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It’s a truth acknowledged countywide that Rhett McLaughlin is the man to call when you want a proper shoeing. Everyone has reservations about it, but they still call because they can’t deny he’s the best farrier this side of the state. A decade ago, the talk would’ve gotten under his skin. Now, he’s just happy the quality of his work trumps that way of his: that it trumps the rumors of a male lover, two wives and the sinful meshing of two families that haven’t left the age of the hippies, despite the rest of the world having moved on.
“Ain’t right’,” he has heard people like Mrs. Anderson mutter under their breath. Mr. Anderson still pays him a pretty penny for the custom made shoes and fitting for his prized mare. Sometimes, when winter’s cold has done a number on Rhett’s joints and hands, Mr. Anderson will hand him a cup of coffee with a sort of sheepish look, like a peace offering for his wife’s attitude.
Rhett always accepts.
Not all are such grudging employers though. Out towards Clark, Ms. Levine is a no-nonsense spinster in her forties who tends to a small but nice piece of land all by herself. She keeps her strawberry blonde hair in a tight braid, competes at the rodeo—excels in barrel racing despite her age—and has no hesitations about calling him when Django has chipped a hoof for the third time in half a year.
“Don’t know how he does it,” she shouts over the wind that’s tearing through the Wyoman fields. It makes the shingled roof of the barn shudder and shriek. Rhett’s grateful Django is as steady as his Barbara was; he’s not an easy one to spook.
“Maybe you push him too hard,” Rhett says, wiping some sweat from his brow as he hammers the last copper nail in place, Django’s right front hoof between his knees. “You should get another horse, let him rest up properly.”
“Maybe you should shut your mouth,” she says, smiling. “Ain’t all of us have a live-in ranch hand that can help out while we’re gone.”
A part of Rhett wants to argue that Link’s a lot more than a live-in ranch hand but he holds his tongue. Ms. Levine might be living an unconventional life herself–not a stranger to the odd comment of when she’s gonna marry–but that’s no guarantee for understanding. So he bites his tongue, makes sure the shoe’s fitted properly before he starts heating the left back shoe in the portable forge.
As he’s packing up the truck, making sure all the equipment is secure, Ms. Levine—Stevie, she reminds him—comes up behind him. Rhett almost tells her that she’s already paid upfront, but stops himself when she hands him a small, round package wrapped in a dish towel.
“I do keep track of my finances, McLaughlin,” she says, a tricky kind of smile in the corner of her mouth. “That’s just a lil somethin’ for makin’ me part of your route. Enough for you and the wife. Or whoever, really. Maybe that ranch hand of yours.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Rhett can’t hold it in any longer. “He ain’t just a ranch hand,” he starts the well-greased pseudo truth they’ve practiced for the last ten years. “He’s a business partner, really. It was just cheaper to buy the properties together–”
Before he’s even gotten partway into it, Stevie waves him off. “No, I know. Just teasin’, Rhett. Give Link my best. Or bring him around next time. I’m thinking about purchasing a mustang off the Wind River reservation, and his reputation precedes him, too.”
There’s a smile in her voice that makes it the easiest thing in the world to reach out and grab the package and tip his hat in gratitude. His insides are awash with pride that Link’s horsemanship—his uncanny ability to soothe and create trust with all manner of beasts—has reached all the way to Clark.
“I’ll ask.”
As he pulls out of the driveway, Stevie waves to him in the rearview mirror. And even though Rhett knows there’s no way she can see him, he waves back.
Due east is nothing but a black stripe road between golden fields. A gray sky obscures the tips of the Rockies and the winds are strong enough they make the truck sway in the right hand lane. Rhett’s come to realize that out here, in contrast to North Carolina, strong winds are not a guarantee for rain, so he lets the windshield wipers rest.
He makes it all the way to town without so much as a drop on the windshield. It’s late afternoon on a Saturday and the dusty lot outside, as well as the shelves inside the general store, are quite empty, but Rhett does get the oranges, sugar, yeast and bag of flour Jessie had requested. The owner, Mr. Wilson, doesn't seem to care much if the oranges get a little crushed at the bottom, but Rhett holds his tongue, grateful that Link’s not there to make a scene.
Goodwill’s hard to come by as is.
