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I think about Porter with Storm the past few days and rub at an ache in my chest that he feels as alone as the horse even with caring people around him. I know there’s a lot of burned bridges between us, but I’d round up a hammer and nails and start rebuilding if I knew it would do any good. For now, I’ll have to treat Porter with kid gloves, same as he does with the mustang, and hope he comes around. I don’t want any regrets before he leaves town again, though some will remain seared into my skin.
When Big Jimmy asks about the guitar again, to my utter astonishment, Porter stands and heads to the bunkhouse to retrieve it. He returns to claps and whistles, but his expression remains shuttered. He’ll give these men a little something, but not everything. And like a man starving in the desert, I’ll take even a mirage of water at this point.
He sits down, tightens the strings, then looks at Wade. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Wade nods and starts playing an older country song about a man being left by his love with only his horse. Aren’t they all?
Porter joins in, and it makes the sound richer. I try not to stare at his relaxed features when he’s playing. Instead, I focus on his weathered hands and battered knuckles from years working on ranches. I remember how those same fingers on my body—sometimes gentle, sometimes rough—were able to make it sing. Porter being inside me made the world disappear like nothing else ever has. So much so that my hand would find my dick and replay those moments over the years to try and chase that same feeling.
The men start singing the country song out of tune, which nobody minds. Porter’s lips never move, and I wonder if it’s different when he plays open mic at the bars. I want to ask but dare not mention it and break the spell we’re all under. The mood is one of camaraderie, making these cowpokes a family. Even Randy, who’s guzzled enough water to make me feel better about his eventual drive home.
When Pixie runs from the porch to join in, she brings a youthful energy that makes some of the men laugh. We spend the next hour belting out familiar songs, and even my parents watch from the porch, smiles on their faces.
By the time Wade tires of his harmonica, there are only embers remaining in the firepit and the moon is high in the night sky.
Pixie is asleep in Randy’s lap, and the men start making their way to the bunkhouse, knowing the morning will be here soon enough. I stand and stretch just as Porter returns from putting his guitar away. He helps clean up and put out the fire.
When Randy thinks no one is watching, he pulls a flask from inside his coat pocket and takes a swig. I open my mouth to say something, but Porter’s hand on my arm stills me. We watch as Pixie rouses, as if she either recognizes the sound or just knows instinctually.
“Daddy, please. Are you okay to drive home?” she asks in a hoarse voice, and because I feel like I’m witnessing a private conversation, I turn away.
“Of course I am. Let’s get you to bed.”
He lifts her in his arms, and I’m still halfway turned as Porter meets him at his truck. “She can always stay overnight. I’m sure the Sullivans won’t mind.”
“Get the hell out of my way, Porter. You saw me drinking water for the past hour.”
“True,” Porter replies in an unsteady voice. “But I won’t be able to rest unless I know she’s safe. Let me and Pixie follow you home.”
“How dare you?—”
“Randy!” I step toward them before it comes to blows. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let him drive her home.”
Pixie must like that idea because she struggles in his arms until he sets her down. “It’ll be okay, Daddy. See you at home in a bit.”
I can see the rage in Randy’s eyes, and though I know this is all about his bruised ego, he should be glad the others aren’t around to witness this. Though his animosity toward Porter will no doubt double.
He hops in the driver’s seat and presses angrily on the gas, revving the engine.
My eyes meet Porter’s. “I can take her if?—”
“Be back in a few,” he responds curtly, then helps Pixie into his truck.
My gut churns the whole time they’re gone, and I don’t move from the bench in front of the firepit until I hear the wheels on the gravel about thirty minutes later.
I stand unsteadily as Porter parks and exits the truck.
“All good?”
He nods, and then we breathe the same air for a few tense seconds.
“Glad to hear it.”
I turn toward the ranch house when he says, “Bishop.”
I meet his eyes, see the roiling emotions in his irises.
“You know I was exaggerating earlier with those stories, right?”
