Busting the Greenhorn
C.C. Williams
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 C.C. Williams
Busting the Greenhorn is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Busting The Greenhorn
“Yeah? Well, fuck you, too!” Jake slammed the phone on the desk. “God-damned, right-wing homophobe!”
These days who cares if their freelance writer is gay or not? Between the Proposition 8 debacle and the defeat of legalized marijuana, he could hardly believe he lived in California anymore. He sighed. Whatever happened to the land of fruits and nuts?
After he returned the handset to its charger, Jake Landon walked around the antique oak desk, out the office and down the hall into his bright, cheery kitchen. The room lightened his mood a little. There are advantages to working from home, he thought as he cracked a Corona and glanced out the window at Knob Hill.
Cyrus padded in and sat at Jake’s feet, looking expectant. The writer bent down and scratched the Lab’s head. “You don’t care who Daddy fucks, do you? No, you don’t, do you?” Actually, Jake couldn’t remember who he’d fucked last time or when it had been.
Focused on building a successful writing career after some modest financial achievements with an Internet start-up, Jake had had little time to devote to creating a personal life. The Labrador retriever was his nod to companionship and a bit of a stretch at that. Fishing a treat out of the container, Jake tossed the biscuit to the big dog; Cyrus caught the kibble, gobbled it down greedily and snuffled around for more.
Taking another beer from the icebox, Jake continued to talk to his pet. “What Daddy needs is a vacation! Doesn’t that sound great, Cyrus?” He returned to his office and booted the laptop, opening a browser. “Now where should he go?”
~~~
The last pier of the Golden Gate Bridge disappeared behind him into the fog and Jake began to relax. This weekend, his long overdue vacation had arrived and he was heading up to the Russian River. For the next three days, he intended to pamper himself, sleeping late, eating rich food, and letting his business worries take care of themselves.
Three clients had pulled out, all claiming they were reducing their advertising expenses. But he knew better—the tech world had become as gossipy as a beauty salon. Everybody was shifting rightward. Tech used to be the fringe, now it tilted toward the conservative side. Sheesh!
Heading north from the Bay on the 101, Jake decided there was no need to rush at all; he exited the busier route and took California 1 toward Mill Valley. The drive along the coast would reinforce the vacation experience. The sun rose further, burning away the fog. Crossing into Sonoma County, he headed to Valley Ford and then took the Bohemian Highway toward Occidental.
A smile tugged at his lips as he drove through a forest of the ancient redwood trees that heralded his arrival in the small bustling town of Guerneville. Anxious to get to the resort, Jake fought the urge to speed. The River Rat Lodge and Cabins hugged the bank, filling the space between the river and the highway with well-maintained grounds and white, clapboard cabins. After checking in and collecting his key, he hoisted his bag and set off to cabin number four, finding it nestled in a secluded corner surrounded by tall evergreen trees. The roar of the river underlay the green silence of the forest.
For the next few minutes, he didn’t know how to act. For once the phone wasn't ringing, his laptop idled at home, and no one made any demands. His mouth stretching into a silly lop-sided grin, he opened his bag and pulled out running shorts and a tank top along with black Speedos. He knew he looked good in the Speedos—an overly large set of balls saw to that. Frequent trips to the gym saw to the rest of his toned body; writing was sedentary work, so regular exercise was important to him. Picking up his Kindle, keys, towel, and sunglasses, he set off. He stopped at the bar to grab a couple of Dos Equis and headed down to the sandy shore of the Russian River.
He had the small narrow beach to himself. Surprising for so early in the afternoon, but complete solitude made for a nice change. For over an hour he baked in the warm sun, sipped beer and caught up with his reading list as he watched the lazy flow of the river.
Silence fell, leaving only the murmuring of the river as it babbled over rocks and roots. The birds had stopped their chirping in the trees, and he heard rustling in the thick foliage along the watercourse. Tales of bears and other wild animals crossed his mind. Jake sat up and gave some thought to packing and leaving. The rustling grew louder; Jake heard actual snapping of branches. A dark figure moved out from the undergrowth; someone on a large horse trotted out of the bushes onto the sandy margin.
In the gold afternoon sunlight the figure resolved into a man in a black Stetson. Seated atop a black stallion, he appeared to have ridden straight out of an old Zane Grey western. A faded blue chambray shirt and jeans completed the likeness.
He reined in the horse and waved to Jake. “Howdy! Did you happen to see a golden retriever pass this way?” Removing his hat to wipe his forehead, he flashed a big white smile framed by a thick black mustache. The deepest blue eyes Jake had ever encountered sparkled in a handsome, tan face. The rider’s eyes held the writer’s gaze hostage with their intensity.
"N . . . no, no I haven't," Jake stammered out after a few seconds. He didn’t seem to be able to get his tongue to work right. He was trying not to stare but wasn't having much luck—he couldn’t look away from the horseman.
"Didn't mean to interrupt your vacation, but my dog ran off.” The baritone richness of his smooth voice played counterpoint to the alto burbling of the nearby water. The man replaced the hat, adjusting its position. “He knows the way back to the ranch, though. If he sees you, he’ll probably come over to say hi."
Jake swallowed past a lump in his throat, wishing the cowboy would come over. “If I do see him, I'll tell him to go home. Good luck finding him."
The horseman touched the brim of the Stetson. "Thanks, I appreciate it! See you ‘round.” He set his spurs to the horse and wheeled about to disappear back into the brush.
Jake fell back on the towel; his heartbeat thudded in his ears, galloping away of its own accord. For too long he’d been among starchy, corporate types and pale, technophile geeks; the horseman’s sheer, raw masculinity set his heart racing. The rancher had worn his shirt open; every time he had moved, the hairy cleft between his chest muscles had rippled. Jake had wanted to explore that valley. The horseman’s wind-burned face had been open and honest with deep hewn laugh lines embracing his mouth. Lizard-skin boots and black, denim jeans spoke of a working man, not some weekend cowboy. He’d sat the horse comfortably, clearly in command of the large animal.
