Two Sides of the Same Coin

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Two Sides of the Same Coin

Copyright © 2011 by Jake Mactire

Cover Art by Paul Richmond   http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-683-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January, 2011

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-684-2

Acknowledgments

I’
VE
FOUND
that putting a book together is a great deal more than just writing. I’d like to thank my beta readers for all their time and help. I’ve truly enjoyed the experience of writing and editing
Two Sides of the Same Coin
, and you made the experience even better.

First of all, I’d like to thank Sydne Brewer. Your support and confidence in me kept me going through some periods of writer’s block and encouraged me to sit down and start typing away again. You always believed in me, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. Tony Banks, thanks for the many great conversations about Jeff and Mike and cowboy life. Your willingness to be a sounding board for ideas was fantastic. Your constant enthusiasm for the project kept me going. Angela Hudson, for taking time from a busy schedule and career change to not only give me your opinions and feelings about the book, but also for answering my questions about how men and women approach things differently. Jim Westerland, aka “Cupcake,” you gave me a very valuable lesson: just because I think something is second nature or common knowledge doesn’t mean everyone does. From face paint when out hunting to headers, heelers, and reatas, thanks for cluing me in on what needed explanation. Gylan Green, you gave me some great ideas and were so willing to discuss points that needed clarification or didn’t fit. Those discussions and that time were immensely valuable.

You are all some of the best friends a guy could have. Your help and support took Jeff and Mike from just ideas and stories in my head, conceived while out hiking, to reality through the pages of a book. Thanks for bringing them to life.

Chapter One

T
HE
last two weeks had been pure hell. It started with a phone call on a Tuesday afternoon telling me my father had passed away. Then there was the rushed trip back to Winslett, the town that I grew up in, in the Methow Valley in north-central Washington, and the funeral. It seemed that I had barely enough time to throw some clothes in a duffle bag, call the airlines, and get home. The reality of the entire situation finally hit me when I got to Winslett. I flew into Wenatchee, and my friend Sandy picked me up. I’d always respected and gotten along well with my dad; after my mom died when I was six, he raised me. Losing him was kind of like losing a good friend. It was also totally unexpected; Dad was only in his early sixties and had never been sick a day in his life. He’d died when a kid texting tried to pass a semi-truck on a blind curve.

I felt a bit guilty about having moved to San Francisco. I had been out as a gay guy since I was sixteen. Dad was always very supportive. I spent a couple of years moving around the country, doing odd jobs and following the rodeo circuit. I met Robert, my boyfriend, when I was bucking at the Bay Area Gay Rodeo. Carried away by a new romance, the lure of the bright lights, and the desire to live as a gay man in San Francisco, I took Robert up on his offer to move in with him. Dad had supported that move also. I’d been back every few months since I’d left. At first Robert accompanied me, but then started begging off. He also seemed more and more annoyed lately by what he termed my “country ways.” I really wished Dad was here to talk to about it. I had been able to talk with him about anything.

A fresh wave of grief hit me. I felt empty; the whispered condolences of acquaintances and the talk of heaven and an “eternal reward” by the priest at St. Genevieve’s Church at the funeral had done nothing to comfort me. Dad and I were really the only members of our family. I knew I had some cousins in Portland, but I couldn’t even recall meeting them. The funeral had been a week ago. I still felt alone and empty. I was, however, finding some solace in looking out from the porch to the valley, river, and mountains. The tall pine trees moved in a barely perceptible breeze, perfuming it with their clean scent. The morning gloaming was giving way to the first rays of the sun coming from the east, shining through the valley. I took a deep breath and felt a bit calmer, a bit more at peace. Dad had taught me to love this place. I breathed a silent prayer to the universe in thanks for having the dad I had and growing up in this place.

I shook my head to clear it and took a sip of coffee. It was good and strong, made cowboy style by boiling the grounds and then settling them with a dash of cold water. Robert hated cowboy style coffee. If our coffee wasn’t made in his deluxe espresso-coffee machine, he carried on like the house had just burnt down. I could hear him going on about it. “Jeffrey, (I go by Jeff, Connelly is the last name) how can you drink that stuff? You must have burned all your taste buds off with that nuclear coffee and all the hot, spicy food you eat.” I wished again Dad was here to talk to. I guess I’d just have to face the Robert dilemma on my own. I resolved I would talk to him and find out why he seemed to find me so annoying lately. Robert was not confrontational in the least; unfortunately he expressed his displeasure through snide comments.

