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“I take it you aren’t a churchgoer?”
“Nope. Can’t really say I believe in God, either, but I respect other folks who need that comfort.” As long as they didn’t use that comfort to tell Jackson he was going to hell, or to shove their views down other people’s throats, they could do what they wanted. Go to church, sing hymns, have holiday bake sales, whatever.
“So what do you do, Jackson? Really?”
Jackson gulped more of his beer. “I work on a cattle ranch. Been farming or ranching in one place or another most of my life. Could say it’s in the blood.”
Drew grinned. “Then that makes you my first official Texas cowboy.”
“Trust me, we aren’t as sexy or interesting in real life, not like the movies show.”
“I think I’d disagree about the sexy part.”
The compliment sounded sincere but still fell flat for Jackson. He’d been uninterested in a fling with the guy before the pastor thing, and now Jackson was definitely off-board with anything happening between them. The guy deserved a sex life if he wanted one, but he wasn’t for Jackson—especially not with Jackson’s mind full of a gangly redhead whose tenacity at learning to properly ride a horse made him smile at his beer.
“Ah, I see,” Drew said. “Getting over someone?”
Technically, he’d come here to get under someone, but that was unlikely to happen now. “Sort of. It’s complicated and not a story for telling over a beer with a new acquaintance.”
“Understood. Want me to leave you alone?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It was nice to meet you, and there’s a good chance we’ll run into each other again. Weston’s not that big. And if you ever find yourself craving a cheap, greasy burger, check out the Roost some night.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
“You’re welcome. See you around, Sumner. Jackson Sumner.”
Jackson laughed as Drew disappeared into the other side of the bar, then finished the beer. His attempt at a hookup had failed spectacularly, and even though it was only nine o’clock and still early, it was time to go home, down a few shots of whiskey, and go to bed.
Alone.
By Friday at quitting time there wasn’t a part of Wyatt that didn’t hurt, ache, or throb in some way or another, and it was all that sadist Jackson’s fault. If an orgasm or two had come along with the pain, okay, he could deal. But this was all from horse riding, stall mucking, and learning how to tie proper knots (apparently learning to actually throw a rope and catch something was on the to-do list for next week’s lessons).
Ramie, bless her, had a huge box of Epsom salt under the bathroom sink, and Wyatt had made liberal use of it the past two nights. He limped into the house a little after six, surprised to find her home. She was on the couch wrapped up in a knitted afghan, with a big mixing bowl of some sort of colorful sugary cereal it, and a baking show on TV.
“What the hell did Jackson make you do today?” she asked. “Roll around in cow manure and then dunk you in a water trough?”
“Feels like it.” Wyatt eyeballed the other end of the couch but if he sat down, he wasn’t getting up for a while and he needed a bath. Not just to relax, because he kind of stank. “I’ve never been worked so hard in my life. I feel more aching muscles than I ever knew existed and that’s a fact.”
“Then go take a soak. I’m eating cereal but I brought home a burger and fries someone ordered but never claimed.”
“Cool, thanks.” Even cold, a burger sounded like heaven on earth right now.
He trudged into the bathroom and in under five minutes—her water heater was some kind of new wall-unit thing and shockingly fast—slipped into hot, salted water. He closed his eyes and let different memories of Jackson float through his mind, especially that gorgeous scowl. The few times he’d smiled and praised Wyatt’s performance. The perspiration dotting Jackson’s upper lip after they’d mucked all the stalls together, and how much Wyatt had wanted to lick it off. Jackson’s body heat, deodorant, scent of sweat, and every damned thing about the man that made Wyatt want to roll over and beg.
Thank God Wyatt had the day off tomorrow, not only to let his body heal a bit from its overexertion, but also get some distance from his sadist of a trainer. He hadn’t complained, though, not a single time, and especially not to Brand. The last thing Wyatt wanted was to be assigned to someone else.
The cool water and his hungry stomach finally urged Wyatt out of the bathtub and into clean sweats. He found the foam container with the leftovers and didn’t mind cold fries, so he munched on those while he washed ketchup off the meat patty, then nuked it for a bit. The bun, lettuce, and tomato were acceptable, so he reassembled the sandwich and took his dinner into the living room.
Ramie was still watching the baking competition show, and he tried to pay attention while he ate, but that stuff just wasn’t his jam.
“You aren’t working tonight?” Wyatt asked during a commercial break.
“Doing a half shift later tonight,” she replied. “I was actually off but I’m covering part of it for a friend. Don’t go in until eight.”
“Oh, cool. I bet you get better tips on weekends.”
