Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

James Cleven dies on an unassuming Saturday in late February. It happens at night, in a barn, while he’s pulling a resistant calf from the womb of its pain-mad mother. One moment he was yelling for the fence stretcher and another pair of hands, the next he was on the ground and the calf was slipping out, easy as pie. Didn’t even clutch his chest or nothing, just there one moment and gone the next. He was seventy four years old and his heart gave out right as new life slid into the world to replace him. It was how he would have wanted to go.

Marge tells Gale all this over the phone on a Sunday in late February. She’d waited nearly twenty four hours to call him, and Gale can’t find it in himself to fault her for it. She’s speaking quietly, calm. She hadn’t been in the barn when it happened, but Rosie had. Rosie was the one who called 911, even though he knew it was too late. Rosie was the one who sounded choked up over the phone.

Marge has a lot of opinions about James Cleven, most of them negative, but Gale knows Rosie and a bunch of the guys have different experiences with his father, and he doesn’t begrudge them for it. James was kinder to animals and ranch hands than he was to his own family, and that was just the way it was. No use crying over it. He’s spent enough time doing that.

After Gale’s mother died, James and Gale had mutually decided without ever discussing it that they didn’t much care to see each other or pretend they wanted to. Gale wasn’t going to take over the ranch, which James found unforgivable. James was never going to apologize for being an abusive drunk bastard for most of Gale’s childhood, which Gale found unforgivable. It was easier to leave it be. James sent Gale a generic Christmas Greetings from Staghorn Ranch postcard every December and Gale sent James a birthday card. Gale couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken on the phone. The last time they’d seen each other in person was the day after Bertie Cleven’s funeral when they’d stood on opposite sides of the table in the ranch house kitchen and screamed at each other. Gale had left shortly after, vowing never to step foot on the ranch again.

But now—

“It’s just,” Marge says, “we found his will. And you’re the sole inheritor.”

”You’re joking,” Gale says, staring out the window of his apartment at the tangle of stoplights and car headlights stretching down the slopes toward the bay, the lights of San Francisco blinking through the fog. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the pattern of the stars above the ranch, the stars that he watched as a child, the stars that brought him to this place where he can’t hardly see any of them. “He wouldn’t. He told me he was going to leave it to Rosie, or sell it before he died—he told me.”

”Right, well,” Marge says reasonably. “I don’t think he was planning to go like this, Gale. He probably never updated it. It still has Bertie named as the beneficiary for the house, but with her gone that’s yours too, of course.”

”I don’t want it,” Gale says numbly. “Any of it. He knew that.”

”Yes,” Marge says patiently. “And I’m sure we can sort it all out, but the fact is the ranch has been losing money for the last decade and James wouldn’t let anyone else handle or even look at the finances, not even Rosie or John, and it’s—it’s just going to be kind of a mess. It’s—there are debts.”

”Of course there’s debts. He might have quit the drinking and the gambling but he just started gambling the ranch when he stopped gambling cash. All these new plans, pouring money into pasture seed and water shares. And I know it’s better, I know it’s been good for you and Rosie especially, but he’s a goddamn fool. Was a goddamn fool.”

”I know, Gale. But look, we’ve got some good things happening here, we’ve got plans. You know John wants to look into getting bison out here and maybe even phasing out the cattle, and Rosie’s got us breaking even keeping most of them back from feedlots now and Benny pulled this kid from the Rangeland Ecology grad program at UW and our pastures are twice as green as the neighbors’ now, with all these flowers and nitrogen fixers—and I just think—“

”You’re telling me I need to come,” he interrupts, hollow.

”I’m not telling you anything,” she sighs. “You know Chick will help out with this and we can probably figure out a way to sort it out without you coming, but it might just be easier if you did. Rosie and John, and maybe even Benny if they can sweet talk him, are interested in buying. And I think they might be able to make it work. We might be able to.”

”You want that?” He asks.

He can almost hear her tired shrug through the phone. “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess I do. I didn’t think this was gonna be what I’d be doing, but turns out it’s not too bad. I never wanted to get out the same way you did, Gale. And I love Rosie, and I guess I love this stubborn plot of dust, too. We’ve been working hard. Trying to make it better. Even your dad was, these past few years.”

”I know,” he says, and leans his head against the cool glass of the window. It’s raining. Rain like the dusty valleys of Wyoming could only ever dream of. “Well, Marge, what kind of best friend would I be if I made you buy a ranch I don’t even want off me? Can’t I just say it’s yours? Have Chick email me some paperwork?”

”Not really. Not with the debts the way they are, and all the different parts, the ranch and the animals and the house and the water shares. It’s gonna be more complicated than that. And I—it’s been a long time, you know? Almost two years since that trip to the Winds.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in deep. The scent of his safe little apartment, cedarwood candles and Mrs. Meyers lemon verbena cleaner. The faint funk of Benjamina’s litterbox persistent, an always losing battle. Soft lighting, a pile of textbooks on the coffee table, his laptop abandoned on the couch where he left it when Marge called. Everything nicely organized and not too overwhelming and the schedule for the next week laid out on the magnetic whiteboard on his fridge. Everything planned, nothing unexpected. The way he likes it. The way he needs it.

”When’s the funeral,” he asks.

She sucks her teeth. “Not decided yet. Soon, though. Maybe a week.”

”I guess I should be there.”

”You don’t have to, Gale.”

”What kind of son would I be if I wasn’t? Town’s got enough gossip on me. I’ll come. Think we can get it figured out in a week?”

”Probably less than that. You don’t have to come for that long. Though we’d all love to have you, if you did. You know that. We don’t have to stay at the ranch the whole time. Could go up to the Bighorns for a few nights or something.”

Now it’s his turn to suck his teeth. “Spring break’s in two weeks. Think you could keep the old man on ice until then?”

”Jesus, Gale. Yeah, I can talk them into it. He wanted to be cremated, anyway. They’re going to do it tomorrow, I think.”

“Let me know,” he says. “I’ll get a flight if you’ll come pick me up.”

“Always,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice even though she tries to hide it. “You know that.”

”Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

The Casper airport got a facelift sometime in the past five years. The new white walls and tall windows looking out on the Laramie Range and the Frontier Brewing satellite and the hat and boot shop selling styles straight out of Yellowstone are so jarring it takes him out of his own body for a moment when he walks into the terminal. Gale remembers flying out of this airport when it had two gates, a giant taxidermied grizzly in the corner, and no windows at all. It feels like he’s arrived to a different Casper entirely. A different Wyoming. More people, too. Who comes to Wyoming in the middle of March? There are people with skis and snowboards. Gale hadn’t realized the snow here was worth flying in for, but then again he’s never skied in his life. Skiing was not a James Cleven-approved activity.

He shoulders his way through the crowd around the baggage carousel—still only one of those, so some things stay the same—and out into the evening. There’s no snow on the ground, but the air is dry and cold, instantly chapping his lips and freezing his cheekbones and fingertips. He takes a deep breath and his lungs catch on the thin air. He automatically looks south, towards the mountains, covered in snow and softly pink in the evening light.

There are mountains in California, of course. He’s been hiking and climbing all over the Sierras and the Coast Range. He’s backpacked the Tetons and Winds, the Bighorns and the Sangre de Christo, the Sawtooths and Glacier Park, the front range down in Colorado and the Cascades—and yet there’s something about this unimpressive plateaued ridge above Casper that makes his heart lurch, makes something settle deep inside him. The mountain he grew up under. The mountain he turned to when everything in life was shit. The mountain he retreated to when things got too hard. The subtle, soft curves of the Laramies like the body of a familiar lover, a safe embrace, a resting place. 

He takes another breath, tastes the dryness, the scent of sage, the distinctive chemical aftertaste of the refineries. The scent of home. The scent of the ranch. The scent of his father. He clenches his fist around the straps of his bag and breathes in deep and slow. Out deeper and slower.

A car horn beeps to his left in an obnoxious stattaco. Turning, he sees Rosie’s powder-blue pickup, and as soon as he’s facing the right direction Marge spills from the passenger seat and is running towards him. He drops his bag and holds his arms out, catching her and spinning her as she laughs. She looks good, blond hair chopped shorter than he’s seen it for a while, face already showing the beginnings of a summer tan, red lipstick as perfect as ever. She’s wearing faded jeans and the kind of Chelsea boots everyone in the Bay Area wears except her’s are stained with green patches that look suspiciously like cow shit, and a UC Berkeley sweatshirt he’d given her five years ago when he’d first started his PhD. She’s laughing against the side of his face and he ducks his head down into the crook of her neck and breathes her in, his Marge. She was right, it had been too long, and FaceTime calls aren’t the same as a warm body in his arms, squeezing him tight. 

A hand claps him on his back and he lets Marge go and is immediately swept up by Rosie, who swings him around as enthusiastically as he’d just swung Marge. He looks good, too—growing a pencil thin mustache, hair longer and curlier than Gale’s ever seen it and stuffed under a Snake River Stampede trucker hat. He pulls back and holds Gale by the shoulders, shaking him a little. “Whatever happened to I promise I’ll see you every year in Jackson, huh? I’m just supposed to get by without my yearly dose of Gale Winston Cleven now?”

Gale clasps his forearms, laughing a little. “Doctorate program happened, Rosie.”

”Ah, yeah, you’re a genius leaving us in the dust, whatever. Excuses, excuses. This all you brought?” He gestures at Gale’s duffle, abandoned on the sidewalk.

”Yeah.”

”Simple man. Ah, shit, there’s the airport cop—we’d better go, he loves to give tickets as soon as someone gets out of the driver’s seat, even if it’s just to throw someone’s luggage in the trunk. Casper’s getting high and mighty, hiring airport cops now. They’re bored out of their minds, can you imagine? Hotbed of crime, this place. Let’s go!”

Marge hooks her hand through Gale’s elbow and kisses his cheek as they trail Rosie to the truck. “I missed you,” she whispers. “I’m sorry you’re here for this, but I missed you.”

”I missed you too,” he says, guilt building in his gut. He hadn’t planned to bail out on the annual Teton trip, or to refuse Marge and Rosie’s other invitation to join them on the Oregon Coast last summer. But the doctorate program has been all encompassing. His research and dissertation are crawling along at a slower pace than he’d hoped, and he’s spent his summers in the lab working with wide-eyed undergrads who haven’t experienced the crushing realities of the academic grindstone yet. His lab manager and advisor don’t like working summers so it falls to him and—well. He’s missed them. Missed the mountains they visit together, the camping trips, the adventures, the reminder that he’s got people who have known him for a long time and love him and value him just for being him. The places where he can simply exist without judgement or pressure. 

Marge kisses his cheek again and pulls him into the cab. Rosie’s truck is a relic from the late 80’s, wide bench seat with a woven seat cover that Marge had once, quite drunkenly, detailed the merits of when it came to the various sexual positions it could inspire. Gale almost doesn’t want to sit on it, but he slides into the passenger seat, Marge pressed up against him so Rosie has room to maneuver the gearshift. The engine roars to life with the delightfully hedonistic growl of a truck that runs on diesel and isn’t about to apologize for it. Rosie plays the part of the Wyoming cowboy well, diesel guzzling engine, curly mullet, cowboy hat and all, but Gale knows he refines his own bio-diesel out of the used vegetable oil from the diner in Mills. Rosie might have turned cowboy, but he still carries the vestiges of the Brooklyn hipster community gardener he’d been when Gale and Marge first met him at UW. Rosie’s managed to straddle the line that makes environmentalists and permaculture gurus want to give him money while also making friends with the ranchers on the other side of the fence who run more cattle than their pastures can handle and have Trump flags waving on their flagpoles. Nobody in the Caspar Metropolitan Area’s got a bad thing to say about Rosie Rosenthal and that’s the way to survive in a place like this. Rosie’s managed everything Gale failed at with grace, and for a long time Gale was envious of it, hated him for it, even. Now he just admires him. Plus, the truck smells like French fries instead of diesel, which isn’t half bad.

”Oh Galey,” Rosie says as he merges onto the highway. “We’re gonna get in late, but Bucky made chili and we made sure to save you some. The guy burns every slice of toast he tries to make, but his chili is to die for.”

”Bucky?” Gale asks, curious. He’s a little punch-drunk from the travel—a classic joke of flying southeast to Denver only to double back and fly northwest to Casper, complete with a six hour layover and a delayed flight out of Oakland. It’s Friday. He’d taught that morning to a half-empty lecture hall, most of the undergrads already out of town on their spring break trips. The rest of the week had been late nights crunching numbers that weren’t coming out right in the lab, sleep interrupted by dreams of his father, and spiked anxiety after two long phone calls with Chick, his father’s lawyer and the leader of his Boy Scout troop when he was a kid, who probably thought the calls would ease Gale’s mind. He’s ready to pass out until he has to get up for the funeral.

”John,” Marge reminds him. “John Egan. Everyone calls him Bucky.”

”Why?”

Rosie shrugs. “Cause that’s what he told us to call him. You’ll like him, Gale, he’s a real character. I keep forgetting you haven’t met him, feels like he’s been here forever but he only came on three years ago.”

Three years ago. Two years after Gale started his PhD and suddenly had no time to visit Wyoming anymore. One year after Bertie Cleven died and Gale screamed at his father that he would never come back here, not ever, that he’d rather die.

No, he’s never met John Egan, but he’s heard a whole damn lot about him from everyone. From Marge and Rosie, of course, and from Benny, who says Meatball loves him (the highest praise Benny can offer), and from Charles, who always speaks of him with an edge of awe in his voice, and even from Chick, who’d said with rough approval in their last phone call that this John Egan had a good head on his shoulders and a whole lot of energy to put toward the ranch and he’d made James Cleven proud. 

Gale doesn’t know if that’s a red flag or a green one.

John Egan, who wants to buy his father’s ranch from him. John Egan, who Marge and Rosie trust enough to consider it. John Egan, who has apparently served for the past three years as the son his father wished Gale was—the man with dreams and passion who wanted to make the ranch into something sustainable and profitable; who wanted the ranch, period. The man who James Cleven had, for some reason, not sold it to, despite talking to him about it multiple times. Gale wishes he’d just been disowned entirely and that James had left the ranch to the people who actually wanted it. It would have been easier on everyone. But James Cleven had always had an outsized ego; and Gale wonders if he’d thought he was decades from death despite the heart problems and the blood pressure. Gale had told him he should get his affairs in order, after Bertie died. That was one of the things they’d been yelling about across the kitchen table.

John Egan. Bucky.

”I’m excited to meet him,” Gale murmurs to Rosie, and turns his gaze out the window where the blinking lights of the refineries and gas stations blur together along the stretch of highway, thinning out as they leave town. Marge finds his hand and squeezes it, and Gale lets her. Rosie nudges the volume on the stereo and Orville Peck fills the cab with his smooth drawl. Cowboy cry, he wails. Cowboy cry, cry boy cowboy cry…

Casper Mountain looms large as they turn off the highway onto the bumpy county roads that will eventually dead-end at the ranch, and Gale tries not to. He tries.

Chapter Text

The ranch sits a thousand feet higher than the valley and there’s still snow on the ground, gone crusty and dirty on the sides of the gravel road as Rosie winds through the front gate of the ranch. Gale hears the dog barking before they even pull into the wide driveway in front of the main house. He comes rocketing around the back, a white blur of fur and wagging tail, and he’s got his paws up on the passenger door before Rosie puts the truck in park.

“Down, beast,” Gale laughs, and effectively shoves Meatball away from the truck by opening the door directly into him. The husky doesn’t take it as much of a discouragement and launches himself at Gale as soon as he’s out of the truck, pawing at his belly and shoulders and whining in excitement, huffing warm, smelly breath in Gale’s face as he licks enthusiastically at every bit of skin he can reach.

“You shouldn’t let him do that,” Rosie says, pulling Gale’s duffle out of the bed of the truck. “We’re all trying to stop him from jumping on everyone he sees, people get scared, you know—he’s gonna get shot one of these days by someone who thinks they’re getting attacked by a damn wolf.”

”Nobody could mistake this sausage for a wolf—Jesus, what’s Benny been feeding you, huh buddy?” Meatball’s paws dig heavily into his belly and he gets down on his knees for ease of access. Meatball licks into his ear with enthusiasm and plants one large paw directly on top of Gale’s crotch.

Oof. Yeah, he’s definitely gained weight.

”It’s not Benny feeding him,” Marge laughs, hauling Meatball away while Gale wheezes. “It’s John. I’m sorry, but you might have been replaced as Meatball’s second favorite human. He gets all John’s plate scraps. He and Benny fight about it every other night, but John always gets his way.”

“What kind of rumors you spreading about me, Marge?”

Gale looks up to see a tall figure rounding the corner of the house, hand raised in greeting. He’s big, that’s the first thing Gale notices—he’s only got an inch on Gale, maybe, but he’s broad, wide shoulders and chest, thick thighs. The layers he wears accentuate his size, faded work jeans and big boots splattered with mud, a tan Carhartt jacket covered in little rips and stains, a knit beanie pulled low over his brows, a few curls escaping from underneath.

He clocks Gale on the ground and grins at him, striding up and offering a hand. Gale can’t help but feel the tiniest bit emasculated, here on his knees with dog slobber on his face and an aching crotch and an expensive down jacket that would get shredded by barbed wire and tumbleweed thorns within an hour if he tried to wear it to do any real work, the kind of jacket his dad would have made fun of. And John—because this is John, it must be—John is something to look at, for sure. John looks like he was born on the back of a ranch horse, ready to wrangle. John’s smile alone would fill a room to bursting, and he hasn’t even started talking yet. John looks like the kind of man James Cleven would have liked to drink with at the Hideaway in Mills after a long day of work.

Gale blinks. Reaches his own hand out. Lets John pull him up off the ground, seamlessly transitioning into a firm handshake when Gale’s back on his feet.

”Gale Cleven,” he says, smile widening impossibly. “John Egan. Everyone calls me Bucky, though. I’ve heard a lot about you. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

”Likewise,” Gale says. John’s hand is calloused, a little chapped. It feels huge around Gale’s. 

John releases him and claps him on the back, then claps Rosie on his for good measure. “You need some grub?” He asks, starting towards the side door that leads into the kitchen. “Benny’s probably already gone to bed,” he adds, looking back towards Gale. ”But he’s in the far bedroom on the other side of the house, so we can bang around a bit and it won’t bother him. He’s on calving duty tonight, we’ve got one stubborn lady who’s still holding out and then we’re done for the season. Hey, Rosie, I was gonna ask you if you’d remembered to call Brady or if I should call him in the morning—“

He holds the door open for them and they all file into the warmth, the others slipping off boots by the door and shedding jackets in a practiced dance, ducking around each other like they do it all the time, which, Gale realizes, they do. John’s still talking. “—I think she’ll be fine but he knows better than we do, I want to get his opinion on if we should induce or just let it ride—okay, Benny left the crockpot on, hopefully it’s not all cooked to the bottom of it, Jesus—“ he’s taking a spoon from a holder on the stove and popping the lid off a crockpot, releasing a mouthwatering aroma into the kitchen. He stops suddenly, turns to look at Gale, and points the spoon at him. “You know who you remind me of, you look exactly like this kid I knew in high school in Manitowoc. Buck. Any relation?”

Gale, stunned by both the onslaught of chatter and his first look at his childhood home in three years, gapes at him. He hasn’t even gotten his boots off yet. “What?”

John dips the spoon into the crockpot and pokes around a bit. “Still fine, that’s good. We ate all the cornbread, but we got some cheese still. Drinks?”

”I’ll get ‘em,” Rosie grunts, heading towards the refrigerator. 

“Anyway, you gotta be Buck now,” John says, turning back to Gale. “‘Cause you look so much like Buck from Manitowoc I’m gonna end up calling you that anyway, so we might as well just make it formal.”

”My name’s Gale,” Gale says, because he truly can’t come up with any other response. He finally takes off his coat, hanging it carefully on one of the hooks beside the door, crowded against two other Carhartts, a tangle of scarves, and a pair of insulated coveralls.

“I know,” John says. “My condolences.”

”Bucky,” Marge says with a measure of exasperation mixed with unbearable fondness. “Give him a second to breathe, for goodness sake.”

“You can’t just call him your own name,” Rosie says, shutting the fridge with his foot, his hands full of seltzer, beer, a bag of shredded cheese, and sour cream. Marge gives him a look that is clearly meant to be subtle but is anything but, and he puts the beers back. “Gotta be more creative than that.”

”I’m not,” John says. “My name’s Bucky. His is Buck.”

”No, it’s not,” Gale says.

”Whatever you say,” John says, pulling down a stack of bowls from the cupboard. “Hey, help yourselves, alright? I’ve gotta run back out to give that mama one last check and make sure the heaters are all running right. Then I’m gonna hit the hay. Long day.”

”Let Benny call John tomorrow,” Rosie says, taking the proffered bowls from Bucky. “It’ll make his day. Thanks for cooking.”

”No problem. Hey, nice to meet you, Buck. See you in the morning!”

He’s gone before Gale can formulate a response, brushing past him back into the night with a wink.

”What,” Gale says again, helplessly. 

Rosie laughs. “You’ll get used to him.”

”He’s stressed about this last cow that hasn’t calved,” Marge adds. ”She’s eleven, one of the best we’ve got, but she’s slowing down and she’s really late this year. John’s worried about her. He gets…high energy, when he’s stressed. Probably gonna go sit with her for hours now, until Benny gets up. He doesn’t like to leave her alone at night.”

Privately, Gale thinks that’s no way for a rancher to act. You have to straddle the line between caring for the animals enough to make sure they’re healthy and thriving; but sentimentality never helped anyone in the livestock industry. It certainly never helped Gale. 

