Red River Ranch

Logan Reinar was not what most people would call handsome. Good looking, fair, but nothing to write home about. He had a kind of tightness in his mouth whenever he spoke, as though he was always holding back from saying something that he really wanted to. Considering how little he spoke, that might have been true. He was raised on a ranch, in just the same way his father had been. His parents didn’t own Red River, they were ranch hands, and his mother drove to the local supermarket every day to work. They lived in a little cabin about a mile from the actual ranch house and Mister Reinar always joked that his son had been born in the saddle.

It was a strange way to be brought up, with practically nothing and nobody when in the nearest city there were glass and sky skyscrapers and almost everyone in town had their own computer or laptop or satellite phone. The age of technology though, hadn’t really reached Red River. It didn’t seem to bother Logan. He didn’t read much, didn’t study much, and after his sixteenth birthday he quit high school permanently to work on the ranch. Started to go out with his father in the summers to heard the sheep.

The summer that Logan was nineteen was the summer that Shyland Denna came around looking for work and he was hired and was put up in a little tent just past the Reinar’s cabin. He kept mostly to himself and cooked beans and soup on a griddle over his campfire. Shyland had been raised the son of a well-to-do professional lawyer from Kansas City, his mother a stay-at-home-and-gossip. He’d taken his high school exams and run away, not wanting to stay, go to collage and graduate to become just like his father. He’d stopped off at a western outfitters as soon as he’d gotten into Canada and had walked out looking just the part. Traded in his car for a broken looking pick up and turned up at Red River Ranch just two weeks later looking like he’d been born out there. He was a handsome sort of fellow, dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, as though something in his past had been Spanish or Mexican. His face looked open and friendly enough but the flicker in his eyes gave him a wary look. His hair was curly, growing out of the army style short back and sides it had been when he’d first arrived. He kept his head down and hid himself behind the brim of his hat.

The two boys got paired up a lot and it didn’t take Logan long to work out that Shy was pretending to know what was going on and was only just getting by on it. His work wasn’t brilliant, he didn’t know how to shear sheep, or catch them and the grin on his face when he actually managed to mount the dark gelding was enough to let Logan know that the boy hadn’t been expecting to stay on. Logan didn’t say anything when he caught Shy watching him do things, but he always made sure that he went slow at first, letting the other boy take a long look at what he was doing so that he could copy. Riding, thankfully, seemed to come to Shyland quite naturally.

They’d been sent to fetch in the cattle. It was a big ranch and there was much to do on the tail end of the summer and it was work enough for two boys on horses to go out into the fields and try to persuade the cows to come into the big barn for the night. The whole lot needed branding and vaccinations in the next few days. They spilt a bag of feed between them and rode out, Shyland comfortable now in his dark grey gelding, Logan very much at ease on his big tan stallion Eagle. Logan was chewing on a strip of dry beef when they got there and stood up in the saddle to stretch his legs. The denim of his jeans creaked, he’d basically been wearing them all summer. He smoothed his fingers on his chaps and looked across at his companion. Shyland slouched in the saddle, leaving too much slack in the reins to move of quickly without getting thrown. Logan shook the fed in the bag at the nearest heifer and slowly began to gain the herds attention. He slipped a rope through the ring in the bulls nose and handed the rope to Shy while he did the same with the collar around the head heifers neck. Her bell jangled and she gave a low groan and began to walk. With the important members of the herd under their control the rest began to follow as Shyland and Logan turned and began to ride back toward the ranch.

“The fair’s come to town,” Logan spoke in his low drawl, “It’s kinda expensive and not that good, but a bunch of people go and hang around down there, just for an excuse. I was gonna head on into town after dinner. You are welcome to come along if you want.”

Shyland clicked his tongue to the horse and tightened his grip on the bull rope.

“You know,” he spoke wistfully, his voice light, friendly, “that’s the most I’ve heard you say all summer. Yeah, I’ll come with.”

“Al’right.”

Shyland looked sideways at the slightly older boy, so easy looking and silent on his horse.

“You know that I’m not really a ranch hand don’t you?”

“Yup.”

“And you know I never rode before I got here.”

“Yup.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“No need. Why let them throw you out before you proved yourself?” Logan grunted and dug in his heels to stop the stallion dragging his feet, “I like you Shy, you don’t get in the way.”

