Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (20 page)

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 112

Illustrations provided courtesy of Charles Edward

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 113

R L Ferguson – RIDING FOR A FALL (Cowboys/Friends-to-Lovers)

Genre:
contemporary

Tags:
cowboys, friends-to-lovers, reunited,

Dear Author,

first-love, HFN, short-story-under-15K-words,

I love cowboys. Hot days

anthology, free read

and sultry, sexy nights. So,

Warnings:
implied homophobia (as a regional

who’s this guy got in his

issue)

barn?

Words:
10,167

[PHOTO: In the dark

doorway of a barn stands a

RIDING FOR A FALL

burly, muscular man,

wearing only a white stetson

by R L Ferguson

and buckskin pants. His

hands pull the pants open

and low on his hips,

There is an art to constructing a good

exposing his hairy torso

down to the curls at his

omelet, and Jake Bryant prided himself on

groin. A straw juts from his

making one of the best. He methodically diced

mouth, and his eyes are

strips of red, green, yellow, and orange sweet

intent under the brim of his

pepper, and Vidalia onion, tossing them into the

hat.]

hot sauté pan and swishing them in the butter

Sincerely,

with the spatula. He sliced fresh button-

Celia K

mushrooms, as the mixture in the pan cooked,

filling his small but well-arranged kitchen with

their aroma. Adding cubes of ham to the pan, he

once again stirred the mixture softening the

vegetables, slightly, and warming the ham

through. Adding the mushroom slices and

tossing them in the butter, allowing the flavors

to intermingle, he salted the vegetables lightly,

added a pinch of red-pepper flakes, then

transferred the mixture to a small bowl and set

it aside on the dark gray counter.

For some cooking was a chore, for others it

was habit. For Jake it was more like meditation:

the precise steps involved taking him to a whole

other level of consciousness, allowing him to

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 114

focus inward, take inventory, solve problems, or, like today, to center

himself. He’d felt a little off-kilter since the phone call from Dylan,

three days ago. But then it was a usual thing when his friend called, if

he were to be completely honest with himself. It was never anything

Dylan said or did, just an old feeling rearing its head.

Jake mentally chided himself, as he set his omelet pan on the

burner, and dropped a chunk of butter in. He had to get a rein on this,

because Dylan was going to be arriving in less than 8 hours. What had

he been thinking, agreeing to the visit? Dylan, or rather his attraction

to Dylan, was the reason he’d left home to begin with.

Moulton, Texas, is a small, beautiful town, filled with stucco-

covered buildings, low, ranch-style houses, landscaped with palmettos

and cactus, and holding a particularly dim view of his ‘kind’. He’d

hidden far too long in that particular closet, and then ten years ago—

when he’d taken all he could—he’d packed his gear and his horse, and

left. There were few who knew exactly where he’d gone. Even fewer

who knew why. Dylan may have thought he knew the whole story, but

that was far from the case.

Jake had finally settled in Missouri, rode in a few rodeos, mostly

worked as a farm-hand, until he had saved enough money to buy his

own small acreage with his own small herd of cattle, and used the

income from the calves to buy horses. He’d earned every bit of his

reputation as one of the best horsemen in northeast Missouri. His

horses routinely topped the market at auction, and he was

comfortable, at least in that area of his life. He’d been accused of

being lonely, but ‘selectively secluded’ was the phrase he’d use to

describe himself. Dylan kept telling him he needed someone to share

his life with, and Jake was pretty sure he had permanent teeth marks

in his tongue, where he’d bitten it, to keep from asking if Dylan was

offering.

Dylan had informed him that he’d be bringing a cute blonde

named ‘Betsy’ with him. Jake wasn’t looking forward to the

introduction. He sighed heavily, as he whisked three eggs, together,

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 115

and poured them into the bubbling hot butter of his omelet pan.