”She’ll be alright,” Rosie says, serving Gale a heaping portion of chili. “John told us yesterday he wasn’t worried about it. Bucky’s just a mother hen with all the older gals. Chili’s got last year’s elk, Gale; you still eat game meat, right?”

”If I know who shot it, sure,” Gale says, taking the bowl, suddenly ravenous. He piles cheese on top of it. “Different John?”

”John Brady,” Marge says. “You remember Doc Steven, from when we were kids? John’s his nephew; took over his practice when he retired. He’s a good guy.”

”Benny’s been courting him for the last year,” Rosie says, sitting down across from Gale and sliding Marge a bowl before digging into his own. “It’s downright traditional. I think they might have just progressed to spending time together without a chaperone.”

Marge rolls her eyes. “Benny says he doesn’t know if John’s queer.”

”If John’s not queer, I’m not straight.”

”You’re not straight,” Marge laughs, and flicks a shred of cheese at him. 

“You know what I mean. That kid sends so many longing looks towards Benny’s ass he probably has the exact curvature calculated. Benny’s just trying to woo him properly. Playing the long game, only if he doesn’t watch out, the long game isn’t ever going to end.”

Gale clears his throat and washes down a mouthful of chili with a swig of lime seltzer. It really is delicious. “Benny just doesn’t want to get burned again. The whole Lil situation was rough on him.”

Marge rocks forward in her chair, slapping a hand on the table. “Oh my god, you don’t know!”

”Don’t know what?”

Rosie leans back and covers his eyes with a hand. “Oh, god.”

”The guy Lil left Benny for? It was John!”

”John Brady?” Gale asks, confused.

”No, Bucky!” She dropped Benny for Bucky, right after he came to town! And then, after about two months, dropped Bucky for Glenn Dye of all people, and eloped with him! Last I heard they were living down in Salt Lake and she’s a part owner of some fancy rooftop cocktail lounge.”

Something small and ugly in Gale’s stomach curdles. So John likes girls. Not exactly surprising. He’s a rancher in Wyoming, and just because this little ranch has more than its fair share of queers—much to Gale’s bemusement—doesn’t mean John was going to be one of them. And anyway, John’s handsome but he’s also incredibly annoying, Gale can already tell that much, and furthermore he’s technically Gale’s employee until Gale manages to get out from under the ranch. It’s not like Gale would have done anything.

“What happened when Benny found that out?” Gale asks.

Rosie shrugs. “He punched Bucky in the face and Bucky let him. Then they drank most of a bottle of Jim Beam and ended up crying into each other’s shoulders about the cruelties of beautiful women. Hasn’t come up again since.”

“Anyway, we’re rooting for them. Benny and John Brady,” Marge says.

”And I can prove Johnny Brady is not only queer, but gay,” Rosie says. “Because Bucky said he saw him on Grindr.”

”Bucky’s on Grindr?” Gale asks, before he can stop himself.

Marge smirks. Rosie waves his spoon in the air. “Bucky’s on every dating app ever created. Not the point. The point is, he saw Johnny Brady on there once eight months ago and never since. Bucky thinks that means he might have been there on accident, but I think it proves that not only is he gay, he’s fallen in love with Benny and took his account down on purpose.”

”I don’t think you can get on Grindr by accident,” Gale says, pointedly ignoring the smirk Marge is still directing at him.

”He’s handsome, isn’t he? John, I mean?” She says innocently.

”John Brady?” Gale asks, just as innocent. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t think I’ve met him.”

She rolls her eyes. “Be that way.”

He points his spoon at her. “You two content yourselves with matchmaking for Benny. Leave me out of it, understand?”

She raises her hands in the air as Rosie laughs. “I never said anything, I never said anything!”

”You meant something,” he grumbles. “Anyway, isn’t it getting a bit late for you two?”

Rosie rolls his eyes, shoveling his last spoonful of chili into his mouth. “I know a Gale dismissal when I hear one. Anyway, he’s right—I’m beat. Should we head home?”

Marge just shakes her head and nods, standing and scooping Gale’s empty bowl from in front of him before he can protest. “Relax,” she says. “You get out of dish duty for your first night only.”

He leans back in his chair. “Thanks, Marge.”

”Don’t get used to it. You gonna go warm the truck up, baby?” This she directs at Rosie, who stands with a grunt. “We’ll see you in the morning, Gale,” he says. “Welcome back.” He rounds the table and gives Gale’s shoulder a squeeze, pressing a brief kiss onto the top of his head and ruffling his hair. “Love you, man.”

Gale reaches up and gives his hand a quick squeeze where it rests on his shoulder. “Good to see you too, Rosie. Thanks for the ride.”

”Anytime.” He lets himself out the door in a blast of cold air and then the kitchen is quiet, just the sound of water running and Marge humming to herself as she loads the dishwasher. For the first time, Gale allows himself a moment to look around, to process. The kitchen is the same, like three years haven’t passed since he was last here, like James Cleven’s about to walk through the door and throw his hat on the table, demanding dinner. The crooked wooden cabinets, the yellowing paint on the wall behind the sink, the sketch Bertie did of the mountains framed near the doorway to the hall. He presses a hand to his chest briefly to make sure his heart hasn’t stopped, to make sure time is still passing as it should be. Marge turns back towards him and he quickly drops it, instead fisting the fabric of his shirt below the edge of the table, where she can’t see.

”Galey,” she says softly, because even if she can’t see it she knows. She always knows.

She crosses the room in a few short strides and hugs him, arms around his shoulders, pressing his face into the softness of her belly. One hand comes up to scratch gently in his hair, the other anchoring around his shoulders, and after a moment he raises his own heavy arms and wraps them around her waist. She holds him for a long moment, the only sound the tick of the clock above the stove and their breathing; Marge’s steady, Gale’s less so.

”I’m so sorry,” she whispers eventually.

”It’s—I don’t—“ he can’t get out a full sentence, doesn’t know what to say. His eyes burn, but there aren’t any tears. He’s not sure what there is to cry about, anyway. His father has been effectively dead to him for three years—longer than that. Five years, ten. Since he walked away from the ranch a decade ago. He’s done his grieving. It’s all in the past.

“I know,” she says. “You wanna stay with us tonight, honey?”

Rosie and Marge live in the cabin just down the road, the one her parents left to her when they moved up to Billings after they retired. They’ve got a guest room complete with the bunk beds Marge and her sister slept in when they were growing up, bunk beds Gale’s spent probably hundreds of nights on in the span of the seventeen years they’ve known each other. He could stay with them, but he’s got a perfectly good room here and he said he didn’t mind sleeping at the ranch and Marge and Rosie probably don’t have the beds made or the room cleared out since it’s also damn near the only storage space that cabin has, and he wouldn’t want to put them out. He clears his throat roughly, pulls away a bit.

”No, it’s fine. Thanks, Marge. I’m good.”

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

”I’m good.” 

“Alright. Rosie made up your bunk yesterday, though. Just in case. You just say the word.”

”Wouldn’t want to put you out,” he mumbles, looking away.

”Gale, we’d put you in between us in our own bed if you needed a place to stay, you know that. You wouldn’t be putting us out.”

”I know,” he whispers. “But I’m good.”

She sighs. “Alright. Okay. You need anything, though? More food? Extra blankets?”

He can’t help but crack a smile. “You don’t gotta mother me, Margie.”

”Someone’s gotta, Galey,” she quips back. “Alright, well, if you do need anything you know where we are. And don’t be afraid to wake up Benny. He’ll be up in a few hours, anyway. You hearing me?”

He waves her off. There’s no way in hell he’d ever wake Benny, not if he’s trying to catch some rest before a nighttime vigil with the cattle. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Thanks.”

She catches his jaw in her hand and tilts his head up to look at her. “I love you.”

He pushes back his chair and stands, pulling her into a proper hug. “Love you, too,” he says, muffled into her shoulder. He has to stoop a little, but it’s comforting, the way they’ve always hugged. Marge holding him instead of the other way around.

”Alright,” she says, and draws away. “I’ll see you in the morning. Funeral’s at two.”

”I know,” he says.

”Alright,” she says again. “We’ll be here early. Don’t worry about it.”

”I’m not.”

”Uh-huh,” she says like she knows he’s lying, and steps back into her boots, pulling on her coat. “I’m serious, you call if you need anything.”

”Goodnight, Marge.”

She rolls her eyes one last time and blows him a kiss as she leaves, and then he’s alone.

The silence of the house yawns around him, the tick of the clock echoing. He knows Benny’s here, but he’s on the other end of the house, asleep. It’s just him and the cavernous rooms, stuffed full of memories. Meatball whines quietly from under the table, sensing his distress, and Gale squats down and beckons him out. Meatball complies enthusiastically, pressing against Gale’s legs, tail wagging.

”Just you and me, buddy,” he says. “Nice of Benny to let me borrow you for the night. If you play your cards right you might even get to sleep in bed with me.”

Meatball licks his ear.

”Will that get me back into your good graces? You know, I don’t feed you all my scraps because it ain’t good for you. This John Egan, he’s not doing you any favors. I’m just thinking about your long-term health, huh?”

Meatball pants in his face and drools on his shoulder. Gale stands, knees clicking. “Alright, buddy, I guess we’d better go to bed.”

He’s halfway down the hall to his old room when he realizes, abruptly that’s probably where the intern from UW is sleeping. Benny’s room is the new addition James put on the house after Gale left for college and he realized he’d after to hire some ranch hands instead of perpetually relying on Gale’s free labor. He knows John’s staying in the old camper on the other side of the lower pasture, and obviously the kid isn’t sleeping in his dad’s old room.

Gale freezes for a moment, turning slowly to look down the dark hallway where his parents’ room sits, quiet and dark. Meatball presses against his legs and whines quietly.

He walks down the hallway. He’s not trying to be quiet, particularly, but he has a dim notion of how carefully he’s placing his feet on the worn rugs, purposefully avoiding the places he knows the floorboards creak, careful not to let his duffle brush against the walls, catch on anything. The door to the room is closed, but it swings open easily. It’s dark, illuminated only by the hazy light of the waning moon spilling through half-open curtains. Gale lets his duffle drop to the carpet and flicks the light on.

It’s clear someone’s been in to tidy up; the sheets on the bed fresh based on their starched appearance, the bedside tables free of clutter. The rest of the room is neat, the closet door shut, the top of the dresser dusted and free of the knick-knacks Gale remembers scattered across it—his father’s watch and his mother’s jewelry, a few framed photos, an untidy pile of the latest Cattleman and National Geographic issues. It looks sterile, but there are still marks of its old occupant, ghostly but terribly obvious. The slight divot in the right side of the bed, where James slept until he died because Bertie always took the left side and he left it open for her even after she was gone. The pile of books on the shelf below the nightstand, old Westerns and the inexplicable dead Russians his father always favored—Dostoevsky and Gogol and Turganev. The framed painting of the Winds above the bed that Bertie painted for James as a wedding gift. The scent of the room, pine and Old Spice and the lingering aroma of animals and under it all the scent of bourbon that seemed to cling to James even years after he stopped drinking it—

Gale’s throat closes and he stumbles out of the room, slamming the door behind him louder than he should given Benny and the kid from UW who’s name he can’t remember for the life of him are sleeping; and why is he reacting like this, they made up the room for him, it’s just a room, just a bed, they packed away all of his father’s things probably because they knew Gale wouldn’t be able to handle seeing them, they’d done that all for him and he still can’t take it for some reason, still can’t spend more than ten seconds in the room his father slept in up until two weeks ago when he abruptly wasn’t sleeping there anymore…. Gale wonders vaguely what it had looked like, the night he died—his father wasn’t a neat person, there were probably dirty clothes on the floor and empty coffee mugs and water glasses on the bedside table, bottles of pills and piles of books, the horn-rimmed reading glasses his dad didn’t want to admit he needed—he probably hadn’t vacuumed in weeks if not months, he probably was still sleeping in one of Bertie’s old sweatshirts even though it would have been too small for him. Who had cleaned it all up, who had changed the sheets, who had packed away the jewelry and photographs and magazines knowing Gale would be too weak to see them? If he had opened the closet door, would all of it be stacked there, neatly filed away? Shoved in as a last-minute attempt to save him some pain?

Meatball whines again. The wet heat of his tongue licking Gale’s hand brings him back down to earth. He leans his head against the cool wall of the hallway and breathes. Slow in and slow out. Slow in. Slow out. It’s alright. He’s alright.

He backtracks to the hallway closet where his dad used to store gear. Sure enough, above the linens and piles of towels there’s a shelf with heavy wool camping blankets and sleeping bags. Gale snags a sleeping bag, camo print and musty-smelling, and retreats to the den. The couch is just as uncomfortable as he remembers. It’s still better than trying to fall asleep in his father’s bed.

He wakes late, based on quality of the light outside the window, sore from his cramped position on the couch. Meatball, who had fallen asleep sprawled over his legs, is nowhere in sight, and the scent of coffee and bacon permeates the house. He groans a little, heaving himself upright, and rubs at his eyes. His phone’s dead, but the clock on the mantle tells him it’s ten fifteen. He hasn’t slept in this late in years, but his eyes prick and itch with exhaustion and his mind feels sluggish.

He levers himself up off the couch and squints out the window. It’s cloudy, the sky a flat white that blends into the snowy hillsides, and he can feel the chill through the glass. It looks like snow. Caspar Mountain rises stark, capped with the dark band of trees, familiar as an old friend. Gale turns away from the window and follows the scent of coffee to the kitchen.

It’s empty, everyone already up and busy with their day. There’s a half full pot of coffee on the counter, a few empty mugs in the sink, a pan of cold bacon pushed to the back burner on the stove. An ancient dinosaur of a laptop sits open on the table, fan whirring.

He pours a mug of coffee and sits at the table. Stares at the thin layer of frost spiderwebbing over the window by the door, at the lopsided cupboard door he broke when he was seven and never latched right again, at the old rag rug his mother made before he was born still in front of the sink. He half expects Bertie to come around the corner with a basket of laundry, James to bang through the door for his midmorning cup of coffee. But they don’t. Despite how little the house has changed, it’s ghostly, like a layer has been removed from it, like it doesn’t really exist in the solid world anymore. Abruptly, he doesn’t want to be here. Needs to leave. He’ll call Marge, stay with her after all, but first he has to get out of this house, this kitchen, before he falls down a pit of memories, before everything he’s tried so hard to put to rest comes roaring back. Why he’d thought he could stay here, even for a couple of days, he doesn’t know. He stands, takes a step toward the door—

It swings open, almost slamming him in the face. “Gale fucking Cleven!” Benny DeMarco bellows as soon as he catches sight of him. “You goddamn bastard!” Meatball rockets out from behind him, claws scrabbling over the linoleum in his excitement to get to Gale’s side. He’s followed by John Egan, stomping mud off his boots. John’s swapped his beanie for a sweat-stained black cowboy hat and his face is flushed from the cold, eyes bright as they meet Gale’s. Gale looks away.

”DeMarco,” Gale says, bracing himself as Benny hits him full-force in an enthusiastic embrace. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

”That’s my line! Where exactly do you get off missing the yearly trip, huh? Getting too high and mighty for us over there in California?”

”Never,” Gale says. “I’ve already been berated for missing out enough, I’m sorry, I regret it, how can I ever make it up to you—“

”You can damn well never miss it again!” Benny pulls back, but keeps Gale’s shoulders in a tight grasp. “We had to replace you with Bucky last year, and you know how much this sonofabitch complained—“

”I didn’t realize I was being forced into a death march straight up the side of a mountain named after a tit,” John says from behind him. “Oh, it’s so much fun, Bucky, you’ll love it, Bucky, it’s beautiful, Bucky, you’ve never been to the Tetons you have to come, Bucky. Then they all spent four days laughing at me while I used every last bit of strength to drag myself up a fucking rock.”

”You could’ve looked it up before you agreed to it,” Gale says, and Benny laughs and squeezes his shoulders. 

“Man’s got a point,” he says to Bucky.

”Right, fuck me for trying something new, huh? Morning, Buck, by the way. You sleep okay?”

”It’s Gale,” Gale says. “And I slept alright.”

”You slept on the couch,” Benny interrupts. “Don’t deny it, I saw you this morning. And you let Meatball on the furniture. It’s gonna take months to stop him from being annoying about it now. He’ll be all over me every time I try to sit down to watch some TV.”

Pressed up against Gale’s shins, Meatball pants happily. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Benny says. “I see you. Spoiled brat. Look, Gale, I can switch rooms with you if you want—I was gonna offer last night but I went to bed early, sorry about that—”

”It’s fine,” Gale says, like he hadn’t just almost run out of the house in a blind panic. “I don’t want to make any trouble. I’m only here a few nights, not gonna kick you out of your room.”

”It’s not like it’s a huge effort, it’s literally just down the hall—“

”No, Benny, it’s fine—“

”You could stay in the camper, if you want,” John interjects. He crosses the room to poke at the cold bacon sitting in the cast iron. “I got space. Or I can stay in the house, if you’d rather.”

”It’s just fine,” Gale says again, firmly. “Really.”

John raises his eyebrows at him. “Alright. Whatever you say, Buck.”

”Gale,” Gale says and reaches down to scratch Meatball’s ears. He flops down onto his feet, tongue lolling happily

John clicks his tongue. “What is this? This dog sees you for twelve hours and suddenly I’m chopped liver?”

Gale, feeling suddenly triumphant, smirks at him. “If you were chopped liver, he’d come to you.”

John stares at him for a moment, then takes the challenge. “So that’s how it is, then? Let’s just see.” He pulls a slice of bacon from the pan and breaks it in two, squatting down and wiggling a piece at Meatball. “Here, boy. Come on, I’ve got a treat. Come on back to old Bucky, huh?”

”Bucky,” Benny warns, in the sort of tone that signals an old argument that’s become more performance than anything else. “It’s not good for him.”

”A little joy is good for us all, DeMarco. Come on, boy. Let’s go!”

Meatball looks across the room at John, looks back up at Gale, and rolls onto his back, tail thumping. Gale squats down to rub at his belly and tries not to let the satisfaction show on his face.

John stands up, shaking his head. “Damn, that’s cold. What’d you give him, anyway?”

Gale smiles at him. “Let him spoon me last night.”

John whistles. “Lucky dog. Alright, give me twelve more hours and I’ll have him wrapped around my little finger again.”

”We’ll see.”

”We will.” John winks at him. “Anyway, I gotta run to Murdoch’s to see if they’ve got that pellet feed in. Should I swing by Brady’s on the way back, or did you call him already, Ben?”

”No, but I’’ll call him,” Benny says quickly. “I don’t mind.”

”Right,” John says. “I’ll be back in an hour. Benny, Buck.” He winks at Gale again, snags three slices of bacon from the pan and folds them all into his mouth at once, and whirls back out the door.

”He likes you,” Benny laughs, leaning up against the counter all languid and smug.

”Sure,” Gale says. 

Benny smirks at him.

”So, this Brady character,” Gale starts, just to be an ass. 

Benny drops the smirk and points at him. “Whatever they all told you, don’t fucking listen. It’s nothing. It’s a professional relationship.”

”Alright.”

Benny narrows his eyes at him. “Those bastards,” he mutters, and then he follows John back out the door. Gale laughs after him, then helps himself to the last few slices of bacon out of the pan. If one goes to Meatball, just to keep him buttered up, there’s no one there to call him on it.

Gale’s tie is choking him. He adjusts it again, trying to loosen it without it showing, and Marge slides a hand into his elbow.

”You okay?” She whispers.

”Peachy,” he says, and forces his hand back to his side. Plucks at the fabric of his suit, a size too large for him now. He looks ridiculous, he thinks. He’s sweating. He stuffs his hand into his pocket and fists the fabric, stretching it tight across his thigh.

”You don’t have to be here,” she breathes.

”Yeah, I do,” he breathes back.

James Cleven wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he was a man of Casper, Wyoming, which means his funeral’s taking place with fanfare at the First Presbyterian Church right downtown. Gale’s been here dozens of times, sure enough, for weddings and funerals and Christmases and Easters, but the way the minister’s talking you’d think James Cleven and his family were here every Sunday and running the church council to boot. Gale knows for a fact his father didn’t spend any more time inside a church after he got sober than he did before, so it all feels a bit ridiculous. His father’s dead and burnt to ashes. Gale’s under no illusions he’ll meet him in heaven, or in another life. At least he hopes he doesn’t. He understands, objectively, that this is all more about making everyone still living feel a little better about the concept of death than it is about ushering James’ soul into the afterlife, but that intellectual understanding doesn’t really make it any better.

The minister finishes his droning and everyone sings a hymn about everlasting life that Gale half remembers, and then it's time for the eulogy, and John Egan steps up to the pulpit.

And Gale didn’t know this was coming. He knew someone was giving a eulogy, and that it sure as hell wasn’t him, but he didn’t know it was going to be John Egan, who knew James Cleven for all of three meager years. Who didn’t really know him at all. He must make some noise, because Marge’s hand tightens on his elbow. He can feel her eyes boring into the side of his head, but he refuses to turn and look at her. He can do this. He’s fine.

”I didn’t know James for long,” John starts, which is fitting. Gale snorts, he can’t help himself. It’s not subtle. Marge elbows him. “But he meant the world to me. I washed up in Casper an absolute hell-raising mess—excuse me, minister—as many of you know—“ the congregation hums an indulgent chuckle at this. “And James was the one who finally gave me a place to belong. We met in a bar—the Hideaway. He was drinking a ginger ale and I was about half a whiskey bottle deep. We got to talking. I admit I don’t quite remember what I said, but I woke up the next morning in his spare room, and he gave me a cup of the strongest coffee I think I’ve ever had, and a job.

