Read The Last Chance Ranch Online
Authors: D.G. Parker
"Boss!” Temper shouted. “Boss, come quick!” It was killing them, not knowing if Obie was dead or alive, but they didn't dare startle the horse for fear of getting him trampled. There was only one man who could control the Bastard, only one man who could safely approach him now.
Ben came running around the remains of the barn, the others close behind him, and stopped dead. The hope on his dirty, tear-streaked face was nearly as terrible to see as the grief had been. He took a careful step forward, then another, one hand stretched out for the rope looped loosely around the Bastard's neck. “Whoa, boy,” he called softly. The stallion's head turned instantly at the sound of his voice. “Whoa there."
The Bastard gave one last flick of his tail and lowered his head, nickering quietly as Ben approached. “Good horse,” Ben intoned, patting the dark nose. Taking up the lead, he gently urged the horse forward. Temper watched with ragged nerves as each ash-coated hoof passed within inches of the still body. As soon as the horse was clear, Ben handed the lead off to Lonnie and dropped to his knees at Obie's side. Temper knelt down too, and together they carefully turned the young man over.
He was black with soot just about from head to toe, darkest around his mouth and nostrils. His hair was singed, and his skin was burned red under the layer of ash. His face was lax and senseless, and Temper feared right then and there that they were looking at a corpse. Ben lowered his face right down to Obie's mouth, his fingers clenched in the folds of his lover's dirty shirt, hoping to feel his breath stirring.
The fire hissed and snapped as the barn finally died. In the corral, the horses called to one another for reassurance.
The men waited.
Morning crept up slow and gray over the Bar J ranch. The worst of the fire had burned out long ago, but thick, white smoke belched up here and there from the remains. The hands, exhausted and filthy, moved slowly back and forth to the pump, half-heartedly dumping buckets of water on the smoldering ashes.
The mill boys, tied hand and foot, were still sitting against the bunkhouse wall in a row, right where Porter had put them. The hands took turns guarding them, and if the prisoners kept collecting bruises throughout the night, none of their captors felt the least bit of guilt.
Miguel had been dispatched to town to fetch help. The doctor had already been and gone, but they were still waiting on the sheriff.
"That useless son of a bitch,” Ben railed, scratching at the dried blood in his hair. He'd brushed the doctor off, insisting that he was all right, but the long night and the whack to the head were clearly catching up with him. “Remind me to talk with Sam and the others about finding a new sheriff."
Climbing the porch steps, he scuffed his boot through the dirt he'd put down to soak up some of the blood. Vargas's body lay off to the side of the path, wrapped in an old sheet and forgotten. The porch swing jolted a little as Ben settled in, pulling his lover carefully into his arms. Obie sighed in pleasure, only to be wracked with his millionth coughing fit of the night.
"Cough it up,” Ben instructed, pounding on his back. “Get that crap out of there. You heard the doc.” Obie coughed until he saw stars, his chest searing like he had hot coals in his lungs. When he was done, he spat out a wad of black phlegm and collapsed back against Ben's side.
"All right,” the older man soothed, wrapping the blanket around him tighter. He held a tin mug of water to his lips, and Obie drank from it gratefully. “Just rest a bit,” Ben said, pulling him close. Obie figured there'd be a whole lot of resting in his immediate future, and not much else. Still, it felt good to be held, even though the coarse blanket was chafing his tender hide.
It said a lot that, with the whole of the ranch to be set to rights, Ben had handed the task over to Lonnie and set himself to coddling his young lover. Obie wasn't going to complain, at least not yet, but it was already starting a little niggle of worry in the back of his head. “Ben,” he said, wincing at the raspy sound of his own voice.
"Right here."
"I know what the doc told you. About me not ever being the same."
Ben was quiet for a minute. Clearly he hadn't thought Obie had heard him. “He didn't say for sure. Said there was bound to be some damage, but he don't know how much."
"I know.” Obie squirmed a little, trying to get closer to his lover's warm, solid presence. “What'm I gonna do, if I don't get any better?"
"You'll get better."
"What if I don't? If I can't work, what'm I gonna do?"
"Well, what the hell do you think you're gonna do, Obie? Think I'm just gonna throw you to the wolves ‘cause you can't muck stalls no more?” Ben was irritated for sure, but the way he tightened his arm around Obie's shoulders took the sting out of it. “I wouldn't do that to any hand on this ranch, and you are far from just any hand, Obediah.” The young man opened his mouth, but Ben cut him off before he could fret any further. His voice became soft, soothing like the plant sap Juanita had smeared on his burns. “I'll tell you what you'll do. You'll do whatever you can. You'll help Lonnie with the books, or Juanita with the garden. You'll go to town and play cards and drink whiskey. You'll lie next to me in bed and let me love you. And I do love you, Obediah."
Tired and sick as he was, Obie had a hard time swallowing back tears. Ben showed he loved him in small ways every day, but he'd never before said the words. “Okay,” he ground out, rubbing one leaky eye on the blanket. “I'm here as long as you'll have me."
Ben stiffened. “You almost weren't. Why the hell did you run back in there, knowin’ the roof was comin’ down?"
"Why?” Obie thought the answer was obvious. “Because the Bastard was in there. I know how much you love that horse.” Ben abruptly stood up, sending the swing jiggling, and walked to the porch rail.
"That horse?” Ben fairly shouted, “That horse right there? Look at me, Obediah!
Look at me!
” Obie did, wide-eyed with shock and just a little bit of fear. Ben pointed to the Bastard, tethered loosely nearby, grazing on grass. “You think I love that
horse
?"
