Gabacho and Other Wildyr Tales

Gabacho

GabachoThe instant my flea-bitten gray gelding, Slick by name, stepped out of the waters of the Rio Grande onto Mexican soil, I ceased being Gary James Hawthorne and became Gabacho. I spoke enough of the lingo to know that was a common term for outsiders, especially gringos with brown hair and sky-blue eyes. And it didn’t take long for the point to come home. I was standing bare-assed naked while retrieving my clothing from a waterproof bag when a voice startled me.

“Hey, Gabacho! You like to go skinny dipping?”

I whirled to spot a slender figure sitting on a log. I’d assumed this was an unoccupied stretch. At first glance, I took it for a girl, but the voice was definitely masculine…a light baritone.

He rose and dusted the seat of his pants, a grin claiming his lips.

I held up the package. “Didn’t want my clothes to get wet.”

“Orale, you a good-looking dude. How come you swimming the Rio, ‘stead of coming across a bridge? I look over there, I gonna see some badges shinin’ in the sun?”

As he drew closer, my confusion grew. Probably somewhere around twenty, his face was as pretty as any girl’s I’d ever seen. But the Adam’s apple and the broad shoulders gave lie to the features. This was a guy, all right. But damned if he wasn’t starting to get to me, especially when I saw where those dark chocolate eyes were looking.

“Nope. No badges. Just wanted to go for a swim.”

“You ain’t a killer or a thief or nothing?”

This kid didn’t have much of an accent. Sounded like anyone north of the river. ‘Course, I knew a lot of the border Mexicans managed to go to school in the States.

“Just a cowpoke looking for a change in the scenery. Heard the señoritas were friendly, so thought I’d give it a try.”

He nodded to my groin. “You know how to use that, they’ll be mucho friendly, no?”

I drew on a pair of shorts and stepped into my denims before I was as dry as I’d have liked. “I get your drift. Where am I, anyway?”

“You on the Rancho Salvador.”

“Rancho? You mean ranch?”

He nodded, his gaze now centered on my bare chest. “You got it.” He moved closer. “You don’t gotta get dressed on account of me.”

I leveled a look at him, probably not the one I intended because of his beautiful, tanned skin and full lips that could pout one minute and smile the next. A headful of dark curls didn’t help my concentration. I pulled my shirt over my shoulders and started buttoning it. “Yeah, I do. Otherwise, you might regret it.”

I was right. His sweet smile instantly became a fetching pout. “Doubt that.”

“Who’re you?” I asked to get back on solid ground.

He drew to his full height, an inch or so shy of my six feet. “I am Carlos Pablo Salvador y Bachicha.”

“Salvador, huh? Any kin to the Salvador this ranch is named after?”

“Mi padre…you know, my papa.”

I finished dressing and stowed the waterproof bag.

“I’m Gary Hawthorne.”

“No, you’re Gabacho.”

I shrugged acceptance of his judgment. “Sorry if I’m trespassing. Show me the quickest way, and I’ll clear out.”

He threw a graceful hand toward the river. “Quickest way’s the way you come.”

“The next quickest.”

“Tell you what. You come have a meal at the headquarters, and the foreman might have a job for you.”

“Who’s the foreman?”

“Fella by the name of Bartolome.”

“If you’re your daddy’s boy, how come you aren’t the foreman?”

An amused laugh bubbled up out of him. “I play at ranching. Bartolome, he works at it.”

“How come you just play at it?”

“Me, I’m an artist. Rather paint a horse than ride him. Good-looking gray you got there.”

I patted Slick’s neck. “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

“Cutting horse?”

“The best.”

He grabbed the reins of a handsome black gelding standing nearby. “Come on, I’m getting hungry. You’re invited.”

I was experiencing a few hunger pains of my own by the time we finally raised the ranch house. Willows, oaks, and pines threw shade over a rambling, two-story white house, an equally big barn, and a few supporting structures. A stunningly beautiful Appaloosa trotted into the corral and raised her haughty head to watch us approach.

“That’s Reina, my sister’s mare.”

“She’s well named. She looks like a queen,” I said. “And she knows it, I’ll bet.”

“Carla don’t let nobody ride her. Not even Papa.”

