Date: Mon, 30 Apr 2012 20:43:23 -0700
From: qwb224 <qwb224@gmail.com>
Subject: Texas Twilight by Gabriel Morgan

This is a short story that appeared in Illustrated Men, a published
collection of stories each written to a painting by Michael Breyette. This
is the full-length version, which includes all the scenes cut for
publication. Hope you enjoy it. Gabriel


Texas Twilight by Gabriel Morgan

1875, somewhere in west Texas...

One white foot, buy a horse
Two white feet, try a horse
Three white feet, look well about him
Four white feet, do well without him

You'll maybe think me a foolish man, or blind, but it was the horse I
noticed first. I've always been partial to a fine piece of horseflesh, and
the bright chestnut stallion with the wide blaze and one white stocking was
hard to miss. He was drinking deep from the cool, clear water of the creek,
the damp outline of a saddle still visible on his back.

It was only when the horse tossed up his head to snort at me that I noticed
the cowboy hunkered down on the other side of him.

His black Stetson was wide-brimmed and trail-worn, but the silver workings
on the band weren't the cheap stuff the peddlers had been hawking when I'd
ridden through Waco a month or so earlier. When Smokey nickered at the
stallion, the conchos winked with a dull shine as he angled his head up to
look at me, eyes narrowing against the sun low in the sky behind me.

But my eyes were drawn away from the Stetson because that was the only
thing he had on. Other than his dusty black hat, he was naked as a jay
bird, hunkered down there beside the stallion, splashing creek water on his
face. The dark hair on his chest and stomach was wet, clinging to his skin
in a way that tightened my belly and made me glad the sun was at my back so
he couldn't see my eyes. Lower down, the hair thickened, darkening to black
in the join of his thighs where the dark pink weight of his privates swayed
slightly as he washed. He was squatting in only a few inches of water,
perched up on his toes to keep the blunt tip of his soft cock from a
dunking in the creek. His stomach muscles were tense with the effort of
keeping his balance, looking like biscuits lined up in a pan, two to a
row. As I stared at him, safe under the brim of my hat, I felt a stirring
in my pants and shifted slightly in my saddle.

When he looked up at me, droplets sparkled on his black eyelashes and
dripped from his heavily stubbled chin to land in the water between his
spread knees. I was far enough away that I doubt he heard the little breath
I hitched in at the sight of him.

"Evenin'," he said. "Where you headed?"

The way he spoke, we could have been chatting in the lobby of a fine hotel,
dressed in our Sunday best, instead of talking around a horse in the middle
of a swift-running creek with him bare as the day he was born.

"Nacogdoches, more or less," I replied, urging Smokey down the shallow bank
and into the creek. The stallion snorted again and tossed his head, but
Smokey ignored him.

The cowboy nodded and then came to his feet in one smooth motion to drape a
sinewy brown arm across the stallion's back. "Shot a rabbit back a
ways. Want some supper?"

"That'd be neighborly. Thank you."

The cowboy turned and splashed toward the far bank of the creek, leading
the horse by one rein. As I followed, I watched him walk to where he'd
dropped his gear. His legs were long, and corded with muscle that shifted
under his skin as he moved. His ass...well, his ass made me light-headed
and finished the job of hardening me that the front view of him had
begun. One rarely encountered a man like this, and it had never been my
luck to find one naked.

As he stepped into his pants, I turned away to climb off Smokey and loosen
his cinch, giving myself a minute to put my company face on. Riding alone
for nearly a year as I'd been doing makes you forget, a little, how to be
sociable. He'd pulled his boots on and was kicking some dried scrub into a
pile for a fire. The hard slant of light from the setting sun glistened in
the damp hair of his bare chest and reflected in his eyes when he glanced
at me. I put an easy smile on my face while I took the rest of that
morning's flat bread out of my saddlebag, wishing he'd put on a shirt and
praying that he wouldn't.