”For some reason, he looked at me and saw someone he believed in. I still don’t know what I did to deserve that. But James was good at that sort of thing, at believing in people. At trusting them. At making a place for them in his life and giving them the space they needed to grow while pushing them to be better. I don’t know where I’d be right now if it weren’t for him, and I think a lotta people in this room could say the same.”

Gale’s stomach clenches, bile rising in his throat. The coffee, the bacon he ate. The half sandwich Marge forced down his throat before the service. It’s all going to come back up. He glances around. The congregation nods along with John, glued to his words. He makes for a commanding presence, vulnerable enough to draw them in, self-effacing enough to make sure it doesn’t come across as egotistical, celebrating a James Cleven Gale never met, didn’t know. On his right, Benny’s jaw is set, clenched. Rosie’s crying, even though he’s trying to hide it. Two rows behind them, Mrs. Eckhart blows her nose into a handkerchief with a loud honk. She’d once told Gale Casper didn’t need people like him in it. Marge’s jaw is clenched, mouth drawn pencil thin, eyes darting around the room and back to Gale in an endless pattern.

He lifts a hand to his mouth. He’s going to vomit. He’s going to be sick here, in front of all these people who loved his father and hated him, and they’ll hate him more. The son who left. The son who turned his back on all of them and everything his father worked for because he thought he was too good for them, because he was a queer, the kind of person they needed to warn their children about. The son who should have been standing at the pulpit saying all of these words about James Cleven, but instead sits in the pews trying not to be sick while a stranger speaks about a man he doesn’t recognize.

Under his suit jacket, his starched shirt is damp with sweat. He’s shaking. Benny glances at him, concerned, and Gale can’t take it. He can’t.

He rips his arm free of Marge’s grip and squeezes past Benny and the man next to him, who Gale vaguely recognizes from high school, past Charles who reaches for him in an aborted gesture, and Chick, who also grabs for him and manages to close a hand on his shoulder, but Gale pulls away. It would have been easier to get past Marge and Rosie and out into the main aisle of the church, but then he would have had to turn his back on John and walk down the center of it all, everyone staring at him, and at least most of the people in this row know him, at least most of the people in this row know more about his father than John Egan apparently does. He edges past Tatty from high school and the pretty girl standing next to her, past Rich, who opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, and then he’s free, in the side aisle, able to slip out one of the doors into the vestibule, blessedly empty and cool compared to the close air of the chapel. He paws in his jacket pocket but he doesn’t have toothpicks or gum, he doesn’t have anything to distract himself with. He veers to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, tries to calm his breathing with hands tight on cold porcelain, can’t look at himself in the mirror because he knows all he’ll see is his father’s eyes, the similar lines of their jaws. Christ, Gale, you couldn’t even handle my own funeral? Buck up, be a man. It’s the least you could do for me. 

Out of the restroom, face and hair dripping with water, out into the cold of a Wyoming March. The air stings, heavy with the anticipation of snow. Cars roll by. There are plenty of people in Casper who aren’t at this funeral. There are plenty of people in Casper who don’t know who James Cleven was, who don’t know he died, whose lives aren’t affected by any of this small drama at all. Plenty of people who never thought twice about whether Gale Cleven was going to take over his father’s ranch or not, or who he might be fucking.

He leans against the brick of the church, tilts his head back, breathes. It’s too cold to be out in just a suit jacket, but he left his coat in the pew and like hell he’s going to go back in there to get it. Everyone in the church saw him leave. He can’t go back in. Marge will bring him his coat when it’s all over.

The reception is at the Elk’s Club down the street. He wonders, vaguely, if he can figure out a way to skip it without making everything even worse. Wonders if he cares if he makes it worse or not. Wonders why he cares what any of these people think, anyway.

The side door of the church opens. He doesn’t look. He knows it’s Marge, come to find him, come to comfort. “I’m fine,” he says, to head her off, even though he knows by the shakiness of his knees and the way he still can’t get in a full breath that she won’t believe him.

”You didn’t look fine,” says a deep voice, definitely not Marge. “You looked like you were about to hurl.”

He springs away from the wall, body coiled like he’s ready to fight, adrenaline pulsing through him. He’s not even sure what he’s squaring up against. It’s just John, tie a little crooked, Gale’s jacket folded over his arm. What’s he going to do, punch John for having the gall to give a eulogy? He forces himself to uncoil, to lean back against the wall, to breathe.

”I’m alright,” he says, forcing his voice to stay even. “Just needed some air.”

”Sure,” John says. “Cold air, though. Here.” He holds out the jacket. Gale thinks about refusing it for a moment, just to be stubborn, to prove how fine he is, then reaches out and takes it, sliding it on. “Thanks.”

”Sure,” John says again, reclining against the wall next to Gale. Gale can feel the line of warmth radiating from him, though they’re at least a foot away from each other. John digs in his pocket, unearths a pack of American Spirits. “Want one?”

“I don’t smoke.”

”Okay,” John says, and taps one out of the package. He lights it after a few tries, his cheap Bic flickering in the chilled breeze. Breathes in deep, holds it for a moment, exhales and leans his head back against the wall. 

“Yeah,” Gale says. “I’ll take one.”

John doesn’t comment, just passes Gale a cigarette and flicks the lighter. Gale thinks, again, about arguing, then leans in. John cups the end of his cigarette in his hand, flicks the lighter again, again. It sparks, dying in the wind.

”Ah, shit. Come’re.” He beckons for Gale to lean in closer, closer. Leans forward himself, touches the butt of his lit cigarette to Gale’s unlit one and breathes in deep. Gale’s eyes flutter shut despite himself. He can feel the heat of the cigarette on his lips, the heat of John against his cheek.

“You gotta breathe in when I do, Buck,” John says, laughing a little. Gale huffs a laugh too, despite himself, and breathes. Hears the crackle of the heat catching, tastes the smoke on his tongue. Leans back to stop himself leaning closer.

”Thanks,” he says.

”Anytime,” John drawls.

Gale takes a ragged drag, fills his lungs. He hasn’t smoked in years. He quit in college after picking it up in the oil fields, he and Rosie holding each other accountable because Marge didn’t like it. The smoke settling in his lungs feels like coming home in the worst way. Feels like dread and dulled pain and also peace. A clear head.

”You didn’t know him,” he says before he can catch himself. “Not really.”

John rolls his head against the bricks to look at Gale. “I think I did,” he says. “Not like you did, though.”

”You didn’t know the same man I knew.”

John hums. “You’re probably right.”

They’re silent for a moment. Gale takes a few more desperate drags.

”You could have given the eulogy, if you wanted, you know. I didn’t mean to step on your toes. Marge said you didn’t want to.”

”I didn’t fucking want to,” Gale says, and it comes out harsh, with sharp edges, halfway between a snarl and a sob.

”Alright,” John says again, infuriatingly calm. He sucks on his own cigarette, staring up at the grey sky. They’re silent for a long moment, just the sound of their breathing, the crackle of the cigarettes. “Someone had to,” he says eventually.

Gale snorts. “Sure they did.”

Finally, John stands from his slumped position and turns fully to face Gale. His face doesn’t show any anger, nor any real grief. His eyes are tired. He looks a bit defeated, Gale thinks. He grinds out the butt of his cigarette on the brick of the church, leaving a little dark spot, a mar in the sand-colored stone.

”Everything I said was true,” John says. “I meant it. He pulled me out of someplace real dark. I owe him a lot for that.”

Gale takes one last drag, filling his lungs as deep as he can with poison. He drops the butt on the frosty grass and crushes under his polished Oxford, hoping viciously it leaves a dirty stain, a melted spot on the sole. 

”Sure,” he says. “I hear you were the son he wished he had. Congratulations. I wish he’d gotten his fucking affairs in order like I told him to, then I wouldn’t have to be here at all and you could have taken it over like you’re meant to and left me out of it.” 

Pain in his palms makes him realize how tightly his fists are clenched, nails digging into the soft tissue. John’s looking at him, mouth slightly open, brows a little furrowed. Confused. “Buck,” he starts.

”My name’s Gale,” he snarls, and turns on his heel, walking away from John, from the church, from the judgement of Casper and the ghost of James Cleven. He hears John call after him again, his real name this time, but he doesn’t turn back. Just keeps walking as the first tentative flakes of snow begin to fall.

Chapter Text

His phone buzzes an hour or so after he leaves John standing by the church. He’s been walking aimlessly, south towards the mountains, shoulders hunched against the cold and the snow. He didn’t have any destination in his mind—just away. He’s on the outskirts of town, now, sidewalks empty and cars rushing by, wheels splattering his suit pants with half-melted snow.

He thinks about ignoring the call, but he’s cold. He answers it and holds it to his ear without saying anything.

”Where are you?” Marge asks.

He stops walking, peers around. “By a mattress store? And a Harbor Freight.”

“What street are you on?”

”Poplar.”

”Christ. Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

He opens his mouth to argue and realizes he has absolutely no business refusing her, unless he wants to try his luck with an Uber that would agree to take him all the way to the ranch. He sighs instead. “Okay.”

”Give me fifteen.”

She’s there in ten, pulling up beside him in Rosie’s truck. He climbs into the passenger seat and stares down at his hands, saying nothing. She just sighs and turns up the heat, pulling back onto the road. It’s just her, no Rosie—he figures the celebration of life is well underway and is relieved for it. Hopefully it distracts everyone for the rest of the afternoon and evening and he won’t have to talk to anyone but Marge until tomorrow. If he can get away without talking to Marge either he’d be happy, but he knows better than to hope for that.

“Wish you hadn’t gone off on John like that,” she says finally, breaking a silence gone thick and sticky with everything neither of them can say.

”Wish you’d told me he was giving the eulogy,” he shoots back. “Could’ve warned me.”

”It truly, honestly slipped my mind,” she says. “I wasn’t trying to blindside you. But also, I remember very distinctly you telling me that you didn’t want to hear a single detail about the funeral planning, that you knew we’d have it in hand, and that all you were gonna do was show up.”

“He didn’t even know him,” Gale says, grinding his teeth. Marge reaches across him to pop the glove compartment open. There’s a pack of gum resting on top of a slew of pencil stubs, receipts, screwdrivers, chapstick, bailing twine, and a tire pressure gauge. Gale grabs it and shoves a stick in his mouth gratefully.

“He knew him pretty well,” she says. “Worked with him for three years. He was basically managing the ranch by the end of it. He was definitely the one James was closest to, of any of us.”

”Three years is nothing,” Gale says viciously. His nails bite into his palms again and he forces himself to relax, to breathe deep. Marge doesn’t deserve his anger. Neither did John, probably, but he doesn’t quite feel bad about that yet. That guilt will come.

Marge sighs and doesn’t respond, but at the next crossroads she swings into the parking lot in front of a little diner. Gale remembers it, vaguely—they used to come here after class in high school, after Marge inherited her mom’s beat up old Corolla and they suddenly had the world at their fingertips, untethered from the tedious prison of the school bus schedule. He sighs, pushes his fingertips against the inner corners of his eyes where a headache builds. “Not hungry, Marge,” he says.

”Too bad. You’ve had coffee and half a sandwich today and I can tell you’re getting a headache.”

”I had some bacon, too.”

”Oh, well. In that case.”

He leans his head back against the headrest and tilts towards her. “If I ask real nice, would you just take us back to the ranch?”

She purses her lips. “No, I don’t think so.”

”Fine,” he huffs, and gets out of the truck. Marge beats him to the door of the diner, holds it open for him, calls a friendly greeting to the woman behind the counter and gets one back. It’s busy—Saturday afternoon, college kids nursing late hangovers with greasy plates of eggs and bacon, older couples in for an early dinner, families eating burgers and fries after snowy little league games. Marge navigates the place easily, guiding Gale to a two-person booth tucked against a window in the back. The waitress who’d greeted them follows with two glasses of water and laminated menus.

“How’re you doin’ Marjory?” she asks. “I heard about James, just awful—Rob holding up okay? Wasn’t the funeral today?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s alright. Been a tough couple weeks, but we’re getting through it. Funeral just got done and we decided we wanted a bit of a breather.”

”Well, we’re praying for you,” the waitress says, squeezing Marge’s shoulder, eyes flicking toward Gale. “And—“

”Could we get some coffee, Mae?” Marge interrupts before she can finish whatever she’d started to say. “And I think we’d better skip straight to the pie today. Strawberry rhubarb and…hmmm, blackberry.”

”You want ice cream with those, sugar? Warmed up?”

”Of course.”

Mae winks at her. “I’ll be right back with that coffee.”

“You’re worried about my headache, and all you order us is pie?” Gale asks when she leaves.

”You want a sandwich too or something?”

”No. Jesus, Marge.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table. “Look, Gale. I know it’s shitty to hear it, and I’m not at all trying to invalidate all the pain he caused you, but James was a different person for the last few years. Especially after Bertie died. I don’t know if he felt guilty about the way he’d lived his life before, or if he was mellowing with age or what. But Bucky never really met the James Cleven you and I and Rosie knew. Neither did Benny, or Alex. That’s been hard for me to wrap my head around, because I still see the old James Cleven. Saw. Dammit.” She drops her head into her hand, rubbing at her brow tiredly.

“Rosie was crying,” Gale says, voicing the other thing that had made his stomach clench up at the church.

”’Cause everything’s going to change, no matter what we do. That’s hard for him. And he loved James, in his own way.”

Gale chews on his lip. “Yeah.”

“Look Galey, there were a whole lot of people in that church who knew your dad his whole life and enabled all the shit he pulled. There were a whole lot of people who are gonna ignore all that shit when they remember him. And there were a lot of people who would throw their lot in with him just because they don’t like you. But Rosie definitely isn’t one of them. And John isn’t, either. Trust me. John’s story isn’t mine to tell, so I’m not gonna get into it, but when he said he washed up here a mess, he meant it. And when he said your dad helped him, he meant it. James is probably the only reason he’s still here at all.”

Mae returns with their coffee and a little bowl full of creamer packets. She looks at Gale again, curious, but doesn’t say anything. Marge waits until she leaves to speak again.

”I’m not saying you need to give your dad any measure of grace. I’m just saying John doesn’t know how he was before, and he wasn’t setting out to try to hurt you, giving the eulogy. Rosie asked him to. He didn’t want any of your dad’s old buddies, or some righteous bitch like Mrs. Eckhart doing it, and none of us wanted to. Someone had to.”

”That’s what John said,” Gale mumbles, taking a sip of the coffee and grimacing. He’s never trusted the creamers that don’t have to be refrigerated, so he settles for adding two sugar packets instead, which makes it worse. “What do you want me to say, Marge? I’m sure he was different, or else y’all wouldn’t have dealt with him for as long as you did. I’m sure John was telling the truth. I should have held it together.”

Marge reaches forward and takes Gale’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m not saying you should have held it together, I’m just…trying to explain. Why John said what he said. Why any of us stuck around to work with him. Why I did.”

Gale looks at her, then. Sees the way she bites at her lip, the way she won’t quite meet his eyes.

”You don’t think I’m mad at you for sticking around here, do you? For working with him?”

”No,” she says quickly, and tries to draw her hand away. He grips it tighter.

”Hey. Marjorie. Look at me.”

She does, brown eyes flicking up to meet his own.

“You do,” he says softly. “You and Rosie…you think I’m still angry?”

She bites her lip and takes a nervous sip of coffee. “I just—I don’t want you to think we chose him over you. That coming back, working with him, pouring ourselves into the ranch, was anything against you at all.”

”I don’t think that,” Gale says, dumbfounded. “I don’t—Marge, I don’t think you’ve ever chosen anyone over me, least of all my dad.”

”I chose Rosie,” she says, and there’s still an edge of guilt in her tone, as though they hadn’t been far past the short-lived romantic era of their relationship by the time he walked into their lives.

Gale waves a hand. “He doesn’t count. You chose him, and he got saddled with me whether he liked it or not.”

”He likes it.”

”I know he does. Look, I’m not upset about it. Marge—no, listen, I’m not! I’m the one who told him he oughta think about talking to my dad in the first place. Rosie knew he wasn’t gonna be able to buy his own two thousand acres, and he saw that my dad would let him do what he was dreaming of on his. And as long as you’re both happy, I’m not holding any grudges. ”

“I am happy. I just don’t think you thought a summer internship would lead to us buying your family ranch ten years later, did you?”

”I mean, no. But I’m glad you want it. I’m glad someone does.”

She sighs, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. It’s just…I just don’t think it's fair.”

”What?”

”That he went and decided to be a better man for the last five years of his life and then kicked the bucket without ever saying sorry to any of the people he fucked over for the first sixty five. It’s kinda like he got away with it, you know?”

He forces his fist to unclench where it’s bunched in the fabric of his suit pants. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” She’s put words to a small part of the sick anger roiling in his stomach, the anger that drove him out of the church. “Maybe that’s why I snapped at John,” he admits. “He got away with it, and he tricked people like John and Benny into thinking he was someone he wasn’t. And they’re gonna remember that person while you and I are stuck with all the…the rot.”

Marge reaches over and squeezes his hand again. “Yeah,” she says. “But here’s the other thing I’m thinking—it's not fair, and I’m not even sure what I feel right now. But he’s gone. We don’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s never gonna cause you grief again, Gale.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Thinks for a long minute about her words, about the way he felt when she first called him to tell him the news. Not sad. Not relieved, either. More like something that had been a long time coming had finally happened. Like he’d finished the last page of a book, closed it, and put it back on the shelf.

“Marge, I—“ he starts, but then Mae bustles up to their table with two massive slices of pie topped with ice cream. “Here y’all are. Enjoy! Say, you’re Gale Cleven, aren’t you?”

He does his best to hide a wince at the question and attempts a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

”Well I’ll be darned. I remember you from when you were a teenager. Must have been fifteen years since then! I was real sorry to hear about your dad.”

”Thanks,” he manages.

”Well it sure is nice to see you again. You’re always welcome here, hon’. I remember you always liked the pie.” She smiles at them again and then heads off to check on the next table.

”Well” Marge says, gesturing with her fork. “Not everyone in town who remembers your dad hates you, see? Most people are normal and not holding a random grudge against you a decade later. They’ve got their own lives to worry about.”

”Yeah,” he mumbles. “I know.” He digs a fork into the pie and eats a bite. It’s good, perfectly balancing the tart of the berries with sweetness, the crust flaky and buttery. Marge smiles at him across the table and digs in her purse, unearthing a bottle of Tylenol.

”Here. Didn’t want to give it to you on an empty stomach.”

He reaches for it, downs two with a sip of water. “Thanks.”

”I got you,” she replies, and takes her own bite of pie.

“I know,” he says. “I got you back.” He swirls the melting ice cream on the edge of the plate with the dark purple blackberry juice. “Look, Marge, here’s the thing. He’s gone, sure, and we don’t ever have to deal with him again. But that’s not really true, because he didn’t get his affairs in order and now I’ve got a ranch that you and Rosie want, and I’ve also got some nebulous amount of debt that no one will be straight with me about. So you be straight with me. How bad is it? I need to know.”

Marge sighs, looks out the window at the snow for a long moment, sighs again. “We’re gonna meet with Jack and Chick tomorrow.”

”Yeah, but I want to know what I’m walking into. Christ, Marge, Chick wouldn’t even tell me. I probably could have forced him but he just kept saying he wanted to wait to chat until he had me in person and he sounded so cut up about it I didn’t push him. But you gotta give me something, here.”

Marge rubs at her eyes. “I—well, alright. You remember the loan program the USDA had during Covid? The farmer and rancher relief?”

”Yeah,” Gale says. “Dad said he took one out so he could get the processing facilities finished. I told him I thought it was a bad idea. Don’t tell me…”

Marge winces a little, nods. “Yeah, we…we took out more than one. We thought we’d be able to stay on top of them; our sales didn’t take much of a hit during the pandemic and we were already getting higher prices for the meat after the organic certification. Our overhead went up, but we thought we’d make up for it in a year or so. But the loans, they seemed like a good deal. Wouldn’t have to make any payments on them for the first two years, and then low interest rates afterwards. And we all thought, well that’s great—in a few years we’ll really have this system down and we’ll be able to make those payments no problem. But the interest rates they started with weren’t locked in, and you know what’s happened in the last five years. James wanted to start paying on the loans early, but they wouldn’t let anyone make payments before the two year mark was up, that was part of the contract. By then the rates were up to between eight and ten percent. So we’ve been making minimum payments, and all that’s doing is paying off the interest, not making much of a dent in the debt itself.”

The pie is too-sweet, sticking to his teeth, the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. “How much, Marge?”

She swallows. It takes her a moment to meet his eyes. “One million in loans. About nine percent interest. There was some debt from before, too, standard stuff. Payments on the last 250 acres he bought while we were still in college. Altogether, it’s sitting at about 2.5 right now.”

Gale drops his fork.

”Why would you ever take out a million in loans on a ranch?” He whispers. “Marge, you all know how much cattle make in a year in the best case scenario. The best case!”

She drops her gaze down to her pie again. The ice cream is melting, pooling on their plates. Gale pushes his away. If he wasn’t hungry before, he certainly isn’t now.

”I know,” she whispers. “It’s—the deal seemed too good to be true, and it was.”

“Nine percent? How is that even possible? They subsidize agricultural loans to shit, they’re never that high!”

