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Never in a million years did I expect the man to whip the can of coffee at me. If not for my lightning-quick reflexes, it would have hit dead center right in that famed third eye.
“What the fuck did that mean?!” he snarled, his hands balling into fists, his lips drawn back into a feral sneer. I threw my hands up. “Well?! What are you trying to say?!”
“Jesus, chill the fuck out. Trust me, I can think of at least ten to twenty thousand men who I’d like to tickle their joy boxes way before your elitist name ever made the list.” His anger fizzled just like someone dumping water on a flame. “You really need to learn to be more accepting of LGBTQ folk. I know your dimwit brothers have preached the gospel of ‘hate everyone who is not like us’ on you, hell your father and grandfather did as well, but since you went off to motherfucking Vassar, it would seem you’d be more accepting.”
He chewed on some words. They must have been sour ones because his face contorted and twisted up as if he’d been sucking the juice from a lemon.
“You know nothing about me or how I feel about the queer community, Abbott,” he finally muttered. “I have nothing against gays.”
“Yeah right, and I’m John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmidt.” He shook his head before walking off to get into his boots and coat. “Where are you going?” I asked as he whipped the door open.
“To find someone to have an intelligent conversation with.”
He slammed the door behind him. The cabin walls rattled. Snow fell off the roof with a WHOMP just on the other side of the door. Fucker. He never made coffee. Now I’d have to make it. Mine did taste like it had been run through a dirty diaper. Well, this sucked. Also, I now felt bad again. How the hell did he keep doing that to me? I hated the man, his kin, his ranch, and his horse. No, that’s a lie. His horse was pretty cool. I did hate him, though.
After coffee and a can of canned peaches, I got dressed and wallowed around the side of the cabin to the lean-to, smirking at the fact that Shep had broken the path. Sure, it was petty of me. He was injured, after all. Still, he was a monumental jerkwad. When I eased in the door, I stood stock still as the sound of a man crying reached me over the stillness. The sobs were soft, muffled, and gut-wrenching. Shep had his back to me and his good arm draped over Argus’s muscular back, his face buried in the soft, short reddish-brown fur. Shit. Now I felt like a major dick. Fuck. Easing out of the lean-to, I took a few steps back and then shouted his name.
“Fuck off,” he replied, which made me smile. That a boy, Shep, dig deep for that antagonistic assholery. Better to be an asshole than to cry. Learned that at an early age from stepdad number two. Or was it three? I sauntered in a minute or two later. He was feeding the huge stallion the last flakes of hay, his attention on his task, his eyes red-rimmed to go with the black and blue coloring.
“Need help?” I asked because I was a nice guy. He threw me a lethal look. “Whatever. Just asking.” I walked around the horse, then stood on the other side of the beast as I ran a hand down his flanks. “I’ll muck out the stall.”
“I can do it. Just go feed the cattle. Bring home some hay for him. This is old and dusty.”
“Is there anything else you’d like me to do, your supreme highness? Perhaps buff his hooves or polish his balls?”
His cough sounded a lot like a laugh that he was trying to bury. I smiled in spite of myself. Then I kicked my ass mentally for caring if I made him laugh. What the fucking hell was wrong with me?
“I’ll go get him water.” I rushed outside, blinded momentarily by the sun off the snow, and pulled in a deep breath. The cold rushed into my lungs. I let it out slowly, a small fog of warm air floating in front of me for a second before it disappeared. Everything was white, pristine for as far as the human eye could see. It was really beautiful. Cold but beautiful. Kind of like Shepherd.
Do cold men cry?
“God, shut up,” I growled at myself and went off to find my ax and beat a hole in the ice along the edges of the river.
Maybe that would purge all these random, stupid, tender thoughts I kept having about a McCrary. Honestly, you wrap a man’s ribs once and suddenly you’re Florence Nightingale mixed with Mother Teresa. Where had my nasty inner Kyle gone? Why was this new one popping up and spewing all this psychodynamic emo crap? One week alone—well, not really alone now are we?—and I was losing my grip on Kyle Abbott’s reality. Time to freeze my nuts off while feeding cattle. That would get my head back on correctly.
