And so I stayed.
For a winter, then another, and then another on top of that one….
Epilogue - Hoyt
Three Years Later
Rockwell Museum
Corning, New York
“Stop fidgeting with the tie.”
I gave it another yank. Aubrey huffed in that adorable way of his. Then he playfully slapped at my hand and returned to tying my tie properly. The Tie King of Snow Creek Ranch we called him—a name he seemed pretty gleeful about.
“I’m nervous,” I confessed, glancing from my man to the men’s room we were using to get me kitted out properly. “I don’t really belong here. This is a mistake.”
“It is not a mistake. You do belong here. Oh nuggets, this tie has a stain. Drat. Okay, well, I brought a spare.”
“Of course you did.” My sight left the hand dryer to return to Aubrey’s pretty face. So pretty. So smart. So special and kind and cheerful. My exact opposite in so many ways.
“A gentleman always has a spare tie. I think Robert Frost said that.”
“I think you’re full of horse shit.”
He giggled softly while pulling the stained tie free of my collar then looping the spare around my neck.
“Someone wise once said it I’m sure. So, do you have your speech notes?” he asked for the tenth time since we’d arrived in Corning. I nodded, watching his lips as he spoke. I adored his lips. They were soft, pink, and generally moving. A quirk of his, that chattiness, that I absolutely loved. Just one of many things I loved about this lithe, bespeckled man of mine. His gaze lifted from knotting to my face. “Use your words, Mr. Poet.”
“Yeah, they’re in my jacket pocket. I still think Whiteman and Provost made a mistake.”
“Your publishers did not make a mistake, nor did Alicia your agent. They know your book of poems is magnificent.”
“Meh,” I mumbled, my nerves jangling over the thought of talking to people about my journey, my work, and my muse. Well, my muses were easy to discuss. Aubrey, Adobe, Jesse, the ranch, the open plains, the call of a whippoorwill. Those were eternal. Those had inspired writers and poets for centuries. Maybe not my brother, my boyfriend, or my horse but surely similar people and pets in the past had?—
“No, no meh. They published your collection of poems. Now you have the joy of travelling to glorious places filled with art like this museum and sharing your work with the world!”
“I’d rather be home on Adobe, you tight to my back, riding over Snow Creek Ranch lands.”
“I know.” He gave my neatly tied tie a soft pat, his gaze rising to meet mine. “And we will be in two weeks. This is a fast little book tour. We’ll be home in time for Easter. Now, let me see your hair.”
“If you spit on your hand and wipe it on my hair I will not be pleased.”
“Pshaw. I spit on your dick this morning in the hotel and you didn’t complain about that.”
“Dicks are different.” And lord, could my man suck cock. Talk about talented lips. Holy shit. Just thinking about it was making me half hard.
“You’re a goof. Okay, you look handsome. Tidy. Ready to speak to the small group gathered here to read the newest addition to the Whiteman and Provost stable of western genre authors and poets. That’s not nothing. They’re an old, respected name who saw great talent when your submission hit their desk.”
The submission was all Aubrey’s doing. He kept nudging me along, cheering me on, helping me choose poems from the now four journals of poetry I had at our home. He’d never once let me waver as I tended to do or allow me to think I couldn’t become a poet who led trail rides and cleaned stalls. Given that I wasn’t angling to become a wealthy book wrangler now my bull riding days were over I was donating half of my forty percent royalites to Harbor 5280, the non-profit Lucas chaired. They did good things for kids. If only they’d been around twenty years ago…
Now my book was out my time at the ranch had been curtailed greatly. My boss didn’t seem to mind—perks of having a brother in the head honcho seat. Me being here, at the start of a book tour, was all Aubrey. I’d never have had the confidence to submit to any publishing house. But Aubrey had all the confidence in the world. So here I was, about to stand in front of forty people and a museum employee and talk about myself.
A soft rap on the men’s room door jerked my attention from my boyfriend. Assuming it was Lora Lee, the museum liaison, I nervously pulled at my shirt collar before the door opened. Jesse stuck his head in, a grin wide as the Colorado Rockies.
“Holy shit,” I gasped, charging over to give my brother a huge embrace. “I thought you couldn’t make it since Lucas has a cold.”
“He has the sniffles and literally threw me out of the house after making the flight reservations.”