The city boy wasn’t sure how to take that and so left it hanging in the warm air between them while they drove the cattle home in almost silence. The cows shuffled around in their barn, the big bull in his separate pen for the night. The boys threw hay and feed in for them, made sure there was plenty of water and took the horses in. It was the only problem with riding everywhere, when you were done for the day, before you could go anywhere or clean off, you had a horse to feed, water, groom and bed down for the night. When Shyland had first started it had taken him forever to find everything and get the job done. He was faster now, though not nearly as quick and competent as Logan, who knew exactly where everything was, just how to behave around his horse, and got Eagle combed down and settled in record time. He left the stables without another word and walked back to the cabin.

It was more than an hour later when Shyland knocked for him, dressed in a new shirt and jeans, boots hurriedly cleaned, belt buckle gleaming. He smelt faintly of hay, but mostly of well washed fabric and saddle soap. Which was all he had found to polish his boots with. Logan had showered, but even clean he smelt of horses, denim, leather, sheep and pony nuts. It was ingrained into his skin, his personality. Shyland smiled nervously and Logan simply grabbed his sheepskin coat and his hat, heels clicking on the wooden floor as he closed the door behind him, keys in hand.

It was cold in the broken down Honda pick up, a vehicle that had apparently been cherry red a long time ago but was now a kind of sand and mud colour. Shyland held out his hands in front of the heater for a few minutes before realising it didn’t work then sat back, feeling foolish. Logan reached across his lap without a word, making him flinch, and flipped open the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of brown leather gloves and handing them to him, all while driving on the ranch road, nothing more than a dirt track going to join the nearest main road. They parked behind the small supermarket, Logan burying his hands in his jeans pockets, hat pulled low over his eyes, and walked around the square grey building into town. It wasn’t a very big town, or very special, and the fair that had set up in the large field after the main road ended after the chemists was neither big nor special. But everyone in town and the surrounding area under forty was there. Young couples with small children, ranch kids and the teenagers from town. A group of twenty-something men checking out every skirt that walked by.

To Shy, brought up on cinemas, night clubs and bars he was too young to get into, the fair was very small, the rides were flashy but out of date, the prizes jaded. There was a bucking bronco thing which Logan sneered at disdainfully before going off to go and stand against a long wooden fence at the edge of the circle of light. There were a dozen or so others there, people their age, drawn by the fair, but too old to actually enjoy it as they may have done a few years previously, those who came for the excuse and the company, not the rides. A few of them seemed to recognise Logan, some with smiles, some with sneers, and Shyland stuck a few paces behind him, not wanting to be abandoned. But the two of them stuck mostly to themselves, not really talking to anyone. Logan lit up a cigarette and offered one to shy, who didn’t really smoke but took it anyway, letting himself lean forward as Logan’s work worn hands cupped the flame for him, a tiny moment of intimacy before the match went out. After that they traded cigarette back and forth until it got late, and Logan announced that he was going home. Shy skittered like a fawn and followed him.

They drove back in the dark in silence, Shyland rubbing his fingers in the leathers gloves, the scent of smoke weaving around him and making him happy. Logan’s smoke, Logan’s gloves. It was plainly obvious to the younger boy what was going on inside himself. He swore silently, chastising himself, and shrugged down deeper into his seat. The evening had turned hard and cold in the dark, away from the fairground lights, and by the time the pair got back to the ranch, Shyland could see his own breath fogging up the air in the pick up. If he wanted an offer of shelter, he didn’t get it, Logan gave him a curt goodnight before turning away, leaving him to walk the five hundred yards to his tent in the dark.

Shyland stumbled into his little tent fully dressed, and sat down in the chill canvas floor to pull off his boots and belt before getting into his sleeping bag and wrapping himself in blankets. The tent was old, just a single layer of hard worn canvas and metal poles. Shy belated pulled off his hat, set it aside and watched his breath cloud in front of him before he pulled the blankets over his head and settled down to simply shivering.

Over the next week the temperature plummeted. Logan rode up to the men in the hills with the sheep herds and told them all to come down, there was a storm on its way. Four of the summer workers left for new places and Bill, the oldest of all the ranch hands, and Mister Rivers oldest friend, died when the big bull accidentally kicked him in the head as he bent down to pick something off the floor. Missus Rivers asked Shyland if he wanted to stay on over the winter, now that they were a man down permanently, and said he’d need to look into finding somewhere to stay.