I busied myself gathering up more wood from a downed tree a short way
upstream, and when I got back to camp, he'd donned a shirt, faded and worn,
but left it unbuttoned so that the soft old fabric draped open across his
chest. The fire was burning nicely, so while he readied the rabbit for
roasting, I poured coffee grounds into my pot, added water from the creek,
and sat it to heat at the edge of the fire.

"Well, what in tarnation happened to that?" he laughed, looking at the
coffee pot. "Didn't like the taste one mornin', so you stomped it to
death?"

I was so used to the pot that I'd forgotten how it must look to a
stranger. "Smokey took a notion one morning and kicked it halfway to
Missouri. We were in a weedy stretch of country, so took me an hour to find
it and another hour to beat it back into shape so it would stand up by
itself. But it doesn't leak, so I haven't bothered to buy another."

"Smokey, huh? Wonder how many grey horses're named Smokey?" He'd come
around the fire for a closer look at the pot. Now he turned to me, a
crooked smile on his face, and stuck out his hand. "Carson
Alexander. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Reuben Thomas," I replied. His hand was firm and warm, and held mine for
what seemed like an overly long moment as we smiled at each
other. "Likewise," I managed.

As the rabbit sizzled and the coffee began to steam, we talked back and
forth across the fire.

"Where back east you from?" he asked.

"New York. How could you tell?"

He chuckled then, deep in his chest, making me smile in spite of
myself. "Way you talk. You're educated."

His voice was neutral, but I had met too many people who assumed I was a
greenhorn and was therefore useless on the trail, if not actually a danger
to myself and others. My slight build and tender age no doubt contributed
to that assumption.

"I do just fine, education notwithstanding," I stated a little hotly.

Carson raised one eyebrow and said mildly, "I'm sure you do. Little
education never hurt nobody." He smiled to take the edge off his words
before asking me, "So what takes you to Nacogdoches, more or less?"

"It's the next stop on my itinerary. I'm writing a book – stories of the
west." I said it as casually as I could manage, but it was a subject near
to my heart, and Carson glanced at me. "With illustrations."

"A book," he repeated, nodding as he gave me an appraising look. "With
illustrations. Huh. Never owned a book, myself – but I can read and
write," he added. "Some, anyway."

A coyote yipped just then, and as always, the sound lifted the hairs on the
back of my neck. We were silent as a second answered the first, and when a
third chimed in, Carson glanced off into the darkness as if looking for
them. As the lonely, mournful sounds died away, he turned back to the fire
with an expression as melancholy as the fading howl of the coyotes.

"And you?" I inquired. "What are you doing out here by yourself? Searching
for wayward cattle perhaps?"

Carson shook his head, causing a strand of black hair to fall across one
dark eye. As he shoved it back under his hat with a big callused hand, he
sighed deeply. "No... No, I'm headin' home. To get married."

The last three words were said with as much enthusiasm as a man might
exhibit on the way to his own hanging, and I looked at him carefully. He
was staring unfocused into the fire, elbows planted on his thighs, hands
dangling loosely between his knees.

"Is the lady in question not to your liking? Cross-eyed? Hunchbacked?
Bucktoothed?" I asked it with a bit of levity, hoping to lighten his mood,
but received only a brief smile for my efforts.

"No, she's tolerable. Her daddy owns the farm east of ours, so it's a good
match. Been planned since we were kids."

No talk of love, or even the lingering affection of a childhood
friendship. Just a pragmatic reference to the securing of that dearest of
commodities — more land. It was obvious that he wasn't thrilled about
the prospect of marriage, but whether from lack of romantic attraction for
the girl, or loss of his current footloose life, I couldn't discern.

"Well..." I began, but was saved from the necessity of a reply when the
coffee pot boiled over. I snatched it off the rock with a corner of my
shirt and poured two cups. Carson took the rabbit off the fire, splitting
it onto two tin plates from his pack and handing me a fork. I offered him a
piece of flat bread, which he took with a nod of thanks, and we ate
silently.

Carson kept his attention on his plate, leaving me free to watch him. The
flickering light of the fire threw dancing shadows over the bunching
muscles of his jaw as he chewed. I watched his throat work as he swallowed,
and then let my eyes wander up the trail of black hair on the back of his
hand to where it disappeared into the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. His
wrists were strong, his forearms tanned from a life spent out of doors, and
my fingers itched to trace the veins on the inside of his wrist.