She shrugs helplessly. “Inflation. Stock market. Still cheaper to import beef from Brazil and Argentina and export our beef to China. So many people took out loans the system got overloaded, the last Farm Bill didn’t include as many subsidies. Probably a dozen other reasons I don’t know about. We’re still making good money. The profit margins would be great, if it weren’t for the loans. We’ve found a niche and it’s paying off. It’s just—we thought it would be different.”

”He was a fool,” Gale says furiously. “A goddamned fucking fool, it’s like I said, he never gave up gambling, he just moved over to gambling his own land and his own animals even though I told him—“

”It wasn’t just him, Gale,” she interrupts. “It was all of us. We all agreed on it, and we thought the risk would be all on our shoulders because we never thought James was going to keep you in the will.”

Gale buries his face in his hands. “We have to sell,” he says. “There’s no way—I mean, the land and the house and the animals all together, they’d go four, five million if we could find the right buyer. Then we pay off the loans and split the profit, all get something out of it, at least. Or just sell the land off on its own, parcel it out. They could build hundreds of houses on that acreage and land sold for real estate always goes for more than rangeland or pasture, especially with Casper growing the way it is—“

”Gale Cleven,” Marge says, so fiercely Gale unburies himself to stare at her. “If you think any of us are going to sit by and let that ranch get subdivided into second homes and tiny acreages for rich people to keep their horses when we put our blood sweat and tears into transforming it into what it is today, you’re stupider than I would have thought possible”

”I understand that, but where are you going to get the money to even pay off the debt, let alone buy the whole thing outright?”

”Well—“

“Hell, I’d sell you the whole damn thing for ten dollars and we’d still have to come up with the two and a half million. And if that interest stays that high, we’ve gotta take care of the debt soon.”

”Gale, we know that—“

“We can’t just let that sit, Christ, every day that’s putting us…what, sixty dollars deeper? Just flushing sixty dollars down the toilet every day.”

”I know, Gale, and if you’d just let me talk I could tell you that we’ve got a plan, and we think it might work, okay?”

”Does this plan involve robbing a bank or committing fraud? Because otherwise I don’t think I can imagine a plan that nets any of us three million dollars sometime in the next year.”

”A guest ranch.”

”A—what?”

“We want to start a guest ranch. We still run cattle—or, well, Bucky wants to phase into bison, but we’ll see. We bring in chickens and lambs, too. Serve our own food at a restaurant. Offer horseback riding and hiking. Charge an arm and a leg for it, sell any excess produce or meat at market, keep our wholesale and restaurant contracts.”

”Marge,” he says weakly. “If we’re talking overhead—you’d have to take out another three million in loans just to get any of that started.”

She points at him with her spoon. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she says, and there’s a glint in her eye. She’s planning now, she’s got an idea and Gale recognizes this look on her face. It’s the determined don’t you dare tell me I can’t do this look that was one of the first things about her he fell in love with, in sixth grade when he’d tried to tell her she wasn’t mounting her horse right. In this context, it’s terrifying.

”Marge…”

”No, listen to me, Gale. Look. You remember Tatty from high school, right? Well, she and her partner bought the land right to the east of us, the Livingston’s old place? They’ve got a mixed vegetable farm, raise chickens, and are running this little farm-to-table restaurant. It’s only open weekends, they’ve got, like, ten tables—but that’s Helen’s pet project and they’re killing it. They want to expand, but they can’t really on the land they have now. They’re interested in partnering with us. So, there we go—we’ve got a vegetable farm and a farmer, laying hens and meat birds, and a restaurant and a chef. They’ve got their liquor license, they’ve got a commercial kitchen. So, no overhead.”

”Alright, I get it, Marge. But where are these guests staying? Who’s cleaning their rooms and guiding these horseback riding trips they’re going on? How much does a bison even cost?”

”Bucky’s got this guy he knows from college who’s big into earth building. You know, wattle and daub, strawbale—“

Gale laughs, he can’t help himself. “You can’t get building permits for that kind of thing, especially not if you’re trying to build a place people want to pay money to stay in.”

”Maybe not in Berkeley. But we’re outside city limits in Natrona County, Wyoming. Nobody gives a shit what we build. And I know what you’re probably envisioning, and Kenny’s buildings don’t look anything like that. They’re beautiful. Can’t you just see it? Folks paying the big bucks to come to a historic Wyoming ranch, stay in a sustainable earthbuild cabin, eat farm to table meals, and ride horses on Casper Mountain? A real western experience, right?”

”No,” Gale says bluntly. “I don’t see it. Marge, this is insane. This is not gonna save the ranch, it’s just gonna put it deeper in debt and cause us all more heartbreak.”

She slumps back in the booth and finally takes another bite of pie. “There are more details. This is why I should have waited for you to hear it all from Jack.”

”You’re telling me Jack Kidd thinks this is a viable option.”

”I’m telling you he hasn’t told us it’s not.”

Gale‘s head throbs. He wants to say, it won’t work. He wants to say, it’s absolutely insane. He wants to say, you’re all every bit as foolish as he was.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “I guess I’ll hear how Jack spins it tomorrow. Listen, can we head back? My head hurts, and I don’t think the pie cured me.”

There’s a infantesimal flash of hurt in Marge’s eyes at his dismissal, there and gone in a moment, and then she just nods, pushes away her half-full plate of pie, and stands, digging in her bag for her wallet. He tries to step in front of her, to get to the cash register first, but she pushes him away, as determined as ever, and pays for their coffee and pie. They don’t talk much on the way back to the ranch. The snow falls heavier, obscuring the lines in the road, and Marge drives slowly, and Gale stares out the window at the snowy hillsides and pastures, and tries to breathe around the shape of two and a half million dollars caught in his throat.

”James would have hated it,” Chick says for the sixth time.

“Yeah, I think we should do it,” Gale announces.

Every head at the table turns to him. Marge and Rosie. Benny and Tatty from high school and the pretty woman who was next to her at the funeral. John and the kid from UW who’s name is Alex and who’s not a kid at all, but rather a tall man about Gale’s age with bulging biceps and an intricate tattoo of wheatgrass and paintbrush twining up the dark skin of his forearm. Jack Kidd, his father’s accountant, and Neil “Chick” Harding, his lawyer. These are the first words Gale has said in an hour, all of them sat arguing around the kitchen table. They’re clearly not the words anyone was expecting out of him.

Marge is gaping at him. John grins, something wild in his eyes. Jack Kidd puts his head in his hands. “Why does it always have to be the path of most resistance with y’all?” He asks.

Chick shakes his head. “James wouldn’t like it,” he says. The seventh time.

”James ain’t here,” John snaps at him. “That’s the problem, he ain’t here, and now we’ve saddled Buck with two and a half million in loans he didn’t even know about and so we’re trying to come up with a solution that doesn’t leave us all out on our asses, and I don’t much care if James would have liked it or not if it works.”

“Selling would work,” Jack Kidd says.

“And leave all of us without a job or a place to live.”

“I just said, I think we should try it,” Gale says. “Aren’t I the owner here? I’m saying yes.”

John claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, reaching around Chick to do so. “See?” He says, gesturing with the other hand. “Buck believes in us! Enough said!”

Gale wouldn’t go quite so far as to say believes, but he doesn’t argue with the statement.

Benny clears his throat and leans forward. “If Gale thinks it’s got a chance, then I think we should do it. And I—I’ll go in on it. I want to be a partner. Put enough time into this goddamn place, I might as well.”

“Fucking finally!” John crows, pushing back his chair with a screech to stand and shake Benny’s hand vigorously across the table. “After all that convincing we’ve been doing—but I knew you’d say yes, DeMarco, you’re damned right you’ve put in enough time! You know those cows better than anyone!”

Benny smiles a little. “Yeah, and you want to go right on and get rid of them and replace them with wild animals that can trample you, huh?”

”They’ll grow on you,” John says. “Alright, alright—Benny’s in! And Alex, you’ll stick around, right? Little different than the original layout, but we’re still gonna need a plant nerd around to make sure we put all the right kinds of seeds out there.”

Alex’s mouth twitches in amusement. “You’re not getting rid of me until my thesis is finished, defended, and I’ve got my forty thousand dollar piece of paper in my hands, Bucky.”

Rosie claps him on the back. “That’s what I like to hear. Tatty, Helen?”

Tatty beams. “I think it’s a plan. How about you, babe?”

Helen leans forward. “I want every last one of you helping us build our new patio this summer, got it? And you cut us a deal on ten acres adjacent to our property. With water shares.”

John salutes her. “Yes, ma’am.”

Marge turns to Gale and smiles at him, a private sort of smile, something just between them. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Gale massages his forehead. The headache from yesterday never really went away. “Just prove me right, okay?”

She takes his hand under the table, uncurls his clenched fingers. Squeezes it tight. “Oh, we will.”

Gale spends the next day hunched over paperwork with Marge, Rosie, John, and Chick. At one point Benny gets pulled in, at another they work out a sale contract with Tatty and Helen for twelve acres of land and their accompanying water shares. It’s decided that Gale will remain the owner of the house and the land for the time being, but that the others will buy the stock and equipment outright, then plan to acquire the land parcel by parcel. They’ll pay rent to Gale to run their business on his land. Gale proposes $100 a month. Marge argues for $1000. Gale refuses to take more than $350. Chick eventually informs them all that it will be $500, and he’s writing it into the contract now, so no more arguing. Both Gale and Marge sulk. Then the others start talking about what it will take to form an LLC with multiple owners, and Gale sneaks out the side door to take a breather.

The breather ends up being an hour long slow walk up towards the high pastures. He throws a ball for Meatball as he goes, the husky racing back and forth across the fields, stopping to roll delightedly in the snow every so often, smelling so strongly of wet dog Gale has to wrinkle his nose whenever he comes back to drop the slobbery ball at his feet. The snow has started to melt a little, turning slushy on the dirt tracks climbing up the hill, but the mountain is still white, the pine trees dusted like fake Christmas trees. He stops at the fence separating their land from the BLM land of the mountain, the flat meadow on the other side covered with snow, a few bits of dead grass peeking out. He knows what it looks like when the snow is gone—trampled down by generations of their cattle when they take them up to graze the mountain in the summer on lease. He knows the cattle trails that lead away from this spot into the trees, higher up. Knows exactly how far their favorite pond is and which spots by the stream they like to stop to drink at, their hooves trampling down the stream bed into mud. Knows, objectively, that the cattle aren’t too good for the land up on the mountain, the soil too thin, the grass too sparse; but also can’t begin to picture the mountain without their cattle on it.

He turns around, leaning against the fence as he looks back down the sloping foothill pastures, Staghorn spread out in front of him. The black dots of cattle against the snow, the lights of the house. The old barn his father and grandfather built with the new barn next to it, the new processing facility and the toolshed with three generations of dead pickup trucks parked behind it because his dad would never let anyone get rid of them, not even when they were rusted down to the bone. Always thought he could use them for parts. The hay barn and the tractor shed. Casper Mountain Road leading to town, the neat grid of downtown, the sprawling outgrowth along I-25, the plains spreading north beyond the city. The mountain to his back. It’s been cloudy most of the day, but sunlight peers through in little fingers of godlight, reflecting off the river far in the distance. Lower clouds cling to the shapes of the mountains, draped over their broad backs like fuzzy blankets.

A spot of pain in his hand brings him back to himself. There’s a splinter in the center of his palm from where he’s been gripping the weathered wood of the boundary fence. He peers down at it, pushing at the skin with his fingernails, and only succeeds in irritating it further. It’s long, embedded shallowly but thoroughly. He pats at his pocket for his knife and realizes he doesn’t have it—couldn’t bring it on the plane. Meatball lopes back to him up the road, panting, tongue lolling, and presses his wet body to Gale’s leg with a little yip, reaching his head up to lick at Gale’s hand.

”Yeah, you’re right, buddy,” Gale mutters. He shoves his hand in his pocket to stop himself from fucking with it and starts the long walk down.

He’s halfway back, dusk starting to settle over the pastures with its purple-blue haze, cattle lowing in the distance, when he hears someone shouting. Meatball’s ears perk up and he shoots off to follow the voice. Gale ignores it for a moment, thinking it’s one of the guys out with the cattle, but then he hears his name.

“Gale!”

He lifts his head, turns towards the voice, and realizes he’s near the trailer John’s staying in, and the man himself is poking his head out of the door, waving at him as Meatball dances excitedly across the tiny wooden porch. “Hey, Buck! Come here for a sec! Jesus, down, boy.”

He thinks briefly about ignoring him, or maybe lodging another complaint about the nickname. Decides he’s too tired to be ornery, and also that John might have a pair of tweezers he can borrow for the splinter, and walks towards the trailer instead. John steps out, door slamming behind him, pushing Meatball off of him and tugging the slobbery ball from his mouth, tossing it far into the pasture with a perfect pitching arm.

“Made some improvements,” Gale notes, nodding at the trailer. The last time he’d seen it the walls were patched with plywood and it was an ugly mustard color. Now, the walls seem to be actually repaired and it’s painted a light robin’s egg blue. There’s a solar panel on the roof and some planter boxes scattered out front next to a pile of wood covered by a tarp and some plastic lawn chairs covered in slushy snow. One of the windows is cracked open, revealing a tiny slice of the interior—a spice rack and a cast iron hanging on the wall above the small stove. It looks lived in, cozy. Like a home.

John laughs and rubs a hand over his head, leaving his curls sticking straight up. “Yeah, well—had to, considering the holes in the roof and the mice in the walls. I think I did alright.”

”More than alright,” Gale says. “We used to dare each other to come in here when I was a kid. We all thought it was haunted.”

John shrugs, abashed, and pulls out his cigarettes, lighting one up. He offers the pack to Gale with a raised brow, and Gale shakes his head.

”No, I really don’t smoke. Usually. Marge hates it.”

John huffs a little around his first drag, amused, and tucks the carton back into his pocket. “I won’t tell her you were bad. Listen, Buck, we decided we all needed a distraction tonight, so we’re going into town. There’s a band playing at the Beacon, there’ll be dancing. Should be fun.”

“I don’t dance,” Gale says quickly.

”Do your ears work?”

”I—what?”

”The music, Buck, you don’t gotta dance to enjoy some music.”

”I’m tired,” Gale tries.

John points his cigarette at him. “Now, Marge told me you’d say that. But I think she and Rosie would be real disappointed if you didn’t come and enjoy your last night here with them.”

”That’s a low blow,” Gale says.

“I know. Did it work?”

Gale sighs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I need to pack and I should still talk to Chick about a few things.”

”Chick’ll be there tonight.”

”Yeah, I’m sure that conversation would be real productive once Chick has a few whiskeys under his belt.”

John tilts his head, looking at him, and Gale feels peeled open under his gaze. Like John’s reading him, even though Gale’s never been anything close to an open book. His hand aches. He flicks his gaze away, focusing on the bumper stickers on John’s truck. No Farms No Food. KUWC 91.3. Don’t Blame Me, I Voted For Willie Nelson. “Listen,” Gale says. “I owe you an apology.”

John’s already shaking his head. “Don’t think you do, Buck.”

Gale forces his eyes back to John’s face. “I do. I was out of line, goin’ off on you like that. I’m not—my dad and I didn’t really get along. And this is all—I know none of us were expecting him to be gone this soon, and it’s a lot to deal with. So I was just…yeah, it’s a lot. And I took it out on you. And I’m sorry.”

John tilts his head. Meatball bounds back towards them, brushing against Gale’s legs to drop the ball at John’s feet. John winds up and tosses it again. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in one go, Buck, besides when you were yelling at me outside of a church.”

Gale exhales, frustrated, splinter forgotten. “Can you take this seriously, please? I’m trying to apologize.”

”And I already said, you don’t have nothing to apologize for. I get it, okay? Marge said you didn’t know I was giving the eulogy. Should have warned you. Must‘ve been weird.”

”You did a good job,” Gale says, and John laughs.

“You left after the first three sentences,” he says. “But thanks.”

”You were right,” Gale says. “Someone had to do it.”

John shrugs. “Well anyway. No apologies necessary. I’m sorry it’s all happening. Gotta say, I’m surprised you agreed to our little business proposal. Marge and Rosie said you weren’t gonna want to touch it with a ten foot pole. Meatball, no. We’re done. Go lay down. Go lay down.”

The dog whines and reluctantly follows orders, thumping his big body down on the little porch and dropping his head on his front paws, staring at them with big, sad, eyes.

”You’d think he was one of those abandoned puppies from those commercials, you know the really fucked up ones that they only air on daytime TV and after midnight? Anyway, like I was saying, I appreciate you being willing to give us a chance with this.”

“I think it's an insane plan,” Gale says, unable to help himself. “Just for the record. I don’t mean to offend, but I can’t exactly imagine you performing the whole dude ranch shtick for some millionaires.”

John grins at him and winks. “What do you mean? Do you not find me charming, Buck? I’ll have you know, I can charm the pants off anyone, just give me five minutes with your millionaires and I’ll have them eating out of my hand, you can bet on it.”

Gale raises an eyebrow. “You’re not short on confidence, I’ll give you that.”

”Confidence is half the battle, trust me. I think we can get through this. If I’m gonna bet on anything, I’m gonna bet on this group of people and this piece of land, Buck.”

Gale snorts. “No wonder he liked you. You sound just like him. Maybe you don’t know about him, about the way he used to be—but my father used to drink. And when he drank, he gambled. I spent probably hundreds of nights out too late in places I shouldn’t have been, waiting for him to finish up just one last game, have one last beer, make one last bet. Didn’t matter if it was a ball game, a horse race, a game of cards, a stupid wager, he’d bet. He’d usually lose.”

John’s watching him now, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, ashing into the snow.

“But he always kept doing it,” Gale continues, the words spilling from him now, a dam breached. John should know this. John needs to understand. “He’d always tell me when his luck was down—which was always—‘Gale, this time I can feel it, it’ll pay off’. Always looking for some kind of shortcut, always convinced he was gonna make things easy for us while he drank and gambled away the money that could have been bringing us the stability he craved. Money for food and for fixing the house up and for better bulls to breed.”

John seems to remember the cigarette and takes a short drag, looking away. “I didn’t know that. He was sober by the time I met him. Told me he just grew out of it.”

Gale takes a deep breath, trying to calm his kicking heart. “I know,” he says. “You’re lucky.”

John huffs something that could be a laugh, could be a scoff. “And he—he took you with him? When he was out drinking? When you were—how old?”

Gale shrugs. “My mom worked nights for awhile, when I was a kid. He couldn’t leave me alone. So I went with him.”

John shakes his head slowly. “He never said,” he says quietly. “Nobody did.”

Gale just hums. They’re silent for a long moment, John’s cigarette burning down nearly to his fingers before he takes another drag. He grinds it out in one of the empty planter boxes and it sizzles quietly, heat dying.

”Chick’s right,” Gale says eventually. “Like I said, this idea, it’s…I’m not convinced, okay?”

”Then why did you agree?”

Gale huffs a laugh despite himself. “Didn’t like his argument.”

”What, that James wouldn’t like it if he was here to have an opinion?”

”Mmm. If anything, that convinced me it might be worth a try.”

John leans his hip against the side of the trailer and crosses his arms. “Well, if you’re not a betting man, what’s the move here?

Gale shrugs. “See it through until we can’t, I guess.”

John stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Then he nods, slowly. “Guess so.” He pulls out his cigarettes again and Gale thinks he’s about to light up another, but instead he just hands one to Gale. Gale starts to shake his head, drawing away, but John just pushes it towards him.

”For later,” he says. “Just in case you need it. Like I said, I won’t tell.”

Gale considers it for a moment, then takes it and tucks it in the breast pocket of his coat. He won’t smoke it, but there’s something thoughtful about the gesture that he doesn’t want to refuse.

John claps a hand on his shoulder. “Better get ready to go. Music starts at eight.”

Gale shakes his head. “No, I really don’t think I’m gonna go—“

”Nah, Buck, you’re coming. Nobody’s gonna pour a whiskey down your throat or nothing, but you can’t tell me you don’t want to watch Benny and Johnny Brady pretend they’re not eyeing each other up from opposite ends of the bar all night. Casper’s best entertainment, I promise. Go get your dancing shoes on.”

Two hours later, John slides into the bar stool next to him and passes him a ginger ale. The band is in full swing, and they’re not half bad, but they’re not half good, either. Gale recognizes the harmonica player from when he was a kid and is hoping the harmonica player doesn’t recognize him. Marge and Rosie are swing dancing enthusiastically, occasionally swapping partners with Helen and Tatty, who are the only other couple on the dance floor halfway keeping up with them. They’d taken a swing dancing class in college and promptly joined a club when the semester was over. Gale had firmly refused every offer to join them for four years straight.

“You see this?” John asks, nodding towards where Benny sits near to the dance floor, ostensibly in conversation with Richard but actually just watching Johnny Brady as he orders another drink. Johnny Brady is, in fact, quite handsome in a slim, nervous sort of way—delicate features and square jaw, floppy hair, blue eyes. He looked deadly serious, except for during the few minutes he was talking to Benny when he first came in, when his shoulders seemed to relax and his face lit up in a smile that completely erased anything pinched or serious about him.

He turns away from the bar, holding two Coronas with lime wedges stuffed in the necks. He looks towards Benny, sets his jaw, and walks in his direction.

”Wow,” John says, low in Gale’s ear. “He’s pulling out all the stops. Coronas are a buck-fifty more than the Miller Lites.”

Gale shifts ever so slightly away from John. The tickle of his breath leaves goosebumps down his neck.

Brady stops at Benny’s table and hands him a beer, somewhat stiffly. Benny grins at him, leans forward, starts talking animatedly, hands gesticulating wildly. Richard beats a subtle retreat.

