Stockton County Cowboys Box Set

Chapter 13: Young Men Swimming

Chapter 13: Young Men Swimming

Behind the Barn

9:12 A.M.

I followed Francisco outside. We walked east in the morning heat, side by side through a large pasture, our shoulders bumping together once in a while as we walked. After a while, I asked, “How long have you and Joel been lovers?”

“A year,” he replied, looking a little startled at my question. “I fell for his dark skin and his heritage.”

“Cherokee, right?”

“Yes, sir. His great-grandfather was White Cloud, one of the last Cherokee leaders before statehood.”

“That was 1907, right?” I’d been Googling facts about Oklahoma, as well as about Cord Darringer.

“Exactly. This land has a lot of history. Some of it is positive. Most of it would make you cry, knowing what happened to the American Indians that were ‘removed’ here and stripped of their rights.”

“How did the two of you meet?” I asked, curious about his personal history.

“Here, of course,” he grinned at me. “He was already working for Mr. Darringer. I teased him, drank with him, wooed him, and he fell for me.”

The sun was hot now, beating down on me. I was sure it’d reach one hundred degrees by noon. I really didn’t know how I’d handle that. I’d accidentally left my cowboy hat back in Florida. Maybe Cord could lend me one—I was pretty sure he would. In the meantime, I’d have to grin and bear the sun and heat.

Francisco continued talking as we walked to the barn. “My father was outraged when he found out, but in time he started to understand our love a little better. I think his harsh judgment of my relationship with Joel was because he’d lost my mother, his one true love.”

“So your father accepted Joel as your lover before he passed?”

“He did. I can’t say in full, but mostly. Perhaps he was just beginning to comprehend that a man can love another man and the world isn’t going to implode.” He stopped for a second, removed a packet of tobacco from his back pocket, and tucked a chew between his gum and lower lip. As he folded the packet back up, he said, “The worst habit I have. But every man has one.”

I thought about his comment, asking myself what my worst habit was. The response that surfaced was surprising, even for me: Cord Darringer. I asked Francisco, “Do you feel that you chased Joel?”

He was blunt: “Absolutely. Very much like you’re chasing Mr. Darringer.”

* * * *

We’d gotten to the barn. It smelled of horses and hay. I’d always found the smell of hay soothing. A narrow dirt path led from the barn to a nearby stream. Along the one side of the barn was a narrow dirt path, which I presumed the horses followed to drink from the stream. I followed Francisco, enjoying the smell of the man’s light but masculine sweat.

While passing the structure a realization slid into place: this is where I belong; this is who I am; this is my world from here on. No longer did I feel that the Gulf was a part of my life with its dashing lifeguards, white sandy beaches, building-height palms, and stucco bungalows. The Arched Q Ranch was where I felt most comfortable: the sweet and sour smell of thick hay, horses in the nearby grass, freshly harvested oats from surrounding fields, and the Oklahoma wind, which I fancied bore a cowboy scent, seductive and aggressive, that seemed to overwhelm me. Stockton County felt as if it were my new home, and Cord Darringer just happened to be the apple of my eye, the cowboy that I admired to the fullest, lusted unconditionally for, and desired boundlessly.

Was I a fool for chasing Cord? Perhaps. Frankly, I liked to take risks, to put myself out there. I was afraid of not trying, of not doing my best to overcome an obstacle. Some—like Melanie—might call me imprudent, but I thought of myself as an odd young man in search of love, of the perfect cowboy to fulfill my lifelong needs. Heading to the Arched Q Ranch on a whim wasn’t out of character for me. My closest friends, especially Melanie, knew it was just part of who I am.

Francisco stopped behind the barn and looked into the distance. A gentle, soothing stream flowed with deep, green-brown water, high grass along its banks. In one spot right next to the river, the grass bent beneath two pair of jeans, two sets of mud-splotched boots, and sweat-stained tees. Within the stream’s flowing brilliance swam two young men, bare of their clothes. Both looked to be fresh out of high school, but not a day younger than eighteen. The thicker of the two was cub-like, with a muscled chest decorated in short brown hair. The other was red-haired and green-eyed with freckles over his broad shoulders. The young men kissed in the deep stream, fell under the crisp water, and resurfaced. They laughed and played in the deep water, kissed again, and seemed to enjoy their time together.

Francisco and I turned away from the scene, unnoticed. He said, “We’ll leave them to their harmless game.”

“Who are they?”

“Queer locals,” he replied. “They’re just playing. We should let them be since they’re not hurting anything or anyone.”

And so we walked away from the young men in love, lust, something, and continued with our day.