There’d been times, back when they were teenagers, small things, that

he’d thought about over the years—touches, a couple of games of

chicken, that one time at Misty Hannigan’s party, where they’d got

roped into kissing each other, playing truth or dare—but, in the end,

he’d always known Dylan would find someone. Someone that
wasn’t

his male best friend. And he’d make every effort not to hate this

woman, because Dylan had assured him that Betsy would love him on

sight. The name brought to mind the cute, bouncy cheerleaders his

friend used to date in high school. Jake made up his mind to handle it

the same way he’d handled it back then, with practiced indifference.

Nodding to himself, he picked up the omelet pan, shook the eggs

loose and flipped them expertly, placing thin slices of sharp cheddar

cheese atop the lightly browned mass. Dylan was in for a shock. The

last time they’d spent any time together, the best Jake could cook was

hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. A lot of things had changed since

high school. He spooned the ham and vegetables he’d sautéed earlier

on top of the cheese, flipped the other half of the eggs over them, and

slid the whole thing off onto the warmed plate he had waiting. Taking

the first bite, Jake moaned his appreciation. The cooking classes at the

local community college had definitely paid for themselves.

****

animals, old wood, and oiled leather, along with the sweeter aromas of

feed, hay, and straw, hung heavy in the air, as he mucked out the

empty stall, getting it ready for the sorrel colt that was ready to be

weaned. He’d worked with the 9 month old stud nearly from the

moment he’d dropped. Now, it was a matter of waiting until the pretty

reddish-brown horse, with the flaxen mane and tail, was big and

strong enough to ride. The ground work was done. He was not only

broke to lead, but he followed Jake around like a large dog, in the

paddock. Vato would be a pretty gelding, as a two-year-old, half

Morgan and half Quarter-horse, he’d make a good steady cutting

horse, for someone. Jake had half a mind to keep him for his own.

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 116

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he’d just placed the scoop

shovel back on its nail on the wall in the hallway of the barn, and

uncoiled the hose, turning on the tap to wash down the remaining

muck, when he heard the unmistakable crunch of tires on the gravel of

his driveway. Walking to the large double-doors of the hallway, he

stood, framed by the grayed wood, sunlight glistening off the muscles

of his shoulders and naked torso, well-tanned from the hours he spent

working, shirtless, in the summer sun. White straw hat pulled low

over his eyes, he felt a wry smile creep across his full lips. The royal

blue F-350 gleamed in the sun, as a tall, lanky form that could only

belong to Dylan McCoy stepped around the driver’s side fender,

accompanied by a large, golden Labrador retriever.

He watched, from the shadows of the barn, as Dylan looked

around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, the low ranch-style

house, with the deck off the side, done up in a southwestern coral

stucco, and the out-buildings, in a soft cream and deep saddle-brown

tin, except the barn. Jake had left that alone, preferring the look of the

century-old weathered wood. All very pretty, Jake thought. He gave

his friend a minute to take it all in, and maybe spot him, but Dylan

had never had an eye for details. The dog, however, was a different

story. The large animal spied him, leaning in the doorway, and

woofed happily, before making a beeline for the wooden fence, and

wiggling under it quickly, Dylan in hot pursuit, sleeveless shirt

unbuttoned, and flying out behind him as he ran. For just a moment,

Jake had a flashback of the two of them, racing toward his daddy’s

pond for a swim, shedding clothing along the way, and felt a familiar

pang of lust, as he pictured
this
Dylan, in a similar state.

The dog reached him long before its master, and woofed happily,

sitting at his feet, and looking expectantly at him. He had just reached

out to pat the beast on the head when Dylan reached them, and smiled,

a little unsure of himself. “Jake? Damn, son. You’ve filled out a little.

You look good.” He extended his hand, and Jake gripped it firmly,

pulling the taller man into a ‘man hug’.

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“You look good too, D. Been a while.” If the truth was known, he

enjoyed the press of the other man’s skin against his, maybe a little

more than he should, but what the hell? Who would be the wiser?