A woman strolled out of the house, a quirt in hand, and raised an arm against the sun to look in our direction.

“That’s Carla. Sometimes she acts like she’s la reina around here.” He laughed aloud. “Guess she is too, come to think on it.”

Upon arriving at the corral, we dismounted, and my confusion deepened. Carlos came off the porch to meet us. Except it wasn’t Carlos. It was his female image minus the Adam’s apple and broad shoulders. They could have been twins. Hell, they probably were twins. And she provoked the same reaction in me, a stirring in the loins, a heightening interest.

We dismounted, and Carlos introduced us, a bit of amusement playing over his features.

“Carla, this is Gabacho, Gabacho, this is my sister, Carla.”

She reached out a gloved hand, and I bowed to plant a polite kiss on it. “Pleased to meet you, señorita.”

“Call me Carla,” she said. “Are you taking lunch with us?”

“I invited him,” Carlos said.

She turned back toward the veranda. “The dining room, not the cook house. Thirty minutes.”

We unsaddled and rubbed down our animals before setting them free to dip their long noses into convenient buckets of oats. After that, I washed up in a basin despite my recent bath in the Rio Grande.

* * * *

A man joined us at the table. A stout, florid man introduced as Guillermo Juan Salvador y Ramos, the patron of the Salvador family. Two things stood out immediately about this impressive man. He was no fool, and he was not a man to be trifled with. Before that uncomfortable meal was over, he’d figuratively pinned me to the wall and knew everything about me, including the fact I’d fled the States about an hour ahead of the law on a beef arising from a brawl in a bar. It wasn’t the kind of charge that had a long life, so if I could stick it out south of the Rio Grande a few months, it would lose its luster. By the end of the luncheon, I had a job as a wrangler on the Rancho Salvador. Carlos gave me a sexy grin while Carla unleashed a pleased smile. Now all I had to do was figure out which one was giving me a hard-on.

I reconsidered. No, all I had to do was stay clear of both of them until I could go back home. Don Guillermo likely wouldn’t countenance the hired help taking either one of his offspring to bed.

* * * *

I usually wear a short vest without a shirt during the workday. It keeps the sun off my back, but exposes my chest and allows for a little air to circulate…even though as often as not, it was hot air. But when Carlos was around, he spent so much time studying my exposed flesh, I got the feeling I ought to cover up or else do something about it. And the temptation to do something about it was growing stronger by the day.

One late afternoon, he caught me in a remote pasture doctoring a cut on a half-grown steer. Wished he’d showed up a little earlier, he could have helped me bring the ornery critter down. As it was, he applied a healing salve on a trembling leg while I held the steer immobile. When we were finished, I let the calf go, and he rose with the wounded air of a British earl who’d just been insulted. Then he put as much distance as he could between himself and us.

Carlos handed me the medicine to put in my saddle bag, a lazy grin curling his patrician lips. “I wanna paint you, Gabacho.” He put a hand to his chin and let his eyes wander. “But I dunno if I want you in that little vest that covers a little and shows a lot, or if I want you desnudo.”

“Nekked?” I asked, adding a snort for good measure. “Good luck with that.”

His smile grew wider. “But you forget. I’ve already seen you. And I remember every detail. I could paint you right now without you shedding nothing.”

“Is that a threat?”

Carlos dry-washed his face. “Nah. Just talking. But it’s a temptation.”

“Resist it,” I said in a low voice.

“Okay, if you’ll sit for me. Vest on or off, your choice.”

“We are talking about with my britches on, aren’t we?”

He laughed. “Yeah, if you insist. This evening?”

“Where?”

“In my studio. Right after chow.”

“Okay…I guess.”

I’d not seen any of Carlos’s work, so I didn’t know if I’d come out looking like a clown or a monster, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t come out looking like me. After he reclaimed his black and rode away, I finished scouting the pasture and headed for headquarters.

After that first day, I’d eaten with the other vaqueros, slept with them in the bunkhouse too, and learned they were a decent bunch of men. Their card games tended to get a bit wild sometimes, but I didn’t often risk my money on the turn of a card. I was pretty good at poker, but the best way I know to get on the wrong side of a man is to take his money in a card game when he doesn’t really know how handy you are with the double shuffle. I was more a checkers man where everything’s right there on the board. Juego de damas, they call it down here.

