The Last Chance Ranch (11 page)

Temper might have been in torment, but Larry was relaxed and happy. The tightness around his eyes had eased since Arcady left the ranch, and the spring was back in his step. And maybe it was Temper's imagination, but it seemed to him that those occasional shy glances thrown his way were just a mite bit wicked, too.

One hot Saturday night in August, Larry jumped into the wagon and settled next to Temper, throwing him one of those teasing little grins. Temper grinned back and shook his head, wondering why the young man insisted on soaking himself in that God-awful cologne for every trip into town. His own sweaty, earthy smell was far more attractive. Not that it made much difference to Temper, who was terribly aware of the other man's presence, even if he did smell like a Kansas City brothel.

The wagon seemed a lot more crowded tonight, mostly because Lonnie was coming along. Most Saturdays he stayed at home with his family, but this week he seemed glad to be getting out. No one was sure what he'd done to anger Juanita, but they'd all heard the angry Spanish hollering that had chased the big man out of his house—not to mention the stock pot that had bounced off his skull on the way. He'd been sulking when he threw himself into the wagon, taking up more than his share of space, but soon his natural good temper had reasserted itself, and he was laughing and joking with the others. In fact, everyone was in a fine mood, full of piss and vinegar, as Temper's daddy used to say. The men were all ready for their weekly night out on the town. Only problem was, they were two men short.

Snow lounged against the side of the wagon, sighing and shooting pointed gazes at the setting sun. “Where the hell are they?” he muttered. “Finally! Let's go, time's a'wastin'."

"Actually,” Ben said, aiming for casual and missing by a country mile, “You go ahead and take ‘em into town. Me and Obie'll stay and keep an eye on things."

Porter snorted, and Obie pinked up like a virgin. Temper made a mental addition to his shopping list—whenever them two were left alone on the ranch, it played hell with their supply of saddle oil.

"All right, boss,” Snow said with a knowing grin. “I guess you two got things well in hand.” Snickers rose up from the wagon. “Damnit, left my hat in the bunkhouse."

Ben took the battered tan hat off his own head and dropped it on Snow's. “Now you got a hat. Git goin'."

This time Snow laughed outright. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're tryin’ to get rid of us. You in a hurry or somethin'?"

Ben flashed him a rare, wide grin in answer. Snow shook his head and climbed up on the seat, released the brake, and twitched the reins. They rumbled down the path to the main road. Ben and Obie had disappeared into the barn before they'd traveled ten feet. Yeah, they'd definitely be needing more oil.

As they slowly covered the distance between the Bar J and town, Temper noticed with suspicion that with every bump and rut the old wagon jostled over, Larry moved a little closer. By the time he could feel the heat of the other man's thigh resting against his own, Temper was sure and gave him a questioning look. For his part, Larry flashed an impish grin and nestled a bit closer. Glancing around at the others, Temper saw that either no one had noticed or no one cared. He let himself relax and enjoy the contact, even daring to add an extra bottle of oil to his list, just in case.

He didn't actually hear the gunshot, though he remembered it later. The first hint he had that something was wrong was when Ben's hat landed in his lap. It was upside down, and there was a spray of blood droplets on the underside of the brim. And then Larry scrambled over him to the seat, and the wagon jerked to a halt, and there was shouting, and Snow was pulled down into the wagon bed with them.

Shock made Temper slow on the uptake, and for a long time he couldn't understand where all the blood was coming from. It was pooling on the planks he was sitting on and soaking into the leg of his trousers. It was staining Snow's white hair a bitter red.

Abruptly, Temper snapped back into himself. Lonnie had already stripped off his shirt and was pressing it to the side of Snow's head. Porter vaulted over the side of the wagon and ran toward the thick brush lining the road. “Go!” he hollered at Larry, who was white-faced and clutching the reins. “Get him back to the ranch!” As the wagon started moving, Temper made his decision and jumped out, following Porter into the scrub.

With the wagon turned ‘round and gone, his own breathing was harsh in his ears as they crashed through the undergrowth. Porter was like a hunting dog on a scent, crouched low and moving quick, following some sound that Temper couldn't hear. He did his best to quiet his breathing and keep up, ignoring the branches that sliced and slapped at his face and arms like whips. They burst into a clearing in time to hear hooves pounding away from them. Something skittered away from the toe of Temper's boot and he looked down.