“Listen, McLaughlin,” Mr. Wilson says, tapping his knuckles against the worn wooden top of the register. “Been meanin’ to ask you–you got a few hours to spare to take a look at that filly of mine? Somethin’ ain't right, I'm tellin ya. Limpin’ and all, but nothin’s broken. Vet says it’s the coffin bone, and that shoes can help with it. You know what I’m talking about?"
“Sure thing,” Rhett says, putting the bag in the crook of his arm. He’s tired and has been on the road since Wednesday—doing a maintenance tour for his regulars, where Ms. Levine is the last one on the circuit and the closest to home—so more work, especially unpaid, is the last thing on his mind. But then he reminds himself that he’s still working against the wind. ”When you thinkin’?”
“Pass by next Saturday?”
Rhett scans his face carefully. Everyone in the county has reservations about being associated with him, Link and–to a lesser extent–Jessie and Christy. Mr. Wilson’s no different; Rhett can see the reluctance in his eyes. But that’s also all there is. A bit of reluctance, no outright hostility or disdain. So Rhett nods.
“All right. I’ll be there at noon.”
Back at his truck, Rhett puts the bag down on the passenger seat and sits behind the wheel for a few minutes, watching the weekend-quiet town and the wide-stretched fields beyond it. Overhead, the gray sky seems just as endless. Leaning forward over the steering wheel, Rhett cranks down the driver’s side window, heedless of the wind and the chill in the air. The bite of it hasn’t backed off since he left Stevie’s, but it doesn’t bother him; it's the fresh air, the scent of incoming rain and the open road leading home that bring a smile to his face.
By the time he pulls up to the little farmhouse at the end of the gravel road, darkness is falling as is the rain. There’s a light on in the windows downstairs, and when he steps inside the door, Jessie is there to greet him. He’s barely got time to take off his coat before she’s on him; her slender arms snaking around his waist as she looks up at him, beaming with the megawatt smile of hers.
“Hi handsome,” she says. “Good to see you again.”
“Glad to be home.”
“It sure is nice. Have you eaten?”
He shakes his head as he leans down to kiss that wide, smiling mouth of hers, feeling how something settles to rest within him.
“Let’s get some food in ya, then,” Jessie remarks against his mouth, before she untangles herself and heads into the kitchen.
Kicking off his boots, Rhett follows her. Sits down at the table and digs into the stew that Jessie’s made while he listens to her talk about her day. How she’d made sure the boys went off to school before she and Christy took care of the chickens and the broken roof of the coop.
As she talks, hands moving, Rhett can’t do much but look on in admiration at the woman in front of him. She is entirely too good for him, and yet, she’s stayed.
When he’d come off the mountain that second time, when he’d all but run out the door just to have another minute with Link, knowing it was borrowed, she’d taken it hard. Rightfully so. Rhett’d been able to tell from the moment he’d stepped through the door and Link had once again peeled out of the driveway that the conversation he was about to have with her was decisive.
Jessie hadn’t wasted any time. “Do you love him?” she’d asked, red-eyed and shaking.
And Rhett had had nothing but the truth to give. “Yes,” he’d whispered, and Jessie had cried and told him to sleep on the couch until she could deal with this.
He’d done as told. Had laid, sleepless and watching the sky through the window. How it went from dusk to night and back to dawn. His back had ached, but it had been a welcome pain; it seemed a fitting punishment for the hurt he’d caused.
That morning, Jessie had let him speak. He’d been able to tell her, as succinctly as he could, what it was that he felt. That neither she nor Link got half of him. That he loved them both, equally, but in different ways.
“I don’t want to leave you, I truly do love you, always have, I swear,” he’d pleaded, as it felt like the world around him was unraveling like a knitted sweater. “I just—I love him. Too.”
“So what do you propose we do?”
And Rhett had told her about Link’s idea. About the ranch and the mustangs and Link’s wife. About how everyone could get what they wanted, if maybe not in a wholly conventional way.
He’d been prepared for her to pack her bags and storm out. To annul the marriage and simply up and leave because her husband was a goddamned queer. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d dried her tears and with thin lips had asked him if he remembered her aunt Hazel, her mother’s youngest sister.
Rhett had nodded.
“She was so bitter, though never mean. And as a little girl, I didn’t understand why she was so sad, even though she had uncle Mike, who was lovely to her and us kids. She wasn’t that much older than me, y’know? But, well, she’d had a sweetheart. One she’d met at the all girls’ boarding school. It never worked out, naturally, and it ate her up inside, I think. And I don’t want us—you—” Jessie had wiped her eyes again, sniffling, as she threw out a hand towards him “—to become like that. It’d kill me.”
