposed inch or two of firm, tan belly. He had a golden treasure trail that disappeared into his shorts. I wet my lips, my throat and mouth going dry.
“What? Do you not get into Weezer?” Bishop asked as he slapped at his ass. Dust billowed out of his pants.
“Guess not,” I replied, my sight riveted to the man spanking himself.
“Nathan, don’t tell me you’re a non-Weezer geezer?” Bishop asked. Perry laughed aloud then quickly swallowed down his mirth when I looked his way. This had been a stupid idea. Why on earth had I ridden out here? To be teased by a Point Break extra? Perry was here with Bishop. If anything had happened, he would have been able to get the man to the big house for assistance. I wasn’t into bones like they were. Why the hell was I even here?! I should have gone home and done some work instead of—
“Boss digs old music,” Perry said which got him another sour look. He turned four shades of red then hurried off to wrap up a rock in tin foil. Once I got my eyes peeled away from Bishop’s dusty ass, I noted that there were small silver foil packages all over the place.
“I was just kidding,” Bishop announced. “You’re not a geezer. You’re the sexy man in the reindeer briefs.” Perry’s eyes flew from his rock wrapping to me. I pretended not to have heard what had just been said about my underwear. Sexy. Shit. I was a long way from sexy. Worn and ragged maybe. “Come over here. Watch where you step. We don’t want any other mishaps. Yep, good, over here. Okay, now, do you see this?”