I didn't need to imagine where the trail of hair on his tight belly led;
I'd seen every stunning bit of him as he'd crouched in the stream.

The rabbit was tender and juicy, the coffee was hot, and too soon both were
gone. I rinsed the pot, plates and forks in the stream before walking
slowly back to the fire. Carson had staked the stallion in a patch of grass
and was sitting on his unrolled blankets gazing into the flames once
again. I set the plates and forks by his saddle pack, and then stowed the
pot away in my own. As I tightened up Smokey's cinch, I glanced at him, but
he was lost in the flickering of the fire.

"Thanks for supper," I said. "I'll be moving along now."

Carson looked up at me then, studying my face so intently that I stopped
what I was doing and turned to fully face him. After a long few moments, he
spoke.

"Why don't you just bunk down here." He gestured with one hand and then
held my eyes as he added the last few words. "I'd... I'd enjoy the
company."

I stared at him, trying to read more into his offer than a spot on the
other side of the fire, but he looked away and began to remove his boots,
seemingly indifferent to my reply. Stay or go, I wondered as I watched him
wiggle his long toes and inspect the bottom of one foot. Well, it was just
one night, then we'd go our separate ways – him to a loveless marriage,
me to...what?

Carson gave me that one-sided smile as I hauled Smokey's saddle off and
tied him to a sturdy bush. After smoothing away a few stones, I shook out
my bedroll and sat down to pull off my boots as Carson stretched out on his
side, head propped on one hand. The firelight cast moody shadows on the
planes of his face and reflected in his eyes.

I eased my sketch pad from my pack and began to rough in the shape of his
head, the angle of his jaw, the tendons pulling taut against the skin of
his neck. He paid me no mind as I worked, filling in the finer details of
his face: the wide, full mouth, the little scar high on his right cheek,
the heavy lashes shadowing his dark eyes. After a bit, he rolled onto his
back, hands clasped across his belly, long legs crossed at the ankles.

His shirt had fallen open, and I flipped quickly to a clean page, my breath
coming a little faster as I captured the small, dark circles of his nipples
just visible in the curling black hair of his broad chest. After I had a
good start on his physique, I stopped drawing to simply look at him. His
eyes were closed, his features softened in sleep, and I felt a familiar
clutch in my chest as I watched his lips part slightly.

It had been months since I'd been with someone — only a hurried
encounter in the dark recesses of a livery stable that had left me
physically sated but emotionally bereft. I could feel the stir of longing
begin to work at me, warming my groin as I shifted uncomfortably on my
blanket. Carson slumbered on, unaware of the effect he was having on me. I
went back to my drawing, working my way down his body, and when I reached
the buttons of his pants, I realized that he had an erection. The firm
outline of his cock hardened me almost immediately, and I tossed the sketch
book aside, any hope of concentration gone.

I tugged my boots back on, and rising quietly, moved away from the fire,
off into the shadows, but still within sight of him. As I opened my pants,
I listened to his voice in my head, remembering his words as he'd asked me
to stay. I'd enjoy the company, he'd said. Not half as much as I would, I
thought as I spit in my palm and slid my hand lightly over the head of my
cock — not half as much as I would.

I took my time, running my gaze over Carson's bare chest and bulging
fly. Every curve of his body came to mind with startling clarity, and soon
I was spilling my seed into the Texas dust between my trembling knees, toes
curled tightly in my scuffed boots, head thrown back. When I opened my
eyes, the heavens were spread before me, vast and dark, and it took the
shivering yips of another coyote to bring me back to earth. I crept back to
my blanket, removed my boots once again, and curled on my side as the
hypnotic rise and fall of Carson's chest lulled me to sleep.

***

"Mornin'."

