“Do you want me to make something for dinner?” Will asked after we parked alongside the Lone Vale cabin as the sun slipped down in the sky. “I can open up another can of beans but I’m not sure you’ll want to share a bed with me after two solid days of beans.”
“Beans are fine.” I grabbed the old tarp we’d brought along to cover the wagon and supplies in case of rain. No one wanted a five gallon bucket of fencing supplies—staples, pliers, nails, hammers, and good old Mjolnir the post maul to get doused in a downpour.
I glanced up when Will jerked the tarp from my hands. His blue eyes were fiery. “Are you planning on spending the rest of this fucking outing being all st—”
“Say the word stoic and I will dunk your head in the fucking river.” I ripped the tarp free from his grip.
He pulled it away from me. “Okay, for your information I wasn’t going to say stoic. I was going to say stupid!” Oh. “What the hell does stoic even mean? I’m the dumb asshole who can’t read, remember?! Does stoic mean unforgiving asshole because if it does, then yeah, you’re stoic. You’re stoic as shit!”
Some of the pain and ire leeched away in the face of his upset. Not all of it, but some. I took off my hat, ran a hand through my sweaty hair, and tried to find that Perry who was so kind and patient with horses.
“You’re not dumb and I’m not stoic,” I managed to say. A wild, whirling wind raced around the cabin, carrying the sweet smell of rain. Glancing at the sky, I spied the thunderhead rolling over the Tetons. “Stoic means you don’t show feelings.”
“Okay yeah, then you’re not because you’ve made your fucking feelings known all day.” A low rumble of thunder moved over the plains. Will craned his head to check out the sky then looked back at me. “I said I was sorry. I meant it. You’re an okay guy. I’d never want to out someone if they weren’t ready. If that happens…” A gust of wind blew over us, making the trees sway as the sun slowly disappeared behind the encroaching storm clouds. “If that Shep guy tells your grandfather…” He seemed unable to come up with what he would do. He blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Truly. It was just supposed to be fun. Something exciting. It’s so fucking boring out here and I was going crazy.”
“Okay.” I shook out the tarp. He blinked at me. “What?”
“Okay. Just okay?” He took the other side of the tarp then moved around the cart, stretching out the dark green cover over the wagon then securing it with baler twine.
“Okay, I get it you’re sorry. I believe you. I’m glad you think I’m okay since we’ve had each other’s dicks in our hands and tongues down the other’s throats. There’s nothing you can do about it if Shepherd tells Kenruh. Maybe it’s time for that truth to come out. I’m sure my grandfather would say something along those lines anyway.”
“So you’re not mad anymore?” The air was cooling off quickly. I felt a fat drop hit the back of my overheated neck.
“We’ll talk later.”
He wanted to argue, I could see it, but a fork of lightning slamming down to the Tetons kind of stalled any further bitching. We rushed to cover up the ATV and the wagon, rain plunking down on us with increasing speed. The storm arrived in full force after we’d made a mad dash into the cabin. We stood in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder, and let the cool damp air blow over us. Rain beat down on the ground, puddles formed, wind swirled and rushed across the grasslands, and lightning danced from cloud to cloud, some bolts breaking free to impact the earth.
“The Greeks believed that Zeus had a bucket of lightning bolts gifted to him by the Cyclopes.”
“Yeah, I saw that movie,” he replied, his cheeks damp from the surly winds whipping rain into the open doorway where we stood. “It was about this hero who beat up some bull guy.”
“Theseus and the Minotaur.”
“That was him. Was he a Spartan?”
“No, he was the son of the King of Athens.”
“Shame. Spartans were cool.”
I nodded, enjoying the show the earth mother was putting on for us while allowing the storm to wash away my ire. Anger and yelling never helped. Just like Dagobert had said. You couldn’t yell at a horse—or man—and then expect them to listen when you whispered. Coming unglued on Will, who had been whipped by his stepfather was not going to help me reach him. I knew that but I’d lost my temper, fear overwhelming me, and had lashed out.
“I accept your apology.”
“Cool. And I’ll not call you stoic. Or savage. Are there any other words that I should avoid so as not to piss you off?”
“I’ll let you know.” He huffed. That made one corner of my mouth twitch. “It’s not that stoic is bad, but it’s just not true of my people, not all the time. Sure, some Indigenous are kind of reserved, but the majority have a great sense of humor. We love to tease and laugh. Look at my grandfather. It’s just not who we are. It’s a stereotype. I guess White people think we’re all dour because of the old photographs but those were usually taken under duress after a Native was captured by a White man. You’re not really going to go all ‘Cheese!’ for the asshole who just rode you down after his pox killed your wife and child.”
“Fuck, yeah, no, I see what you mean. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Now you know. You didn’t before.”
“You’re kind of chill.”
“Shy and boring but chill sounds better.”
“I like it. It kind of tempers the asshole in me.”
“It didn’t last night.”