He’d long suspected it, but then and there Rhett had fully grasped that she truly was too good for him. And yet, she’d stayed.
That was ten years ago, and nothing about that has changed.
“Since I can see in your eyes that you’re wondering: yes, he’s in the barn. Horses needed feeding and they’re always last but never least with him, you know that. And Christy hasn't got him back in the house since he went out to them. So, I bet he’s waitin’ on you.”
Rhett sighs. “I wasn’t—”
“I know. Go now,” Jessie tells him, beaming at him with that wide and lovely mouth of hers. “I’ve had my time with you anyhow.”
Shaking his head, Rhett does get up from his chair and plant a kiss on her forehead. Once in the hallway, he grabs his hat and coat from the hook inside the door and heads out, Jessie’s laughter seeing him out.
As he crosses the yard, steered toward the barn, he lets his eyes roam across the land they’ve got. The rain is falling steadily now, turning the ground into mud, and if he hadn’t known the way in his sleep, the darkness would’ve made him get lost. The properties, side by side now merged into one, are far enough out from the nearest town that there are no artificial light sources. There are no sounds of traffic, just the wind, the rustling of laundry or leaves, the occasional snort from a horse, his own footsteps in the mud.
It’s serene.
Like always, it takes him about three minutes to reach the Neals’ barn. They call it that because it’s on their side of the property, and Link had started to build it before Rhett could sign the papers for the neighboring lot. He’d still been an apprentice then, so he’s always been a half a year to eighteen months behind on most of the projects Link’s perfected.
Rhett’s been the one that’s come up with most of them, though.
In the Neals’ barn they keep the majority of the horses. Domesticated quarter horses as well as half-broken in mustangs. The unhandled ones are still out on the pastures until they’re ready to be trained. They’ve clearly had their feed, because when Rhett enters, none of them raise their head to greet him; the pestle-and-mortar sound of working horses’ jaws is as soothing as it is deafening. Link’s looked the dozen of the horses over, surely, so Rhett doesn’t bother.
Instead, he takes an immediate right and heads towards the loft.
At the top of the narrow stairs, there’s a small landing. When they built the loft, Link had insisted they put it in, as to not track dirt and mud into their space. It had made Rhett roll his eyes, but five years in, he can admit that it was a good idea. He puts his hat on the hook, peels off his coat and puts his boots in the milk crate before he steps inside.
The loft is as it always is: nothing major, but it’s theirs.
A three hundred square feet room with a slanted roof, rag rugs covering the floor to keep out the worst of the cold. They’ve yet to draw the electricity up all the way, so the only light comes from a few kerosene lamps strewn around on various surfaces. One on the window sill of the small square window, one on a hook by the door and the last on the upturned crate by the twin-size mattress resting on a couple of pallets.
A mattress that’s currently occupied by a sleeping Link, nevermind that the sounds of the rain is twice as loud here than down in the barn.
Minding his bad knee, Rhett kneels down beside it and gently brushes Link’s hair from his forehead. It’s gotten steadily more gray as they’ve gotten older, and by now it’s a lovely salt-and-pepper color with the accompanying change in texture. Coarser, but still thick. At the touch, Link rouses slowly—drags a palm over his cheek, groaning slightly—but when he sees Rhett in the dim light from the kerosene lamp, his face is transformed by a small smile.
“Hey there, darlin’,” Rhett mumbles, as he rubs a thumb over Link’s cheekbone. It’s sharp, will always be angular and kinda bony like the rest of Link, but he has gotten some more padding over the years. It’s a good look on him; Rhett likes it better when he’s well-fed.
Turning onto his back, Link leans into Rhett’s hand. “Hey, bo. Levine treat you well?”
Rhett nods. “Let me do my thing and served some coffee and crispbread.”
“She gift you any to bring home?”
“Don’t worry. She handed me some just as I was leavin’. For drivin’ out there, since she’s only payin’ for the work, not the gas.”
Link snorts. “Typical. She’s cunning, that one.”
“I like her, though.”
“Of course you do.” Link rolls his eyes and pushes up onto an elbow. He’s down to his undershirt and beneath the blanket, hidden from view, Rhett’s sure he’s only got some ratty boxers on. “She’s stubborn, just like you.”