Carson's voice was husky with sleep, but he was fully dressed and crouching
by the fire as he poured two cups of coffee. The sky was just beginning to
lighten, bleeding from black to palest gray, and from that to a translucent
pink, before settling into the unrelenting blue of Texas in May. He seemed
in no hurry, so I fried bacon and made fresh flat bread, and we ate a
companionable, albeit quiet, breakfast together.

As I was kicking dirt over the fire, Carson stepped away and turned his
back to me. I didn't immediately realize what he was doing, and when I
heard the strong stream of his urine splattering into the dirt, I turned
toward him without thinking. His head was lowered, his boots spread, and
between them, I could see the little kick of dust from the impact of the
accumulating pool. As I watched, the stream lessened, then slowed to a
trickle interrupted by a couple more spurts as he grunted slightly before
tucking himself back in his pants.

I turned quickly toward Smokey, all too aware of my unguarded face and the
hard slant of my cock across my thigh. Breathing deeply, I forced myself to
answer him normally when he spoke.

"Ridin' east?"

"Yes."

"Mind if I ride along? That's my general direction, too, so..."

"Of course."

If he thought my perfunctory replies odd, he kept it to himself, saddling
the stallion with an efficiency I'd yet to master. As we rode away from the
camp site, I took a lingering look back, knowing this time and this place
would stay with me long after Carson was home and married.

Married.

I glanced at him, riding next to me, slouched comfortably in the saddle,
one hand resting on his leg. He seemed resigned to his fate, but I wondered
what life would do to him, married to a woman he didn't love and shackled
to the backbreaking, unrelenting work of farming. He met my eyes just then,
holding them for a long minute, his face solemn, that wide mouth unsmiling,
and I wondered...

But no, it was a foolish thought, and I chided myself for giving it a
moment's consideration. He'd probably shoot me if I gave him so much as a
friendly pat, never mind the embrace I'd been daydreaming of since I'd seen
him naked in the creek. I sighed and broke away from his gaze. The day
passed as days on the trail do, slowly, with idle conversation, the swift
pursuit of a rabbit for dinner, the pause to appreciate an eagle soaring on
the currents off a cliff to the north.

Two months passed in this manner, two months of sharing the day with him,
cooking breakfast and supper, sleeping across from him, watching the dying
embers of yet another fire burn to ashes and dust. From the first, we were
easy with each other, falling into a routine of making camp, gathering
wood, building a fire, preparing a meal. It was a camaraderie that was
seductive in its simplicity; we never discussed who would do what, the days
simply unfolding one sunrise after the next in a growing string of weeks
that I knew I'd never forget.

As we spent time together and Carson became accustomed to my presence, he
asked my opinion on a variety of matters and gave my replies due
consideration. He also took on the role of western guide, pointing out
plants, rock formations, animal tracks, all manner of things I wouldn't
have noticed or known the significance of, left to my own devices. His
knowledge of the world he moved in was remarkable, and I wrote volumes
every evening by the fire, attempting to get it all on paper.

One night as I opened my pad to sketch a brace of partridge he'd shot
earlier, he noticed the two drawings I had done of him the first night. He
gripped my wrist to stop my hand from turning the page and leaned over my
shoulder to study the one of him asleep. His hand tightened on my arm for a
moment, and then he released me and straightened up to get more wood. I
looked at his back and wondered if I should say something, but nothing
brilliant came to mind, so I stayed quiet.

***

Two days outside Nacogdoches, the skies darkened as we finished supper, and
shortly after dark, the rain began, lightly at first, but soon quickening
to a steady downpour. I'd lost my poncho months ago during a windy night in
New Mexico, so at first I huddled near Smokey, thinking to wait it out. But
when the rain began in earnest, I knew I was in for a long, wet night. I
tugged my hat down more firmly and was trying to make myself as small as
possible when Carson appeared by my side.

"Here, hold this," he muttered, shoving a rope into my hand. "Goddamn
rain."

He hunched down next to me, swearing quietly to himself as he pulled one
corner of the canvas square under his butt and the other over his head. I
did the same, and shortly we were protected adequately, if somewhat
awkwardly, from the worst of the storm.

