The Last Chance Ranch (13 page)

"You know what you're asking."

"I do."

"You promised me."

"I know. I'm breaking that promise. I'm asking you to take them up again.” Ben held the belt up, the butts of the pistols pointing right at him. “Worse than that. I want you to teach the others."

Porter's head dropped until it was hanging below his shoulders. Obie barely heard his response. “I don't want this."

"You think I do? You think I ever wanted my boys running around this ranch like gunslingers? I swear I can hear Robert rolling over in his damn grave.” Ben spat on the ground and rubbed a heavy hand over his face. Obie could practically feel his weariness from where he stood. “Damn me, John, I don't know what else to do. You, all of you, are my responsibility, and I don't know how else to protect you.” The desperation in his voice was so foreign, so frightening, that it felt like shards of glass in Obie's ears. Porter must have felt it too, because he took a deep breath and blew it out in a sigh, straightening as he did. He reached out with steady hands and took the pistols.

"I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure you never have to use them,” Ben said as he watched him strap them on. “I know my promises probably don't hold much truck with you right now, but that's the best I can do."

At the best of times, Porter was a gruff, almost cold man, and this was far from the best of times. Something in Ben's face must have moved him, though, for he grunted and gave a nod. “I'll teach ‘em. How to shoot and when to shoot.” He started moving toward the barn but stopped and spoke quietly over his shoulder. “I don't want to lose nobody else, neither."

Obie watched him go, waiting until he was out of range before approaching Ben. He leaned against the fence, close enough to his lover that their shoulders were touching. Ben took his time, but eventually he spoke. “I promised him, when he came here all them years ago, that he'd never have to take up those guns again. Told him he could start over, have a new life."

"He's got one,” Obie insisted. “I don't know what he did or who he was before he took up with the Bar J, but you gave him a new life. Now you're asking him to protect it. I think he understands. If he don't, he will, given time."

"I hope you're right.” Ben sighed and pushed off from the fence. Behind them, the men emerged from the bunkhouse and made their way to the barn. “I just have this feeling that I'm wrecking one man to save the others, and I don't like that at all. No,” he said, rubbing his face again and staring at the yearlings in the near pasture. “Don't like it at all.” He turned and headed back toward the bunkhouse. “Obie, tell them boys, after they do chores, they're to do whatever Porter tells ‘em to."

"All right,” Obie agreed. He didn't have to ask what Ben would be doing. He'd be packing up Snow's things to send to his sister in Philadelphia.

Even though Obie relayed Percy's message about the sheriff, Ben showed no inclination to ride into town. So it was that Henry's old, swayback mare made its lazy way up the path from the main road just before lunch the next day. Temper was just finishing mucking the stalls. They'd all gotten a late start on daily chores, having started the day with another shooting lesson. Temper hated wearing that damned gun. It was cold against his thigh, a cold that seeped through his trousers and into his bones. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the weight of it, or if he'd always feel like it was heavy enough to drag him straight down to hell. For the first time in his life, he was glad his mama had passed on. The thought of what she'd say about her boy walking around like he was fixing to rob a bank... it didn't bear thinking on too hard.

The smell of gunpowder was still strong in his nostrils, and the crack of the shots was still loud in his ears when the sheriff rode up to the barn and dropped heavily from his horse. Temper leaned on his shovel and watched him warily. Ben had made it clear that he didn't trust anyone outside the ranch at this point, and it had rubbed off on everybody.

The sheriff's gaze went from Temper's bare, black chest to the gun strapped to his thigh. Bloodshot eyes traveled up his face. “Where'd you get that gun, boy?"

This wasn't Temper's first roundup with this sort of man. He kept his cool, so well that ice could have formed on his words. “Boss gave it to me."

The fat man snorted, sending his belly twitching like a mare's about to foal. “Ben a little worried about security ‘round here, is he?"

Temper felt a flash of anger that almost melted his control. That the man came to their home, making light of things, when Snow was barely in his grave? He tightened his jaw and ground out a neutral response, “I reckon."

The sheriff was looking at his gun again. “You know how to use that thing, boy?"