“Be nice. She asked for you.”
“Really?”
Sitting down by Link’s feet, Rhett’s starts unbuttoning his own shirt. “Yeah. Rumor precedes ya, bo. She’s considerin’ gettin’ herself a mustang. Asked me to bring you with me next time.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’d ask. So this is me, askin’.”
Link looks at him for a moment. Then he shrugs. “Sure thing. I’ll come with you.”
“Hey. There’s no need to worry. Stevie’s a good one.”
“I know, Rhett.”
The loft is quite chilly without the flannel in the way, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. At least he figures it’s the cold’s doing. Though it is rivaled by Link’s sudden silence and heated gaze following his every move; it follows as Rhett tosses the flannel on the floor and then as he peels off his jeans, leaving him, too, only in ratty boxers though bare chested.
Looking over, Rhett catches Link’s eyes just as Link’s hand darts out. For a second, it hangs in the air. Then it gets bold. A full, slightly clammy palm hits Rhett’s chest, trimmed fingernails digging into the muscle there as Link gets closer, the warm puffs of air making Rhett’s lips tingle.
“God I’ve missed you, bo,” Link whispers, and then kisses him: mouth open, tongue slick, full abandon, no shame in sight.
Some things never change, and Rhett’s so grateful for it.
There’s no questioning whether to reciprocate. As soon as Link’s lips are on his own, Rhett opens up to meet him, to let him in. Catches that tumbling mass of limbs and warmth and pulse and all things right. Envelops the angular mess that is Link in his arms and then tumbles them both backwards like they’re two high school sweethearts on a collision course towards third base or even a lucky homerun. Link’s hands run down his back, scratching lightly as they move restlessly from neck to spine to hips and back as Rhett just breathes him in, teeth sometimes clacking in his haste to simply get more of Link.
“Hang on,” Link mutters after a moment, pulling away in what Rhett can only interpret as reluctant. “Yes, you’re pouring out heat like a gosh darn furnace, but I’m getting cold here.”
Rhett shakes his head in fondness, poking at Link’s ribs. “You gotta eat more.”
“Hey, I eat plenty—”
“—ain't enough if you’re this bony still, Neal.”
“Shut up and warm me up then.”
Still smiling at his antics, Rhett crawls in behind Link’s shivering form, pressing in close enough to tuck his nose into Link’s hair and his arm across Link’s waist. Like on cue, Link responds by pressing back; Rhett pushes his hips forward, lets his half-hard cock press against the small of Link's back.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, followed by a reedy exhalation that’s like the rasp of a match down Rhett’s spine.
He slides a hand up Link's chest, first over then underneath the undershirt. Scratches lightly at the hair there, then lets his palm rest against Link's flat stomach while he presses forward again. His fingertips graze the waist of his boxers; the heat emanating is enough to make him bold and slip his fingers inside.
Link sighs, his cock hard even before Rhett can wrap his fingers around it. Runs his teeth over the nape of Link's neck and squeezes gently, and Link moans out loud, never one to keep quiet when they’re here with only the horses close enough to overhear.
In return, Rhett grunts, then pulls Link onto his back and into his arms. Link's eyes are open, dark in the dim light from the kerosene lamp; his mouth is open, bottom canines gleaming and Rhett closes his own mouth over it, kissing like Link is his due. Together, they wrestle Link out of his soft, worn undershirt so Rhett can drag his hands all over his chest. One of Link’s arms then comes up, loops around Rhett’s neck, pulling him close as they kick their underwear down, off, out, until they’re finally so close they are skin to skin all the way down, Link’s angular body all hardness and heat against him.
Different from Jessie’s soft curves. Not better nor worse. Just sometimes craved for lack of opportunity.
As Rhett breaks off, Link lets him go, waiting for his return. Rhett rolls away and gropes his way across floorboards and rag rugs for the Vaseline, which is never where it ought to be despite its ample use. Finding the metal lid by touch alone, he opens it, covering his fingers with more than enough before he comes back. All the while Link watches, panting, eyes blown like a cat’s, until Rhett reaches out for his hip, urging, and Link easily rolls over, arms going up over his head, face turned to the side.
