Stockton County Cowboys Book 3: Roping Cowboys

Chapter 2: The History of Men

Chapter 2: The History of Men

Cabella Hall

7:51 P.M.

Just for the record, we didn’t take the time to mess around just then. Too many guests were waiting for us to return from the bathroom. We made our way to the head table and kissed in front of the twenty-seven guests as they clinked their stainless-steel spoons on their glasses, goading us to show our affection publicly.

And the beef brisket dinner was spectacular: tasty, tender enough for just a fork, and beautifully presented. The double-whipped, cheesy mashed potatoes were a crowd pleaser; farm-fresh buttered vegetables (corn, peas, and carrots) came in second place; and the warm rolls were were slathered in homemade butter from Franklin Ranch, a stone’s throw from Glock Ranch. For dessert, the linen-draped table—which seemed half a football field long—was piled with summertime pies, doughnuts, three different cakes, cinnamon rolls, tarts, and an unending selection of cookies.

During the meal and the flow of alcohol, Gray’s older sister, Audrey Lynn McKeever-Ashland, shared a heart-warming toast: “to my brother and his lover; to these handsome men who are in love. And to your happiness in the future. May your wedding and the days to follow be full of laughter, good hope, and all things blessed. We are here this evening to thank you two for the love you give each other.”

Flutes of champagne were raised and clinked around the hall. The three violinists played “Love Story” by Taylor Swift, and Gray and I kissed yet again. Of course Audrey made eye contact with me and winked. She and I’d been friends for the last four years, ever since Gray and I had accidentally bumped into each other in the bathroom at The Poppycock Bar in downtown Tulsa. The woman was the apple of my eye. Not only was she faithfully devoted to her husband, Hill Ashland, and madly in love with the broker, but she also was honest, never catty, and always just happened to look out for my best interest.

Not a wrinkle had formed on her face since I’d met her. Audrey still looked the way I had met her at The Poppycock Bar some four years before: five-six frame, a slim one-twenty, thirty-three years old, blond curls, Cancun-blue eyes like her brother’s, turned-up nose, sinewy limbs, and a dimple in the center of her chin that was magically adorable. She was an English teacher at Stockton High School, supervised the Drama and Poetry Clubs, and was genteel with everyone around her.

Unlike his older sister, Gray was fairly wealthy. The story of how he’d gotten his money was interesting, of course. Once he’d earned a business degree from Stockton College, he’d decided to buy into a hot sauce recipe—just plain old red cayenne peppers, distilled vinegar, salt, garlic, and xanthan gum—with his business partner, Reggie Doll. Despite its simple recipe, Roping Cowboys Hot Sauce took off and the money rolled in. The company had two factories. Reggie and his staff watched over the one in Oklahoma City. Gray and his team ran the sister location in Tulsa—only about thirty minutes away from Glock Ranch. Granted, the business was only three years old, but was profitable already and was growing into something big. Gray’s bank account was over a million dollars, but he used very little of it, if any. He was a big believer in sinking his cash back into the company, making sure it grew. Gray was smart and he took the business seriously, although he never allowed it to control his life.

My story wasn’t as genteel as Gray’s, though. I won’t lie and say that it was. I grew up in West Hollywood with my Aunt Bernadette and Uncle Charlie: my parents died when I was an infant. My parents passed from this world to the next in a head-on collision on Sunshine Way that flung them through the windshield. I was strapped into the car seat in the back and, by the grace of God, as Aunt Bernie always said, emerged unscathed from the tragedy.

I was a happy child in a middle-class family. I had no siblings, other aunts and uncles, or grandparents, not that I needed such attention. Instead, I found a love for film and acting. Who didn’t want to be Harrison Ford in the Indiana Jones movies or Bruce Willis in his Die Hard adventures? Because my Uncle Charlie worked in editing at Rotunda Films, and he promised to get me a role in one of their films, I got my first big acting job at fifteen in a movie called Wonder This. I played Franklin Wonder, the emotionally imbalanced son of the newly-divorced Nathan Wonder. I wasn’t a lead character, but I showed that I could act, which got me more jobs. Seven films, a slew of commercials, and eight years later, I’d learned and acquired a few things: I hated Hollywood and its rats called producers; I never wanted to be a fake Hollywood type; I had an astronomical bank account; and I was obsessed with Oklahoma, particularly Stockton County and its cowboys.

At twenty-four, I decided to buy the 723-acre Glock Ranch in Stockton County, with its expansive pastures, barn, four-bedroom house the size of Tara, and reception hall. No, I didn’t have a working ranch, which some cowboys looked down on me for. Instead, my passion was art: paper, glue, and oil paints. Art was my ticket to a happy life. I created wall-size collages in the barn, some of which I’ve sold at plump prices. I was no longer the actor who’d starred in movies like The Pilgrimage of Robert Daye, the comedy Two Men in the Bush, and the horror film Victim #4. Art and Stockton County had become my life. And cowboys were the theme of my collages, which Midwestern women oohed over and fell in love with. They seemed to adore such pieces as Cowboy Sunning #8, Ralston Bathing #3, and Undressing Brandon #9. My success with art hadn’t made me famous, but fame didn’t look too far off, and I was working toward it. But my collages paid the bills, though the bills were minimal since I’d been able to buy Glock Ranch outright. I rarely had to resort to my Hollywood Money—what I called the investments I’d made with the money from my films, on which I had hoped to retire on some day.

My collages had a few big shows in downtown Tulsa. The Stolid Art Gallery on Chelton Street showed my work about once a year and kept in touch with my agent about displaying my pieces. Mike Bollard, a rotund, badass smoker with shark-like skills, had never let me down. We worked well together, and he always got me enough shows that I’ve never had to dig into my Hollywood Money. He man had my back and worked constantly with The Stolid to show my work and earn money for me. We did our best together, worked hard, and rarely argued.

I also rarely argued with Gray—just one of the many reasons I intended to marry the man and spend the rest of my life with him. He took care of himself financially, as I did, and we never argued about who was paying the bills. We were both professionals, though in different ways, and this strengthened our relationship. Our union was based on love and affection, not on a desire to commingle our finances—or to sap one another’s bank accounts. Honestly, we were independent in many ways, yet we depended on each other emotionally, wanting to keep our relationship together. Our upcoming marriage proved that we desired to be united as one, emotionally and spiritually coupled, through all the good and all the bad, no matter what problems came our way.

That evening we met at The Poppycock Bar had changed our lives forever. Neither of us had gone there for its strong drinks or strong men. Once we’d seen each other, we wanted only each other, and our lust and desire to be with each other had been strong for four years.