“Thanks.” Will might be four inches shorter than Rusty, forty pounds lighter, and almost twice his age, but there was something about his quiet presence that’d feel comforting at a man’s back in a tight spot. Not that Rusty planned on taking him up on the offer. To lighten the mood, Rusty teased, “So are you cheering for Scott to win the Cup or eager to have him back home sooner?”
Will tugged his hat down straight. “Can I say both?”
“Sure. Both is good.”
They found the errant cow and her calf, herded her back through the gap in the fence, and stopped to fix the wire. It wasn’t till they were riding home side by side, the cow off grazing with the rest, that Will said, “Scotty’s worried about Cross. Said he was going to show up to that last home playoff game and then didn’t. Said he’s real quiet on the team chat. Do you hear from him?”
Not like I want to.“Some. He messages me.”
Rusty’s phone had a long string of messages he’d sent Cross over the last two weeks. A view of the sunrise from that first hotel in the mountains with,~Almost makes it worth getting up early. Trying for 14 hours today.
And Cross’s reply.~Pretty. Good luck.
A picture from where he’d paused for lunch in Utah not far from Salt Lake.~Looks a bit like Eastern WA. Shorter mountains though.
Cross.~True.
A photo of the “Welcome to Kansas” sign.~Home state. A couple of hours to go. My ass really wants out of this seat after three days.
He’d hoped for maybe a joke about his ass, but got back,~I bet.
“Rusty?”
He realized Will had said something he’d missed. “Huh? Didn’t catch that.”
Will’s blue eyes were shrewd but his quick smile looked kind. “No big. Let’s go see how that new kid’s doing painting the shed. Maybe lend him a hand.”
Rusty wasn’t sure about the abrupt change of subject, but since he didn’t want to talk about Cross, he ran with it. “Sure thing. Who is this guy?” Will was set to take in a couple of out-of-work teens from a big-city charity for summer work this year. He’d picked the first of them up from the bus stop that morning, but Rusty’d been out checking fence when they got back.
“Name’s Ayden. Says he’s never been on a ranch before but he’s willing to learn. Dingo liked him.”
“Dingo likes everyone.” That dog was a barking fool, but he loved people.
“Mags liked him too.”
“I guess that’s some kind of testimony.” She was a pickier pup. Rusty rubbed at a patch of dirt on his jeans and nudged Fancy toa jog. “He’s queer-friendly, right? I mean, he has to be, coming here.”
“I asked the agency to send queer kids who aged out of foster care. I didn’t ask Ayden’s identity, but hopefully, yeah.”
“Good.” Rusty had enough to handle without some guy looking at him funny here at the closest thing he now had to a home.
They jogged most of the way back, then walked the horses the last quarter mile to cool them down, unsaddled, and turned them out into the paddock by the barn. Will led the way around to the calving shed. The back of the building as they approached looked rough, but when they rounded the side, the front gleamed red. Up on a step ladder, a slim young guy wielded a roller and paint tray, whistling to himself.
“Hey, Ayden,” Will called, soft enough not to startle the guy. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, Mr. Rice.”
“I’m Will. Come on, I told you that.”
Ayden twisted to look down. “Sure, yeah. Will. Scraping took a while but I’m getting paint on it now.”
Rusty blinked because fuck, Ayden was hot. Not Rusty’s type, but if you liked slim and small-featured with pouty lips, big eyes, and straight copper bangs escaping from under a backwards ball cap, hell, yeah. Barely looked eighteen, but had to be, because Will said they could only take adults. Ayden’s bare arms below the T-shirt were more wiry than muscular, and pale as winter, like the rest of his face. Redhead skin. Rusty said, “You wearing sunscreen? Don’t want to burn.”
Ayden laughed. “SPF like a hundred, yeah, and I’ll probably burn anyway. Hi.”
“This is Rusty,” Will said. “He’s a hockey player like Scott, out on the west coast, but back for the summer. Rusty, Ayden.”
“Not like Scott,” Rusty corrected. “Scott’s an NHL star in the Stanley Cup playoffs. The league I play in, we qualify for food stamps.”
