Page 22 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

He smelled of aftershave. Probably the drugstore kind that anyone might buy, cheap and robust, but which on him smelled the way dust smelled after it rained. Like something new and good was expected and already on the way.

“I really don’t have time,” I said, the half-lie tasting bitter on my tongue. “I was planning on driving home right after this.”

“You oughtn’t to do that,” he said. His fork clinked on the plate as he cut a bite of cake. Then it paused in front of his face before he slid it into his mouth. I was mesmerized by every step of the process.

“Why?” I asked. “I’m good to drive.”

“That you may be.” He talked with his mouth full, cheek puffed with cake, and looked me over with his gold-flecked eyes. “There’s ten miles of too many curves, just to Chance. In the twilight, the deer come out. Foxes and such. You’d run ’em over. Can’t have that.”

Hiding a chuckle that he was more concerned about the animals than me, I looked down, and my eyes caught on his bare forearms, tanned and corded with muscle. Arms that worked hard all day, every day. He’d be able to drive if he had to.

As could I. But did I have to?

“I guess I could stay for another day,” I said. “Or two.”

I took a bite of the cake, just to be polite. It tasted like chocolate, but more than that. It had depth. I didn’t like desserts, too sweet for me, but this was really good. The whipped cream made it special.

“You can,” he said, like it was decided. He watched me. His body was turned toward me. All his focus was on me. “You can settle back. You don’t have to ride. Just go for a long walk along Snow Creek. Do some fly-fishing. Or come into town with me, as I’ve a need for a new hat.”

I had no idea why he was so set on spending time with me. Or why I thought I saw a smile in his eyes. A tiny curve of his mouth. Like he was teasing me about the hat, but maybe didn’t realize he was. Or didn’t want me to know he was.

Before I could puzzle that out, let alone respond, Dillon and Cameron came up to the table and slid into seats, one of them next to each of us.

“Mr. Dalton,” Cameron said, “they’re having a bonfire later. They’re going to use this old pan to pop popcorn.”

“Over an open flame?” I asked, never having heard of such a thing. I looked at Jake, thinking the boys were joking.

“It’s a tin box with a long handle,” he said. “And a sliding lid with holes in it. So the popcorn can breathe. The ranch has a few of them. They’re all old but still work.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You going to stay, Mr. Dalton?” Dillon asked.

“I’ll stick around for that,” I said. As though popcorn popped in an old-fashioned box was the draw, rather than the way Jake was looking at me. Like he might smile at me someday, and not just look at me with a hard glare.

The two boys got up and cheered, raising their fists as though they’d accomplished some rare victory. “Yeah, Mr. Dalton!” they shouted before racing off to tell their young fellows.

“Guess I’ll be sharing the bunkhouse with those two for another night,” I said, dropping my chin to attend to my cake. Speaking to my plate, I added, in a voice meant for only my ears, “More fart jokes for me. Yeah.”

I heard Jake snort. Honest to God, I did. I looked up to catch him in the act. And though he wore no smile, his eyes were dancing like glittering gold-and-blue stars that had found their way merrily to earth.

Chapter 9

Dalton

As the sky darkened, nobody asked me to do anything to help prepare the bonfire. Instead, I was escorted to a hay bale covered with a green-, red-, and white-striped blanket. Everyone treated me with kid gloves, which was nice but also irritating.

Anyone else on the ranch, all those cowboys, would have shrugged off being bucked from a runaway horse like it was nothing. Or they wouldn’t have been on a runaway horse in the first place, because they were all good riders.

The LGBTQ kids danced around, getting in the way as they tried to help. One of the ranch hands was laughing as the fire was built higher, and it all felt kind of wild to me. But in a good way. Letting go. Letting off steam. Being out there as the darkness grew and the air turned cool, sifting around my bare neck. I was still dressed in only a t-shirt and jeans. Those borrowed boots. Like I was turning into a cowboy, but was only halfway there.

Someone tossed me a sweatshirt, and I grabbed it and unfolded it from its untidy fold. It was stained at the cuffs, ragged with wear. When I brought it to my nose before tugging it on, it smelled like hay and dust.

Grateful to be a little warmer, I almost didn’t notice when Lucas walked up and sat on the hay bale next to me.

“These guys work hard,” he said. “Getting this place in shape like they do. But did you know that Jake checked on you no less than five times this afternoon?”

“What?” I asked, feeling as though I’d gone extremely deaf in a matter of seconds and couldn’t possibly have heard what I thought I’d heard.