Page 67 of My Cowboy Freedom
Chapter 17
Sky
It was a motherfucking mess, my coming on to Rock like that. Despite his words, I could tell he wanted me. I’d backed off ’cause he’d saidwait, and it was stupid anyway, stepping up to him then.
I was probably just feeling that desperation I always felt when I was the new guy, whether it was school or prison or this new job.
I had to fit in. Had to find something I could do or—
What? Like hulking over my food so no one would steal it, I guess I’d also gotten used to offering my ass up for comfort or protection or whatever. The guards had called us animals, and in a way they were right. Good manners and rank desperation don’t line up.
By the time Rock and me made it to the bunkhouse I was a walking skeleton. I didn’t feel my limbs anymore.
“I need to clean up. So...” I hoped he’d at least give me a hint why he was still there.
“I’ll wait here if it’s okay.” He dwarfed the only chair in the room.
“At least make yourself comfortable while I’m gone.” I pointed toward the bed before grabbing my towel and leaving the room. Maisy gave me a doggy stare. “You too, Maisy.Mi casa es su casaand all that.”
Rock’s expression as I left the room was relaxed, so maybe I hadn’t screwed things up too bad.
I took the quickest, hottest shower I could and still, by the time I made it back to the room I was shaking all over. Rock lay on the bed, sound asleep. His slow, rhythmic breathing was even and soft, absent the snoring you’d think a guy like him would do. It was a little thrill, watching him like that. It was like he belonged to me. He was open and defenseless while he slept but my bed was too small; his calves, ankles, and feet hung off the end.
He was so beautiful it was hard to breathe.
While I was staring at Rock, Maisy watched me. I had the strangest notion she could read my mind, and she was allowing me my little crush, my little fantasies, but she was keeping an eye out too, making sure I didn’t get too greedy or too close so she wouldn’t have to rip my throat out.
I grabbed one of the two plump pillows off my bed—the one under Rock’s head wasn’t going anywhere. There was an extra blanket on the bed and I just pulled that one down over me. You’d think I’d have shoved my face into my pillow and grabbed a little shut-eye. But I’d let my fear build up and now it overwhelmed me. I lay there running hot and cold—shivering with gooseflesh one minute and burning up, sweating buckets the next. I listened to how fast my heart was going while the jagged lightning of anxiety raced up and down my spine.
First, I jammed my fist into my mouth and curled up on my side hoping it’d pass. When that didn’t work, I pushed the blanket off and started doing push-ups... But nope. It wasn’t my body that was the problem. My body had nothing left to give. I fell onto my stomach again, earning a curious grunt from the dog.
It was my brain, galloping down a hundred miles of bad road, that was the enemy, not my body, and there was no hope I’d sleep until I got my mind settled down.
I’d learned to quiet my racing thoughts inside.
With that many people, that much machinery, the noise alone could drive you insane if you didn’t find a way to burn off all that subtle, gut-level irritation.
The noise wasexcruciating: The metallic clang of gates and bars, the clank of chains, the growl of ventilation. Trays dropping, carts rolling on metal wheels. All the sounds of industry and human life—laughter, crying, screaming, singing—bouncing off the steel and brick and concrete, raging all around you night and day until you almost started praying you’d go deaf so you couldn’t hear anything at all.
I’d learned over time to read scripture or draw and it helped to quiet my fears. If those failed, I sometimes benefitted from old-fashioned on-your-knees prayer. I don’t know who I thought I was praying to. I’m not sure that mattered as much as the punishment from a concrete floor.
But when praying and pain are all you have to work with, you make them work. You pray out loud if you want because no one cares. You pray to whoever makes sense because whoever they taught you to pray to has totally forgotten your sorry ass.
You pray and then you feel better, or you don’t, and nothing ever changes except the time of day.
At the Rocking C, it was a different kind of noisy, but I felt stupid praying there. I felt exposed and alone and very, very far away from whatever I was praying to.
Which was weird, because I used to pray inside with confidence.
“Father in heaven.” My words were voiceless whispers. I hoped Rock wasn’t listening but I was used to a lack of privacy so it hardly mattered. “Thank you for this day...”
Images flashed in my mind: hot coffee under fading starlight, riding out with the others, the beauty of the landscape, the horses, the rightness and simplicity of nature. Going with Elena, making myself useful to Rock.
Except working cattle feels like being a prison guard, in that you’re moving the herd of “inmates” from place to place, keeping them from escaping, and putting them through gates and such. You’re sorting, separating, medicating, and seeing to their feed and care, but there are so many of them, and they are so much bigger than you are.
They’re contrary too and so you resort to yelling and whistling and sometimes giving them the toe of your boot if you need to, so I was conflicted, because I’m not really that guy—the one who goes around telling people to move. Or cows, even.
I’m normally the one thatmovesand cattle are actual animals. But I figured so was I, technically. Plus I’d had firsthand experience at how fast that veneer of civilization falls away. Some of those mature bulls were probably way smarter than me.
