The Cowboy Poet

ISBN 9781615089536 Copyright 2010 Claire Thompson All rights reserved

Flames leapt through the air in flashing arcs of bronze, white and blue, looping in intricate patterns against the dark night sky. Though Tyler was drawn to the showy pageantry of the fire whip demonstration, his mind continued to linger over the words of the cowboy poet who had been on the stage a moment before.

Clint Darrow had spoken in a raspy, deep voice, his slow easy drawl stroking his words like a hand on a horse‘s silky mane. Tyler felt as if the cowboy had been speaking directly to him, honing in on secrets he‘d buried and tried his best to forget.

The cowboy poetry and music festival was taking place both indoors and out. Inside the large western bar, a complete sound system had been erected for the musicians. Outside, behind the building, poets trooped up to recite their particular brand of cowboy wisdom on a raised stage lit by twinkling Christmas lights wound through the slats of the fencing that surrounded the courtyard on three sides. The audience enjoyed the show from picnic tables set in rows in front of the stage.

Only three months on the job, Tyler had been excited to finally get the opportunity to go out and cover his first story, rather than being stuck in the office, fact checking and line-editing someone else‘s work. When Tyler had been assigned by
Lone Star Monthly
to cover the event, he had expected corny recitations by has-been or would-be cowboys and the same tired old country music standards offered in a nasal twang. Still, it was an opportunity to get his own byline and he had jumped at the chance to prove himself.

He‘d been pleasantly surprised by the quality of the poetry and the diversity of the music, but until this particular cowboy had appeared on the scene, Tyler had been calmly wearing his reporter hat, watching from a mental distance as he sipped his beer and framed the outline of his article in his mind.

There was scattered applause and whoops as the man onstage doused his whips and offered an ironic tip of his Stetson to the crowd. That‘s it for the poetry, folks, the man announced. Stay and enjoy the music. And thanks to all the great performers tonight.

Tyler was distracted when he saw Clint Darrow moving from the side of the stage where he‘d apparently been standing during the fire display. As he walked past the picnic table where Tyler was sitting, Tyler noticed he had a slight limp.