Porter's lips thinned into tight lines as he squinted after their quarry. “Won't catch him on foot, but I can track him."

"Don't think we need to,” Temper replied, straightening from a crouch and holding up the green leather riding crop. Porter's eyes went lizard black.

"Let's get back.” Was all he said.

Temper said a silent prayer. He had a very bad feeling that more blood would be shed before the night was over.

Obie groaned and shifted his weight, trying to wiggle some feeling back into his hands. It was all well and good for Ben to enact these fantasies of his, but just once, couldn't he fantasize about a feather bed in a nice hotel somewhere? Why did they all involve Obie getting tied up? Not that the rewards weren't ample. Naked and standing against the main pillar in the barn, his hands bound to a hook high above his head, he was able to forget his discomfort by the sheer fact of Ben, on his knees in front of him, suckling his cock like a foal at his mam's teat.

Lord, what a thing it was to watch his johnson, grown thick and stiff from all the attention, moving wetly in and out of his lover's lips. Needing a faster pace, he tried to thrust further into that hot mouth, but Ben caught his hips and held him still. Obie called him every filthy name he'd ever heard. The chuckle that drew vibrated up through his most sensitive parts, stealing his ability to swear.

Ben was still dressed, but his britches were open and his own swollen member was poking out. He dropped one hand down to give it a slow, leisurely stroke. Obie threw his head back, and the noise that came out of his throat was somewhere between a groan and a gurgle. His eyes were closed in bliss. He could feel his finish creeping up on him, his stones tightening in their sacs, his cock filling out even more.

He damn near screamed when Ben took his mouth away, then resumed his cursing when Ben rose up like a shot and forced his member back into his pants. “Son of a bitch!” Obie hollered, twisting against the leather strip that held him. “Don't stop now, you bastard!” His eyes widened when Ben slid the knife out of his boot. Before Obie had the chance to get nervous, Ben slit the cord and started throwing his clothes at him.

"Somebody's coming."

"Son of a bitch,” Obie said again as he dressed frantically. Far from cooling his lust, almost being caught was making him even harder, and it was no easy task to button his trousers over his leaking cock. “Whoever it is, I'm gonna kill ‘em.” He could hear what Ben had heard now. It was a wagon, and it was coming in fast.

Ben had an odd expression on his face, like he'd just had a premonition of something awful. Obie's erection abruptly wilted away and a twisting, gnawing ache took up in his gut.

They burst out of the barn just as the wagon reached them. Larry was driving, and Snow was—

Oh God. Oh, my dear God.

Obie watched the color drain from Ben's face.

There was so much blood.

Larry barely slowed long enough for them to jump on the back of the wagon, then whipped the horses on to the main house. They carried Snow inside and laid him out on the bed.

Snow's eyes were open, but they didn't look right. The right one looked normal enough, but the left was big and dark like a startled horse's. Both were fixed on nothing, blinking slow and sluggish. Someone's shirt was wrapped around his head, acting as a bandage. There was blood in his hair and in his ears. Obie heard Lonnie send someone to town for the doc, knew that men were rushing around for water, for bandages, but his gaze was on the one man who wasn't rushing at all.

Ben sat down on the side of the bed and stared at his oldest friend. He raised a hand and waved it in front of those sightless eyes, then let it drop to his side. The look on his face made Obie's heart clench in his chest. “You've seen this before."

Ben gave a slow nod. “Once. Fella got kicked in the head by a mustang."

"He didn't make it.” It wasn't a question.

"No,” Ben whispered, taking Snow's limp hand in his own. His face was drawn, his eyes swamped in misery. “No, he didn't."

Obie laid his hands on Ben's shoulders and pressed himself against the man's back. He felt like he'd swallowed a rock, big and heavy in his stomach. He knew that others were in the room, doing their best to tend their friend, knew that at some point the doctor came and went. None of that seemed important or even real. The world narrowed down to him, his lover, and the man on the bed. They stayed that way for half the night, listening as Snow fought harder and harder to draw breath.

