“Okay. Just think about it,” Sinclair said before sipping his beer. “I always thought cowboys drank Lone Star or something.”
“Most drink whatever is available. I tend to go for craft brews, but this was on sale, and my budget was a little stretched last month.” Dawson finished his beer and got another.
Sinclair nodded and paused eating. “Do you all use four-wheelers instead of horses to herd cattle?”
Man, he could change subjects quickly. “Sometimes. It depends on the situation and the weather. The guys often use four-wheelers because they can get out and back more quickly and they don’t need to rest the equipment like you have to rest horses. But for certain parts of the property, the only way to get in is to go on horseback. We have a slow spring on the property, and sometimes during heavy rains, it creates a small runoff creek. When that happens, that part of the ranch gets muddy enough that if we used four-wheelers, we’d tear up the sod, which would cause more erosion the next time, so we use horses.” Dawson figured he could ask questions too. “Do you ride?”
Sinclair nodded. “Lilly and I used to go out when we were kids. She was the one who was horse crazy. Generally, I like my transportation to have more luxury, but yeah. It’s been some time, and I’m not anywhere near her caliber. She’s an amazing horse person, and I just like to take a ride every now and then.”
“Are there other cousins besides Lilly?” Dawson asked.
“Oh God, yes,” Sinclair said. “And they were always lining up to speak to Dad about this business venture and that. They’ll be here for the wedding, I’m sure, and that’s one part I’m not looking forward to. At the last family gathering, Lilly’s oldest brother, Ted, cornered me and talked to me about the merits of an ice cream parlor franchise for half an hour. I finally told him that I was lactose intolerant and the thought of that much milk just made me sick.” He chuckled.
“Are you lactose intolerant?” Dawson asked.
“Hell no. But I couldn’t get him to shut up to save my life, and I had to do something. I was actually contemplating giving him the money just to get him to go away.” Sinclair took a few more bites, chewing like he was on a mission. “Yes, I have some money, and no, I didn’t earn it. I inherited it, and I feel an obligation to make sure the business continues forward. Dad worked his entire life to build it. So I feel some responsibility, and instead of backing some crackpot business from my cousin, I’d rather support people I believe in who are doing good work.”
Dawson wouldn’t have pictured Sinclair as a philanthropist. But then, appearances were deceiving. “What would you be doing if you were back in Houston?”
Sinclair shrugged. “I’d probably be sitting at some charity dinner or meeting with some of the managers of the firm. If it was a charity dinner, then I’d have been served some version of rubber chicken in sauce with rice and God knows what else. And then I’d sit through speeches and talks where they try to convince me and a room full of others to write checks to support their good work. If it was a business meeting, then I’d be in a fancy restaurant talking about future initiatives, installation contracts, and possible new product lines. None of which is as interesting as sitting here with a good steak, talking to you.” Sinclair finished his dinner and sat back slightly in the chair.
Now that was a surprise. “I’m no sparkling conversationalist.”
“I don’t know.” Sinclair leaned forward. “I have to ask because it’s a cowboy thing, and you’re a cowboy, but do you ever do rodeo? I went to one in Houston a while ago, and it was pretty exciting.”
“I did when I was younger.”
“You aren’t that old.”
“I am for rodeo. I can ride, but my days of getting on the back of a bull or a bronc are over. I did it for a while, and I was good, but I gave it up when Oliver died. I had responsibilities here, and I was starting to get old. Rita asked if I’d take over as foreman, so I said goodbye to that part of my life.” As he thought about it, Dawson realized he’d closed off a lot of sections of his life over the years.
“I bet you looked good on a bull,” Sinclair said before tipping the bottle to his lips.
“Not anymore. I’m too big and tall now, but back when I started, I was skinny as you. It worked to my advantage. I had to watch what I ate if I wanted to do well.”
“Did you travel a lot?” Sinclair asked.
“Yeah. All over the country, and it was fun for a while… until it wasn’t.”
Sinclair leaned forward, silently asking if there was a story.
“I was at an event in Tulsa when I met another cowboy. Teddy. In some ways he was a lot like you. A little flashy, loved the attention, had a smart mouth that could cut people down in a matter of seconds. He was also funny as hell. And since we were doing a number of events, we ended up sharing hotels….” Dawson finished his beer. “One thing led to another, and soon enough we were sharing the same bed.”
Sinclair’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “And here I thought you were a closet case. I figured living in this area you’d hide it.”
“I told Rita a few months ago. Oliver knew. See, Teddy had problems that I didn’t know about. He liked to drink, and after a while, I realized he had other challenges that he covered up with the alcohol and other self-medicating substances. It got to be too much to handle, and I didn’t know what to do.”
“So, you called Mr. Cantino?” Sinclair asked.
“I thought he would hate me, but I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. Teddy had been picked up by the police for buying controlled substances. They had taken the truck, which was mine, but it was still impounded. Oliver came to me, got my truck released, and listened while I told him everything.” Dawson swallowed, hardly believing he was telling Sinclair—or anyone—this story. He usually tried not to think about it as much as possible. “I expected him to hate me. And to throw me out.”
“What did he say?”
Dawson swallowed. “He asked me if I really thought that I was the first gay person he’d known. Then he helped me get my stuff, brought me back to the ranch to rest up, put me to work for a while, and then when the season started up again, made sure I got out there and back on the bulls.”
“I don’t get it.”
At first, Dawson thought Sinclair was being a smartass, but his expression was genuine. “He treated me the same as he always had. There was no difference to him. It was acceptance, and the only other thing he told me was not to tell Rita because she wouldn’t understand. I don’t think she ever did until her nephew Ky sat down and talked to her about it. After that, she changed. Of course, I think Ky’s partner’s baby sister had a lot to do with it.” He forced a smile and got up, clearing the dishes because he needed something to do.
“I didn’t realize you were out, at least to some. Do the guys know?”
Dawson set his dishes in the sink before facing Sinclair once again. “I know who I am, even if I don’t wear colorful shirts and designer jeans. Some of the guys know, so I suspect everyone does, because cowboys gossip like little old ladies after they’ve spiked their iced tea.” He took Sinclair’s dishes to the sink as well, then wondered what was next. Part of him wanted some time alone to digest the fact that he’d let his mouth run at top speed. The rest of him wondered what Sinclair was like under those fancy painted-on jeans and that pointy-nipple shirt.