One blue eye watches him, and Rhett swallows. It doesn’t matter that it’s been nearly ten years since that summer. Seeing Link like this—spread out for the taking, trusting and limp with one fine-boned foot jiggling in anticipation under the blankets—procures that rush of blood to the head, that mercury-quick want in his veins that’s still as strong as it ever was.
Rubbing a soothing circle on the small of Link’s back as a warning, Rhett slides two fingers into him. No need for preamble; they know each other like the back of the other’s hand. Link sighs out a soft moan, raises his hips and arches his back impatiently when Rhett doesn’t move. With his free hand, Rhett holds him still, drops his head down and kisses up Link’s spine, lingers on each vertebrae with reverence, bolder now than he was all those years ago when it was new and raw, and waits for the shiver that tells him Link is ready for more.
Waits until Link is all but vibrating under his touch, his need mirrored in Rhett's shaking fingertips. Only then does he twist and scissor his fingers apart, earning himself an impatient growl.
Rhett removes his fingers and without pause, slicks himself up and thrusts inside. Under him, Link shudders. Wrapping his arms around Link's shaking body, Rhett pulls his hips up while Link's head and chest stays down against the mattress, rubbing against the sheets with every thrust, making him sigh and make little noises in the back of his throat; the types of noises that make Rhett’s whole body tingle. He tightens his arms, his palm resting across Link's thudding heart as he grinds deep, knowing exactly what angle to use to run over Link’s prostate at every turn.
From experience he knows it to be a lot, so Rhett soothes him, whispers, shushes him when Link gasps, keens and shakes through the intensity of it all. Holds him there, waiting, until Link's shaking eases, until his heart feels less likely to burst straight out of his chest and into Rhett’s open palm. Only then does Rhett roll his hips again: slow, deep, without hurry.
They’ve got the time now, and he’s gonna use it.
The new tempo makes Link gasp, and Rhett puts more force behind his thrusts, goes as hard as he dares in time to Link's grunting cries. He strokes Link's cock a few times before he’s batted away as Link takes over, being much rougher than Rhett had been. Instead, Rhett lets his teeth sink into the skin at the joint of neck and shoulder, biting a little, not enough to mark but enough to procure a lovely sting that has Link letting out a tortured whine of overwhelm and throw himself back against Rhett with full force.
Taking it for the signal that it is, Rhett slides his hands down Link's chest, intentionally going over his nipples to feel his muscles draw tight, ribs moving closer together. It isn't long after that, a few more thrusts, deep and steady, that Link tightens around him, pulls Rhett down in his climax; drags him under like a current, making sight and sound disappear as the water closes overhead.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. They simply lie together, joined still, heaving, sweaty and spent, to catch their breath. Still panting, pulse thundering in his ears, Rhett buries his nose into the hollow behind Link’s ear, where the scent of him—that intoxicating mix of fresh sweat, masculinity, warmth, pine needles and horse that seems to have seeped into Link’s very pores over the years—is the strongest. That scent that did Rhett in, all those years ago. What made him leave everything he’d ever known and take the plunge into the unknown; the less secure but infinitely more rewarding one, as he’s come to find out.
Between one breath and the next, Link then stirs. “Now you gotta move,” he grumbles, so Rhett complies. Pulls out and rolls over but still with a leg tossed over Link’s calf. Sticks his hand out of the cocoon of warmth they’ve fashioned themselves and comes back in with a few sheets of paper towels from the roll they keep on the milk crate.
“Thanks,” Link mumbles as Rhett hands it to him under the blankets. He even gets a chaste kiss on the underside of his jaw for the trouble before Link puts his head on his shoulder, eyes closed.
Outside the square little window, there’s only darkness. The rain’s stopped and the clouds have lifted. There’s no moon out, but if he angles his head right, Rhett can see the smattering of stars against the dark night sky. The kerosene lamps cast long, golden-edged shadows that seem bigger than life when either of them move; every little detail is amplified a hundred times over.
Link’s sharp chin presses against Rhett’s collarbone.
“You stayin’?” he asks, voice low. “Gonna get cold tonight, so if you’re sleepin’ in the house, you gotta tell me so I can head down too.”
It’s probably gonna get pretty bite-y, if the walk here was anything to go by. But under the blankets, pressed up against Link’s body, it’s warm. So Rhett simply tucks Link closer and shakes his head.
“No. I’m stayin’.”
He doesn’t need the light to feel Link’s smile against his skin.