Brady sticks a hand in his pocket, takes it out again. Fiddles with the label on his beer bottle and says something in reply to Benny, then turns around and walks away from the table. Behind his back, Benny’s face falls.

”Jesus Christ,” John groans next to Gale, letting his head fall into his hands. “It’s like watching middle schoolers, honestly. I oughta go—“

Gale pushes him back into his seat. “Let it be.”

”Buck, if someone doesn’t give one of them a kick in the pants they’ll both be dead of old age before their first kiss, and as a friend I can’t let that happen!”

Gale plucks a toothpick from the jar by the till and slots it between his teeth. Bites down. Helps to have something to chew on here, in this loud cowboy bar surrounded by loud cowboys who can’t mind their own business. “Give ‘em a little more time. They’ll figure it out. But if you go and push it now it’ll spook them.”

John pouts at him. He walked in with a hat but it’s long gone now, his curls a little wild and falling down over his forehead, crisp denim shirt unbuttoned enough to show the slightest hint of dark chest hair. His eyes are bright, his grin easy. “Come on, Buck, you’re no fun.”

”You’re far from the first person to tell me that,” Gale says drily. “Look—see, Benny’s going after him.”

John swivels around so quickly his elbow knocks into Gale’s ginger ale and sends it spilling across the bar and a little into Gale’s lap. “Oh, shit—sorry, here, lemme grab some napkins—“ he throws a couple of cocktail napkins at Gale and then lunges over the bar to nab a towel the bartender had been using to wipe down the beer taps. Corrals the spilled soda with a practiced movement, preventing any more from dripping onto Gale’s jeans. Gale pokes at the wet spot on his thigh ineffectually with the flimsy napkins. “I’m clumsy, one of my worst traits—wait, where’d Benny go?”

”Would you two stop staring at me from across the room?” Benny asks from his other side, causing John to curse and spin around again.

”Jesus Christ, DeMarco, warn a guy!”

“I am warning you, Bucky—stop gawping at me and staring at Johnny’s ass!”

”I’m not—“

”Buy him another drink, Benny,” Gale interrupts. “He likes the microbrews. Try the dark rye from Frontier.”

Benny stares at him. “I—“

”Trust me,” Gale says.

Benny turns to the bar and orders the rye and another Corona. He looks at Gale again before crossing the room to where Johnny Brady has retreated to a corner table that everyone else has abandoned in favor of dancing. He holds out the beer. Brady looks up, smiles, takes it. Benny sits down. They lean close to talk over the music.

”What happened to giving ‘em a little more time, huh?” John asks. “You thought you could fix it up better than I could?”

”I’d like to think I’ve got a slightly lighter touch,” Gale says.

”How’d you know about the beer?”

”He asked the bartender about everything they had on tap, hesitated over the rye, and then ordered the Coronas. Guessing he didn’t want to come across as too high and mighty or something. You guys make fun of people here for enjoying a microbrew?”

”Only if it's an IPA. What are you, anyway, some kinda Sherlock Holmes?”

”I just pay attention,” Gale says. He reaches over to right the spilled glass of ginger ale and slides it over towards John. “And I think you owe me another drink.”

Chapter Text

He can’t sleep. 

After that first terrible night he moved to Marge and Rosie’s spare room without further argument, but it’s almost as full of memories as his father’s. He blinks up at the rough wood of the upper bunk, knotty pine his dad helped Marge’s dad build. The sheets are soft against his skin, worn with age, the same ones that have been on these beds since they were built because they’re a weird middle size between a double and a twin and Marge’s mom had to make the sheets for them by hand. There’s a painting of wild horses running on the wall across from him, the same one that’s hung there for as long as the Spencers have been in this house.

Everyone else is long asleep. It’s nearing two AM and they’d left the bar before midnight, Gale stealing the keys from a giggling Marge and bullying a drunken John into sliding in with them, ignoring his insistence that he was good to drive, no, really. Benny and Johnny Brady had still been huddled at their table, heads bent close and laughing together, and they’d all decided to leave them be, John and Rosie gleeful and giggling on the ride back to the ranch, analyzing every bit of their body language. Gale hadn’t driven a stick shift in years, but the rhythms came back to him as he took them out of town and back towards the ranch, Marge’s head on his shoulder, Rosie and John’s chatter a comforting backdrop. He’d dropped John at the trailer and endured him ruffling his hair and patting his cheek with only an eye roll, then taken Marge and Rosie home. They’d gone to bed immediately, and so had Gale, and here he was two hours later still wide awake, the past few days spinning a looping reel in his head. The ranch, the debt, the cattle. The rent, the LLC, the debt. The debt, the house, his father. 

He’d put most of this out of his mind years ago. When he’d walked out after his mother’s funeral. Before that, when he’d told his dad he wouldn’t take over the ranch. It had been years since he’d thought about the financials of the ranch, since he’d even wondered if the ranch was losing money or making it. He remembered his dad mentioning the Covid relief loans in an ill-advised phone conversation a few months after Gale had stormed out of the house following Bertie’s funeral, and remembered equally well his response, which had been something like the last thing that money pit needs is more debt. Clearly, his argument hadn’t held much water for James.

It’s been even longer since he’d thought about Marge and Rosie inheriting the ranch with anything other than relief. Knowing Benny and now John were interested only made him feel better about it. He wanted it to go to them—he didn’t want to see it subdivided or built over any more than any of them did. He wanted someone to take over from his father, he just didn’t want to be the one who did it. He’s not angry nobody checked with him before taking out loans—he wouldn’t have wanted to have been asked about it. 

But two and a half million on his shoulders was not something he was planning on. He’s a fucking doctoral candidate. He spends more money on Benjamina’s prescription diet food than he does on his own groceries. He’s subsisting on his own student loans and the meager fellowship funding through the lab. His rent went up by $200 three months ago and it nearly put him in the fucking red. And now this?

Logically, he knows its not on him alone. That all of the rest of them have his back, that they’re not going to leave him floundering. But legally, he thinks, they could. If they decided it was hopeless, that they were tired, that maybe they didn’t want to be ranchers after all, they could all walk away. His name is the one in the will. It falls to his shoulders. 

The thought makes him want to vomit, the ginger ales John kept buying him at the bar churning in the pit of his stomach. 

A walk would help. Get him out of his head, at least. It’s cold but clear, the last clouds blown out by an evening wind. He can see the stars, the blurred line of the Milky Way arching across the bowl of the sky outside the window.

He rises, dresses quietly. Wraps one of Marge’s extra scarves around his neck and borrows a Staghorn Ranch beanie from the coat rack. He digs in the pocket of his coat for the cigarette John gave him, slightly crooked but still smokeable. Swipes a lighter off the kitchen counter and waits until he’s down their driveway and walking up the road towards the ranch to light up. Takes a deep drag, holding it in his lungs and exhaling slow, closing his eyes. Opening them again to the stars. Out here, he can pick out the things he can only see through a telescope in California. The Andromeda Galaxy, a blurred soft light with a hazy veil around it when viewed with the naked eye. The Pleiades, all seven of them. Venus hovering bright on the horizon. The Carina Nebula, a bright spot deep in the Milky Way, a three hundred light year stretch of old stars dying and new stars being born. The lab is watching a Carina star die right now, the telescope trained on it, monitoring electromagnetic energy as they wait for it to supernova. Through the telescope, the nebula is all reds and purples and blues, floating clouds of raw matter, pillars of gas and dust pulled in by the gravity of dying stars.

From here, it's just another point of light amongst billions. You would never know the drama unfolding within that speck, and in all the specks around it.

He breathes out, long and slow. Tracks his eyes across the familiar constellations of his youth, the ones James used to tell him stories about when he was very young and they were at hunting camp in the autumn. Orion and Cassiopeia and Andromeda and Pegasus. The old myths played out across the skies. Familiar as anything.

Clear nights are rare in the Bay Area. In the absence of clouds, there’s still too much light pollution to see much of anything. He can usually pick out Orion’s Belt, sometimes the spread W of Cassiopeia. Ursa Major. Sometimes Sirius or Arcturus, but not the constellations they belong to. The planets, when they’re bright. He misses this view of the sky. Misses looking up and feeling like he could fall upwards into it, enveloped in the quiet infinity. He breathes it in, trying to memorize it for later.

He rambles up the long drive towards the ranch house, dark except for a light left on in the kitchen, the one above the stove. He’s not sure if Alex or Benny came back or if it’s sitting empty and contemplates for a moment going inside, some masochistic part of him thinking abruptly that he ought to go through James’ office, his papers, his closet, despite the fact that he’s leaving at the crack of dawn the next day and doesn’t have room in his luggage to bring anything back, and wouldn’t want to anyway. It’s a sense of duty, a sense that he’s leaving with work left undone. An unfinished job was never something James could abide, at least not when it came to the people around him. He left plenty of things unfinished, himself.

Gale grits his teeth and forces himself to keep walking past the house, towards the upper pasture. He wonders if John is asleep or if he’s sitting up with that pregnant cow. Pushes thinking about John out of his mind. Of course John’s asleep, he was drunk and it’s the middle of the night and he’d been up checking on her the whole night previous. Tonight’s Benny’s turn. Gale wonders again if Benny came back—or if he’s still with Johnny Brady, lingering outside the closed bar, or maybe in his bed. He wonders if he should check on the cow.

His feet take him towards the barn before his mind consciously decides on it. He’ll just peek in, make sure she’s good. Then he’ll go back to bed. He’s tired now, he realizes. Calm. Thinks he might be able to get a few hours of sleep before he has to wake up to go to the airport.

The cattle barn is new. They used to keep any cattle that needed to be sheltered or sequestered in the stables with the horses, but the stables were old and drafty and by the time Gale left they only had a few horses, anyway, and it would have cost almost as much to fix up the old building as it had cost to build a new one. It’s shocking how different it is than the dusty old wooden structure he remembers—clean and sterile, well lit, modern, hoses hanging from walls and medical equipment in one corner, fans to dispel the scent of cow shit and farts, clean straw on the floor. He slides the doors open and they don’t even squeak, just the faint rattle of the rollers against the metal track. 

It’s quiet, empty aside from the few cows and new calves too tender for the cold night. There’s no sign of John or Benny, lights off, just the breath of sleeping cattle, a quiet lowing and lapping as one of the calves feeds in the dark.

Gale flips on the lights, flooding the space with fluorescence. A stained camping chair sits near one of the holding pens near the back, a water bottle and a thermos lying on its side and a paperback (Dune, tattered and dog eared, clearly read many times) abandoned on the dusty, straw-strewn floor next to it. 

And then—pained and low, a strained bellow. Gale knows that sound. Was born knowing that sound. A cow in labor.

Gale curses and moves towards the back of the barn, knocking the camping chair aside and peering into the holding pen. 

She’s a big girl, a beautiful one with a coat so dark brown it's nearly, but not quite, black; body strong and solid. Good breeding stock. She’s down on her side in the straw, breathing heavy, sides rippling with contractions. Her eyes roll towards him as he fumbles with the latch and steps into the stall. She tilts her neck back and bellows again and he’s on his knees, stroking her side, lifting her tail up, trying to tell what’s going on. The thing about calves is that they want to be born. When it’s time to go, it usually goes fast—unless something is wrong.

There’s a hoof, tiny and perfect and black, just poking out. He can see the cow swollen around the tip of another. This is fine, it’s alright—calves always come hoof-first. Nature knows they’re meant to stand and walk and pitches them feet-first to the ground. It’s just—he can tell the cow’s been at it for awhile, her neck lathered with sweat, foam at the corners of her mouth. The calf should be farther along by now. It’s impossible to tell exactly when the water broke, how long she’s been like this. There’s only so long a window before the calf suffocates inside her.

He stands, instinct and memory kicking in. He’s done this before. Hundreds of times. He needs gloves, lubricant, disinfectant. The new barn is disorienting—he knew where everything was in the old one, but here he doesn’t. Up near the door are shelves and cabinets, mostly twine and rope and tools but he finds the latex gloves right away and bangs open cabinet doors and shuffles through buckets until he finds lubricant and liquid disinfectant. He pulls on gloves, douses his hands, uncaring of how much he spills on the floor and barely noticing the sharp scent of it, and brings the lube back to the stall as the cow groans again. Another cow answers, sensing her distress. “Hey, it’s alright,” he says out loud, to them and a little to himself. 

His own heartbeat throbs in his fingertips as he gently slips a hand inside the cow, feeling around one little hoof, easing his hand around the other. She shudders with a contraction, bellows again, and the second hoof slides fully out, crushing against his wrist. “Good girl,” he coos. “That’s good, keep it going, alright—“ He grits his teeth, slides his hand in further, feeling—feeling—

“Motherfucker,” he grits out, hand gliding high enough to feel the leg widening into hocks. No knee. No head. 

Backwards.

He pulls his hand out too fast and the cow grunts in pain, shivering. He pats her flank with a trembling hand. One of her legs kicks out of him and he slides away, putting space between them. He needs help. He needs a vet, needs Johnny Brady, but he doesn’t have his number and besides, if Benny isn’t here that probably means Johnny Brady in bed with him and unlikely to answer a phone call. He could call Marge or Rosie, but they’re off duty tonight, and he knows Marge turns her phone off, Rosie puts his on Do Not Disturb. There’s John, but John’s asleep and it wasn’t his night to worry about the cow either, and Gale’s alone. 

He tries Benny, fingers shaking, jabbing the wrong buttons and accidentally calling Douglass, James—LAB, ending the call and trying again. It rings and rings, then goes to Benny’s impersonal voicemail. His mailbox is full. Gale curses, tries again. Nothing. Tries Marge, just in case. Then Rosie. 

Nothing.

He needs John. He doesn’t have his number. 

He needs John, but he doesn’t want to leave this cow for long enough to go get him in his trailer on the other end of the pasture. The cow lows again, flanks shuddering, legs kicking against the straw.

”Okay,” he whispers, running a soothing had up her side. “Okay mama, we’re gonna try here. We both gotta try, okay?”

She bellows again. They’re both shaking. This is the room James Cleven died in. This is what he was doing when he died, trying to coax a stubborn, tangled-up calf backwards into life. Gale could be crouching in the stall where it happened, for all he knows. He wonders if James knew what was happening, if he’d felt weak or ill, or if he was so fully immersed in the job that needed doing his own death caught him unawares, something he didn’t have time for until it snatched him away. Working until the end. No one could have ever called James Cleven a quitter, not in any sense of the word.

He knows he needs to fold the tail down between the legs so they can slide out together. The ass-end of a calf is a hell of a lot wider than head, and the cow’s body is taking cues from what should be happening. She’s not dilated enough. If he can get the legs and tail in order they’ll come easy enough, and then he knows the calf will slide to a stop again when the rib cage hits the cow’s pelvis. And then he’ll need to pull. 

The calf is small, he can already tell. He might be strong enough to do it alone. 

He probably won’t be.

”Fuck,” he says, and hates the way his voice shakes. Hates the way he can almost see James Cleven leaning in the corner of the stall, watching him. Testing him. Gonna have to do this yourself eventually, son. Job needs doin’.

His jaw throbs, teeth grinding against each other. He wishes he had a toothpick, a piece of gum, an entire pack of cigarettes. He snaps the gloves back on, coats his hands in lube, and kneels down next to the cow again.

”Easy,” he murmurs. “Don’t kick me again, I’m tryin’ to help you. Wish I had a strap to keep those legs of yours still, but I don’t think we’ve got time for me to track one down, do we? So gonna need you to work with me, alright? Easy now.” He slides one hand back in, then the other, feeling carefully up the legs. He feels her around his forearms, shuddering with contractions. His left hand touches the tail again and he twists, following it up, grasping it to smooth it down along one of the legs. As soon as he withdraws his hands a bit the cow bellows again, shifts in the straw, pushes. The legs slide out, the tail, slimy and bloody. Under the fluids, dark fur. A white patch on one haunch, incongruous and charming. 

“Alright, good,” Gale murmurs. He rubs more lube on his hands and reaches back up into her, trying to spread it around the calf’s back and up towards the ribcage. The cow kicks again, this time catching him painfully in his shin, and he curses but manages to pull out slowly, without hurting her, backing away. “Fuck, we gotta get something to keep your legs still or I’m not gonna—“

She convulses, head lifting off the ground, bellowing louder than any of her previous cries, and the end of the calf slides out, part of its belly—it’s a boy. It stops, she bellows again, and then—something happens, something tears—he can hear it—and there’s blood, and the back half of the calf is out, falling into Gale’s arms as he scrambles to catch it, thinking it’s all going to come now, surely the rest of it has to come because the cow is bleeding and bellowing and his forearms are soaked with blood and lube and the calf—he can’t tell if it’s alive and it’s not coming anymore, stuck around the ribcage as he predicted. The cow thrashes. He tries to hold the calf steady, tries to pull, but his hands are slippery and the calf is slippery and the cow is moving too much. 

Gale strips off his gloves, wipes his hands ineffectually on his filthy jeans, and takes the back legs in his hands. He remembers standing next to his father, small hands wrapped around a smaller leg, pulling as hard as he could, legs slipping out from under him and sending him to the ground on his ass, his father yelling at him for bending the calf’s leg the wrong way as he fell, for making the calf a cripple before it even got all the way out of the mother. Remembers that calf born with wide, blinking eyes, a curious stare, soft ears. Remembers how his father gathered it up in his arms and left the stables, and the sound of a single gunshot a minute later. He leans back, pulls. Keeps the legs straight. His face is wet. He thinks for a moment that it’s blood, and then he realizes he’s crying. 

The calf doesn’t budge. The cow bellows in pain. The barn door slams open and footsteps clatter towards Gale and John Egan yells, “What in the fucking hell?”

Gale, panting and crying, on his knees covered in blood and with the wrong end of a baby cow limp in his hands, looks up at him and says, voice remarkably even to his own ears, “Could use some help.” 

John gapes for a moment, eyes flicking between the cow, the blood on the floor, and Gale, and then shakes himself into action. He runs back to the front of the barn, snatches up a bucket and some towels, clatters around the shelves grabbing straps and a length of chain, and runs the length of the barn back to Gale, sinking to his knees next to him, mindless of the filth and fluids staining the floor, running gentle hands alone the cow’s flank, her haunches, the place where the calf emerges.

”Keep a hold on the back legs, alright?” John says, calm and confident, snapping on gloves and looping the strap around the cow’s legs, keeping her kicking hooves away from both of them. “I’m gonna just reach in and feel where we’re at here, just hold them steady.”

Gale does, and says “it’s caught at the rib cage. Think she tore something. Wasn’t bleeding until a minute ago.”

John slides his hand gentle, gentle along the calf’s body and into the cow. She grunts, leg spasming, and John makes a soothing noise, his free hand stroking her flank. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy, girl, you’re doing good. Tilt it up a little, Buck—shit—yeah, there. Alright. Got it—ouch, mama, how’d your little guy get all tangled up like this? Okay, it’s okay. You’re right, it’s just the rib cage. Head’s tilted back, too, gonna try to push it forward—okay, there—”

His voice is soothing, even. Gale knows it's for the benefit of the animal—people think cows are stupid, but they, like any animal, read cues from the other animals around them. If you are panicked, nervous, heightened, they will be, too. Gale knows this, and yet Gale couldn’t stop the panic from rising, the tears from leaking. There is no room for panic in John’s voice, in his gentle hands and strong arms. Gale feels his shoulders relax a bit, manages to unclench his jaw, John’s soothing as effective on him as it is on the distressed animal. John pulls his hand out slowly, then takes one of the back legs from Gale.

”Alright, Buck, we’re gonna pull. Should be better with the two of us. You ready?”

Now look what you’ve done, Gale. Didn’t I say you have to be strong?

He swallows. Nods. “Alright,” John says. “Let’s go. I’ll pull first. When you see her tensing—alright, there—“

He pulls, twists. Gale pulls too, not as hard, enough to help ease the way. The calf doesn’t budge. John grunts.

”You try to call Brady?” he asks.

”Don’t have his number. Tried Benny. No answer. No answer from anyone.”

”Those fuckers,” John says. “Of all the nights they finally get their shit together—alright, pull again!”

The cow bellows. They pull. This time, the calf slides out a bit more, ribcage clearing the birth canal. John grins. “Good,” he says. “Good, good. Alright, just one more little push, mama, and then the hard part’s over. Let’s go.”

The cow is bleeding a lot now, all over their hands, puddling in the straw beneath her. She bellows, tenses. “Pull!” John says, and they do, and with a final, shuddering push and a gush of liquid that covers both of their arms, the calf slides out onto the wet straw. Wet and limp and not moving at all, covered in blood and gunk. John grabs at his head, hooking fingers into the lolling mouth to clear out any obstructions to breathing, wiping away fluid and blood from the perfect little nose. Rubs at his flanks, his ribs. “There we go,” he murmurs. “There we are.” 

Gale rests a hand on the wet, sticky back and feels its warmth, feels the rise and fall of breathing. The calf blinks his eyes open, looking at them both, opens his mouth and lets out a little bleaty grunt. Lifts his head, turning towards his mother.

“Look at that,” John breathes. “He’s just fine. Just fine. Thanks to you, Buck.”

Gale chokes on a laugh that gets caught halfway up his tight throat. “Thanks to you,” he says. “If you hadn’t come when you did—“

”Naw, you had it. You knew what to do.” He claps a hand on Gale’s shoulder. “I know you’ve done this plenty. It’s like riding a bike, right?”

Gale manages to dislodge his laugh this time. “Not really.” 

John turns his attention to the cow, lowing in pain and still bleeding. “Alright, we’re not out of the woods here.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket with one hand and hands it to Gale. “Call Brady. Keep calling him until he answers. If he doesn’t, start calling Benny.”