As soon as the rain was no longer my primary concern, I became very aware
of him. From his shoulder to his elbow, then down the full length of his
thigh, he was pressed snugly against me. I sat very still, the storm
completely forgotten, as I committed the feel of him to memory. The muscles
of his leg were rock hard, and moved against me as he shifted his feet
slightly.

The heat of his body was the next thing I noticed. I was wet clear through,
and as the night was cooling off rapidly, I soon began to shiver. The
second time a shudder moved through me, Carson turned his head my way. We
were so close our hat brims bumped and I could feel his breath warm on my
cheek as he spoke.

"You gonna catch your death." He studied my face for a second before
lifting his arm over my shoulders and pulling me against him. "Come
`ere. See if we can warm you up some."

I huddled gratefully next to him, chattering out my thanks through clacking
teeth, my shoulder deep in the warmth of his armpit. To keep my balance, I
leaned my forearm on his thigh, fisting my hand instead of gripping his leg
like I wanted to, and gradually his heat seeped through me. The rain
continued unrelenting, and it soon became clear that we'd have to attempt
to get some sleep. Carson pulled away from me for a moment, rearranging the
canvas before pulling me down next to him. I drew my knees to my chest, and
let out a ragged breath when he curled up behind me, snugging his body
along mine, and draping the hand holding the edge of the canvas across my
chest to keep it from lifting in the wind.

The press of his chest to my back as he breathed, the hard line of his
thighs along mine — these were the things I noticed as I lay there. The
patter of the rain, the rock under my hip, the trickle of water working its
way through my scalp — none of them registered, and I knew I could never
fall asleep like this.

But, of course, I did, waking to the smell of wet wool pressed to my face
and the sound of Carson's snores rumbling in my ear. His arm held me still,
angling across my body to where his brown fingers curled around my
wrist. It was just coming daylight, and the sky was that pearly false dawn
you sometimes get after a storm moves through. I struggled to keep my
breathing even, wanting to prolong this moment for as long as possible,
because I knew the moment he woke up, he would shove me away, disgusted
with himself, and with me.

The call of a bird roused him after a few minutes, and his grip tightened
reflexively on my arm as he awoke. His breathing changed, and he released
my wrist as he stretched and then rolled onto his back. I lay still,
thinking to pretend to be asleep until he could move away, but after a
moment, he got to his knees and gave my hip a squeeze, leaving his hand
there as he spoke.

"Reuben. Wake up. Storm's over." I yawned and stretched as though I had
just awoken, but he simply smiled at me, hand still on my hip, before
squinting at the rising sun. "Gonna be a clear day. We best get dried out."

With that, he pushed to his feet and shucked his pants into a heap on the
soggy blanket, then tugged off his shirt and added it to the pile. Stark
naked, he held out a hand, offering me a pull to my feet, and after a
dumbfounded moment, I took it and let him pull me up.

"Get out of them wet duds," he ordered, picking his up to spread them over
a nearby bush.

I did as he said, blushing furiously at being unclothed in the full light
of day in the middle of the Texas prairie, but he seemed not to notice, and
before long the campsite looked like a washerwoman's yard, with shirts and
pants festooning every shrub in a thirty-foot radius. We ate breakfast
sitting gingerly on large rocks that he rolled close to the fire, warming
our damp toes as our boots dried out. In the middle of chewing a bite of
flat bread, Carson got an odd look on his face, and then bent over to peer
under his testicles as he held them aside with one hand.

"Watch out for bugs," he warned as he plucked the offending insect from
between his legs. "It's a sorry thing to get bit...down there."

I nodded, mesmerized by the sight of his soft pink sac gathered up in his
big hand, the two globes of his balls lifting his cock toward the sky. As
he let go, things fell back into place, and I sighed heavily, casting a
glance at my own `down there.' My cock was partially filled and lifted
slightly from my balls, and it was obvious that I was responding to the
sight of him.

I closed my eyes and willed my penis to subside, but when I opened them,
Carson was staring between my legs, watching me while his cock imitated
mine. After an agonizing second or two, our eyes met and held. I had come
to treasure Carson's friendship and was loathe to ruin it like this. But
suddenly he grinned at me.