Tyler rose before he realized what he was doing, as if by some silent command. Before he could stop himself, he extended his hand. Tyler Sutton,
Lone Star Monthly
.
The cowboy stopped, pushing his hat back with one hand as he shook Tyler‘s offered hand with his other. He had a long, beaked nose and high prominent cheekbones. The man‘s eyes were such a dark brown that Tyler couldn‘t distinguish the pupil from the iris. He wasn‘t precisely handsome, but there was a brooding power in his face that caught and held Tyler‘s attention. His hands were large and calloused, his grip firm. When their eyes met, something rippled through Tyler, moving with a strange heat to the pit of his stomach.
The poet turned toward him. The name‘s Darrow.
Damn. The word was pulled from Tyler‘s lips unbidden. It took him a moment to find his breath. He had heard that attraction can strike like a stray line of lightning, laying a man flat and burning and gasping for breath, but until that moment he had never experienced it.
Clint Darrow released his grip, stepping back. Tyler was glad for the cover of near darkness as he felt the blood move over his features like a slap in the face. He was cursed with the Sutton fair complexion and even a tan couldn‘t hide the dull red that would work its way from his collar to the middle of his ears. It was usually brought on by anger, but at this moment it was fueled by a rush of pure lust.
Pardon? Clint asked with a quizzical smile.
To cover his embarrassment at having spoken aloud, Tyler hurriedly offered, I enjoyed your poetry very much. I‘m writing an article for
Lone Star Monthly
. I‘d like to interview you for my story, if you‘re of a mind. How about I buy you a beer?
That‘d be right nice. Clint‘s smile broadened. For one crazy moment Tyler had an impulse to drop to his knees and press his face against the sexy bulge in the cowboy‘s jeans, right there in front of a host of God-fearing country boys, many of whom would probably like nothing better than to beat his brains out if he so much as hinted at his sexual orientation, much less offered such blatant proof.
Then several people surrounded them, including the man who had just wielded the burning whips onstage. Tyler backed up to the edge of the group, watching as several men thumped Clint on the back and a woman with bright yellow hair held out the festival program, asking Clint to autograph it for her.
Clint looked past them, catching Tyler‘s eye. Shall I get that beer? Tyler asked, over the hubbub. Clint nodded gratefully and offered a small, rueful smile that made Tyler think he didn‘t really enjoy being the center of all that attention.
Tyler turned away, heading inside toward the bar. He returned a few minutes later, two cold bottles of beer in hand, scanning the courtyard for the sexy cowboy. He saw him sitting at the picnic table Tyler had recently vacated, and moved toward him. The man with the whips sat directly across from Clint.
Mind if I join you? Tyler focused on Clint as he held out the bottle, his stomach twisting as if he were fourteen instead of thirty. There was just enough space at the end of the bench beside Clint, who nodded and patted the wood in invitation.
Tyler tried to ignore the jolt of electric current that sidled its way through his loins when their thighs touched. Mentally he chided himself, reminding himself he was on the magazine‘s time, with an interview to procure, not on the prowl at a pickup bar. He edged slightly away from Clint, hoping to regain his composure while he thought about how to get the interview started.
To his confused surprise, Clint shifted as well, so that their thighs remained pressed together from knee to hip. Tyler dared to glance at the cowboy, who was watching him with fathomless dark eyes, a faint smile quirking the corner of his mouth.
You ain‘t from around here. I‘d remember, Clint observed softly, leaving Tyler to wonder if there was any hidden meaning in his words. His hat was tipped back now, revealing dark wavy hair shot through with threads of silver. Tyler pegged him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His eyes caught and held Tyler, as if Clint were somehow speaking to him in a secret, whispered tongue only the two of them could hear.
Tyler lifted his beer bottle and drank while he tried to collect himself. He was keenly aware of the man‘s thigh hard against his own. He thought about shifting away again, but there was nowhere to go on the narrow bench. Besides, he didn‘t want to move. In fact it took all his self control not to inch closer.
You gonna introduce me to your buddy, Clint? The man across the table waved his beer bottle in their direction.
This here‘s Tyler… Clint paused, lift his eyebrows in question.
Sutton, Tyler filled in.
Clint nodded, as if confirming it. He‘s a reporter. Wants to interview me for a magazine. Clint grinned, revealing white square teeth against his tan face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And this fella, Clint nodded toward the man across from him, is William Huckabee, or Huck to his friends. If he had any friends, that is.
With a good-natured guffaw, Huck extended his hand across the table and Tyler shook it.
That was quite an impressive fire display, Tyler offered.
I learned from the master. Huck nodded toward Clint. Clint taught me everything I know about fire play. It‘s a real crowd pleaser. When you light them Kevlar whips with the white gas and make em curl through the air like snakes outta hell, folks‘ll get real quiet and pay attention.
So, there‘s more to the poet than meets the eye. Tyler looked at Clint, impressed. He tried his best to ignore the sudden rush of blood to his cock.
There usually is, Clint said quietly. The longer I‘m alive, the more I realize never to assume you know everything about a person. Even folks you thought you knew. Even… he paused, those dark eyes ensnaring Tyler once again, …yourself.
Take Clint here, Huck said. More to this dude than meets the eye. He offered an exaggerated wink and a sly leer in Tyler‘s direction. Better watch yourself around this one, young fella‘.
What the gentleman, and I use the term loosely, Clint offered a weary but indulgent smile, is trying to say is, watch your ass, because he labors under the fool idea that if a person is gay, they automatically lust after any guy they see, even if he‘s dumb as dirt and as good lookin‘ as the back side of a muddy hog, like my good friend Huck here.
Huck grinned, his eyes cutting back toward Tyler. You‘ll have to forgive Clint, here. That‘s a five cent head under that ten dollar Stetson. He wouldn‘t know good lookin‘ if he fell over it. The pudgy man puffed out his chest, adding, I‘m quite popular with the ladies. Especially when they find out Clint ain‘t interested.
Both men laughed.
Gay.
Tyler struggled to keep his composure, wondering if the two of them were having some kind of joke at his expense. Was this guy really openly gay, right here in the middle of West Texas cowboy country? And this Huck guy, who he‘d pegged as a gun toting, dyed in the wool, rightwing reactionary homophobe, for no reason other than his birth and culture, seemed to be pretty relaxed about it as well.
Though Tyler didn‘t deny his own orientation, at least not since he‘d moved to Austin, neither did he offer it up to strangers. It was nobody‘s business but his own. Yet he couldn‘t deny the floodgate that had opened on his attraction to Clint Darrow, the poet cowboy who talked about taming wild spirits and was at home with whips and fire. What would it be like to feel the hard press of his naked body, to taste the musky heat of his cock...