”I told you, I tried Benny—“

“Johnny will answer,” John says with complete confidence. “Gonna try to get this bleeding slowed down, see what happened here.”

Gale calls Johnny Brady, shaking fingers smearing blood all over the cracked screen of John’s phone. He calls again, then again. No answer. John soaks two towels with blood and mutters a curse.

”Torn,” John says. “Jesus Christ. Still not answering?”

Gale shakes his head, and hits the call button again. Again. John drags the bucket of supplies over towards himself, fussing with disinfectant and feeling gently around where the blood still flows. Gale hasn’t seen this much blood in years. Since the last time he had to help with calving. He dials again.

”What the fuck, Bucky—“ Johnny Brady says, sounding absolutely furious. 

“The cow gave birth,” Gale interrupts him. “She’s bleeding. It was a breech. We need you.”

”What the—is this Gale?”

”What’s going on? Gale?” This, Gale can clearly hear, comes from Benny, a little muffled in the background.

”You need to come now,” Gale says. 

“Okay, okay—is John there, Gale?”

”Yeah.”

”Okay, can you give him the phone for a second?”

”You need to come.”

”I am, I just want to talk to Bucky for a second, okay?”

Wordlessly, Gale holds out the phone to him. John looks up pointedly, both hands inside the cow, and Gale puts it on speakerphone.

”He’s here,” Gale says. “On speaker.”

”What happened?”

”The damn cow gave birth is what happened, Johnny, and I’m holding you responsible for this because you distracted the person who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her and Buck here ended up having to deliver a breech calf alone.”

Johnny is quiet for a moment, then asks, “How bad is it?”

”Calf’s fine. Mom’s bleeding bad. Something tore. Tryin’ to figure it out. Why are you wasting your time on the phone right now?”

”We’re coming,” Johnny says. “We’re coming, alright—just try to stop the bleeding if you can. Be there in twenty.”

”Make it fifteen,” John grits out, and Gale hears the line go dead.

”Buck,” John says. “I’ve got bad news.”

“What,” Gale croaks.

”I think there’s another one coming.”

”What?”

John looks grim, feeling around inside the cow. “This one’s facing the right way, at least. Been in there too long, though, and this mama’s tired. So I’m gonna pull a little and see if it gets her going. But I need you to come here and try to wipe away some of the blood so I can see what I’m doing better, and be ready to help me pull, okay?”

Gale kneels back down next to him, pulls some rags from the bucket, tries to mop up some of the blood around John’s hands and wrists. His head is buzzing, all he can seem to focus on is the red of the blood and the unsteady breathing of the cow, her pained noises echoing around them. Gale doesn’t—this is one of the reasons he left, he doesn’t want to watch her die—doesn’t want to sit here with his hand pressed to her ruined body, helplessly feeling the life bleed out of her. Doesn’t want to hear the sound of another gunshot out behind the barn.

John nudges him with his elbow. “Hey, Buck—Gale. Gale? You with me?”

It’s the sound of his real name in John’s voice that brings Gale back. ”I,” he starts, and finds he can’t continue. John’s face fades into James’ and back again. James yelling at him when he cried over the very first dead calf he saw, and all the ones after it until he finally learned how to turn off the emotions. Goddammit, Gale, you’re no use to me if you’re sitting there sniffling. You know where they all end up, don’t you? We’re not raising pets here, for Christ’s sake!

”Gale!”

He jolts back to reality. It’s John next to him, John’s bloody hand resting on his bloody knee, the other one still buried in the cow. There’s a breathing calf on one side of him and a living cow on the other, and a calf they might still be able to save inside her, and John is trying to keep it that way, and Gale needs to help him. “I’m fine,” he manages. “I’m good. What did you say?”

”This one’s a little bigger, but it’s positioned right. It might just slip out. What I’m gonna do is make sure the head is tilted right, and I think that might help us get the legs out. When they come, I need you to grab them and pull, okay? Gentle, but still firm.”

”Okay,” Gale says.

”Okay, ready—come on, mama, push! Almost there, almost—ah, yes, Buck, grab them—good—“

Gale’s hands are still slippery and shaking, but when the little hooves come, followed by the skinny legs, he manages to grasp, to pull. The cow bellows again, spasming, head lifting as she pushes, finding strength—the head slips out, tongue lolling, eyes closed. Blood and viscera, warm against his fingers. John grunts, pulls his own hands out, takes hold of the little shoulders, pulls again. “Come on,” he murmurs. “One more for us, come on.”

It’s amazing how easy it is, compared to the first one. It slides out in a wet heap, right into Gale’s lap. It’s not moving. Not breathing. The cow lows, head dropping to the floor of the barn. Gale is frozen, little body in his lap. Lifeless.

”Put her on the ground, Buck,” John says, pulling the calf off of him, hooking his fingers into the limp mouth, rubbing at its head. “Grab some straw, rub her down, try to get this junk off of her, build some heat up.”

It’s a girl, Gale realizes. A little bigger than her brother, white splotch over one eye instead of on the back end. Still, quiet. The other one, despite the difficult birth, had been breathing as soon as John cleared his mouth out. There had been something alive about him even as he slid out. Something this one is lacking. 

“Gale!” John snaps, perhaps the first time he’s ever raised his voice at him. Gale flinches, but he remembers. Remembers what has to happen after a birth like this. Grabs handfuls of straw and rubs at the little body, wiping away blood and fluids, soft fur tufting up between his fingers. Rubs along her rib cage and belly, simulating the motions she should be making to breathe. She still doesn’t move. 

John curses and moves to his bucket of tools, rummaging around. Comes up with a suction bulb, which he sticks up her little nostrils, siphoning out any remaining fluids. “Keep rubbing, Buck, you’re doing good.” His voice is calm again, soft, like he clocked Gale’s flinch and is sorry for it. “Come on, little lady. Let’s go.” He tickles gently at her nostrils, her ear. “Come on.”

”John, I don’t think—“ Gale’s voice cracks and John shakes his head, holds up his hand. Gale doesn’t stop rubbing at her, but she’s not breathing, and next to them the cow isn’t even making noise anymore, just pained little grunts as the blood keeps flowing.

Footsteps echo through the barn, voices calling down to them, and Johnny Brady skids to a halt in front of the stall, eyes wide, having approached at a dead run. He’s wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt and Benny’s coat, hair is standing on end, a brilliantly purple hickey blooming across his neck right under his ear.

”You didn’t tell us she had twins, Johnny,” John says drily, not pausing in his ministrations to the calf. 

Johnny gapes at them for a moment before pulling himself together, setting down a bag and a case and rummaging through it. “Not breathing?”

”No. Not sure how long she was in there after the water broke. The first one’s fine, but he was backwards so it was slow. Was gonna try water next.”

”Try it. I’ve got a resuscitation kit. Give me a minute. The mom?”

”Perineal laceration. Type two, I think, but there’s a lot of blood. Don’t know how long she was in labor before Gale found her.”

Brady is unfurling a long length of plastic tubing, pulling out a mask that looks nearly identical to an oxygen mask for a human. They’re both wholly focused on the animals, on each other, and Gale feels useless. He keeps rubbing at the still body, needing something to do with his hands. 

“Benny, we need some cold water, can you grab some?” Johnny calls over his shoulder, and Benny rushes off, returning seconds later with a water bottle and a syringe. John takes it, draws up water into the syringe, and flips the calf’s ear back, squirting it directly into the ear canal.

They all four stare down at her, quiet and unmoving. Gale’s own breath is caught in his chest, frozen. John’s focus is complete, bent over the little body like some guardian angel. Behind them, Benny curses. John fills the syringe again, squirts more into her ear. 

The calf stiffens, shudders, and shakes her head vigorously, rolling away from Gale slightly. She shakes her head again, sneezes twice, and blinks up at them all with round, alert eyes.

”Jeeeesus,” John whistles, sitting back on his heels. “See, Buck, I told you so.”

”You didn’t tell me anything,” Gale manages through a dry mouth. John just grins at him, blood on his face, and claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“Good job. Surprise twins, a breech, an upset mama, and no one here to catch it when labor started—I’d say we did pretty well for ourselves, all things considered.” He cranes his neck towards where Benny hovers in the stall door, wringing his hands. He looks equally disheveled, wearing boots clearly too large for him, a SANPETE COUNTY VETERINARY CLINIC—YOUR PETS ARE OUR FAMILY sweatshirt clearly too small for him, and several hickies of his own dotted across his throat. “I’ll kill you later,” John says, pointing at him. “I don’t think I need to ask if y’all had a good evening?”

”Fuck off, Bucky,” Johnny says, moving over to the cow. He runs gentle hands up and down her flank, palpitating here and there. Uses yet more towels to wipe away some of the blood, drags his kit closer to himself and hums, ducking down, carefully examining the cow. “Right on point, Bucky,” he says. “Perineal laceration. Type two, but barely. She’s not fully torn through. I’ll administer some painkillers and clean her up, then we’ll keep her down here for the night and make sure she doesn’t move around too much for the next few days. Don’t want to stitch her up until we see some tissue regrowth, but she should be able to nurse. We’ll bottle feed the calves tonight and I’ll give them colostrum if it doesn’t seem like she can manage it.”

”Good, yeah, that’s what I figured.”

”They’ll be alright. You two did a good job,” Johnny says.

”Fuck,” Benny says finally. “I’m so sorry. I—I forgot. There’s no excuse.”

”Oh, I think you’ve got yourself an excuse,” John says, jerking his head towards Johnny. “Wish you two had gotten your heads out of your asses literally any other night, but hey, I guess congrats are in order!”

Johnny’s neck flushes bright red and he refuses to look away from the cow. Benny smirks at John. “You’re just jealous I got some first.”

”I’m not a competition,” Johnny says, words directed at the back end of the cow.

”Hey now sweetheart, no offense, you’re gorgeous, but we weren’t competing over you. Benny here is just rubbing it in my face that I’ve been single for longer than he has. But being single has its advantages, like not forgetting you’ve got a pregnant cow you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on because you’re too busy fucking nasty in the back of a tru—“

”You two can leave,” Johnny says. “Anytime.”

”Oh, no, I’m enjoying myself—“

”Buck, you look like you’re about to pass out,” Benny interrupts. He holds out the water bottle he’d brought and Gale waves it away, unnerved by the blood still caked on his hands. 

“Not you too, with the Buck thing,” he manages.

Benny shrugs. “What can I say? It does fit.”

”How?” Gale asks, thoroughly nonplussed.

”I told you so,” John says, pointing at him. “Look, as much as I’d love to keep asking these two for all the juicy details of their evening while one of them performs emergency surgery on my cow, Benny’s right. You get any sleep before all this?”

Gale shakes his head and John stands, slapping his palms on his thighs. “Right,” he says. “These two have got this. Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, get to bed.” He offers a hand to Gale and Gale takes it, lets John hoist him to his feet for the second time, feels those calluses and the strength of his fingers under the tackiness of drying blood. He shepherds Gale gently out of the stall and Gale thinks, dully, that he ought to be protesting, ought to say he doesn’t need John to hold his hand—metaphorically or literally—out of here, that he’s fine. But when he opens his mouth the words don’t come. 

John points back and forth between Benny and John Brady. “You two better not leave this building until Rosie and I are back here in the morning, got it? Your turn.”

”Obviously,” Johnny says, irritated, like he’s insulted John would even suggest such a thing. “I’ve got my eye on them. You know this cow isn’t going to give birth again, right Bucky?”

They look at each other for a long moment, understanding passing between them. Gale understands, too. A breeding cow of this age who can’t do what she’s meant for anymore—James Cleven would call it a waste of resources. He was good to his animals, raised them in clean, healthy conditions and open pasture, as happy as an animal raised for slaughter could be, but in the end he was still a rancher. We’re not raising pets here. Same reasoning that went into not wasting more resources on a calf born broken. Just business.

John’s jaw clenches. “She’s a good cow. She’s strong. And these calves need their mama. Do what she needs you to do. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Gale exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, exhaustion crashing over him. “Thanks,” he says to Johnny and Benny, and then makes his way to the front of the barn, John following behind him. He steps out into the cool night air, leans back against the barn, and tips his head up to the stars, just breathing. John comes to lean next to him, a line of warmth against his side.

”Want that cigarette now, Buck?” He asks.

Gale smiles despite himself. “Already smoked it.”

”Oh, you have had a bad night. Want another?”

Desperately. ”Better not.”

John shrugs, lights up his own. Exhales deep and pleased into the night air. “How’d you end up in there with her? How’d you know?”

”I didn’t,” Gale says slowly, breathing in the smoke John exhales and closing his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. Took a walk. Realized Benny might not be home and you were dead asleep, so I thought I’d check in real quick. Walked in and she was already laid out on the ground, one leg sticking out of her.”

John sucks his teeth. “Well thank god you did. Really, Buck. You saved all three of their lives.”

Gale laughs, something that sounds more like a gasp. “Wasn’t me who saved ‘em.”

He hears John shift next to him and opens his eyes again. John is close, looking at him intently, cigarette forgotten by his side. “You did. You saw what was happening and knew what you needed to do, and you did it. You did all the right things. You had that calf halfway delivered, textbook breech birth. Had the mama calmed down and doing what she needed to do. You did good.”

Something rises in Gale’s throat, something like nausea but not quite, a swelling lump that makes it difficult to speak, to swallow. Eventually he manages, “Glad they’re okay.”

John smiles wide. “Me, too. I love that mama, she’s a great cow. She’s always the one we give the orphans to, or the ones whose own mothers won’t give milk for them. She treats ‘em like her own, you should see her out in the pasture in the spring. Got about ten calves following her around everywhere she goes, like a goddamn mother duck and her ducklings.” He shakes his head, takes another drag of his cigarette, then grinds it out against the wall of the barn and carefully tucks the half-smoked remainder in the pocket of his jacket. “Ah, I gotta say, when I walked in there and saw you covered in blood I thought you’d run into some outlaw or axe murderer out here and I was gonna have to hold you while you died or somethin’.”

Gale huffs a laugh. “That would solve some problems, wouldn’t it? I could bequeath you the ranch with my last breath.”

”Hey now, don’t joke.”

Gale sighs. Changes the subject. “How’d you know, anyway? You came right in time.”

”I might have been drunk last night, Buck, but I’m smart enough to know Benny wasn’t coming back here to sit up all night with a cow when he finally had the chance to sit up all night with Johnny’s dick instead. I set an alarm. Figured I’d wake up and check on her halfway through the night. I came in right before we left and she wasn’t showing any signs of labor. I thought we’d be alright.”

”Thank god for your drunken foresight.”

”I have my moments.” Now it’s John’s turn to tip his head back and look up at the stars. “Hey, I bet you know all the constellations, huh?”

Gale shrugs. “Most of them. Not ‘cause of school, though.”

”I thought you spent all day lookin’ at the stars through some fancy telescope.”

”I study supernovas, John, not constellations.”

John shakes his head. “That’s wild. I can’t even imagine—how do you study something like that? Something that far away?”

”With a fancy telescope,” Gale says, drily. “And a lot of math.”

John shudders. “Never my thing. You know, I worked in a lab when I was in undergrad for a couple years. The guy I was working for was studying how different rice varieties grew in increasingly saline soils, some really cool stuff. But after the first couple weeks he took me off data analysis entirely ‘cause I fucked it up so bad. Said all I had to do was look at a plant to make it grow, and all I had to do was look at our data programs to make them crash. It was fine, though, I wanted to be in the greenhouses anyway.”

This is the first bit of personal information Gale’s ever gotten from John. For a man who talks as constantly as he does, he hardly ever says a word about himself. “Where’d you go?” Gale asks.

”UW—Madison. Agroecology. Even got through a semester of grad school before I dropped out and started a farm with some buddies instead.”

”That’s cool,” Gale says.

John’s still staring up at the stars. When Gale looks over at him, he can see the pinpricks of light reflecting in John’s dark eyes. “Yeah,” he says. He blinks once, again, lips twisting a little in a nearly imperceptible grimace. “It was.”

They’re quiet for a moment, Gale waiting to see if John will offer anything more. When he doesn’t, he points towards the horizon where the Big Dipper rides low above Casper Mountain. “That’s one of my favorite constellations,” he says.

”What? The Big Dipper? No offense, Buck, but I would have expected something a little less pedestrian from an astronomer.”

”I’m an astrophysicist. And no, not the Big Dipper. Do you see the bright star to the left of the handle? The one that follows the same arc?”

Next to him, John squints, leans forward, nods. “I think so.”

”That’s Arcturus. Fourth brightest star in the night sky. It’s part of a constellation called Boötes. The herdsman. Sort of looks like a diamond, or an upside-down kite. Do you see it? Going up and to the right from Arcturus.”

John blinks, tilts his head. “Maybe? There?” He points, a little too high and to the left. Gale takes his hand and gently moves it until he’s pointing directly in the center of the diamond of stars, letting it go quickly. “There. You’re pointing right to the center of it, now.”

John shakes his head. “There’s so many stars, I don’t see how any of those people who came up with the constellations could see any patterns to any of it at all.”

”There were even more, then,” Gale says softly. “With no light pollution. They had stars that have died between then and now. Their skies were different. We have records from ancient cultures of constellations that just don’t exist anymore. They’re obsolete.”

John hums, hand still raised. “Why’s this your favorite, then?”

”The Greeks didn’t see the Big Dipper as a ladle, they saw it as a plough, pulled by oxen, and Boötes as the herdsman of the oxen, watching over them. There are a lot of stories about it, nobody really knows which one the Greeks prescribed to that particular constellation, but it was one of the first ones my dad taught me. Told me it was our constellation, because ranchers are modern day herdsmen. And it starts rising above the horizon here right as calving season starts, so he was there to watch over the cows and the calves and us. Remind us that this whole thing,” here he pauses to gesture around them at the barn, the cattle, the ranch as a whole, “has been part of humanity’s story for a damn long time.”

He stops, laughs a little. “He didn’t bet that a story meant to sell me on ranching was the thing that had me latching on to astronomy instead. Probably kicked himself for telling me about it. But he liked to stargaze. Liked all the stories that went with it. Always told me he didn’t get why I moved away from Wyoming to go look at stars when Wyoming’s got the best damn stars in the world.”

John’s looking at him again, blinking slowly, smiling a little. “Well,” he says. “He ain’t totally wrong about that.”

”No,” Gale admits. “He wasn’t. I missed the stars here.”

John’s hand comes up, squeezes his shoulder briefly. “Thanks for telling me that,” John says. “I’ll remember it. I’ll look for it, up there.”

The tight feeling in his throat is back. “Yeah,” he says.

”And speaking of stars, they’re gonna be gone soon. We should get cleaned up and try to get some sleep, yeah?”

Gale jolts up from his slouched position so quickly it makes John jump and slam his elbow into the side of the barn. “Oh fuck,” he says. “What time is it?”

John rubs his elbow, checks his watch. “Four thirty. Why, you got somewhere to be?”

”Four—shit the airport, I have to be at the airport! Now! My flight’s at—fuck, my flights at six!”

John wrinkles his nose. “What kind of sociopath flies before eight?”

”There aren’t a lot of options to get in and out of Casper, John!” Gale snaps, staring down at his blood covered arms. “Shit—I walked here, and your truck’s at the bar still—Marge was supposed to drive me but she hasn’t called—all my stuff’s at their house—“

”Hey,” John says, and his heavy hand lands on Gale’s shoulder again, grounding him. “Calm down. I’ll take you. We’ll take one of the ranch trucks.”

”Marge said she would, but she was drunk, I’m sure she’s sleeping,” Gale says. “I—I have to shower. I’m covered in blood.”

”Go to the house,” John says. “Rinse off. I’ll grab a truck and run and get your stuff from Marge’s. We’ll get you there in time, don’t worry.”

”But Marge—“

”Buck,” John says seriously. “For once in your life, don’t argue. Go get cleaned up. I’ll take care of it.”

”I—okay,” he says, defeated and reassured at once by John’s calm instructions. “Okay.”

”I’ll be back here in ten,” John says, and heads off in the direction of the tractor shed. Gale runs to the house and tosses his filthy clothes in a pile on the floor of the bathroom, setting aside his underwear, shirt, and socks, which are the only bits of clothing fit for putting back on. The shower takes longer than ideal, on account of having to scrub cow blood out from underneath his fingernails, and right as he’s getting out there’s a knock on the door. He grabs a towel and shouts, “Hang on!”, but John’s already opening the door.

”Do you mind?” Gale snaps, clutching the towel to himself.

“Not at all,” John says. “Is this duffle really all you brought? And the backpack? I grabbed the charger and the water bottle off the bedside table. And the glasses, I didn’t know you wore glasses! Just for reading, or do you have contacts?”

”Yes, that’s all I brought! Would you get out, please?”

John drops his duffle on the bathroom floor. “I’ll grab a trash bag for that,” he says, pointing at Gale’s discarded clothes, and closes the door behind him.

”Jesus fuck,” Gale whispers to himself, and drops the towel, pawing through the duffle for some clean clothes, jeans and the wrinkled sweatshirt he’s been sleeping in. He opens the door to John, holding a garbage bag, and dumps his clothes inside of it, zipping them into the duffle. Hopefully they won’t stink up the plane too much. His boots are filthy, too, but the only other option are the too-small oxfords he wore to the funeral, and he’s not sitting on a plane in those, so the boots go back on. The truck’s sitting outside the back door, already running, and Gale tosses the duffle in the back, throwing himself into the passenger side. He’s got an hour until his flight. The airport is thirty minutes away. He’s going to miss his flight.

