Knocking Boots
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
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Copyright 2012 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 9781611522624
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Cover Credits: Christopher Howey
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All rights reserved.
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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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Knocking Boots
By J.M. Snyder
The sun has already begun to slip behind the barn by the time I ride in off the trail. I don’t rush—I can hear the clamor of plates and utensils amid the rising voices calling to each other from the supper table set up outside the bunkhouse, but here at the barn it’s just the sound of my horse’s shoes on the hard-packed earth and the whine of a mosquito hovering at the back of my neck.
My boots scuff in the sand as I ease off the old mare. She whinnies, and I keep a hand on her withers to calm her. Sweat dampens her coat; I need to brush her down, bust a new bale of hay, and fill a trough with fresh water before I think about my own dinner. By the time I’m through, the other ranch hands and cowboys should have had their fill, and I’ll be able to savor a quiet moment to myself by Cookie’s fire.
I’m in the stall with the mare, stooped down as I wipe her legs with both hands to check for nicks or burrs, when I hear the barn’s side door open. The hinges on it squeal in protest every time it swings one way or the other. Our foreman Hank Jolson threatens to remove it completely if we don’t keep the damn thing oiled, but it’s a hard chore to remember after a day spent in the fields under the sweltering sun. Most of us cowpokes use the barn’s front double doors, riding in on our horses or leading them out into the stunted grass just outside and ignoring the other entrance entirely.
Hank’s the only one who uses it, him and Mr. Swanson, who owns the ranch. I suspect Hank gets so bent out of shape about the squeak because Mr. Swanson mentioned it once, and he’s the boss.
The hinges squeal again as the door is shut. I stay squatting in the stall, concentrating on the mare’s foreleg, which she seems to favor a little, but I’m all ears. I pick up the shuffle of boot heels in the dirt, the jangle of spurs—Hank, I know it’s him. He’s the only one of us who favors those dandy silver bells on his boots—then I hear an accented voice ask, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Hank?”
It’s one of the Mexicans, I can’t place who. Lupe or Pedro or Jose, whatever the hell the others’ names might be…they all seem the same to me. They came on the ranch as a group and keep to themselves, talking in rapid Spanish I can’t follow and watching the rest of us with laughing eyes, as if we amuse them. On days when Hank gets a burr up his backside, he tells us he’d rather have a whole ranch of Mexicans than us surly white boys, as if we’re that much younger than he is himself. I’m twenty-three, I work hard, and I keep to myself. Hank lumping me in with the rest of the beer-swilling, whore-loving hands turns my stomach.
That’s part of the reason I’m here now, off on my own. I’m not one of those guys and never will be. Alcohol only makes me sick, and I’d rather have a man’s rough hand on me than a woman’s soft touch any day.
Not that I’d dare admit it out loud. I keep my head down, my tongue quiet, my mind to myself, and one day I plan to have enough money saved up to start a ranch of my own. Then I’ll give into my baser needs. Then I’ll find a man to love.
God knows it won’t be any one of these bastards.
The footsteps come closer and I raise up a little, just enough to peer around the mare’s neck. Hank comes into view, his blond hair tamped down around his scalp in the shape his Stetson left behind. He runs a hand through the tangled strands, tousling them. The other hand tugs at the bolo tie he favors, loosening it to unbutton the collar of his shirt. “Delfino,” he says in a slow drawl that sounds like smooth bourbon poured into a chilled glass. “Don’t act dumb, kid. You know exactly why I called you out here.”
Behind him comes Delfino—Hispanic, maybe my age, maybe a year or two older, with dark eyes like pools of liquid ink and black hair that falls straight across his forehead in a blunt cut. He has pouty lips that look too red to be real and cheekbones that hint at native blood. Why hadn’t I noticed this one before? He stands out from the others, from all the others, white or otherwise. He has an insolent air about him, a slow grin and sly eyes, that makes me wonder if Hank’s really the one in charge here or if Delfino has a secret or two he keeps hidden from the foreman.
He wears a threadbare work shirt, the chambray worn shiny in spots where the fabric rubs over his muscles, at his shoulders, his elbows, his biceps. He glances around and I duck down, hands flat against the mare’s withers to keep her quiet. She nickers gently into the bucket of feed I gave her when we first entered the barn and swats at me with her tail, threatening to dislodge the hat hiding my face. I push it down further over my eyes and hold my breath, waiting.
Why are they here? Hank says Delfino knows, and something in the air between them tells me they think they’re alone. If they find out I’m here, hiding, what will be said? I should’ve stood up as soon as they entered, cleared my throat, dropped the curry comb, something to announce my presence. Maybe if I stand suddenly, pretend I don’t even know they’re here, I can still get out before…
I start to stand, rising my chin to peek out from under my hat, and what I see stops me in mid-stretch.
Hank’s shirt is completely unbuttoned now, hanging open to expose a firm chest covered with thick, graying hair and the start of a slight paunch above his belt. Delfino has closed the distance between them, his hand flat against Hank’s belly, the fingertips lost in the tufts of hair. He’s staring into Hank’s face but the foreman doesn’t see him—Hank’s eyes are shut, lips parted slightly. As I watch, Delfino rubs his hand up Hank’s furry chest, the tip of his middle finger finding a hard, pink nipple amid the hair. Hank gasps, both hands dropping to the buckle of his belt. “That’s it,” he sighs as Delfino plucks his nipple, squeezing and teasing it erect. “God, yes.”