McLeod, Anitra Lynn - Dirty Cowboy (Siren Publishing Classic ManLove) by McLeod-Anitra-Lynn Page B
Authors: McLeod-Anitra-Lynn
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Nothing but crisp, sun-baked skin.
Everett became convinced that there never was a man with him, and there never were four bad men on horseback. He’d made it all up. He confirmed his self-diagnosis when he went back along the main road but couldn’t find the pile of clothing that Dalton had taken off. When he searched for horse tracks, he found plenty, but he’d also been riding around in the area for three days.
Disheartened, he climbed up into the wagon and his heart lifted a bit at how neatly the gear was organized, proof that Dalton had been here. But just as swiftly as he thought this, he frowned. He’d been at the spring for awhile. Had he arranged everything and just forgotten? The last few days were a blur in his mind.
When he sifted through the gear looking for the extra clothing that he had given to Dalton, he found two extra shirts and one pair of pants. Sitting there, touching the garments, didn’t help him recall if he’d had more clothing to begin with, or if this was what he’d had when the ill-fated journey began.
“I’m just too tired to remember.” And his inner voice remained remarkably silent.
He tossed the clothing aside then carefully put them back in the place he’d gotten them from. If Dalton had arranged this, he didn’t want to mess things up. Crud. He couldn’t even decide if he was crazy or not. The only thing Everett knew for certain was that he needed food and sleep, pretty much in that order.
After building a small fire, he discovered the meat he’d cut from the downed cow had gone bad. He dug a hole in the sand and dropped it down, burying the rotting meat within the canvas to minimize the smell. Crazy or not he didn’t want to attract coyotes.
He made a basic stew with dried meat and trail biscuits that were hard as rocks but passable when he dunked them into the soup, and afterward he made coffee. The only sounds on the prairie were him and crickets.
For a brief moment while eating dinner, Everett thought he wasn’t crazy because he remembered how good Dalton’s cooking had been. Not once in his life had he ever made anything as tasty as the soup Dalton made. But again, the joy he felt was fleeting. If he hallucinated a lover, then imagining a fantastic meal wouldn’t be all that difficult.
As far as Everett could tell, there was no way to prove or disprove Dalton’s existence. None that he could think of, at any rate. Disheartened, he doused the fire and crawled into the wagon.
He woke up in the middle of the night, eyes and ears wide. Senses straining, Everett thought he heard growling, but it was only the far-off rumbling of a storm. He’d just barely poked his head out when thunder cracked above him. The boom was so loud he almost jumped out of his skin.
Everett wasn’t a pansy, but he’d never liked thunder and lightning. Rain was fine, but when the sky lit up and the heavens growled, he went right back to his miserable childhood. When he’d been young and afraid, his father had laughed and teased him incessantly, which only increased his terror. Full grown and those words still echoed in his mind. Worse, they still had the power to hurt.
Deciding that he’d feel better if he had some light, he carefully lit one of the lanterns, then hung it up. Fearful of wasting the valuable fuel and unsure when he’d be able to replenish his supplies, he turned the flame down just about as low as he could without snuffing it.
He knew sleep wasn’t likely to come for awhile, so he settled himself on his back, and whistled. Rain plinked against the oiled canvas above him, giving him a drumbeat. Eventually the storm picked up, and rather than gentle drops, the clouds doused him with sheets of water. He couldn’t see anything beyond the wagon. The night was cold, and dark, and spooky. He whistled a livelier tune, hoping to drive away his foreboding, but then he worried that he was calling all the wandering spirits to him.
“You’re very good at that.”
Everett
Everett became convinced that there never was a man with him, and there never were four bad men on horseback. He’d made it all up. He confirmed his self-diagnosis when he went back along the main road but couldn’t find the pile of clothing that Dalton had taken off. When he searched for horse tracks, he found plenty, but he’d also been riding around in the area for three days.
Disheartened, he climbed up into the wagon and his heart lifted a bit at how neatly the gear was organized, proof that Dalton had been here. But just as swiftly as he thought this, he frowned. He’d been at the spring for awhile. Had he arranged everything and just forgotten? The last few days were a blur in his mind.
When he sifted through the gear looking for the extra clothing that he had given to Dalton, he found two extra shirts and one pair of pants. Sitting there, touching the garments, didn’t help him recall if he’d had more clothing to begin with, or if this was what he’d had when the ill-fated journey began.
“I’m just too tired to remember.” And his inner voice remained remarkably silent.
He tossed the clothing aside then carefully put them back in the place he’d gotten them from. If Dalton had arranged this, he didn’t want to mess things up. Crud. He couldn’t even decide if he was crazy or not. The only thing Everett knew for certain was that he needed food and sleep, pretty much in that order.
After building a small fire, he discovered the meat he’d cut from the downed cow had gone bad. He dug a hole in the sand and dropped it down, burying the rotting meat within the canvas to minimize the smell. Crazy or not he didn’t want to attract coyotes.
He made a basic stew with dried meat and trail biscuits that were hard as rocks but passable when he dunked them into the soup, and afterward he made coffee. The only sounds on the prairie were him and crickets.
For a brief moment while eating dinner, Everett thought he wasn’t crazy because he remembered how good Dalton’s cooking had been. Not once in his life had he ever made anything as tasty as the soup Dalton made. But again, the joy he felt was fleeting. If he hallucinated a lover, then imagining a fantastic meal wouldn’t be all that difficult.
As far as Everett could tell, there was no way to prove or disprove Dalton’s existence. None that he could think of, at any rate. Disheartened, he doused the fire and crawled into the wagon.
He woke up in the middle of the night, eyes and ears wide. Senses straining, Everett thought he heard growling, but it was only the far-off rumbling of a storm. He’d just barely poked his head out when thunder cracked above him. The boom was so loud he almost jumped out of his skin.
Everett wasn’t a pansy, but he’d never liked thunder and lightning. Rain was fine, but when the sky lit up and the heavens growled, he went right back to his miserable childhood. When he’d been young and afraid, his father had laughed and teased him incessantly, which only increased his terror. Full grown and those words still echoed in his mind. Worse, they still had the power to hurt.
Deciding that he’d feel better if he had some light, he carefully lit one of the lanterns, then hung it up. Fearful of wasting the valuable fuel and unsure when he’d be able to replenish his supplies, he turned the flame down just about as low as he could without snuffing it.
He knew sleep wasn’t likely to come for awhile, so he settled himself on his back, and whistled. Rain plinked against the oiled canvas above him, giving him a drumbeat. Eventually the storm picked up, and rather than gentle drops, the clouds doused him with sheets of water. He couldn’t see anything beyond the wagon. The night was cold, and dark, and spooky. He whistled a livelier tune, hoping to drive away his foreboding, but then he worried that he was calling all the wandering spirits to him.
“You’re very good at that.”
Everett
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