”You’re not gonna miss your flight,” John says, and Gale realizes he’d said that part out loud.

”You’re not still drunk, are you?” He remembers to ask before they make it out of the ranch gates. 

John snorts. “I think the traumatic calving sobered me up just fine, Buck,” he replies, and Gale decides that he really can’t afford to worry about that on top of everything else, so he doesn’t argue. It’s been five hours since John last had a drink, and that combined with said traumatic calving is just going to have to be enough.

They make it to the airport in twenty minutes, on account of John going twenty miles over the speed limit the entire way, which leaves Gale white-knuckling the door handle and snapping at him to slow down. John happily ignores him. Gale’s sweating by the time they pull up to the departure gates, half from the stress of being late and half from the level of vigilance he’d maintained the entire drive, waiting to see the lights of a sheriff trailing behind him.

Who’s he kidding. The sheriff's probably best friends with John, too, just like the rest of the town seems to be. 

”See?” John says as he throws the truck into park. “Plenty of time.”

”Forty minutes isn’t plenty of time,” Gale says.

”It is in Casper. Now you say, Thank you, Bucky, for getting me to the airport on time. Thank you for being an incredible driver and amazing friend, okay?”

”Thank you for getting me to the airport in time,” Gale says, and slides out of the passenger seat, reaching for his duffle. John gets out too and rounds the back of the truck to stand in front of him, dark circles under his eyes, cow blood smudged on his cheek and staining his pants, grin crinkling his eyes. He holds out a hand, thankfully scrubbed clean of blood.

”Gale Cleven,” he says. “It’s been a pleasure.”

And Gale—Gale can’t help but smile. Huffs a little laugh. “That’s one way to put it,” he says, and grasps John’s hand firmly. ”I’ll be seeing you, I guess.”

”Oh yeah, you will,” John says, smile widening. “Don’t sound too excited about it.”

”I’ll try to contain myself,” Gale says drily. Their hands drop. John takes a step back. “Safe travels, Buck,” he says. “If you miss the flight, you’ve got my number.”

”I don’t, actually,” Gale says.

”Oh, we didn’t get around to that? Well.” He holds out a hand expectantly, and, after a moment, Gale digs his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. John types for a moment, then hands it back. “There you go. Don’t usually have things as pretty as you asking for my number, must be my lucky day.” 

Gale, despite his best efforts, flushes. “I don’t think I asked,” he says, and John just keeps grinning. 

“Yeah, but you wanted it, right? Don’t worry, Buck, I’ll send you cow updates. Safe flight!”

He starts to turn away and Gale doesn’t even know what to say—can’t even shape his mouth around the word bye—but John saves him from that necessity by doing a full-on double take and turning back towards him.

“Hey, hang on—where’s your coat?”

Gale raises an eyebrow. “Covered in cow blood and wrapped in a garbage bag in my luggage, why?”

”It’s cold, Buck.”

”I know, John.”

”You need somethin’.”

Gale laughs. “I’m going right inside. I‘ll be fine.”

”Planes are always cold,” John says with perfect earnestness, and crosses back to the cab of the truck. Rummages around for a moment before emerging with a beat up old Carhartt, different than the one he’s wearing. Dark blue and double lined, with a hood. “Here, take it. You can bring it back whenever you’re back in town.”

Gale shakes his head. “No, really, I’m fine.”

John pushes it into his hands. “Seriously, Buck. Don’t want to think of you shivering up there in your sweatshirt. ‘Sides, I think you might be needing a new coat, anyway. Not sure the cow placenta will wash out of those goose feathers too well. You need a good barn jacket for the next emergency calving you help with, right?”

”Don’t count on it,” Gale says, but he’s smiling.

John smiles back. “You never know, though, do you? Bye, Buck!”

He’s back in the truck before Gale can say another word, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb with a final wave out the window. Gale doesn’t get himself together soon enough to wave back, but makes an aborted movement with his hand just as John rounds the corner. Probably too late for him to see it.

He looks down at the jacket in his hands. It is cold. His sweatshirt is thin.

He lets his backpack fall to the ground and slides it on. It’s large, clearly meant for John’s broader frame, the sleeves falling nearly to his fingertips. It smells like cigarettes and some sort of cologne and something musky and piney and, just a bit, like cow shit. There’s a few drips of paint staining the left sleeve and the front, the same robin’s egg blue as John’s trailer.

He probably looks ridiculous in it.

He zips it up, shoulders his backpack, and walks into the airport to catch his flight home.

In the Uber back to his apartment in Oakland—sipping an overpriced coffee and huddled gratefully in John’s jacket because the Uber driver has the windows down and Gale isn’t about to invite any conversation by asking him to roll them up—he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts. Looks for John, but there’s no one new under the Js. Nothing new under the Es, either. It’s only when he’s scrolling back up to the top of his contacts in confusion when he spots it:

BUCKY 🐄

He smiles, hides it beneath a press of his knuckles. Stares out at the grey sky and the tangled up city, breathes in the salt air and gasoline. Sends a text.

Made it home.

Thanks for the jacket.

Chapter Text

“Brought you a burrito,” Harry Crosby says, dropping it on Gale’s work station and barely avoiding smearing salsa verde on his keyboard. “How was Wyoming?”

Gale grunts in response, trying to dab at the salsa with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Look where you’re putting stuff, Croz. It was fine. What do I owe you?”

Croz waves a hand. “My treat. It was fine? That’s it?”

”It was stressful, I was there for too long, the funeral was terrible, and I had to help deliver a baby cow. Better?”

Croz doesn’t know any details of any part of Gale’s life pre-Berkeley, nor does nearly anyone he knows here. He knows Gale’s from Casper, that his family owns a ranch, that he’s not interested in running it, and that his dad just died. He’s been sickeningly sympathetic about the whole thing, taking on Gale’s share of maintenance and data entry for the days he was gone even though they were already short-staffed with all the undergrads gone for spring break. A deeply uncharitable part of Gale wishes he was less sympathetic, because then Gale wouldn’t feel obligated to talk to him about any of it. 

“Holy moly, a baby cow? How’d that happen?”

”Well,” Gale says drily, “when a mama cow and a daddy cow love each other very much…”

”Oh, shut up,” Croz says fondly, but he drops it, which is what Gale was going for. He unwraps the burrito and takes a bite. “Thanks,” he remembers to say. “Sorry, the modeling’s pissing me off.”

Croz leans over him to peer at his computer screen. “Still glitching?”

Gale nods. “Won’t let me add in any of the new data points. Paulina’s gonna be annoyed when she gets back if we haven’t made any progress on this.”

Croz shrugs. “Did you try turning your computer off?”

Gale sighs. “Twice.” He leans back in his chair and takes another bite of burrito, realizing it’s been nearly seven hours since the few bites of oatmeal he managed that morning. He’s been sleeping fitfully since getting home, unable to fall asleep and waking early, nausea churning in his stomach. He’s unsettled, antsy. Keeps wanting to call Marge or Rosie, ask for an update, see how things are going, but that’s ridiculous. He’s been back here for three days. Nothing’s changed on their end, they would have told him. It’s just, they’re there and he’s…here. 

Once or twice, he’s thought about texting John. John had responded to Gale’s text thanking him for the jacket with a thumbs up reaction, which Gale was trying not feel insulted over. Gale hadn’t heard anything from him since. Not that he should have. It wasn’t like they knew each other, they weren’t friends. And so what if Gale’s been wearing his jacket every day since he got home, even though he’s managed to clean off his own coat and has several other options lined up in his closet? It’s warm. It’s water resistant. It’s been raining here. It’s just comfortable. 

“Gonna have to go back?” Croz asks from the other side of the lab at his own work station. Gale jumps.

”What?”

”To Wyoming. I mean, you said you wanted to get it all taken care of in one trip, but sounds like you got waylaid by some baby cows. Do you think you’ll have to go back?”

Gale remembers a week ago, when he thought he’d go to the funeral, sign the ranch over to Rosie and John, and never have to think about any of it again. Best laid plans. “No, I think I’ll probably end up going back a few times. I’ve got friends who want to buy it but it’s not quite the easy transfer I thought it would be.”

Croz nods sagely. “Nope, never is. When my granddad died you would not believe the mess he left. My mom and her siblings are still fighting over it, and—“

Croz continues to talk. Gale tunes him out, which might be rude, but when Croz gets on one he can go for a while. He goes back to troubleshooting the modeling program and hums here and there in response to Croz. 

“So anyway,” Croz says ten minutes later, “she ended up marrying him!”

”Huh?” Gale asks. “Who?”

”The realtor! He’s my stepdad now, which is weird, I’ve only met him, like, three times, but she’s happy I guess. Hey, Cleven, who knows! Maybe you’ll meet the love of your life through all this just like she did!”

”Yeah,” Gale says. “I doubt it.”

When he gets home, he putters. Sweeps the floor, washes Benjamina’s food bowl and deep cleans her litterbox while she watches closely from the bathroom counter, tail swishing. Goes through his fridge and throws away everything that’s expired or about to expire. Reorganizes his bookshelf by subject and author’s last name. 

He wants a cigarette.

He thinks about calling Marge. Thinks about texting Rob, who he owes dinner or a drink or something because he checked in on Benjamina while he was gone. That could be a good distraction, at least…but no, he’s not in the mood. He adds it to the to-do list on the magnetic whiteboard on his fridge, though, because he really does owe him. Rob reminded him of that in the note he left for Gale to find when he got home—Princess is good, she only bit me once. You’re almost out of litter. You owe me dinner. Hope WHYoming wasn’t too terrible. Kisses!

He makes dinner. Roasts a sweet potato and some chickpeas with harissa paste, puts some rice in the cooker, chops up a bunch of kale that’s starting to wilt. Makes some lemon-tahini dressing to put on top of it all. Stares down at the bowl when it's finished and feels less than enthused about eating it. He thinks about John’s chili and his stomach growls. Maybe he should think about eating more meat again.

He manages half his food and puts the leftovers away, then flops on the couch next to Benjamina and pulls out his laptop. He’s intending to pull up his lesson plans for the next week, make sure he’s got everything he needs ready to go, maybe poke away at the shreds of his dissertation if he gets the inspiration, but pretty soon he’s opening up Google. He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys, and then he types John Egan into the search bar.

Instagram and Facebook and Linkedin profiles, news articles, sports stats, papers in a psychology journal, obituaries, a dentist in Iowa—he scans through them all and none of them appear to be his John Egan. He adds Casper WY to the search and the only relevant result is Staghorn’s own website and a news article about the rise of regenerative pasture management in central Wyoming. He backspaces, adds Wisconsin instead, taps his fingers on the keyboard for a moment trying to remember if John ever said where he actually grew up. Doesn’t remember. Backspaces again, types UW-Madison. Hits search.

Bingo.

First, a webpage for the lab John worked in—Jeffery Lab: Exploring plant adaptations and society. Gale clicks through it and finds the page detailing the rice research John worked on. He’d started his Master’s studies in this lab, too. The website still lists him as a graduate student. There are a few short articles, a link to a paper he’d helped author in 2014. 

The next result is an article about him winning some sort of national undergraduate scholarship. Then, a Facebook profile. Gale clicks on it, but it’s private and Gale doesn’t have an account anyway, so all he can see is a grainy profile photo and a few basic bits of information. John, looking much, much younger, grinning into the camera around a long piece of grass, arm slung around a shorter man with dark hair and an impish grin. Born in Manitowoc, WI. Lives in Viroqua, WI. Works at Bad Axe Farms. Studied at UW—Madison. Gale tries to click on the picture, to zoom in, but it won’t let him. 

Next: Bad Axe Farms Viroqua WI.

Another Facebook profile, this time a public business profile. A background photo of a sloping green pasture scattered with cattle, a maple-covered hill rising behind it. Autumn, the trees on the hill blazing bright orange reflecting the sunset that colors the clouds pink. The profile picture is a cartoon drawing of a red-eyed chicken wielding an battle axe in its beak and two carrots clutched in its talons, BAD AXE FARMS emblazoned below it. 

The last post is from 2021, promoting a flash tomato sale. Before that, advertising for vegetable and meat shares for the 2021 season. Gale scrolls down. Photos of vegetables, of cattle and chickens and pigs. Videos of turkeys and fainting goats with familiar laughter echoing in the background. Posts about sales and egg shares and farmer’s market dates. A video of someone facing away from the camera, playing a jazz song on sax to a group of cattle. A few crew photos, John and the other man in his profile picture with their arms around other dirty, sunburnt, beaming people. The first posts are from 2015. There’s no indication of what happened, of why the posts stopped. 

There’s an Instagram account too, but it’s private. A website, equally frozen in time. There’s a MEET YOUR FARMERS tab in the drop-down menu, but it returns a 404 error message when he clicks on it. Clicking through the rest of the website, he finds a place to sign up for a newsletter, links to their Facebook and Instagram, descriptions of their meat and veggie shares, headshots of laying hens with their names and likes/dislikes listed (Gigi. Likes: lettuce, grubs, eating other chicken’s eggs. Dislikes: Thunderstorms, bedtime, Ethel), and a photo of a young-looking John grinning from behind a farmer’s market stand, wearing a stained shirt that says LETTUCE TURNIP THE BEET and holding up a cooler full of cuts of meat. His biceps are bulky and straining with the weight under the thin material of the t-shirt, his curls are longer and wilder, and his nose is red and peeling with sunburn. Gale zooms in on the biceps before he catches himself and exits the website entirely. 

He copies and pastes the listed address for the farm into google maps and Street View takes him to a shaded gravel driveway turning off a county road, a red mailbox, a wooden gate. When he zooms in from above, it’s all just green pasture, a red barn, a small house. No rows of vegetables as far as he can tell, or signs of animals. 

His phone rings. He jumps so hard his laptop slides off his lap and clatters to the floor. Benjamina jerks awake from her nap and jumps to the back of the couch, tail puffed and swishing. She hisses at him. Swearing, he grabs his laptop and checks it over for damage while he fumbles for the phone.

”Hello?” He snaps without even checking who’s calling.

”You sound like you’re in a mood,” Marge says.

”Oh, Marge—I—no, you just caught me at a bad time. Hang on a sec.” He carefully closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table on a pile of books. Rights the sofa cushion next to him and runs a hand through his hair. “Alright, sorry. How are you?”

”Just fine,” she says, amused. “And what are you up to?”

”Just…just working on my dissertation.”

”On a Friday night? Come on, live a little.”

He huffs a laugh. “You know me. You know me well enough to know you’d catch me if you called, anyway.”

“You are predictable, darling. Anyway, just calling to see how the rest of your week went.”

”Fine. And?”

”And what?”

”I know you’re not just calling to ask how the rest of my week went. Come on. Did something happen?”

She sighs. “Honestly, Gale. Ok, well, as it happens, I do have something to ask you about, but I also genuinely want to know how you’re doing.”

“Okay, get it over with.”

”Jesus, it’s not bad. I just emailed you some stuff. Some plans for the buildings Bucky’s buddy wants to build and the formalized contract between us and Helen and Tatty, for them to operate their business as part of the LLC while still remaining separate. You need to sign off on the contract, since it's technically a three-way agreement between them, the LLC, and the ranch. And I just want to hear what you think of the plans, but remember please keep an open mind, Kenny knows what he’s doing—I linked his website, too. Look through it.”

”Okay,” he says.

”Okay?”

”Yeah, anything else?”

”Yes, Gale, how was your week? Are you doing okay?”

”I’m fine,” he says automatically. “It was fine.”

She’s silent on the other end of the phone. If there’s anyone who knows how to wait him out, it’s Marge. He sighs. “The data modeling program is giving us trouble and so we’re behind on some of the latest observations. It’s going to reflect badly on me.”

”Why?”

”Wh—I don’t know, it just will. It’s my program. Paulina’s going to be disappointed with the lack of progress when she gets back into the lab on Monday.”

”Mmm,” Marge hums. “Well, it’s not your fault the program’s glitching. Is it working for other people?”

”The only other person in the lab this week was Croz, and he doesn’t use it. He updated my files earlier this week though and said it was fine. I don’t know.”

”And how’s your star?”

”Still dying. No supernova yet. We’re getting loss of electromagnetic radiation and luminosity at an accelerating rate, though.”

”Soon, then,” she says.

”Maybe.”

”Very exciting,” she says. Only because she is Marge, who actually has an inkling of what this all means, does Gale believe she means it.

”And how are you?” She asks again. “I know the trip was…intense.”

”I’m fi—“

”Gale.”

”Really, Marge. I’m—I’m okay. Just still workin’ through everything, I guess.”

”Yeah. Look, Gale, I’ve been thinking a lot the last couple of days. And I—I think I’m being selfish.”

”How do you mean?”

”We want to keep things going. We don’t want to lose the ranch. We have all these ideas. And sure, we all think they’re gonna work, but in the end we’re asking you to take on a burden for us, and that’s not fair. Jack and Chick are right, we could put the ranch up for sale tomorrow and you’d probably be debt-free in a few months when it sells. Because it’s yours, Gale, not ours. And your dad—he didn’t—I don’t know. This is what you’ve got from him, and if selling and not being in debt and walking away with an extra million or so sounds good to you, then we don’t really have a leg to stand on, do we?”

He sighs. “What are you trying to say, Marge?”

”I’m trying to say, I feel like we’re doing the exact same thing James did to you. Forcing you to stay tied to this place when all you’ve been trying to do for the last decade is cut yourself free. And all I’ve wanted for you was to be free, until suddenly your freedom meant I couldn’t have what I wanted. And that makes me feel fucking sick with myself.”

”I—Marge, it isn’t the same.”

”How? Explain to me how it isn’t the same!”

“It’s—well, first of all, you’re not guilt tripping, threatening, demanding, or yelling at me about it. You told me your idea, gave me your reasoning, and asked me to support you but still left it up to me. I decided to support you. I’m well aware I could have fucked you all over and told Chick I wanted to sell as soon as I heard about the debt.”

”But that’s the thing, Gale, you wouldn’t have been fucking us over! We’re fucking you over by asking you to do this!”

”No, you’re not!” He says, voice rising over Marge’s continued protests. “Fuck, Marge! I don’t want to get rid of the ranch, either! Okay?”

He’s not sure how to put it into words, the mix of pain and longing he feels whenever he thinks of the ranch, of the view of Casper Mountain, of the feel of a baby calf breathing under his hands. That he hasn’t thought about the ranch in years, except for that he thinks about it all the time, pictures the pastures and the mountain when he closes his eyes, dreams of that sky full of stars. That, in the month since his father’s death, the stubborn determination to never go back has shifted into a protective, stubborn determination not to let it go. Or maybe that was always there, in the background, drowned out by the presence of James inevitably tied to all the rest of it. That, despite it all, he’d never really pictured a life where the ranch was no longer in the Cleven name, where it wasn’t a sure thing, a permanent entity, regardless of whether he himself ever set foot on it again.

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, quietly, “We should buy it off you now.”

He sighs, tired. “Yeah? And how are you gonna do that, Marge? All that money y’all have?” He knows immediately it came out too cruel, winces at himself. “Sorry.”

”We could take out loans for that, too. At least it would all be on us, then.”

He sighs again. “Not gonna let you sink yourselves out of some misplaced guilt. I already said I’d just give it to you, anyway, if you’d let me, but now I don’t want to because what I’d be giving you is a money pit. What we’re doing works for me. I’m not gonna say I’m not stressed about it, but it works, okay?”

She makes a frustrated noise. “We’re gonna buy it as soon as we can, whatever you say. Our priority is buying it, loans and all, not paying off the loans. And you’d better not be putting any of your own money towards those repayments.”

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t got any of my own money to put towards them, Margie.”

”And see, that’s the other thing—you oughta let us pay you more in rent. At least get something out of it while you need it. I know how much you make, and how much that apartment costs you every month.”

”And how’s that gonna help you buy it sooner?” He asks. He doesn’t tell her that every cent they pay him in rent he’s putting straight towards loan repayment, no matter what she has to say about it. He’s not taking their money for himself, that’s for damn sure. “Please. I don’t—it’s not a burden if it’s you, okay?”

”Gale—“

”No, it’s not. Not if it’s you all. We take care of each other, right? My dad didn’t do shit for me, but you have. Always. Rosie has, Benny has, hell, even John’s helped me out more than James ever did and I met him five days ago. I care about you and I care about that land and the fact that you’re even thinking about any of this proves you’re not the same as he is.”

Marge is quiet for a moment, and her voice sounds wet when she finally speaks again. “Galey,” she says.

”Margie,” he answers. “It’s okay. Okay?”

She sniffs. “It’s not. It’s really not, Gale, but okay.”

”It’s okay for now,” he amends. “If I wanted out, really wanted out, I’d work something out with Chick and y’all, okay? But for now, I’m in the position to try to help make this happen, and I want to. So don’t keep losing sleep.”

”I’ll still lose sleep,” she says. “So’ll you.”

”Yeah,” he answers. “Probably. Anyway. Should let you go. Betting you have Friday night plans.”

She laughs a little. “Rosie’s making shepherds pie. We might get crazy and split a bottle of red.”

”Tell him hi.”

”You wanna tell him?”

”Not tonight,” he says, exhausted by their conversation. To her credit, Marge doesn’t push, nor does she take it as an insult to her husband. “Listen, we’re talking about the second week of July for the Teton trip. Little earlier than normal but it’s when we think we can all get away. You think you can make it?”

He hums, reaching for the throw blanket on the back of the couch and draping it over his lap. Benjamina immediately picks herself up and parks herself on top of him, ire forgotten. “I don’t know, you know the lab—“

”You promised you wouldn’t miss another year,” she interrupts.

