Chancy's Cowboy

What if she just liked—women? There were people that way. She’d never once turned her head and looked back over her shoulder at him. She’d never even brushed against him. And he gradually realized that she didn’t know how to tempt a man. It was hard to believe, but it was true. She actually did not know!

Other than just being around a man, she didn’t even know what to do...next. Now that was an interesting thing to realize.

And he wondered if any man in the entire universe had ever had to be the first to make a move on a woman. How did a man indicate that he was open to an approach? Cliff had never had to do that.

She wore his shrunken trousers. How did she dare to put her bottom into those red-hot pants? Her hands touched those pants. Her bottom was inside them. Her soft breasts pushed against his old shirt.

By George! She had one of his shirts! Now how had that happened? He’d inquire: Just what’re you doing in my shirt?

And she’d tilt her chin up and look at him over her cheekbones as she sassed: “You didn’t put it all the way into the basket and latch it. The crew had washed it, so now you can’t wear it, but it fits me.”

That’s what she’d say. She was stealing his shrunken clothes because he couldn’t wear them, but she could. It was like she didn’t have anything to wear. But she could wear his old, faded, used clothes.

Ambrose waggled and grew bigger. Ambrose. He’d named his sex when he was fourteen. At best, Ambrose was great bonding, at worse it just waggled and ached. Like now. And the monster was getting selective. It only got hot for her.

What if she wasn’t interested in him? What if she could be interested but not serious about him? What if she looked on beyond him...to another man?

Cliff became moody and pensive. There he was, and it was the perfect time for a woman to ask, “What’s the matter?” and he had to be lying there all alone. But he and Ambrose were only moody and pensive about one woman...not just a woman. That one.

He sighed and flopped over in bed and snarled at Ambrose for being so damned pushy. He heaved up out of bed and pulled on jeans and boots. Then he crowded Ambrose into where he was supposed to be and had trouble buttoning his pants.

He went outside and looked around, bare chested and restless. He stomped over to the barn, and the horses became upset and annoyed.

Tom came inside the barn with a rifle and asked; “What the hell’re you doing in here?”

And Cliff replied stonily, “I thought I heard something.” His tongue surprised him. He hadn’t realized it could be that smart, that quick.

Tom advised in a mature way, “Go back to bed. I listen. If anything happens, you’ll hear me and my outside gun making all kinds of noise.”

See? Even Tom thought of his sex as a gun. He probably called it shotgun or rifle or automatic.

Cliff turned away saying, “Sorry.”

And Tom replied kindly, “If I slept in her house, I’d have trouble sleeping, too. It’s bad enough being just this close..”

Cliff turned back in a trifle overdone surprise and asked, “What?”

But Tom just laughed. “Run around the fence area for twenty minutes and you’ll get it out of your system.”

“You think...I’m...restless?”

Tom’s eyes spilled humor. But it wasn’t derision. It was understanding. “She keeps me awake, too. Think what it’ll be like with two of them in the house. Oops, one’ll be your sister. Sorry. I’ll behave.”

“See to it.”

“Yes, sir, master, I’ll be careful.”

But Tom stood and watched Cliff. And Cliff didn’t want to go out and run around the needed area and go to bed. He went over and petted his sleepy horse.

Tom said, “You know better than to get him all steamed up and eager for a run.”

“I was just checking.”

Tom assured Cliff, “Everything’s under control... but you. Go to bed.”

And Cliff said, “I just have trouble minding a snot-nosed kid.” He gestured as he explained seriously, “Your advice is excellent, but I’m older than you, and I have trouble minding you.”