After the meal, I showered and changed to clean clothes, remembering at the last moment to pull on my vest. Carlos opened the door almost before I knocked. He smiled…and then his face fell.

“What’s the matter?”

“You’re wearing a shirt.”

“I usually wear a shirt, except when I’m working in the sun.”

“No, no! Take it off.”

“Jeez, let me get inside first, okay?”

He was ready for me. He had a blank canvas on the easel and a graphite stick lying on the table beside it. He got me out of my shirt and in my vest in short order and seated me on a stool at a slight angle from the easel, one boot on a rung, the other one on the floor. Then he posed me with my hat in hand, but was careful to position my arm so it didn’t block a view of my crotch. I thought it funny but indulged him anyway. After he arranged the lighting the way he wanted it, he retreated to the easel and picked up the graphite stick, his handsome face taut with concentration.

“Do I have to stay completely still?” I asked.

“No, you can move to relieve muscle strain, but stay in that general position.”

“How long is this going to take.”

“Only about thirty minutes or so tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. I’m just doing the sketch tonight. You gotta sit for me when I start doing the painting.”

“Damn,” I muttered.

“Can I get you a cerveza or something?” he asked, his eyes shifting rapidly back and forth between me and the canvas.

“Nah. Don’t want a beer. Not right now, anyway.”

A little while later, the door opened, and I glanced up to see Carla enter. I caught Carlos’s pained look, but he said nothing. She walked up beside him and gave both me and the drawing a good once-over.

An impish grin claimed her lips, making me wonder what I really looked like in the sketch. “Looking good there, Gabacho.”

“Carla,” Carlos said, you know better’n to barge into my studio. What if I was doing a nude painting of him?”

She smirked. “Even better.”

“Go on, get out. You’re disturbing my concentration.”

She ignored him. “Gabacho, when he lets you go, come to the house and have a drink with me.”

“Sorry, he’s having some drinks with me. Might make an evening of it. Or go to town to la Cerveceria.”

Carla took exception to that, and a little dustup occurred in the local lingo far too fast for me to keep up. But it was clear that I was the subject of discussion.

Oh, crap!

* * * *

The next day, I watched Reina make her way across a broad pasture making straight for me and Slick. I’d been riding fences and come to a place that needed repair. Ignoring the approaching rider, I dismounted and started mending a broken strand of wire. In a few minutes, Reina pawed the ground, and Carla slipped from a fancy, silver-trimmed saddle to stand right beside me.

“Gabacho.”

“Hola, Carla. Out for a ride?”

“Out looking for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I want you to take me to a dance tonight.”

“Tempting as that might be, I can’t,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I’m committed to sitting on my ass on a little stool while your brother swipes paint on a canvas.”

“He can wait.” She moved closer…closer than she should have and looked up into my eyes. “Blue,” she murmured. “Blue like the sky.”

“My eyes? Uh yeah, I guess.”

Then she took me by surprise by stretching up to give me a kiss.

I forgot I was dirty and sweaty from a day’s work and enfolded her in my arms. I had to admit, I felt that kiss right down in my stones. I pulled her closer, but she squirmed away.

“Maybe that will change your mind.”

I swallowed hard a couple of times before reluctantly squeezing the next words out of my voice box. “Wish I could, but I’m a man of my word. When Carlos finishes the painting, I’ll go wherever you want.”

She lifted her head and glared at me. “One time offer. Tonight, or forget it.”

“Carla, I wish I could. But…”

She didn’t wait for me to finish. Carla mounted Reina, swept me with a haughty glance—lingering a moment on my fly—before galloping across the big pasture, leaving me standing there with a groin a lot fuller than when she arrived.

* * * *

I wasn’t in a very good mood when I entered Carlos’s studio that evening. I glanced at the canvas on his easel, but it was covered.

Carlos noticed and put a teasing lilt to his voice. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

I stomped over to the stool. “Let’s get this over with.”

“What put you in a high mettle?”

Geez, both of them—brother and sister—spoke better English than I did. And that dug a little bit too. “You’re interfering with my social life,” I snapped.

“Aha! Carla’s made her move.”

