Page 57 of Down in Flames
“It was a beautiful wedding,” August interjected with a misty-eyed sniff. “Only time I willingly set foot in a courthouse.”
“And we appreciated it, Auggie,” Gus said wryly, but he refused to be sidetracked. He squinted and jabbed an oil-stained finger in West’s direction. “My point is that you’re better than me. You went after what you wanted with those broncos, and no one could talk you out of it. I sure as shit couldn’t. So don’t give up now just because folks have opinions about it. When I retire, I ain’t leaving my store to no quitter.”
“I’m not quitting,” West said, frustration leaking from every syllable. He scrubbed his hands over his face, hard, but it didn’t make his thoughts any clearer. “Not because it got too hard, anyway. It’s just…hurting the people I love.”
“Like your mama?”
West waffled his head back and forth. “Sure,” he said lamely.
“Or maybe someone else?” August’s rheumy eyes were suddenly bright, and he sat up a little straighter on his stool. “Michael Whittaker’s taken an awful keen interest in you lately. I hear he nearly took Sutter’s head off when he started shit with you.”
“He cares about people,” West said, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck. Michael hadn’t been shy about their relationship, and with Aiden’s big mouth, he figured the whole town knew by now. But he still felt like he ought to protect Michael’s reputation, especially now that it was over.
Was it over? Would Michael still be sporadically texting him if the relationship were completely dead? Or was it just in the process of dying, slow and agonizing, until one of them finally sacked up enough to put them both out of their misery?
“Sure, he cares,” August agreed, stretching and swiveling on his stool. He propped his elbows on the counter behind him, warming to the subject, “Good man, Whit. Takes care of folks. Keeps cowboys off the unemployment line. Pumps money into this dying town with that ranch of his. Lots of reasons for a man of your persuasion to take a fancy to him.”
“A man of my…” West sputtered, amused despite himself.
“Sweet Jesus,” Gus said, rolling his eyes.
But August was just warming to his subject, and his eyes were beginning to twinkle. “Now, now,” he said enthusiastically. “Let’s not beat around the bush. Everyone’s known which side of the bread you butter since you were just a kid. It was Whittaker I was never sure of, but Mable and I have been talking it over, and—”
“You been keepin’ time with my wife?” Gus demanded, spine snapping ramrod straight. He thrust out his chin and glared, waving his oil rag for emphasis. “I should’ve known better than to trust an old hound dog like you! Ever since you invited Nellie May to the winter formal back in ’58.”
“Now, don’t start that up again—” August protested, holding up both hands.
“You knew I liked her!” There was great excitement but not much real venom behind the accusation. It sounded more like a familiar, worn-out script. The same argument they’d been having for six decades.
“Yeah, I knew. That’s why I did it. I tried to save you from making a terrible mistake. ‘Course, you made it anyway, and look where that left you. Mable got snatched up by Ike Stockton and you sat on your ass moping for the next half a century. Is that what you want for the boy?”
“’Course not, but—”
“Then shut up and let me finish.” August huffed, giving his oldest and dearest friend the stink eye. He turned back to West, catching him as he edged toward the stock room. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, boy. Not ‘til I’ve had my say.”
“Yessir,” West muttered, wide-eyed and slightly terrified. Part of him wanted to tell the old codgers to keep their noses out of his business, but he’d been raised to respect his elders. Besides, he was too conditioned to everyone having an opinion about how he should live his life.
“Like I was saying…” August cleared his throat and slid a warning look toward Gus. “Mable spotted it first, but it was pretty clear to me every time Whit came into this shop. He always gave you more attention than you were due. No offense intended, son, but you aren’t exactly a looker. Now, you’d know better than me whether something’s going on between you, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire. That incident with Sutter clinched it for me. No man loses his head like that unless he’s in love. It makes us all do crazy things. A man like Whit is always going to try to protect the people he loves, even if he’s so fear-blind that he can’t see how much it hurts them in the process. It’s up to you to make him see that you wouldn’t be the same man if you quit bronc-busting just to make him feel better. I don’t pretend to understand how things work between two fellas, but I figure he must be with you because he wants you. Not some wilting flower. If you let his stubbornness get in the way, you’re going to end up like Gus and Mable, and I can’t wait around for your wedding. By then I’ll be too old and fat to fit into my suit.”
It was the most West had ever heard him talk about any topic that wasn’t politics or the weather, and once he’d said his piece, he simply licked his thumb and went back to dealing from the bottom of the deck in his own game. Gus was rubbing the crap out of his saddle.
West stared down at the floor, lost in thought, as sunshine streamed through the display window and painted the dusty floor orange.
August was right, but West didn’t have much of a choice. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, tearing himself apart with indecision. What good was self-respect if he lost the only man he’d ever loved in the process? But how could they ever hope to last if he came to Michael as only a shadow of the man he could have been? It was like asking him which arm to chop off. Either way, something would always be missing.
So, he did nothing. He buried his head in the sand, hoping a solution would eventually present itself. He leaped at every buzz of his cell phone, and then swallowed his disappointment when it was someone else.
His phone finally chimed again late that night, as he lay on his stomach counting all the ways he’d fucked up the best thing to ever happen to him. Empty beer bottles littered the floor in a sloppy pile, but the buzz barely took the edge off his misery.
Michael: How are you feeling?
He scrabbled at the keys with clumsy thumbs, tapping out the first honest response that came to his mind: like shit.
The call came in only seconds later. Breathless with nerves, he lifted the phone to his ear, but he didn’t even get a chance to say hello before Michael’s familiar voice was husking in his ear.
“Are you okay? Do you need to call your doctor?”
West chuckled softly, overwhelmed with affection and regret. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. My heart’s fine…or…no, I guess it isn’t.”