Stockton County Cowboys Book 5: Saddling Cowboys

Chapter 1: Cowboy InterestAugust 13, 20— Blue Coyote, Oklahoma 17 Stenner Street The guy is trouble, Daniel Fargo thought, watching the owner of The Cutter Experience walk into Fargo’s saddle store called Saddling Cowboys. Big trouble. He’s someone I need to stay away from. Chip Cutter walked around the store, admiring and fingering the thirty-plus saddles on display inside Fargo’s store. Fargo watched him circle Abbeta, Tucker, Fabtron, and Crates saddles, all of which were expensive, but in Chip’s price range, since the cowboy was a pretty savvy businessman and could hold his own regarding financial matters. Saddling Cowboys was only a little over one thousand square feet. Displayed leather saddles were on the right side, pads and apparel were on the left side, and a few cowboy hats and boots were near the register area at the back of the shop. The floor was pine tongue-and-groove, the radio played mostly Garth Brooks, Carrie Underwood, and Luke Bryan. The air conditioner was on in the place, which created a cool temperature that was comfortable for patrons since it was sticky-humid outside in the summer sun and heat. Fargo owned the store for the last thirteen years. He borrowed money from his pa when he was twenty years old, read a few books on business, and opened up the saddle shop almost a year later. The place paid his bills, and gave him money to pay his pa back for the cash that was loaned out to him, plus interest. All in all, he was doing fine, but wasn’t a millionaire, and probably wouldn’t end up as one. But he was happy, which was important to him, and he was doing exactly what he wanted to do with his life, working in saddlery. He shipped saddles all over the world, which had paid for his house and Jeep Wrangler. There was sixty thousand bucks in his savings account that he never touched, and over three hundred thousand in investments, which were legally untouchable at the moment. Fargo was comfortable at thirty-three, worry-free and doing well. Life was good. How couldn’t it be? “Can I help you, Mr. Cutter?” Fargo asked, checking out the thirty-one year old cowboy’s tight ass in his jeans, broad shoulders, and his swagger, which was sexy as hell. Chip Cutter was mighty fine to admire. Fargo thought so, all the local women thought so, and the gay cowboys of Stockton County lined up to get saddled and banged by the cowboy. Chip had a firm jaw line covered in brown scruff, dark eyes, and handsome pink lips. He stood a little over six feet tall, weighed a smidge under two hundred pounds, which was comprised of mostly muscle from working on his ranch, and at his business. He didn’t chew, believed in the good Lord, and rocked a cowboy hat like no one’s business. “I’m good, Fargo. Just don’t forget to call me Chip. I hate to be stuffy.” Of course he did. Fargo should have known better. Mr. Cutter was Chip’s father, a respectable man when he was alive; one who opened Cutter Drilling back in 1972, which made the Cutter family millionaires. Most of that money was gone now according to Blue Coyote rumors. Bad investments broke the family’s fortune. Not that that stopped Chip Cutter from surviving, opening up his own business, The Cutter Experience. “You looking for a saddle today, friend?” Chip nodded. “A roping saddle. Maybe two of them.” He looked from one saddle to the next, studying their horns, cinches, and rigging. “Any particular brand?” “I prefer Alamo.” Fargo exited his counter area and showed off three different Alamo roping saddles to the customer. He pointed out their waffle tooling, fiberglass-covered wood trees, and roughout jockeys. While standing beside Chip Cutter, he inhaled the man’s scent, which was tangy with a hint of sandalwood. Fargo liked the aroma, was almost turned-on by it, but kept professional, showing two more saddles to the cowboy. Truth was Fargo taught himself all about saddles: cantle sizes, seat sizes, horn sizes, Latigo ties, blank sets, and skirt lengths. He learned different materials that saddles were crafted from: pre-oiled leather, Cordura, Equisuade, and fleece, wool, or foam. He also taught himself a variety of different types of saddles: Western, Australian, doubleseat, treeless, flexible, and bareback. Knowledge was power, he knew, and that’s how he opened up his own business. One theory that he lived by was simple: if you don’t try it on for size, how do you know if it will fit or not? He tried Saddling Cowboys on for size thirteen years ago, and it was fitting just fine, which he had no complaints about. Granted, it wasn’t always roses and doves. A tornado in 2009 ripped through Blue Coyote and knocked over a telephone pole with a transformer affixed to it. The pole crashed through Saddling Cowboys’ front windows and the transformer exploded, which burned half of the business down. Fargo was smart enough to have fire insurance for his building and all the damages were covered. Then there was the dust storm of 2011, which broke out his front windows and covered his entire stock with two inches of Oklahoma dust. Again, his insurance coverage paid for the damages. And sometimes the economy took a nosedive, which affected him, but he had always stayed afloat, cutting back his spending and learning to live minimally, saving his cash for retirement. Lily and David Fargo were also well-to-do but moderately. They resided in Dandy, a neighboring town to Blue Coyote. David