Yawning, Jake stretched and decided to go take a nap until cocktail time. There wasn't any point becoming a lobster on his first day. As he climbed the bank to his cabin, he turned and glanced down to the riverside. Briefly he saw a black horse and rider moving back into the trees. Had his cowboy come back for another look? Jake hoped so.
~~~
Drowsy from the sun and beer, Jake fell asleep quickly. Visions of denim jeans, ten-gallon hats and horse-hung cowboys filled his dreams. Awaking refreshed yet vaguely discontented, he shaved and showered before dinner. He selected comfortable jeans and a white shirt to wear for dinner; the pale cotton button-down set off his now sun-kissed complexion. Despite its casual atmosphere and rustic decor, The River Rat Lodge boasted a five-star restaurant with an enviable wine list, so Jake anticipated an extraordinary evening meal.
He strolled from his cabin to the lodge building; small kerosene lanterns outlined the path and filled the darkness between the trees with warm, yellow light. A soft breeze rustled through the needles and carried the scents of pine and redwood. The main structure wore white clapboard like the outbuildings and housed the restaurant and bar as well as a wing of hotel type rooms. Jake followed the strains of a steel pedal guitar around to the stairs of the bar’s patio.
Taking a seat at the knotty pine bar, Jake selected a Chardonnay recommended by the bartender. Clad in the River Rat’s signature butt-hugging Wranglers and black tuxedo shirt, Ronny poured the white wine and returned to drying glassware. The wine finished crisp and clean with pleasant woody and apple notes.
“Good recommendation, Ronny.” Jake saluted the barman with his glass. “You must know this area pretty well, right?”
Ronny nodded. “Lived here all my life.”
Which was barely two decades, Jake thought to himself. “What sort of ranching goes on around here?”
“Hmm. Not as much as there used to be.” He inspected a glass against the light. “Pretty much everything is going to wine production these days. You lookin’ to go riding or something?”
Jake grinned. “Or something.”
“Well, the Hairston ranch is pretty much right next door, just a couple miles down River Road. I think Chet rents horses.”
“Chet Hairston, eh? Is he a big guy with a mustache who wears a black Stetson?”
Ronny blushed and focused on leveling out the ice in his well. “Uh, yeah.”
“Ah!” Evidently Jake’s horseman was well known. “I’ll have another, Ronny.” With the fresh glass of wine, Jake moved outdoors to the porch and settled at a small table, overlooking the parking area. Humming along with the country and western music, he people watched. Couples sat at tables, some singles chatted at the bar or sat alone like him. Although the last time he’d been on a horse had been during grade-school summer camp, Jake considered going horseback riding the next day.
Throaty rumbles and the crunch of gravel drew Jake’s attention to the parking area; two Escalades pulled into the lot. Enviously eyeing the high-end SUVs, Jake also eyed the cowboys who climbed out. Eight men in tight Wranglers, patterned shirts and glossy boots laughed and joked as they made their way into the lodge. Recognizing the hat, Jake watched Chet Hairston in his black Stetson place an arm around a strikingly handsome young blond and lean toward him to whisper in his ear. Perhaps aware of Jake’s scrutiny, the horseman from that afternoon met Jake’s gaze and waved to him.
Disappointment clutched his heart as Jake raised a hand in return. Oh, well—so much for that fantasy. Jake signaled the waiter for another glass of wine.
~~~
The wranglers took a large rectangular table on the expansive porch. Hairston and his blond friend sat in the center surrounded by the group. Jake finished his wine and observed the cowboys: clearly Chet cared deeply for the young man; he was quite affectionate, always hugging or touching him. Yet Hairston’s glance would return to light upon Jake and he would wink or smile.
Not one to get entangled in other’s relationships, Jake was upset by Chet’s increasingly obvious flirtation, particularly since Chet continued to sit with his arm across the blond’s shoulders. Downing the last of his wine, Jake rose and walked past the cowboys to go in for dinner. Hairston licked his lips when Jake passed, leaving little doubt as to what occupied his mind.
Damn tease! Jake disliked games; this bit of cat and mouse was beginning to piss him off. He’d been cruised by lots of men in many places, but Hairston’s approach was so intense it felt like stalking. Despite the writer’s growing irritation, the rancher’s attention turned Jake on.
In order to distract himself, Jake indulged in dinner. He started with a Caesar salad prepared tableside, very retro-sixties, followed by steak au poivre accompanied by a loaded potato and fresh asparagus. He had just finished the fresh greens and tangy dressing when the cowboys came in to eat. Hairston arranged to sit right near Jake, rewarding him with a wink and lascivious grin.
Jake’s beef arrived rare and bloody with a spud leaking butter and sour cream. He applied himself to his entrée, ignoring Hairston as best he could. Jake’s disregard apparently only inflamed Hairston’s desire more; the rancher purposely dropped his napkin on the floor, using the pretence to run a hand along Jake’s leg. The touch sent a streak of fire burning up Jake’s leg. The firework reached his groin and exploded over his cock. The writer’s dick throbbed, abruptly confined by his jeans. Worse yet, the contact had set his heart to racing again.
Jake wasn’t averse to casual sex; he’d had his share of one night stands and always played safely, but he wasn’t about to be someone’s other man. Not even for someone as hot as Chet Hairston. He sopped up the last of the beef jus with the final bite of his potato; Jake decided to skip dessert and get some distance from Chet. Heading back to the bar to get a rusty nail from Ronny, Jake sat down in a corner and sipped his drink. The delicious meal and the scotch’s heat worked to mellow his mood.