It took almost four hours for him to die.

They stepped onto the porch and straight into a whispered argument, but the men fell quiet when they appeared. No one had to ask. Ben's face told the story.

"Son of a bitch,” Billy muttered, snatching the hat off his head. “Goddamn son of a bitch."

Larry hunched in on himself, his face disappearing behind the curtain of his hair. Lonnie dashed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

It was Porter who finally spoke. “Show him."

All eyes turned to Temper, who flicked his gaze between Porter and Ben. “You sure?"

"Show me what?” Ben's words came out like knives, and Temper wisely gave in. He pulled the crop out of his jacket and held it out without another word. Ben looked at it for a long moment, his lips thin and bloodless, his jaw clenched tight. And then he snatched it from Temper's hand and strode past them all, heading for the barn.

Lonnie jumped to his feet. “Oh Lord, he's gonna kill him.” He made as if to follow, but Obie held him up.

"I got him. You take care of Snow.” With a glance over his shoulder at the little cemetery, Obie ran to the barn. He had to jump back when the Bastard plunged through the door and took off down the road to town with Ben riding bareback and hunched low over the stallion's neck. Obie tossed a saddle on the fastest horse he could find and took off as well, hoping like hell he could catch up with his lover.

And what then? If Ben was set on killing the captain, was there anything in the world Obie could do to stop him? Did he really want to?

Obie nearly killed the little filly, but he managed to keep the black stallion in sight. It was too damn dark to be riding this fast. The trees were sketchy shadows against a gray-blue sky that seemed to reach out for him as they flashed by. Ben rode the stallion into town and right up to the saloon, leaping off the horse and pushing through the doors in the time it took the filly to pull up. When Obie ran up the stairs and into the saloon, the captain was sitting with his back to the door, playing cards. Ben grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out of his chair like he weighed less than a kitten, and flung him halfway across the room.

Obie spared a glance at the saloon's patrons, most of whom he knew. They were silent to a man, frozen with shock, and Obie knew how they felt. He'd never seen his lover so much as raise his voice, never mind his hand, to another man. No one spoke or moved to interfere when Ben dragged the captain to his feet by his collar and shoved him up against the bar. He didn't say a word, just held the crop up in a grip so tight his knuckles were white and his whole arm was shaking.

The captain looked at the crop, and the color drained from his face. He looked into Ben's eyes and saw murder there, his own death looking back. A damp stain spread across his trousers. The saloon was so quiet, Obie could hear the piss hitting the fabric. For a long moment, nothing happened at all.

Ben reared back and struck the captain across the face with his own riding crop, a vicious blow that would scar the man for life. By the third blow, the captain was shrieking and trying to shield his head with his arms, only to squeal when his fingers were brutally slashed. Again and again the crop fell as Ben thrashed the little prick with all the strength in his muscled body. When the captain was reduced to a sobbing, cowering heap on the floor, Ben threw the crop aside and started kicking, slamming his boots into the vulnerable ribs and kidneys. It was clear by now that he meant to kill the man, and Obie found himself of two minds as to how to proceed.

On the one hand, once Snow's death and the captain's part in it became known, not a man in town would argue the man deserved to die. But right now Obie didn't give a damn about the law or what the neighbors thought. He only cared about Ben and what was going to bring him out the other side of this with his heart and his head intact. And there was that other hand. Obie wasn't at all sure Ben was in his right mind. He sure as hell wasn't acting like himself. If he killed the captain he might be satisfied today, but days from now, weeks or months or even years from now, would he regret it? Would Ben in his right mind want Obie to stop him short of murder? Further complicating the whole mess was the undeniable fact that Obie wanted the captain dead his own self. Watching as his lover did his best to beat the bastard to death, Obie was pretty sure he'd feel no guilt himself. If he stopped Ben now, he could always come back later and finish the captain off a bit more discreetly. Assuming, that is, he
could
stop Ben. The man was devilish stubborn, once he'd made up his mind.

Obie stepped forward, taking care to stay out of his lover's reach. “Ben,” he called, keeping his voice normal. “Ben, that's enough."