I hadn’t heard anyone say aha since I was in short pants. “Whatever.” I plopped down on the high stool.

“Not that way,” he said, moving over to position my boots the way he wanted. “And the shirt—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, ripping it off.

He put a hand on my chest. “You have the most interesting pectorals,” he said. “As soon as I saw them half-covered by your vest, I knew I wanted to paint you.” He gave a laugh. “Of course, that brown, curly hair and those blue, blue eyes, and that narrow nose contributed.”

“Come on, stop yapping and get to painting.”

“Wait a minute. What’s that on your cheek?”

I started to feel my cheek, but he brushed my hand away and moved in for a closer look, His finger rubbing me right below my left eye.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just a speck of something. It’s gone now.”

Then he took me by surprise. I froze as he came closer. He paused a moment to gaze into my eyes before placing his lips against mine. I don’t think I intended to do it, but my mouth opened, and Carlos invaded me with his tongue. So help me, his kiss grabbed me by the innards too. I felt myself stir even before he placed his hand over my groin. A sudden image of old man Salvador galvanized me. I pushed him away.

“What’re you doing?” I asked, brushing my lips with the back of my hand.

“What I’ve wanted to ever since I saw you naked on the banks of the Rio Grande. You’re muy macho, Gabacho. But you already know that. The door is locked, amigo. We can do whatever we want.”

“And you don’t think Carla has a key?”

He frowned before his smile returned, making him as handsome as his sister. “That would be her problem.”

“Carlos, pick up your paint brush, or else I’m leaving.”

“Okay, okay. Another time, no?”

“No,” I said, without any oomph behind it. I couldn’t help but notice he had a semi-erection as he sent about his work. What had he said? You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. Hell, he’d already seen mine. I was tempted to remind him, but that would just start things all over again. My lips tingled…just as they had after Carla kissed me in the pasture.

* * * *

Over the next week, Bartolome, the foreman of the Salvador spread started to ride my ass, sometimes with cause, sometimes without. He was a formidable forty-or-so muscular man who’d probably been someone’s dreamboat a few years back. He’d been even handed up until then, so he or Don Guillermo must figure I’m getting too cozy with the kiddos. That made me think my spell here on the ranch was limited. So, it was time to make a move or move on…probably both.

Carla had stopped acting frosty was soon as my posing days with her brother drew to a close. Only then did Carlos allow me to see the portrait he’d painted. In fact, Carla and I both saw it at the same time after Carlos invited us to the studio.

I was shocked—pleasantly so—when he unveiled the painting. There I sat. No question about it. Gary Hawthorne—Gabacho—perched there on the stool looking just like the one standing in front of the painting gawking.

“Bueno, Carlos,” Carla said. “You captured him.”

I silently agreed, although the crotch looked a little fuller than it was. I couldn’t help but glance down. Well, maybe not. Both of them caught me in the act and laughed aloud.

“Oh, no, Gabacho,” Carlos said. “I paint ‘em like I see ‘em. Don’t make them look better or look worse.”

My cheeks flamed, and I got out of there in a hurry.

After chow, I lay in my bunk and did some cogitating. I glanced at the vaqueros joshing back and forth among themselves and realized I was comfortable at the ranch. Nonetheless, my time here was about to run out. Had I been away long enough for the dustup north of the Rio Grande to die down? Yeah. Probably.

A minute later, I knocked on Bartolome’s door—he was the only one with a private room in the bunkhouse—and gave notice. I saw in his black eyes that he understood, and he settled up with me—in dollar bills—and approved my taking off without waiting for a replacement. After that, I packed the few belongings I’d brought with me and stowed them behind the saddle on Slick. Once outside of the yard, I pulled up and took out my cell phone. After dialing a number, I waited for an answer. When it came, I said, “Line shack number one. One hour.” I hung up, stripped off my shirt, donned my vest, and put Slick in a slow walk to the west.

I figured I’d arrive first, but when the shack came into view, one of the ranch’s Jeeps was already parked beside the door. I dismounted beside the vehicle and stepped through the door.

I didn’t have any doubts about my decision. Hell, I could always find a woman, but when was I gonna find a guy as pretty as a woman and as willing as Carlos Pablo Salvador y Bachicha?