First snow hit two weeks after the carnival and Shy woke up to a world of white outside his tent. His fingers were so cold he could barely do up the buttons on his coat, let alone his shirt. But the snow stuck for barely more than an hour and soon the ground was visible again as the boys were sent off to go and fetch the last of the sheep in from the far pastures. Storm hit that night, hailstones big as a dollar coin and just as hard. Shy and Logan rode fast as possible into the stables, the horses shaking when they got in. They groomed them and settled them down, before turning their attentions to each other. Apart from being soaked and frozen, Logan was fine, Shyland, was soaked, frozen and bleeding, a three inch gash across his forehead over the right eye where the wind had blown hail across, leaving his hat as no protection at all. Logan wiped the blood off with his sleeve.

“No way you can go stay in that tent tonight. You’ll come stay with me. Put your hat on and we’ll make a dash for the house.”

Shyland just followed him, unable and unwilling to do anything else.

In the cabin Logan’s mother fussed around with hot food, coffee and poultice, while Shyland sat in a carved chair at the big wooden table, worrying the brim of his hat. Logan had vanished without a word, but appeared a while later in time to take a bowl of steaming water and a cloth off his mother and place the articles beside Shyland himself. He daubed at the cut, cleaning off the blood and Shy did his best not to wince too much. As soon as the wound had been pronounced as just surface damage, covered up with a cotton pad the boys wolfed down a plate of stew and heavy dumplings each and escaped to Logan’s room. A fire burnt low in the grate and made the room smoky and warm. Shy took off his coat and his boots and sat down on the sheepskin on the floor. Logan brought out a half full bottle of whiskey from a cupboard, took a swig, and passed it to Shyland. And so they spent the rest of the evening, trading the bottle back and forth, until the fire burnt itself almost out and they both decided to go to sleep. Shy curled up on the sheepskin, bundling his coat under his head to serve as a pillow until he heard Logan groan and opened his eyes to look over at his friend in the dark. The hail rattled off the roof and shook the window shutters. Logan was lying along one side of his bed, the covers around his waist.

“You’ll get stiff down there.”

Shyland just stared at him stupidly.

“Well? Are you coming or what?”

Shy flinched and got up, fumbling in the dark for the edge of the bed. He was about to crawl in when he realised that it wasn’t exactly polite to get into bed fully dressed. But any less than that could get him beaten to shit. He pulled off his shirt, left on his jeans and snuck under the covers with Logan. They both lay, side by side, listening to the storm, not really pretending to be asleep. Shyland rolled over to find Logan looking at him in the dark, eyes wide and glassy and smiling a little.

And what with neither of them being all that big on words they did all their speaking in questioning fingers and steady eyes. Shy felt himself smile in the dark, he knew that he wanted this, he’d known all along. It was part of the reason he’d left home, sick of pretending to be straight, not really thinking about the idea that he might have to pretend out here as well. He pressed his lips to Logan’s shoulder and felt the faltering of the older boy’s breath, hitching in his chest.

Logan wasn’t at all sure what was going on. He’d never been social, talkative, and so the opportunity to be this alone with anyone his age, of either sex, hadn’t really featured in his life thus far. No one had ever kissed him, just a soft touch on his skin and he’d never felt himself become this turned on, simply by another presence. His fingers fumbled for the front of Shy’s jeans, tugged the denim, drawing the two of them closer. Eyes wide in the dark and Shy brought up a hand to cup his jaw as he shook, uncertain suddenly. It was a good kiss, hot, hard, hungry, and Logan stopped thinking and let his lust take the reins, letting the younger boy kiss him, bodies crushed together under the blankets.

They shed clothes like snakes shedding their skins, blankets over their heads, breath warm and loud in the enclosed space. Shyland seemed to know just what he was doing, and ushered Logan along with kisses and little wordless whispers. It fell to him to reassure the other boy, to coax him and when Logan finally did what was asked of him, he panicked, mistaking Shy’s wide eyed gasp for pain instead of pleasure. He was slow, unsure of himself, even as sensation flooded his nerves, sparking in his brain. Logan’s groans were unchecked, though not loud enough to be heard over the storm, and Shy’s fingers left bruises where he clung to other boy, stifling his groans by biting his lip. Afterwards, the they fell together, sweating, shaking, warm beneath the blankets. Shy wrapped a hesitant arm around the other boy, delighted to find that Logan curled up, quick and kittenish, under his arm, forehead pressed to his side, one arm wrapped securely around his chest.