"Looks like we're both a little randy."

I managed a smile and some inane comment. If he only knew...



Eventually our belongings dried enough to pack, and then we were on our way
once more, riding the dusty trail toward Nacogdoches, where we would part
ways. Carson was continuing east to his home in the hills of Arkansas and
the still nameless `good match' with whom he would spend the rest of his
life. Late that afternoon, we met a couple men riding west and they told us
that we were but a few miles from town. After they passed by, Carson gazed
east for a bit, then looked at me.

"We can ride on in, if you like..." He paused, finding a sudden interest in
the tooled leather of his saddle horn. "Or we can make camp now, and..."

He made a small gesture with his hand as he raised his eyes to mine. There
was nothing in his face to suggest anything beyond the face value of his
words, and yet...

"Let's stop now," I said, casting about for a likely spot, but he was
already moving off the trail, winding his horse down the hill through a
stand of trees to the bank of a small creek.

We were both quiet as we went about the now routine tasks of making
camp. When we were finished eating, I rinsed the plates, made more coffee
and shook out my bedroll. We were camped between the creek and the hill, so
when Carson got his bedroll from behind his saddle, the only flat spot left
to him was close alongside me. He sat down to tug his boots off and we
bumped elbows.

"Sorry," he muttered. "It's a mite crowded."

"No bother," I replied, wondering how in the hell I was supposed to sleep
with Carson stretched out next to me.

We leaned back against our saddles, sipping our coffee, as the day came to
an end. I tried to envision tomorrow, waving to Carson as he rode east and
out of my life forever. These past weeks had been a joy to me. The daily
companionship of a man I respected, whose company I enjoyed, a man whose
personality and character dovetailed so nicely with my own, had become
second nature to me, and I knew that I would miss him long after he had
forgotten all about me.

Some time later, a mighty pop from the fire snapped me awake. I glanced at
Carson to find him staring moodily into the fire, and was about to roll
over when he began to talk. His voice was low, scarcely audible above the
nighttime noises of the Texas twilight, and I froze in place as I listened
to him.

"I lit out from home when I was sixteen. My daddy was against it, but I had
wanderin' feet and needed to see somethin' of the world before settlin'
down to the life of a farmer." He paused, and I took the opportunity to
turn toward him. He cut his eyes at me briefly, but went back to the fire
when he took up his story again.

"Drove cattle north that first year. Drove horses south the second. Worked
on the Four Sixes Ranch a few years, startin' colts. Then a letter come
from my daddy, remindin' me that I had obligations." Again he stopped, his
hands restless around the cold coffee cup. "So I left the ranch and started
ridin'. Supposed to be headin' home, but I been at it goin' on two years
now and ain't made much easterly progress."

He snorted a humorless chuckle. "Took that stallion yonder instead of my
last pay packet. Thought if I could get a good mare somewhere along the
way, I could maybe start up my own place." He sighed and tossed the dregs
of his coffee out into the dirt. "But that ain't gonna happen. Be lucky if
I don't have to sell him off to buy seed corn next spring."

"Don't sell him," I blurted out. "Can't you... Do you have to go?" I could
hear the plea in my voice and knew that he could, too.

He was silent for so long that I thought he wouldn't answer me, but he
finally did, in a voice so low I had to strain to hear him. "I can see it
in your face. How you feel. The way you look at me." As I shrank back from
him, he grabbed me by the wrist, gentling his grip as I stilled, but
avoiding my eyes.

"And I been thinkin'..." He stopped again, and his hand moved slowly up my
arm, then down to my wrist again. He gave me a soft squeeze before he
released me. "I been thinkin' about what it would be like, you and me,
goin' on like we have been, only...more so, staking out a piece of land,
makin' it our own." He laughed softly, sadly, and looked down at his
hands. "But I can't hardly imagine a city feller like you settlin' down in
the wilds of Texas. Likely you'd miss the opera too much, I reckon."

"I wouldn't miss the opera one bit," I whispered.

