Page 12 of Road to a Cowboy

“She doesn’t hate me,” Las said.

“Or me” came another voice. Marco entered the barn from the opposite end, quickly closing the distance between them with long-legged strides, his raincoat dripping onto the floor.

“That’s because she’s a good judge of character,” Las said with a grin for Cal.

Cal grunted. “You’re hysterical.”

Smile widening, Las tipped his head back and accepted a quick kiss from Marco. “What are you doing here?”

“The trails are closed on account of the rain,” Marco said, pushing the hood of his coat off his head. He led guided hikes for guests of Windsor Ranch as well as working for Austin. “So I thought I’d come make a nuisance of myself over here.”

They stared at Cal like two toddlers awaiting permission to cause mischief.

“You—” Cal pointed at Marco. “—don’t technically work for me, so you can do whatever you want. And you—” He pointed at Las. “The cows need milking. Donny was scheduled to do the afternoon milking, but he’s dealing with flooding in his basement. Why don’t you do that while I finish up some paperwork? Once you’re done, we can talk about your project and what you might need my help with.”

It was never not weird to order the boss’s son around, but Las didn’t consider himself the boss’s son. He was just another ranch hand, and he went where Cal told him to.

Las nodded and wound his arm around Marco’s elbow. “On it. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

Cal watched them walk away, then took his phone out again. The notification from the dating app was simple enough: You’ve got one new message.

He clicked on it.

Hi :) I’m a Libra too!

What... was he supposed to say to that?

The message was from username AmeliaJ, pronouns: she/her. Her profile photo was of a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman who appeared as cornfed as they came.

She was cute. Looked friendly. Had a wide white smile that reminded Cal of a toothpaste commercial.

His thumb hovered over the Reply button, but what the hell was he supposed to say?

“Hey, Cal?” one of his ranch hands called, muddy boots squelching on the floor as she approached. “Gwen and Soren’s truck got stuck in the mud near the southern boundary. You available to come with me to help push them out?”

Grateful for the interruption, Cal nodded. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Four

“How many people have signed up?”

“Eleven.” Marco poked away at the computer in Austin’s gallery. “Just one spot left.”

“That’s pretty good for the first night photography workshop of the summer season,” Austin said. He locked the front door and flipped the Open sign to Closed. Out on the street, other shops were also beginning to close up for the evening while the restaurants and cafés were starting to see a brisk business.

Downtown Windsor had an Old West vibe that Austin had always loved. His studio and gallery—aptly and unoriginally named Austin MacIsaac Photography—was squished between an outdoor outfitters and a store selling leather goods, and directly across from him was a homemade ice cream shop.

“That workshop doesn’t usually fill up?” Marco asked.

“Not in June,” Austin told him, striding toward his assistant at the checkout counter. “It still gets cold at night in June. No one wants to be outside at ten o’clock at night when it’s less than forty degrees. Not unless they have to.”

Marco tucked a strand of shoulder-length hair behind his ear. “Didn’t you say it was minus something with the windchill when you were photographing the Orion Nebula in Cornwall last winter?”

“Bitterly cold I believe is how I described it. But I was being paid for that. These people are paying me to stand out in the cold.”

Not that Austin was complaining. His photography assignments for Wyoming Traveler and Traveler’s Digest Yearly paid his mortgage, the sale of his prints and art from his gallery paid his bills, and his workshops provided a little extra.

Plus, they were fun. Teaching was so much more fulfilling than he’d ever expected it to be. And he loved the intimate setting of his maximum twelve-people workshops—limiting enrollment gave him the chance to get to know his students and mentor them more personally than if he were teaching a group of thirty.

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