Between Hay and Grass

Chapter 5

When they returned to the house, Hank fluffed the hen skin and made it suitable for the city-slicker, who was no doubt used to more luxurious accommodations. He stepped out to refill the bone-dry water troughs—a horse with no water was a dead horse—and when he returned, Wes stood in the doorway.

He leaned against the doorframe. He wore Hank's hat. It was the most basic violation of cowboy code, and Wes knew that for a fact. Hank saw the slant of a smile on his lips.

"Take it off," Hank said.

Wes slid his thumb and forefinger around the brim. It was so silent that Hank could hear the quiet sound of skin against rough leather.

"Take the damn thing off, you hear?"

"Don't you think it looks better on me?" Wes asked.

In the moonlight filtering through the window slats, Wes unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. His hand slid down to the next button, pushing it through the fabric eye with slow deliberation. He continued until his shirt billowed open.

Hank ground his teeth. "Take my hat off and stop foolin' around, you fucking drunk," he demanded, "or I'll throw you in the hoosegow with Dead-Eye Billy."

"Go ahead, then," Wes said. "Lock me up." He pushed the cotton from his shoulder and the shirt sank down around his hips. He worked his wrists and allowed it to slide to the floor.

His bare chest was naked in the moonlight.

Heat rose up in Hank's chest. He lunged across the floor and grabbed Wes around the back of the neck, pulling the man toward him in a virile display of strength. Wes grinned.

"Take it the hell off!" Hank grunted. He muscled Wes to the floor. They grappled—hands shoving and gripping bare skin, elbows and knees knocking into ribs—in a frenzied, desperate battle. Hank's elbow grated across the floor and started to bleed.

Wes took pause at Hank's injury. Hank caught the underside of his chin and pressed his cheek into the floor. They were both still. Wes's chest rose and fell heavily.

Wes let out a low, gravelly laugh. "Just like when we were boys," he said.

"Shut up!"

Hank hit him. A thin red line bloomed on Wes's lip and began to leak.

Hank stood and backed away from the man on the floor. He was furious, disgusted, and his skin seemed to be on fire. Wes lay there, bloodied and folded, and Hank wanted as much space between them as possible. He wanted to run out of the house and never turn back.

Wes pushed himself up on his elbows. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and paused, studying the blood. Hank watched with growing horror as Wes slowly got to his feet.

"You can't outrun it, Hank, hard as you try," Wes said. "The past doesn't go away."

"I'm not the one that ran away," Hank growled.

"I wouldn't have left if it weren't for you!" Wes cried. "It drove me crazy, Hank. I thought I was losing it."

He crossed the room until he stood a few inches from Hank. Hank felt his hot breath on his cheek.

"I couldn't stand to be here with you," Wes said. "You never knew it, goddamnit. I wanted you so bad it almost killed me."

He fell silent.

Something in Hank broke. His muscles went slack and his forehead rested against Wes's. His open mouth gasped.

This time, it was Wes that grabbed around Hank's neck. Not to pull him to the floor, but to kiss him. They breathed each other in. Hank tasted the metallic ichor on Wes's lips.

"You said you'd come back," Hank whispered. "You left me here seventeen years."

"I know," Wes said. "I'm back now."