In finally going over the books on the ranch, I discovered it was barely bringing in enough to pay the bills. I had to make an appointment with Dad’s attorney and find out just how bad the picture was. The books I had were the ones about the ranch itself, the cattle and ranch expenses. I’d have to find out about the mortgage and any other debts on the ranch. The only bright spot was that due to the new “comfort food” fad, the price of beef was going up. Since our beef was organic, free range, and grass fed, we could get a premium price. If we were able to stay in business until roundup time that is. My mind was going from one random thought to another, from the crushing sense of loss I felt from losing my dad, to the problems at the ranch.

The sun rising over the mountains to the east caught my attention again. Although it was early in fall, the high Cascades were snow covered. The cold wind coming from the north seemed to say that here in the valley snow would fall soon. I leaned back in the chair and tried to think of what to do. Sell the ranch? Try and make it work? It wasn’t like my career in San Francisco, where Robert and I lived, was going to make me a millionaire. I was your typical struggling artist. I cast Western bronze sculptures, like cowboys, bucking broncos, and other Western scenes. Sales were picking up, but it seemed that all my buyers came from someplace east of the Sierra or Cascades. There wasn’t much of a market for Western art in San Francisco. That accounted for my other job, a waiter at a well-known Italian restaurant in North Beach. Robert was always nagging me to use my degree in accounting, but I hated it with a passion. I’d only gone into it because Dad had pushed me. I did agree with him though; the accounting would come in handy in running the ranch.

When I was at school, I missed Winslett and the valley so much; I went through summers and took heavy course loads so I got through in three years. A year of looking at screwed-up tax returns and small businesses with shoddy record keeping had bored me to death. Although it did make working with the books at the ranch much easier. I understood why Dad felt it would be a useful skill, but that didn’t make it any more enjoyable. In one of the last conversations we’d had, Dad had told me of how proud he was at all I had packed into my twenty-eight years so far. A fresh wave of sorrow swept over me.

As the sun began to clear the mountains and the morning gloaming began to lighten into clear light, I noticed some activity in the bunkhouse. The light in the common room had come on, and smoke began to rise from the chimney. We had a foreman, Wayne, who had a trailer of his own off behind the bunkhouse. Four cowboys lived in the bunkhouse—José, who had been with the ranch since I was a teenager, Pedro, Josh, and a new guy, Mike. The door of the bunkhouse opened, and José stepped out. He had on jeans and a denim jacket over a red flannel shirt. He was a lean and lanky guy, with olive skin, side burns, a big moustache, and a head of thick black hair cut short. He noticed me sitting on the porch and sauntered up with a smile on his face. It was time to wipe the grief off my face and cowboy up.

“Hey, boss, qué tal?”

“Bien José, y tú?” I answered his “how’s it going” with a standard “okay, and you?.”

“Got any more coffee, boss?” he asked with a grin.

“It’s on the stove in the kitchen; help yourself.”

As he headed into the kitchen, I thought about José. When he’d figured out I played for the other team so to speak, he’d started acting really macho around me and never let a chance to put me down over my sexuality pass. It’d all come to a head one day when we were riding fences together. I’d finally gotten sick of his taunts and had asked him why he was so interested. I’d then added that in my experience there was no one more homophobic than a closet queen. I’d translated that remark into Spanish and saw his temper rise. He’d jumped me, and I’d ended up kicking the shit out of him. The next day had been pretty uncomfortable. José’s horse had stepped in a gopher hole and fallen on José, breaking his leg. It’d then run off. I’d doctored his leg and put him on my horse, leading it the eighteen or so miles back to the ranch. We’ve been friends ever since.

I could hear José in the kitchen adding the half-cup full or so of sugar he used to his coffee. The bunkhouse door opened, and the new guy, Mike, came out. I’d noticed him the first day I’d gotten back to the ranch and again at the funeral. He was about my height of six feet, slender and lanky but muscular. He had a head of thick blond hair, a red beard, and brown eyes. This morning he was wearing scuffed up boots, jeans, a long-sleeve thermal T-shirt, and a denim jacket. He had on an old straw cowboy hat that had once been white.

José came out of the kitchen and stopped by my chair. He was looking at Mike with an expression on his face that he would also use to inspect something he found on the bottom of his boot.

“Mornin’,” I said as Mike walked by, apparently on the way to his truck. He answered with an unintelligible grunt.

“You want some coffee?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said, and then retrieved something from his truck and walked back to the bunkhouse.

“Sure as hell is a real friendly guy,” I said to José.

“Cabrón!” José swore in Spanish. “He isn’t friends with no one. I thought it might just be because Pedro and I are Mexicanos, but he is mean to Josh too.”

“Any problems with his work?”