The end of summer turned into autumn and winter fell hard and fast. The surface of the river froze over so thick you could walk on it and Shyland moved into the Reinar’s cabin permanently, having failed to find a place to stay. And the two boys kept each other warm, comfortable, quiet and smiling as they worked around one another, every job done in half the time, long hours repairing split saddles, mucking out sheep, cattle and horses, grooming, feeding and paying lip service to passing tourists come to see how a real old fashioned ranch worked. Some tourists were more disdainful than others, but none of them got close to the two boys. They traded jokes and anecdotes over the horses backs and continued. Hunting season came, Logan taught Shyland to shoot, mostly by letting him get on with it, and they brought back elk from days in the snow and wilderness.

Mid November the paired holed up in the stable block on a clear day, all the horses in the fields, for a full on clean out, every square inch washed, scrubbed and swept, the whole building gleaming before it was filled again with hay, feed and water. Logan, tired, leant against a wall in one of the loose boxes, up to his knees in fresh straw from the barn, listening to the sloshing sounds of Shyland filling the water troughs. He came to the door and smiled at his companion. Shy had lost all of his city-bred boyishness over the summer, corded hard muscle and rough skin from long hard days of work, skin tanned from the sun. He came in and pushed his hat back, hanging by rodeo strings around his neck, smiling at Logan. The older boy smiled back, one arm coming out, almost automatic now, to secure him, pull him close, Shy dipping his head to get under the brim of Logan’s hat to kiss him, heavy belt buckles clicking together in the quiet stable.

Quiet for all of six seconds while they kissed before the shouting began, Logan’s father pulling them apart, unsure of who to beat first, his guest or his son, the two of them using the opportunity to try and get away. Logan’s father grabbed him on the way out and Logan punched him square in the face, knocking him back into the stable. They ran. Shyland went and grabbed the horses, Eagle and the dark gelding he’d grown to love, found their tack and hustled them into the newer of the two pick ups as fast as he could. Just in time to see Logan coming out of the cabin, arms piled high with clothes, food, blankets. Mister Reinar appeared from the stable block, running for them as the engine started, as Logan swung into the cab, and they drove off, down the track and out to the road.

The two boys headed north and west along roads populated by tourists, sleeping one fitful night in the cab of the pick up, the horses disturbed and restless. For almost six days Logan didn’t say a word, they rested up wherever they could, Shyland found a cash point and took money from his rather healthy bank account to keep them in motel rooms and horse feed. Seven days of near constant driving later they pulled into the tourist populated town of Banff where Logan, using up all his words for the next few months, persuaded the owner of a large tourist riding stables to employ him, using the horses as leverage. They would live on the ranch, and would remain Logan’s property, but used by tourists. Shyland became an almost different person, suddenly outgoing and friendly, all smiles for the skater kids who hung around and the busy tourists. He turned from cowboy to snowboarder in the blink of an eye and got a job on an off-piste bar and restaurant. The boys cashed in for shared accommodation, this tiny two room flat with a communal bathroom, and threw themselves at their respective jobs.

Logan still didn’t talk much, he never had, but living in such close quarters with Shy made him open up, just a little. First night he buried himself under the covers and Shy found him crying, curled up and alone. On the whole, Logan coped with leaving home remarkably well, considering he now also had to face the real world, where he couldn’t just sling a rifle over his shoulder and hunt elk, or spend a day in the fields tending cattle. To Shy it had seemed a repetitive life, but was not without its perks. Every day he arrived back, fresh from the slopes, to Logan emerging from the shower, smelling of sweat and straw and horse, and thought who much better this was. No one stared at them, two boys living together, nor on one rare occasion when they had gone out in the evening, holding hands. Just smiles for young love, Logan is his cowboy get up, Shyland decked out in warm winter fleeces and smiling for all he was worth.

And somehow they made it through the winter, Shy quit the slopes at the end of season and was taken on by the stables as a summer worker, and proved himself just as good a cowboy as he’d been before they’d left Red River. All day rides, the two of them on their horses, ready to put up with a pair of mules and half a dozen tourists for a day in the sun in the saddle, and Shyland would joke about a year spent in a dream and Logan would just smile, click to Eagle and ride on through the mountains, singing lonely songs of home.