Page 16 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

I wanted to ask him what was going on, but, like I had in the past if a rare windfall came my way, I kept my mouth shut and absorbed it through my skin for the drought that was surely to follow.

Only thing was, the drought never came. Not after that. I had fresh water everywhere I looked.

Walter—he told me to call him Walter—took me to the ranch and showed me my bunkhouse. Then he took me to the dining hall and introduced me around. I couldn’t remember any names that night. The faces were a blur.

The food was amazing, though my stomach ached from eating so much. When I got back to my bunkhouse, there’d been a small pile waiting on the freshly made bed: a packet of new t-shirts. A toothbrush. Shaving kit. White briefs. Thick socks. A tube of sunscreen.

Someone had told me at dinner that breakfast was at seven sharp, and there, on top of the pile, was a little battery-run clock. I set the alarm and went out to sit on the wooden steps to the bunkhouse.

The air felt clean and cool as the sun started to set over the low hills to the west. Everything turned dusky, the light oozing toward purple and darker blue. Birds flew around the roof of the ranch house in the distance, settled in the trees. Called to each other and sang their songs.

I stayed where I was until it got too dark to see. Then I went inside and took the longest, hottest shower. When I got out, Ishaved with real shaving cream and a brand-new razor. All my own.

Me in the mirror. For once, I didn’t have burned holes for eyes. Sure, they looked surprised and wary, but in the back I could see a glimmer of something else. Hope, maybe. A flicker of something tenacious that told me this was what I’d been holding on for.

My hair dripped water from the shower, and I buffed my head with a towel. Feeling clean all over, I put on new briefs and opened the windows. Left the door open, too, and let the cool breeze waft over me, washing me as clean as the shower. Cleaner. The air of change. Cool licks across my skin. Like being reborn.

My early days at Snow Creek Ranch were full of work. Sunup to sundown. My straw cowboy hat felt stiff at first, but soon molded itself to fit my head.

I soon had two pairs of boots bought for me. Everyday work boots and a pair of sleek Ariats inlaid with a pretty blue-and-brown pattern. I had two pairs of new jeans and the promise of more, as needed. The promise of anything I needed.

Any mistakes I made were met with quiet guidance rather than shouts and blows. I got gently scolded and then shown how to do the task properly.

How to close a gate so animals didn’t get out or in, depending. How to clean and store tools after using them. How to paint a building without getting paint all over myself. How to hold a door open for a lady, of whom there were a few on the ranch.

How to wash my hands before every meal and take my hat off when indoors. How to not eat like a starving animal. How to return a handshake with a solid one of my own. How to look someone in the eye when talking to them.

How to listen. How to believe what was being said. How to trust.

It became impossible to hide my devotion to Walter Barrett. After a while, I stopped trying. But he never acted like I was an amusing pup to be dismissed with a pat to my head. He treated me like he treated his other ranch hands, with respect. With focused attention when he was talking to me.

I became a part of the ranch. Best friends with the foreman’s son, Jesse. In the winter, the down season, when other ranch hands returned to the city or went on the stock show circuit, I stayed. I drove a truck to clear snow and used the tractor to move half-frozen manure. Circled the ranch on foot and on horseback, through snow and wind, to check fence lines.

Watched for coyotes when the sun went down. Watched for fires in the dry of January winds. Rode to watch cattle in the upper fields, rain or shine. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Walter.

When he passed away, taken by a quick, cruel cancer that he never told anyone about, I cried like a baby. The sound of my sobs cut into the preacher’s words at the graveside like an axe cutting branches from a trunk. On that stark hillside outside of Chance, where the cemetery was, there were no trees. No shade. No hiding.

I wasn’t ashamed of my tears. My affection for Walter, my loyalty, was well known. But I was fearful. Of the future. Of the unknown. Of changes to come.

Dennis Barrett, Walter’s son, had died way back, estranged from Walter, and in came Walter’s grandson, Lucas Barrett, to take over the ranch.

The first thing he did was announce that the ranch would no longer be a pure working ranch but a welcoming one, where paying guests could stay. Also one where LGBTQ kids could come to get away from the city, away from families that hadrejected them. Where they could learn new skills. Create new lives for themselves.

To my mind, this was way too many changes all at once. One or the other, guests or kids, I thought.

I even brought it up to Lucas himself, because by this time I was tall and strong and experienced. No longer the close-mouthed foster kid looking for a signal as to which way to jump. I was a man, fully grown, and respected for my hard work and my can-do attitude.

“You might be right,” Lucas said with a warm smile. “The kids come first for now, and then the retreat for rich city folk. Maybe both. It pays to sow broadly, though, to see what takes.” He watched me as I took off my straw hat and ran my fingers through my hair, the way Walter always had.

“So, are you in?” Jesse asked. “Will you help us?”

I was one of many ranch hands, known for my skill at woodwork and handling horses. Yet here they were, treating me like I was a crucial part of their plan.

They weren’t lying. The Barretts I’d known never did, and neither would Jesse. They were showing me that I was part of the ranch’s future. Part of something important, bigger than myself.

All of which I was a sucker for. Lucas was no fool, and Jesse knew me through and through. They used what they knew to their advantage, but without taking advantage of me.

“Yes,” I said.