Flustered, Tyler retreated to the safety of his beer bottle, lifting it for a long drink, only to discover it was empty. He stood abruptly, praying his face and the bulge at his crotch weren‘t giving him away. I‘m going to get myself another beer. Can I get either of you gentleman another?
Huck shook his head, but Clint nodded his assent. When Tyler returned with the fresh bottles, two other men had joined them, settling beside Huck. …was the damnedest thing, one of them was saying. One of our bull semen tanks just disappeared. Luckily it was empty, though the tanks themselves don‘t come cheap. But I hear over at Blake‘s ranch they had a couple of canisters go missing too.
Clint‘s attention was on the man who was speaking. Tyler did his best to ignore the lurch in his gut when their fingers brushed against each other as Clint accepted the second bottle with a distracted nod. He reminded himself to focus. He had a job to do, an interview to procure, and then, if he knew what was good for him, he‘d get the hell out of there before he made a damn fool of himself.
That‘s what I‘m saying, the man beside Huck continued earnestly. We lost a tank last week. I heard from Lucky Harding that they found some tanks missing too. He was fit to be tied.
Tyler, who always had an ear for a story, perked up, glad for the distraction. Have y‘all reported these thefts to the local sheriff?
The men all turned to stare at Tyler, who suddenly felt embarrassed for having stuck his nose into their business. He was again aware of Clint‘s thigh touching his own on the narrow bench.
This here‘s Tyler Sutton, a reporter for
Lone Star Monthly
, Clint said to the two new men. Introductions were made and Tyler‘s shoulder brushed Clint‘s as he extended his hand across the table. Clint made no effort to move away. Tyler, forcing himself to focus, repeated his question.
We filed a report down at the station, replied Jared Smith, the man who had been speaking when Tyler returned to the table. The sheriff wasn‘t too terribly concerned, but he wrote it down. Said he‘d let me know if there were similar reports. I haven‘t heard a word.
Problem is, our ranches and farms are so spread out. Folks don‘t know what‘s happening from location to location, added the second man, Hoss Johnson.
My boss asked me to check around while I was on the poetry circuit, Clint said. That‘s why I was askin‘. There‘s more to this than just some teenagers messing around. One missing tank is a fluke maybe, but I‘m thinkin‘ there‘s something more organized going on, especially after hearing y‘all‘s stories.
Your boss…? Tyler asked, looking at Clint. He‘d had him pegged as the lone wolf kind, living on the open range, breaking wild horses and writing verse alone at night by a campfire. Tyler had always had a weakness for lone wolves.
I‘m the foreman at Ransom Ranch over in Ransom Canyon. We breed Angus cattle. The tank that went missing contained prize bull semen worth upwards of ten thousand dollars. We‘ve got insurance, but some of that stuff is irreplaceable. The boss is seriously pissed. I figured I might do some investigating of my own.
Tyler, while pleased to be assigned his first solo article with the poetry festival, smelled a more exciting story. What if there was more to this than just some kids on a lark, something bigger? He closed his eyes briefly, imagining his editor‘s surprise when he handed in a real investigative piece about a spate of bull semen thefts in West Texas. Maybe he‘d even break the case himself. If Clint Darrow was amenable to his tagging along, that was. He decided to bide his time before asking if he could join the impromptu investigation. Hopefully he could get his editor‘s approval for a few more days out in the field for the project.
The men talked for a while longer, before drifting inside to listen to music and buy themselves more beer. After a while Huck excused himself too, and Tyler found himself alone with Clint Darrow. He sternly reminded himself again he was here to do a job, not pick up a cowboy. And as Clint had aptly pointed out to Huck, just because a guy was gay, didn‘t mean he was attracted to everything male. For all Tyler knew, Clint was in a relationship, or just plain not interested in what he probably thought of as some upstart city boy reporter.
He‘d do his job and write up a solid piece for the magazine‘s arts and music section and then maybe there‘d be an opportunity to talk about the missing tanks later. Clint Darrow would make a good addition to the festival article. Tyler had already interviewed two other cowboy poets during the course of the event, but knew Clint would be the one he featured.
Say, Tyler ventured. If it‘s not too late, can I still get that interview?
Sure. Clint nodded.
Tyler withdrew a small digital recorder from his shirt pocket. Mind if I turn this on? Easier than jotting notes, if it‘s okay with you.
No problem.
I‘ve done a little background research on you, he offered, hoping to both flatter the cowboy and show he‘d done his homework. You‘ve made quite a name for yourself on the cowboy poetry circuit. You took first prize at the prestigious Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Lubbock last year.
Clint shrugged. I don‘t do this for the prizes, he said, a smile ghosting its way across his face. I do it because poetry is meant to be heard. I like the chance to share it with folks who actually want to hear it.
I have to admit, Tyler said, when I got this assignment, I didn‘t know a lot about the circuit. I grew up on a horse ranch not that far from here, so of course I was aware there are cowboy poets, but I didn‘t really know the history and all.
Clint nodded. Long tradition, dating back as long as there‘s been cowboys, I‘d reckon. Back when you had all them unemployed soldiers from the Civil War rounding up wild cattle and trailing them north, they‘d settle round the campfire and recite stories for one another composed during long hours in the saddle, set to the rhyme of creaking leather and drumming hoof beats. I guess it‘s a kind of witnessing. I‘m proud to be a part of it.
That second poem you recited, Tyler dared. The one about the wild horse. Something about it, I don‘t know… he trailed off. He could feel the sexual tension buzzing between them, though he warned himself the odds were good it was entirely one-sided. Had Clint picked up on his cues, on the way he hadn‘t moved away when their thighs touched, even after Huck‘s remarks? A straight guy would have probably leaped away at that point, but Tyler hadn‘t budged. He pressed on, reminding himself he had a job to do. I sensed a subtext. Were there layers beneath the spoken words— some kind of dual or hidden meaning?
He shot a glance at Clint, whose direct gaze made Tyler‘s heart skitter around like a loose pinball. That‘s one of the great things about poetry, Clint said. Each person gets something different out of it, maybe something the poet never intended, but it‘s no less valid because of that. If anything, those added layers give the poetry more life and meaning. What was it, exactly, that you heard behind the words? Clint‘s voice was low and raspy, as if it were laced with whiskey, smoke and hard living. There was a kind of power to it that drew Tyler and distracted him, despite his best effort to maintain his professional demeanor.