worked in oil most of his life and retired well. Lily was an elementary teacher and was currently living off her pension from the Stockton School District. The retired couple sometimes drove southeast and spent a few months in Sarasota, Florida, where Lilly’s younger sister lived in a trailer park. When they got tired, they drove northwest, and settled back into their Dandy home, comfortable with life, just as their only child had been. And they loved Daniel, calling the young man their pride and joy. * * * * Fargo knew a little more than he should have about Chip Cutter. Chip was queer and often hung out at the Saddle Bar, which was closer to Dandy than it was to Blue Coyote. He did some two stepping there on Friday and Saturday nights. And sometimes he took a sexy cowboy, home to Cutter Ranch and twirled in the hay with the guy. As far as Fargo knew, Chip Cutter wasn’t one to settle down. He liked his beer, men, and his cowboy life. Freedom was his game and he seemed to have played it well. Never could Fargo recall that the owner of The Cutter Experience had a boyfriend, forever single, a player of sorts in a cowboy world. The Cutter Experience had been open for the last ten years. Chip and Josh, fraternal twins, opened the place with the last of their family’s money. The six hundred and seventy-nine acres of Oklahoma land were their paycheck. Out-of-towners and vacationers visited the establishment, learning over a three-day stay how to ride horses, carry out barn work, tend to crops, and use cowboy weaponry such as rifles and archery tools. Basically, The Cutter Experience was a fun-filled adventure for those who wanted to get away from their city lives, enjoy some country living, and not look or feel like an asshole while doing it. Such clients paid Chip and Josh a heap of money for their escapades, which made the experience elite, and different from other vacation spots in Oklahoma. Other small details that Fargo knew about the cowboy were petty. Chip drove a Ram 1500, was never without a cowboy hat, and he enjoyed karaoke. He also attended Rowdale College and obtained a degree in business management, was a member and sponsor of the Future Farmers of America (FFA), and had once been asked by a popular television broadcasting network to star in a reality show called Farmer’s Bride, which he politely declined. * * * * Fargo watched Chip pick up a basket tooled roper saddle, checked its detail out, and asked, “Tell me about this one.” “It has a Bowman tree, a three-inch horn, a four-inch cantle, a five-year warranty, waffle tooling, and stainless steel rigging. It’s a nice saddle. Some call it a beauty. You won’t be disappointed.” “What’s the price?” Chip asked, attentive. Fargo told him, and then added, “It’s a good investment for your business. Plus, it’s dependable, sturdy, and not at all cheaply made. I think one of its better features is the wear that it will give.” Fargo winked at the guy. “Your ride will just keep getting better and better after use.” Chip placed the saddle back where he found it and asked, “Why get that one compared to a Flex tree trail saddle?” It was a valid question. Both saddles were different, but the Bowman was more practical, which he told Chip. “Some riders think that the Flex tree gives the horse too much room. The saddle rocks sideways and forward, which is uncomfortable, both for the horse and its rider.” “So I should get the Bowman?” “I would,” Fargo answered. “Both are nice, though.” “But the Bowman is cheaper, right?” “Not by much. Cost shouldn’t be an issue regarding a professional like you, Chip. I don’t want to be rude, but you’re in here for a good saddle and one that you can rely on. I’m not going to sell you something cheap. These are all high-grade and high-quality saddles.” “Understood,” Chip said. “I just wanted to see how you would react when I asked that.” Damn, Fargo thought. He’s a sexy cowboy from head to toe. I can’t stop looking at him. He melts me and shouldn’t. I should have more composure. Chip admired the saddle again and changed the topic. He asked over his left shoulder, “You and Brent Trigger ride together anymore?” Brent William Trigger was Fargo’s last boyfriend. Fargo and Trigger were no longer a couple. After a three-year stint, what Fargo sometimes referred to as the most difficult tri-rodeo (three years of pure hell) he was challenged with. Trigger enjoyed his men a little too much, and alcohol, which instigated his anger. Fargo couldn’t recall how many bruises he had obtained on his chest while being Brent’s boyfriend. When Trigger got drunk his fists flew, and he didn’t care where they landed. Plus, he liked to throw other things, too. One time he was drunk inside Saddling Cowboys and started tossing saddles around, one after the next. That was the day Fargo decided to break up with the guy. As far as he knew, Trigger had moved on, enjoying the single life, just as Fargo was. Fargo had been single for the last four months and had dated a few guys from Nosser County. Two were rodeo boys and the third was a corn farmer. The dates were short, sweet, and romantic. Although he thought the corn farmer adorable with his suntanned cheeks and cleft in the center of his chin, Fargo didn’t sleep with him. Truth was Fargo had only slept with three men in his thirty-three years. The first was on his twenty-first birthday. Chad Black, a friend of a friend, invited himself to Fargo’s birthday bash at