"Yassir.” Temper figured it was a little lie at most, having had all of two lessons and proven he could hit a large target if it was very close and didn't move at all. That earned him a long, hard look from the sheriff, which he returned. The big man sighed, as though dealing with Temper was a terrible burden.

"Where's your boss?"

"Here.” Ben stepped out of the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. Planting his feet, his own gun on display, there was no sign of the laid-back man he'd been two days before. Temper felt a twinge, like he'd done while praying over Snow's grave. It was a scary thought, one he hadn't had before: had they lost Ben just as surely as they'd lost the foreman?

"Ben, you and I need to talk. You damn near killed that Mexican."

"I'm aware."

The sheriff's wide face was sweating, and he mopped at it with a kerchief. “Let's get out of this damn sun."

Ben turned and strode into the barn. Temper waited until the sheriff had followed, then fell in behind. “This don't concern you, boy."

"Nobody goes anyplace alone. Ain't that what you said, boss?"

"That's right, Temper. That's exactly what I said.” Ben gave him an approving look, which quickly went hard as he turned back to the sheriff. “What do you want, Henry?"

"I'm getting pressure to put you under arrest, and I ain't convinced not to yet."

Ben snorted. “Let me guess, that damned old Dutchman.” The sheriff didn't answer, but his expression told the story. “You want to arrest me, go ahead. We'll have a big old trial right there in town, the town that I helped build, by the by, and we'll all talk about how Vargas shot me and you did nothing. It was me he was gunnin’ for the other night. Snow was sitting up in my seat, wearing my hat, and that son of a bitch murdered him in cold blood. And you let him.” Ben's voice had risen steadily as he talked, and now he was as near to shouting as Temper had ever heard him.

The sheriff looked as though he wanted to step back, away from that uncommon anger, but held his ground. “Well hell, Ben, what do you expect? Flauntin’ yourselves all over town. People ain't exactly thrilled at having a bunch of

pre-verts loose in the streets. Frankly, you're damn lucky this is the first man you lost like this."

Temper's heart leapt in his chest. He was certain Ben was going to go after the man now. Should he hold him back or help him?

Ben narrowed his eyes and planted his fists on his hips, one of them alarmingly close to his pistol. “Get off my ranch,” he growled. “Get the hell off this ranch. Go back to town, and tell everybody to stay clear. Every man on this ranch is armed, and anyone who comes up here lookin’ to start shit is gettin’ a bullet for his trouble. You tell ‘em, Henry. Tell ‘em they'll be shot and left for the coyotes. I'm through diggin’ graves."

The sheriff's eyes had widened, his kerchief hanging forgotten from his fist. Temper had a sudden insight: this man had always been afraid of Ben. Maybe he'd always seen this darkness in him, under that easy-going surface, but had just been too stupid to do his part to keep it at bay. “Now just wait a damn minute,” he sputtered. “I'm the law—"

Quick as a lightning strike, Ben grabbed the shovel out of Temper's grip and spun, smashing it into the support beam next to Henry's head. The shaft splintered and sent the metal head spinning off somewhere into the barn, where it landed with a clang. The sheriff looked like he was about to piss himself. Temper realized his jaw was hanging open like an idiot's and snapped it closed.

Ben threw the ruined shovel down at his feet and pointed a shaking finger at the sheriff. His jaw worked furiously, but he was too angry to force out a single word.

Temper took a cautious step forward, desperate to keep this pile of manure from getting any deeper. “Man says go, reckon you better,” he said calmly, addressing the sheriff but keeping his eyes on his boss. He'd come to respect the man since he'd signed on at the Bar J, even liked him after a fashion, but at the moment, he didn't trust him, not one bit.

The sheriff tried to pull himself together, mopping at his brow with a hand that shook a little. He had a desperate sort of look to him, one Temper knew very well. The man wanted, in the worst way, to be back on his barstool with the comfort of his whiskey. Temper almost felt sorry for him, and then he thought of Snow bleeding all over the wagon, of his blue eyes clouded over and staring at nothing. Bending over, Temper picked up the shovel handle and bounced it gently in his palm, giving the sheriff an expectant look.

"I'm goin',” Henry managed to spit out. “But your boys cause any trouble, and I'll be back."