"Ben—"
"You think I care more for a
horse
than I do for you? Jesus Christ, Obie!” Ben grasped his short hair in a tight two-fisted grip, tendons standing out on his bare arms. “Don't you
ever
put a damn
animal's
life ahead of your own! Promise me, or I'll go in and get my rifle and shoot that damn horse where it stands, I swear to God I will!” His tone was bordering on hysteria now, and Obie finally understood just how badly he'd been frightened. He wanted more than anything to go to him, but he didn't trust his legs to hold him up. He did the next best thing.
"I promise. Ben, I promise. Come and sit down."
Ben stood for a minute longer, then took a deep breath and let it out in a long, shaky sigh. He settled back on the swing and pulled Obie back into his arms, but he couldn't meet his eyes. “Thought you were dead,” he murmured into Obie's scorched and smoky hair. “That was... that was just... unacceptable."
Obie didn't reply, just snaked an arm out of his blanket cocoon and held his lover tight until the fine tremors quit running through his body. They sat for awhile, and things were quiet except for the distant sounds of the hands. Obie craned his neck but couldn't see a thing from his angle. “How's everything going down there?"
"Well enough. Most of the horses look okay, but I think we may lose that old mare of Billy's. I don't like the looks of her."
"Poor old thing."
"She may fool us yet. Even if she pulls through though, she's done bein’ ridden. We'll put her out to pasture."
Obie figured he was in the same boat, but no sense setting Ben off again. “How we gonna rebuild the barn with no lumber?” He yawned.
"Ain't quite figured that out yet,” Ben admitted. “We'll get by. Always do, somehow."
Mumbling a reply, Obie closed his eyes, letting the gentle sway of the porch swing pull him toward sleep. He was almost there when he heard and felt Ben grunt. “Wha?” he mumbled, sitting up and blinking himself awake.
Ben rose and went back to the railing, squinting down the long path with a confused frown. A smile, a genuine, full-blown smile lit his face. “I'll be damned. Come and see this, Obie.” Ben came back and pulled Obie to his feet, supporting him through a dizzy head and shaking, weak legs. They moved slowly across the porch until Obie was able to grasp the railing.
Peering down the path, Obie saw a long caravan of horses and wagons. “Who the hell is that?"
"Everybody,” Ben said, his grin still evident in his voice.
Obie blinked his eyes clear and looked again. Driving the first wagon was Sam Barstow, with Father Percy perched up next to him. Behind his two wagons came Gus, and behind him— “Well, I'll be dipped."
Ben followed his pointing finger and started to laugh. There, driving his buckboard, with his flat cap jammed tight on his head and the stump of a cigar clenched in his teeth, was the old Dutchman, Arne de Groot. “Oh Lord! I hate to think of how they got him to come along!"
Obie shifted his finger, pointing out a fat figure on a swaybacked horse. “Sheriff's here too."
"Good. He can take that garbage and get it off my ranch.” Ben spat in the direction of Vargas's body. “I told Temper and Larry to bring back Arcady, and we'll lay him to rest here. Far as I'm concerned, he's one of my boys now."
Risking his grip, Obie laid one hand over Ben's. They'd both heard how Arcady had gotten killed trying to warn them, and Obie couldn't agree more. “He earned that. Least we can do for him. Oh, ain't that a beautiful sight."
And it was. Every wagon in the caravan was loaded to the top with lumber. Men hung off the sides like barnacles on a ship. The whole parade stopped at the barn. Gus, Sam, and Percy jumped down and met Lonnie halfway. After a moment's conversation, orders were shouted, and men began unloading supplies.
Ben turned to Obie, dirty and worn to a frazzle but still smiling. “Our friends are here. Let's go down and say hello."
Obie smiled back, letting out a squawk as Ben scooped him up like a baby, blanket and all. Before he could object, he was carried down onto the grass and over to the Bastard. “Oh no,” he protested as the great black head swung around to observe him. “Ben, he ain't gonna let me ride him."
"Hush,” Ben chided, lifting him carefully onto the broad, bare back. Obie wrapped his fists in the coarse black mane and held his breath, knowing he wasn't up to taking a fall from that height. To his utter amazement, the stallion stood placidly, allowing the weight without fuss. Obie stroked his neck, recalling how easily the huge, panicked horse had kicked out the back wall of the barn. He barely remembered crawling out into the night, but he knew he owed his life to the Bastard. Maybe, just maybe, they'd reached an understanding as they struggled to survive in that inferno.
The Bastard swung his head around and nipped Obie on the thigh. Even as Ben barked out a warning to the misbehaving horse, Obie couldn't help but laugh. “That's okay,” he said, patting the long neck once more. “It's a start."
Ben took up the trailing bridle and clicked his tongue. “Walk easy,” he intoned, and the Bastard set off at a sedate pace down the hill. Below them, Obie could see that the newcomers had taken over everything. The Bar J hands were clustered around the pump, having a wash or a drink before collapsing on the grass. He looked over these men who had become so important to him, who called out to him with friendly insults that barely disguised their relief. And even as his answering call was swallowed up in a cough, even as he slid from horseback and weakness and dizziness swept over him, Obie felt Ben's arms around him, stabilizing him and warming him inside and out. No matter what happened, he realized Ben was right.
They'd get by.
D.G. Parker spends her days posing as a mild-mannered hospital administrator in upstate New York. Her alter ego has been reading and writing voraciously since childhood and dreams of one day publishing the “Great American Novel.” She's taken her pen name from the very quotable Dorothy Parker, who reminds us all that “You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."
Visit D.G.'s blog at dgparker.wordpress.com/.
The Last Chance Ranch (C)Copyright D.G. Parker, 2011
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
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Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected]
Cover Design by Mara McKennen
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Released in the United States of America
June 2011
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-940-9