Dingo, a country boy’s bar on the east side of Blue Coyote. Chad had a few birthday drinks with Fargo and whispered in his ear, “I have your present right here if you want it.” Fargo, because he was young and drunk, took the offered present, lost his virginity to the guy, and had the time of his life. His second affair was with a stranger that went by the name of Carter Daye. Fargo was in Nebraska at the time, some ten years ago. He was there on a business trip to critique a new saddle pad to sell in his store. Carter wooed Fargo, wined and dined him, and ended up with the man in his bed, not that Fargo complained. The two men dated for almost a year, until Carter sniffed out a new cowboy and tossed Fargo away. To answer Chip’s question, Fargo said, “Trigger and I thought it was best to end things. He went his way and I went mine.” Chip respected that. “The guy has a drinking problem, doesn’t he?” “He does,” Fargo answered. “Some cowboys can’t control their alcohol. Trigger falls into that category. He needs to get some help.” “Life’s a b***h, isn’t it? Just when you think it’s going fine there’s a surprise bump.” “Sort of like a rodeo. You never know what’s going to happen next.” Fargo slid past Chip to get back to the register area, which was a safety zone for him; a place where he felt comfortable. Without any thought, his right palm brushed against Chip’s left shoulder. Fingers met soft cotton and muscle hidden underneath the shirt. A bolt of excitement raced through Fargo’s private parts, which was then followed by a sensual tingle. He said, “Excuse me,” but it really didn’t matter since Chip knew that Fargo was flirting with him. Once positioned behind the counter, hiding his mid-section behind the register, feeling a semi-erection come to life between his legs, attracted to the cowboy in his store, Fargo said, “I’ll give you ten percent off the Bowman saddle if you pay cash. What do you say?” “I’d say it is a pretty damn nice saddle and deal.” Chip admired the item again from front to back. He palmed the horn, ran fingers down and over the seat, and added, “How quick can you get two of these in for me?” Fargo wondered if that was the way Chip grazed his palm and fingers over a man’s naked body, slow motion with two twirling fingertips. “How soon do you need them?” “The sooner, the better. Mine are falling apart. I don’t feel safe using them.” Fargo could have felt safe in the cowboy’s arms, cuddled next to his strapping chest. He was pretty sure Chip knew how to treat a man, both with respect and in s****l play. Chip seemed like a sweetheart, Fargo scrutinized, and pegged him as a romantic kind of guy who enjoyed quiet evenings in front of a fire, surrounded by the harmony of crickets, and a full moon playing chase with the night’s clouds. Fargo imagined waking up next to the guy after a night of heated s*x with him. He was pretty sure Chip would smell sexy and rank at the same time, sweaty and with bad breath. Not that he would care, though. Fargo enjoyed waking up next to a man and learning every little detail about him, which included mussed hair and a sweat-slicked chest from fresh sleep. Damn, how he had missed that closeness to a cowboy, even with Brent Trigger. There wasn’t anything better than sharing breakfast with a guy, loading up on carbs and fruit, and planning to spend the day together. Fargo escaped his enticing daydream and said, “I can probably have the saddles here in five business days. Does that work for you?” It did. Chip nodded and said, “And I’ll pay cash today for that ten percent discount.” He sauntered up to counter area, pulled out his wallet, and chucked over some bills. “Any way I can have a receipt?” “Absolutely. Not a problem.” Fargo counted out the money, pushed buttons on his register, and printed out a receipt. “Just for the record, Fargo, you’re single, right?” Fargo held the receipt for the two saddles in his left hand. His mouth hung open with surprise because of Chip’s question. Then he stammered, “Ye…ah,” sounding like the village i***t. “Good. I’ll keep that in mind,” Chip said, removed the paper receipt from Fargo’s shaking hand, and started his exit from the store. Over his right shoulder, he called out, “Call me when you get the saddles in. I’ll stop by and pick them up.” “Sounds good, Chip. Thanks for coming in.” Chip waved goodbye and was gone. Fargo watched the cowboy leave, studying the man’s tight ass in its snug denim, attracted to its bulbous orbs and Chip’s muscular thighs. Chip Cutter’s ass was pretty hot, he deemed, and sexy as hell. Truth was Fargo wouldn’t have minded patting it with one of his hands, or maybe peeling the denim away from its concave structure. Just as the naughty thoughts entered Fargo’s mind, they vanished. There was no way in hell Chip was interested in a ginger. Most men weren’t, Fargo had learned while dating cowboys in the Midwest. They were turned off by his freckles and deep green eyes, thinking him a leprechaun instead of a cowboy who sold saddles for a living. Rarely, if ever, did he get someone as smoking hot as Chip Cutter to glance his way, or to clarify if he were single. So maybe Chip was into him, or maybe not, Fargo wasn’t really wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was crystal clear in his head: he had to order two saddles for Chip from his supplier, who was located in Omaha, Nebraska, and was coincidentally from the same town where he had met Carter Daye.