He looked at me then, his dark eyes roaming over my face as his fingertips
touched my cheek, moving lightly over my skin before skimming across my
lips. He heaved a sigh, gave me that crooked smile, and then turned away
from me to curl up on his side. I lay back on my blanket as the first
heartbreak of my young life twisted through me. Hot tears burned as I took
deep open-mouthed breaths, trying desperately not to cry.

Carson's breath was short and uneven, and I knew that he was still awake,
but I didn't care. I rolled toward him and lay the flat of my hand between
his shoulder blades, feeling his heat and the knobs of his spine and the
spread of his ribs as he breathed. I pressed my face to his back, letting
his shirt absorb my tears as I breathed him in. He stiffened slightly at my
touch, but after a moment, his hand stole around to rest on my hip, and
that's how we fell asleep.



Smokey's nicker woke me at first light, and I sat up with a start. The
previous night came back to me in a rush and I turned to Carson. But, of
course, he was gone. The only proof he'd ever been there was the flat place
in the dirt where he'd slept, and the stallion's hoof prints in the soft
bank of the creek where he'd ridden away sometime in the night.

Those, and the knot of pain so deep inside me I doubted it would ever heal.

I went into Nacogdoches late in the day when I was sure he'd be long
gone. At the general store, I purchased more paper and some supplies. As I
was settling up with the proprietor, he looked me over carefully. I eyed
him back, sullen and defensive in my misery.

"Might you be Reuben?" he asked, as I packed my saddle bags. "The writer,
Reuben Thomas?"

I stared at him, a smile of wonder widening my mouth. "Yes. Yes, I am. Why
do you ask?"

"Fella left this for you. Said you'd be by for it sometime today." As he
spoke, he reached under the counter and brought out Carson's black Stetson,
the felt dusted off, the conchos all shined up. "Said it'd help keep you
dry." He scratched his head. "Not sure what he meant by that, but he said
you'd know."

I took off my battered hat, bought earlier when I'd left New York for my
western adventure, and donned the Stetson. It settled onto my head like an
old friend, and I grinned at the store keeper before peering at my
reflection in the window. The black of the hat, set off by the glitter of
the conchos, made me feel dangerous and older somehow.

I put the saddlebags back on Smokey, climbed aboard, and rode northwest out
of town.

***

The following months were difficult. I joined up with a cattle drive headed
up the Chisholm Trail, riding herd by day and listening to the cowboys
jawing around the campfire by night. I wrote and wrote, drowning my
loneliness in words. Now and then, when everyone was asleep, I'd take out
my sketch book and torture myself with the two drawings I'd done of
Carson. Just a glance was enough to tighten both my throat and my groin.

I grew up that autumn and winter. I aged in ways unremarked by the casual
observer, but I felt the changes. I knew loss for the first time, and it
weighed heavy. I was slow to laughter and kept to myself, to the point
where the cowboys eventually stopped including me in their banter.

With the cattle safely delivered to their buyer, I set out alone, riding
south in an effort to stay ahead of the worst of the winter
weather. Between the infrequent towns, Smokey and I lived off the land,
eating what we could find and going hungry when there was nothing. We spent
a miserable four days snowbound in a small canyon before the storm let up
enough for us to fight our way through the drifts.

The both of us were thin and straggly, trail-worn and tired, but we moseyed
along, and the fourth of March found us once more just outside Nacogdoches,
Texas. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't come through here again. The
west was plenty big enough that I didn't need to make myself sick by
revisiting places Carson and I had ridden together.

But I wound up there just the same.

The night before I rode into town, I camped down the hill by the creek. The
stallion's hoof prints were long gone, but the remnants of our fire were a
darkened patch of earth, and I built my fire on top of it, remembering
Carson's fingers on my cheek as I ate a solitary meal.

I waited till late afternoon before riding the last couple miles to
Nacogdoches. The town had not changed much in the ten months since I'd seen
it last. I tied Smokey to the rail in front of the general store, untied my
saddlebags, and went inside. As the bell over the door announced my
arrival, the proprietor glanced at me, and his face lit in recognition.