Ben found his voice, though he sounded like he was being strangled. “Don't ever set foot on this ranch again."

Temper watched the sheriff leave and then turned back to his boss. The man was turned away, his shoulders heaving, fists clenched at his sides. A long moment passed, and then Ben squared his shoulders, turned, and strode out of the barn without another word. Temper was left with two powerful but conflicting emotions. On one hand, he felt a great swell of loyalty and affection for every soul on the ranch, and it made him want to dig in and protect his home, his boss, and his brothers. But a small, quiet part of his mind was watching Ben walk away—watching and worrying. And a traitorous little voice, one he tried hard to ignore, was urging him to run like the devil, before all hell broke loose.

"He knows the ranch inside and out,” Ben said softly. He was standing at the window, staring into the black night. Obie slouched in his chair, rolling his empty glass in his fingers and studying his lover with a weary eye.

Snow had been dead and gone for four days. For four nights his ghost had laid between them in the bed, choking away their words and turning Ben's flesh to stone. Obie was doing his best to be understanding, but he wasn't gifted with much patience at the best of times. “I don't imagine anyone would put up a fuss. They all like Lonnie."

"He's the right man for the job. Ain't so good with figures, though. Think you can school him a bit?"

"I'll talk to him tomorrow.” Obie set down his glass and rose, stretched his long, lean body and slid in behind his lover. Resting his chin on Ben's shoulder, he ran his hands up over his chest, down his belly, finally dropping lower to fondle his privates. There was no hint of arousal, no response at all. He could feel the heat of Ben's skin, hear his soft breaths, else he might have thought he was holding a cigar store Indian. “Come to bed,” Obie urged. His voice was rough, but it was more desperation than lust that made it so.

Ben never turned around, never took his eyes from the darkness. “You go on,” he murmured. “I'm gonna sit up a spell."

"I'll sit with you."

Ben abruptly shrugged off his hands, turning with a sharp eye and a sharp tongue to match. “Damn it, Obediah, leave me be. I can't get one minute to myself anymore."

Stung, Obie backed away a step, his hands held out to the side in surrender. “All right,” he said, struggling to keep hold of his temper. “I'll go on to bed. You sit up here and sulk just as long as you want."

Ben made an irritated noise and turned back to the window, and Obie suddenly found he just couldn't leave it alone. “If Snow were here—"

"Don't."

"If Snow were here,” he repeated, ignoring Ben's warning, “he'd put a boot up your backside for being such an ass."

That earned him a full-fledged glare, and it was something to behold. Obie had never been the target of it before and found himself fighting the urge to look away.

"Maybe he would at that,” Ben growled, and Obie wondered how the voice that usually turned him on had the power to scare him too. “But Snow ain't here, and you're a damn poor substitute."

Obie couldn't have spoken a word to save his life at that moment, his throat knotted up like he'd swallowed a tumbleweed. He was still standing there, dumbstruck, when Ben sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Obie."

No answer. Obie had his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall near the floor. His fingers were flexing nervously, and he crossed his arms tight over his chest to make them stop.

"Obie,” Ben repeated, coming to stand before him. Rough fingers touched his cheek. Obie finally looked up, watched the struggle play out across his lover's face. There was regret there, and so much pain that he couldn't find the beginning or end to it. And on top of it all was frustration at not being able to express himself or get control of his own head. Obie saw the moment he gave up, dropped his hand, and closed his face like a window shutter. Obie closed his eyes, heard Ben move around him and pour another measure of whiskey.

"I've been thinkin',” the older man said. “Maybe you ought to sleep in the bunkhouse for awhile. The men are a little out of sorts without Snow there. You might help to settle ‘em down."

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Obie finally managed to speak. “Even though I'm a damn poor substitute?"

"Besides,” Ben continued as if he hadn't said a word, “it'll give me time to get my head together. So I don't....” He didn't finish. He didn't have to, Obie heard it anyway.

So I don't hurt you no more.

"Just as you like,” Obie croaked. His eyes were burning. Rejection coiled up in his belly like a hard and angry rattlesnake. He spun on his heel and stalked to their bedroom—Ben's bedroom—before he broke down like a fool.