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Toby laughed. “Will you just chill? I’ve made sure there’s stuff for you to take photos of. I even got one of the bedrooms upstairs completely ready for that express purpose. As for the main area, the benches and other stuff have arrived—I just haven’t gotten around to unpacking and assembling yet.” He smiled. “That’s on my To Do list for tomorrow. You can help.”
Sol laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Can I take a look inside after supper?”
“Yeah, we can manage that. We’ll give you the five-cent tour.” Toby pointed. “That’s the stable, and behind that is the main barn.”
A figure emerged from the stable and strode briskly toward the barn. Sol didn’t get a glimpse at the guy’s face, but he couldn’t miss his broad back and muscled arms, and then there were those long legs...
“They build ’em big in Montana,” he murmured.
Maybe this would be an interesting week.
To his surprise Toby scowled. “What the fuck?” Before Sol could ask what was wrong, he called after the guy. “Hey, Butch! Where were you when I needed you?”
Sol stilled.Butch?Then he thought better of it. Butch wasn’t an uncommon nickname. And besides, the Butchheremembered looked nothing like that guy.
Be serious. We were eighteen, a bunch of skinny dudes that a stiff breeze could’ve blown over.
The Butch he’d known could be anywhere.
Anywhere.
This Butch clearly hadn’t caught Toby’s raised voice, because his steps didn’t falter.
“Apparently he’s suffering from selective deafness. I’ll catch up with him later.” Toby tugged on his arm. “Let’s go inside and I’ll do the introductions.”
Sol followed him into the bunkhouse, and the place’s lived-in look struck him instantly. That end of the building mostly comprised wall cabinets and cluttered countertops, a couch that had seen better days, an armchair that had apparently been on the same journey, and a large wooden table.
Two guys sat at the latter. One was older, his beard flecked with grey at the chin, and the other had to be a decade younger, lean, with a beard that barely hugged his jawline. They regarded Sol with obvious interest.
Toby indicated the older cowboy. “This is Zeeb. He’ll be a great help to you.”
Zeeb flashed white teeth. “Such praise. Hi. You’re Sol?”
He gave a nod.
“Sol is a friend from San Francisco,” Toby informed Zeeb. “He’s here to do two things—chill, and help us design a website for the new stuff.”
“Friend, huh?” Zeeb’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll have to be careful what we say around you, won’t we?”
Toby snorted. “That’ll be a first.”
Sol had to smile. Toby was already part of the furniture, it seemed. That boded well.
He peered into the darkened room beyond the living area, a large space filled with bunks, but there was no one else to be seen. “So is this everyone?”
Zeeb stuck his thumb out. “Paul’s in the stable. He’ll be here shortly. Matt’s in the kitchen cooking up a storm.” He grinned. “It’s fried chicken tonight.” He pointed to the younger guy. “And this here is Walt, our baby.”
Walt rolled his eyes. “Lord, you say that every fucking time.”
Toby chuckled. “I should have warned you. They’re all a bunch of ‘potty mouths’,” he air-quoted.
Zeeb’s cackle filled the air. “Potty mouths? Tell it like it is, Toby. We cuss a lot around here.”
Toby gave him a mock glare. “And whatever happened to toning it down with the guests? At least at the beginning.” Before Zeeb could respond, Toby nodded. “Of course. How could I forget? Nowadays you just drop them in at the deep end and see who sinks and who swims.”
Zeeb snorted. “Aw, you remembered.” He peered at Sol. “You got a problem with that?”
Sol didn’t bat an eyelid. “Fuck no. And I was always a good swimmer.”