"There you are. He said you'd be through here again."

I stared at him. "Who said?"

"The feller left you that hat," he replied, tipping his chin at the black
Stetson on my head.

"He was here?" I was dumbstruck. "When?"

He looked at the calendar tacked to the wall behind the cash
register. "Musta been Monday last. Almost two weeks ago."

I sagged down on a keg of nails, staring at the floor in despair. Carson
had been here, but I'd missed him. But why was he here? Was he married?

"Was he alone?"

"I believe so. I saw him ride up on that chestnut horse of his. Wasn't
anyone with him."

So he still had the stallion. Maybe I could track him somehow; people would
remember that horse. But day was fading, it would all have to wait until
tomorrow. I walked slowly down the street to the saloon thinking to drown
my sorrows in a beer or two. It was a rowdy place, noisy with piano music
and the off-key singing of cowboys long on enthusiasm but short on talent.

I squeezed in at one end of the bar, holding up a finger to the barkeep,
and a moment later leaned forward to take the beer from him. As I nodded my
thanks, I glanced down the bar and froze.

Standing quietly, staring me right in the face, was Carson.

We looked at each other for a long, long moment, and then he smiled at me,
that crooked half smile, and tipped his head toward the door. I set a coin
next to my untouched mug and worked my way through the crowd to where he
was waiting, and we stepped outside together.

"What —" I began.

"When —" he started.

We both laughed, and then he said, "Hat looks good on you. Thought it
might."

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, things didn't exactly work out back home. Time I got there, she'd
got tired of waitin' and married somebody else."

"But what about the farm, the land?"

"My daddy'd married a widow woman new in town. Her boy's a dyin' to follow
a mule's ass all day, plowin'. I said let him have it, jumped on my horse,
and hightailed it back here."

Two men passed us and Carson glanced around. "Come on. I got a room at the
boardin' house. We can talk there."

Behind his closed door, I felt awkward and shy being alone with him after
all this time, and he had trouble meeting my eyes, as well.

"Why are you here?" I asked, needing him to say it.

He worked the brim of his hat through his fingers one way, then back again
before answering me. "Well... I missed you. Them couple months we rode
together..." He paused and walked slowly to the window. "When I saw how you
looked at me, realized what it meant... well, it took me by surprise. Never
met anyone looked at me like that, and I suppose I wasn't expectin' it to
be a man." He chuckled self-consciously, but sobered up as he turned to
face me. "Took me a while to come to grips with it, but I got... feelin's
for you, too."

He tossed his hat on the bed and walked slowly to stand in front of me,
looking down into my face. God knows what he saw there, but after a moment
he smiled and lifted a hand, hesitating for a moment before laying his palm
against my cheek with his thumb on my lips.

"You still feel the same, huh? Thought maybe you'd a got over it by now."

I was unable to utter even a simple yes, so I just looked at him until
finally, finally he slid his hand to the back of my neck and pulled me
gently to him. As my arms went around his waist, I closed my eyes and
buried my face in his shirt front, undone by the wild rampage of emotions I
was experiencing. After a moment, he sighed deeply, peacefully, and pulled
back a little to look at me.

"Never been in this situation before," — he gave me a wry smile —
"but if it suits you, I thought we'd ride southwest a bit till we find a
likely piece of land. I got two mares down to the livery, and I thought
maybe we could... you know... sorta set up housekeepin' together, you and
me."

I was smiling so widely by this time that my face hurt, but I managed a
nod. He grinned at me. "I guess that's a yes," he laughed, and hugged me
again. "Well, okay then..."

We broke apart a few moments later, suddenly conscious of our respective
erections, and of the bed, not five feet from us. Neither of us was ready
yet to acknowledge the physical aspects of our decision, and we stood there
looking everywhere except at the bed and each other. Carson fidgeted with
his shirt cuff for a moment before cupping my face in one hand and planting
a quick kiss on my mouth.

As he began stuffing his clothes into his pack, he smiled at me and said,
"I know a little campsite by a stream not far from here..."