”I also promised I would finish my damn dissertation this summer.”

”Gotta take a break sometime, Gale.” 

“Who’s all going, then?”

”Just the usual. Me and Rosie and Benny and Rich. Benny wants to talk Johnny into coming this year, but I’m not sure he’ll go for it. Oh, and Bucky.”

”John?”

”Yeah, he came last year, had a good time.”

”He said it was horrible.”

”He exaggerates.”

”Mmm,” Gale acknowledges. “I’ll think about it. Check in with Paulina.”

”Good,” she says. “I think it would be good for us all.”

“Mmm. How is John?” He asks without thinking. Marge pauses for a moment, silence stretching down the line.

”He’s…fine?” She says, confused. “Why? Is there a reason you think he wouldn’t be?”

”I meant, how are the calves?” Gale fumbles, trying to save face. “That John is taking care of.”

He can picture the amusement on Marge’s face. “The calves are also fine.”

”Good,” he mumbles, scratching at Benjamina’s ears. She presses her little head into his belly, purring. “That’s good. Real good. And the mom?”

”You know you could text him, Gale. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear from you.”

”I don’t even know him,” he says quickly. 

“Well,” she says. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since you left.”

“What’s he saying?” He asks, embarrassingly quickly. She laughs at him.

”Marge, come on.”

”No, no, I’m serious! He won’t shut up about how good you did with the calves, how we’re all lucky you saved our asses by checking in on her that night, how you had it completely handled without any help at all.”

”Well, that’s a lie.”

”To hear him tell it, he stood in the corner and watched while you single handedly delivered two calves and brought one back from the dead. Also, I caught him reading a book on astronomy a few days ago. He said you talked to him about the stars and he got curious.”

“He likes sci-fi,” Gale says weakly, remembering the copy of Dune on the floor of the barn. “Probably just some supplementary information.“

”Gale,” she says firmly. “I think you should text him and ask him about the calves.”

”Mmm,” he mumbles, noncommittal. 

“And,” she adds, “I haven’t told you, but I am grateful. For the calving. That you checked in. You did save our asses, and I know it probably wasn’t easy on you. I’m proud of you.”

”Nothin’ to be proud of,” he says quietly, twisting the fibers of the throw blanket.

”Yes, there is,” she says simply. “Look, I’ll let you go. Text Bucky. Get a flight for July. Look at those plans I sent you. Make sure you get some sleep tonight. I love you.”

”Yes Ma’am,” he says, smiling despite himself. “Love you, too.”

He doesn’t get much sleep that night. Instead, he thinks of John reading an astronomy book and watching the stars and feels a tightness in his chest that he can’t quite name, but that keeps him awake deep into the early hours of morning. 

Another two weeks pass, two weeks of finally getting the modeling working right (it was a glitch on the program’s end, not his, to his relief. Paulina was still annoyed at the lack of progress made in her absence), of teaching, of a rather depressing meeting with his dissertation committee in which he was gently reproached for having so very little of it written. It’s the weekend, he’s grading midterms, and his mind keeps wandering to the ranch, the calves, whether the snow is all melted, if the first tiny buttercups are blooming in the pasture. He still hasn’t asked about time off in July, but he wants to go. July feels too far off, even. He wants to go back now, to make dinner with Marge and Rosie and to see the strange squat cabins with roofs made of grass that John’s friend is building and to eat at Tatty and Helen’s restaurant and just to be around all of the people who know. Who he doesn’t have to explain himself to, or give the context of his entire childhood to in order to explain why he’s still attached to a ranch he’s told everyone here he hates. 

It’s not as if he’s isolated, or at least as if anyone is causing his perceived isolation besides himself. Croz is kind, intuitive enough to know Gale’s struggling and to stop asking questions when Gale stops answering. He brings him more burritos, and Gale brings him Americanos in return. Sandra offers quiet camaraderie and her data sets when Paulina snaps at him in the lab. James Douglass, the lab’s newest Master’s student, invites Gale climbing with him and his buddies after he sees Gale’s climbing shoes stuffed in the front of his backpack, and Gale actually goes. He’s gotten so used to climbing alone that he almost gets vertigo on the ropes, used to the shorter bouldering routes. James is cheerful and excited and his buddies are nice—Gale gets into a conversation with a guy named Everett, who’s a search and rescue pilot with an endless supply of entertaining stories, and they exchange numbers. He buys Rob dinner at a fusion sushi restaurant in Mission Bay that Rob loves and he hates and goes to Rob’s apartment after, where they fuck and its fun and simple as always, and its been awhile, and it doesn’t take his mind off…well, anything; but it’s still nice. Rob makes him coffee in the morning and kisses both his cheeks and it makes him feel a little less lonely.

But his thoughts slide back towards Wyoming more often than not, thoughts of the ranch and the money and Marge and Rosie rising every night as he tries to fall asleep. And other things, too. He wonders how Benny and Johnny the veterinarian are. He wonders if Alex has seeded the pastures yet, and what seeds he’s using. He wonders about John. He wonders about John and the boy in his profile picture and the farm he used to run and all the smiling people who worked on it. He wonders about John and how he ended up in Casper. He wonders about John.

He pulls out his phone. Thumbs to John’s contact and types out a text, hits send before he can think too hard about it.

How are the calves?

And the mom?

He slaps the phone facedown on the bed next to him as soon as he hits send and goes back to grading exams. After a moment, he picks it back up and silences it. Benjamina pauses in her meticulous washing of her paws to look at him, judgement in her gaze. He sticks out his tongue at her. She goes back to her bath.

He tries to focus on the exams. He teaches an undergraduate astronomy class and a seminar in stellar dynamics and, while the seminar is one of his favorite parts of the week, the general astronomy class can get old. It’s a huge class, all declared and prospective astronomy and astrophysics majors, and it's mostly a bunch of overwhelmed sophomores who are trying to get through advanced calculus and physics classes and labs at the same time. The midterm test scores show that a significant number of them aren’t grasping the concepts, but the class is so huge Gale doesn’t know how to give them the help they need. It’s clear that with this many issues it’s more to do with how he’s presenting concepts than with the individual failings of students. He’s never been comfortable standing in front of a room of two hundred people trying to explain astrophysical theories. He remembers his introductory courses at UW, where there were maybe fifty students in the program, and how the professors and TAs would explain concepts and work with them all to explain if they weren’t making sense. It’s easier to figure out what an individual student needs if you have fifty of them instead of four times that, but the fact that he can’t seem to break through to some of them feels like a personal failure on his part. 

His phone vibrates against his leg. He jumps so hard he accidentally traces a green streak up half the paper he’s correcting—he always uses green pens to grade. Red seems too aggressive. He scrambles for his phone and turns it over.

I said I’d keep u updated and then i left u on read sorry so rude can u forgive me?

there superstars and mama has her usual crowd of ducklings

merle and mabel are handsome as hell best looking babies of the season

u coming in july or what

Attached are two photos—one of two small black cows, one with a white splash on its back leg and the other with a white splotch over its eyes and large ears; the other of the mother cow, back on her feet and walking across the pasture with six babies following her in a line. It’s almost jarring, the difference between the limp, tiny animals that lay in Gale’s lap barely breathing and these creatures. His cheeks feel stretched and he realizes he’s grinning.

Merle and Mabel?

had to give the miracle twins names

That’s a bit sentimental for cattle, John.

i’m a bit sentimental, buck. 

Gale.

whatever you say buck

July?

Maybe. I’m not sure I can get that much time off.

u strike me as a workaholic

I’m a doctoral candidate. Workaholic is in the job description.

Anyway, I’m surprised you’re going given your review of last year’s trip.

wouldn’t miss it. Benny told me its called type 2 fun when u suffer but remember it fondly

they promised it wouldn’t be the same route

Still going to be climbing tits, John.

See now how could i miss out on that

Gale’s not sure why he’s grinning so much. He has to bite his lip to rein it in. 

I’ll do my best. 

I’ll need to come back to the ranch at some point this summer, anyway

Yah u gotta check in on ur kids

???

mabel and merle

Right.

Of course.

Well ill be ready to pick u up from the airport

chauffeur services, fastest in town

I don’t think I need to relive the “fastest in town” experience, actually.

Oh u loved it buck

Sure.

After that first exchange, John texts him almost every day. It’s usually pictures of the cattle, none of which Gale can discern from each other aside from the twins. John seems to know them all, though, has names for some, describes personality traits for others. It’s mind-boggling to Gale that he has that much of a relationship with any of the animals. It reminds him of himself when he was a child, fascinated by the creatures until he realized what happened to them. Where they went when they left. Until his dad shouted the sentimentality out of him. 

Sometimes, rarely, Gale texts first. A picture of Benjamina, who John, once he learns of her existence, asks after daily. An update on the dying star, which John also asks about with enough knowledge Gale can tell he at least read some Wikipedia articles about supernovas, if not an entire book. It makes something warm curl in his stomach, tighten in his throat, having someone like John ask about these things like he cares about them. The way Marge or Rosie care, genuine and without any hint of just humoring him. Sometimes Gale sends him images the telescope captures, the twisting luminosity of the nebula, the spirals of distant galaxies, and tells John where he can find them with his naked eye, just faint specks of light in the dark Wyoming skies. March passes into April and Gale asks what flowers are blooming, asks what Alex planted, and gets back photos of buttercups and glacier lilies, tender sprouts of vetch and clover, the first flush of green on the white branches of the aspen trees. When he talks to Marge, she tells him John has been spending an awful lot of time on his phone lately and Gale pretends to not know why.

There’s a part of him that feels like he’s floating through his days, not really present in his own life. Sometimes he’ll come back to himself in the lab, in a lecture hall in front of two hundred pairs of staring eyes, at the climbing gym with Jamie or cooking dinner and remember that this is his life, here in Oakland, here on campus, here beside salt water and beneath eucalyptus. That the other world of endless pastures and endless sky and the scent of animals is the one he left behind. 

At the end of April the spring fogs start to clear, ceding to blue skies and sun. The stars come out at night, and he watches them from the window, from the tiny balcony that’s really just a fire escape. His orchid blooms. He goes camping at Point Reyes with Jamie and Everett Blakely and their friend Howard who they all call Hambone for some reason and who likes to spend his weekends BASE jumping in Yosemite and has four gold teeth to show for it. Jamie and Everett share a tent and Jamie has a giant tooth-shaped bruise on his neck the next morning and Hambone waggles his eyebrows at Gale over their campfire that night and Gale thinks I could and then thinks of broad, calloused hands and a wide grin and late-night text conversations and sleeps in his own tent. 

On a warm night right before finals week Gale books a ticket to Casper for July 9th and calls John before he really processes what he’s doing. He’s briefly struck dumb when John answers and nearly hangs up on him before his brain catches up to his body and he forces himself to calm down and act normal.

”Buck?” John asks again, sounding slightly confused, because of course he is, Gale’s never called him before, they’ve never talked on the phone, and it’s nearly eleven at night in Wyoming and John was probably asleep—

“Sorry,” Gale blurts.

”Hey, Buck, no apologies. Everything okay?”

Of course John thinks something’s wrong, he probably saw Gale’s name on his phone and panicked because why the hell would Gale be calling him this late at night. “No, yeah, sorry. I just wanted to let you know I got a ticket.”

“A ticket?”

”To come. In July. I’m coming. You’re still going?”

He hears the rustle of fabric through the phone, a fumbling like John’s sitting up in bed and reaching for a light switch. Gale can imagine him, sleep rough and blinking slow, curls a mess. Gale’s barely knows him. Gale’s going insane. “Going to…”

”The Tetons. Sorry. I—did I wake you?”

”Stop apologizing, Buck. I was fallin’ asleep to some terrible TV show, you’ve saved me some brain rot. The Tetons. You got a ticket?” Gale can hear the smile start, growing in his voice as he speaks.

”Yep.”

”When?”

”July 9th. Flying into Casper for a few days and then I’ll drive over with you all. Got a week off.”

“Good for you, Buck. I was worried you’d deprive yourself of a break and I’d have to pick up the pieces of everyone’s devastation. I’m a pretty poor replacement for you, I think.”

Gale’s stomach falls. “You—you’re not gonna go anymore?”

”What? No, I’m definitely going, especially if you are. I just meant, they all missed you last year.”

His stomach eases. “Oh. Okay, good.”

”Sounds like you want me there. You miss me, Buck?” John asks slyly.

”Like a stone in my shoe,” he replies without thinking, and John laughs. 

“You’re gonna have stones in your shoes,” he says. “A whole damn mountain’s worth.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m glad you’re coming. It’ll be good to have you back at the ranch for a few days, too. You tell Marge yet?”

Gale opens his mouth to say yes, and then realizes he hasn’t. He’d told her he’d look at flights, but when he finally booked one, John was the first person he’d thought to tell. His stomach clenches again. “Yeah,” he lies, because he’s too embarrassed to hear John’s reaction to the truth that he hadn’t even thought of Marge when he hit Confirm on the airline’s website. 

Gale is going insane.

”You still there, Buck?”

Gale wrenches his attention back to the man on the other end of the line. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll let you go. I know it’s late there.”

”No worries,” John says. “I’ll talk to you soon, Buck.”

”Yeah,” Gale says. “Talk to you soon.” 

When he hangs up and curls up to try to sleep, the clench in his gut remains. There’s a warmth to it, though, different from the usual knot of anxiety that rests there. Something quietly anticipatory. The next morning he writes the dates he’ll be gone on his kitchen calendar and texts Rob for cat care. It’s two months away, still, but he pulls out his backpacking gear anyway, leaves it in a neat pile in the corner of his room where he can see it before he goes to bed every night, packs and repacks his backpack to see how light and compact he can make it. His back isn’t what it used to be.

The semester wraps up with the usual anticlimactic rush. Most of his students pass his astronomy class, even the stragglers, and he recommends one of his seminar students to Paulina as a potential undergraduate researcher. Sandra defends, her dissertation is approved, and she hosts an “almost a doctor” party at her absurdly nice house in the Berkeley Hills that devolves quickly into drunken revelry. Gale drinks at least seven La Croixes because people keep shoving them into his hands and even allows Sandra to press a shot of Pimm’s on him, because he’s never heard of it before and it's her favorite drink. He takes a single sip and it only reinforces his belief that alcohol just tastes bad. He follows them all to a cocktail lounge for one round anyway, let’s Croz buy him some ginger beer mocktail and buys Sandra a $24 gin concoction, catches Jamie and Everett making out by the bathrooms, and then shells out for an Uber home because the buses have stopped running. He hasn’t been out past midnight possibly since his first year of college, maybe even since Gillette, and he texts John to prove it, since John keeps calling him “old man” for going to bed by eleven every night. 

I’m still up. Just leaving a bar, actually. I can be fun.

To his surprise—shock, really, given its nearing two in the morning in Wyoming—John replies.

never said you weren’t fun buck

im impressed though

whats the occasion

My coworker defended her dissertation today. We’re celebrating.

What are you doing up, anyway?

cant sleep sometimes

we brought the cattle up the mountain today

kinda miss all the damn noise

John answers on the second ring, voice a little hoarse. “Buck?”

”Hey,” he says. “I’m in an Uber heading home. Figured I could make some noise for you ‘til I got there.”

John laughs. “Sweet of you.” 

They’d just talked a few days before, their phone conversations semi-regular after Gale broke the ice. There’s nothing to talk about, not really, no updates, no tidbits about the ranch or the cattle or town gossip Gale hasn’t already heard from either John or Marge. Still, there was something lonely about his text and something quietly on edge about his voice through the phone.

”You okay?” Gale asks.

John sighs. He’s quiet for a moment and Gale thinks he’ll probably deflect, laugh it off like he always does when Gale asks him about himself. Instead, he says, “May’s kinda a rough month for me, sometimes.”

Gale hums. “Yeah?” Inviting more, but not directly asking. 

“Busy. Lots of work. Separating the calves and yearlings from their mamas, which I always feel bad about. Bringing them up to summer pasture. Yeah.”

”It’s a lot,” Gale acknowledges.

”And Kenny’s finished with the first cabins and we’ve got some guests booked starting next week so everyone’s stressed about how it’ll go.”

”Right,” Gale says. He’d heard all of this a few days ago. “That all keeping you up?”

John sighs again. Gale can hear the breeze through the phone, the crunch of footsteps. John’s outside, walking. “Yeah,” he says. “And…I lost a friend of mine in May, years ago now, but it still…comes up, you know.”

Gale lets out a breath, tries to do it silently so John doesn’t hear it. “I’m sorry, John.”

”It was a long time ago,” John says again.

”Still,” Gale says mildly.

”Yeah. Still.” Silence on both of their ends. The crunch of footsteps, the sound of a gate.

”Stars out, John?”

John hums. “So bright I can see my shadow.”

Gale hums. “That’s probably the moon, don’t you think?”

”Think the stars are bright enough here, Buck. But yeah, moon’s showing her face, too.”

“I never asked your favorite constellation.”

John laughs. “Didn’t have a favorite constellation before I met you, Doctor Supernova.”

”Not a doctor yet.”

”Whatever. But you know, I’ve been doing some reading. Got myself a glow in the dark star map and everything, been out here trying to see what I can see. I think I like Pegasus.”

Gale’s smiling, can see the curve of his own cheek out of the corner of his eye. He’s almost home. “Why’s that?”

”What’s not to love about a flying horse? Regular horse is already pretty useful, but a flying one—talk about efficiency. Plus, it’s the closest constellation to a unicorn, and the unicorn is my favorite extinct animal.”

Gale laughs. “An animal’s gotta be real to go extinct, John.”

”You can’t prove to me unicorns weren’t real,” John says. He sounds lighter than he did when he picked up the phone, a laugh resting in the back of his throat. “Think of how freaky some of those dinosaurs were, with all the feathers and horns and shit. I think a unicorn’s not too unbelievable compared to that.”

The driver pulls up in front of Gale’s apartment. Gale gives him a little nod and slides out of the car, dragging his backpack with him and digging for his keys. He realizes he’s wearing John’s jacket, that he puts it on most days without even thinking about it now. It makes him smile more. “Whatever you say. Listen, I’m home. You gonna go to bed?”

”Think I might, Buck.”

”Good.”

”Hey, thanks for calling. Proud of you for staying up past your bedtime. You’ll beat those grandpa allegations yet.”

”You’re the only one alleging anything,” Gale says. Then, “You’re welcome.”

”Night, Buck.”

”Night.”

“We’ve got swing dancing Friday night,” Marge says. “But we can skip it, don’t worry. Or just leave early.”

”Oh, John said he’d pick me up from the airport,” Gale says absentmindedly, wrestling with the straps on his backpack. “Don’t worry about it.”

He can practically hear Marge’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, did he?”

Gale sits back, sighs. “Yes. Don’t make it weird, Marge.”

”I’m not! I’m just confirming: oh, he did. So we’re off the hook. You staying with him, too?”

”Don’t be ridiculous.”

”He’s got a queen bed in that trailer of his.”

”Marge.”

”Alright, alright, I’m just teasing. You know I’m glad you’re getting along now. I was worried there at first, you were being so prickly towards him.”

Gale bristles. “I wasn’t prickly—“

”You were,” she says firmly. “Which was understandable, given the circumstances. I’m just glad things are alright, because I thought you two would get along if you had the chance to, and look—I was right.”

”I still don’t really know him,” Gale says, which tastes like a lie on his tongue as soon as he says it. Marge snorts, apparently in agreement. “Okay, okay—listen, I can stay at the house if it’s easier for you two.”

”No,” Marge says, amusement disappearing. “You said that last time and I could tell it hurt you. We want you with us, and, once again, it doesn’t put us out. As long as you don’t care that there’s a bunch of boxes and a half-finished quilt on the other bed, it’s literally no trouble for us. We just make an extra pot of coffee in the morning and Rosie gets to use you as a test subject for his cooking.”

”He got anything in mind?” Gale asks.

”He wants to try a vegetarian bastilla on Saturday.”

”I don’t even know what that is.”

”Neither do I. Something Moroccan. He’s excited. Don’t deprive him.”

Gale refrains from pointing out that he could come over to eat regardless of where he was sleeping. He doesn’t actually want to sleep at the house again, wants to avoid it completely, if he can. When he thinks of the sweeping pastures, the view of the mountain, the barns and outbuildings and familiar dirt roads, he usually tries to avoid thinking about the house as part of the tableau. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

”Of course. We’re excited to see you.”

”I’m excited to see you, too,” he mumbles. Then, a little embarrassed: “I miss you.”

”Oh,” Marge says, sounding a little surprised he’s admitted it. “We miss you, too. Every day. I still wish we lived—well. I miss when we lived in the same place.”

”Me too,” Gale says quietly. He leans back against the foot of his bed, looking at the little pile of luggage propped against the wall. His backpacking gear, stuffed and cinched into his backpack, his little duffle of clothes, his work backpack with his computer and a few overflowing notebooks because he can’t entirely leave work behind. Benjamina perched on top of the duffle bag, glaring at him because she always knows when he’s about to leave. He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Yeah.”

”Well, I’ve got you for a week,” Marge says. “Gonna savor you while I can.”

Gale snorts. “You’re making me sound like Rosie’s cooking.”

She laughs. He loves her laugh more than any other sound in the world, the way it rings like home. “Gale, baby, you’d be the best recipe he’s got.”

“Buck! Buck!” 

He looks to his left, down the sidewalk outside the Arrivals door, and there’s John with his torso sticking out the window of his truck, waving wildly. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and his nose is sunburnt and he’s grinning so wide the sun glints off his teeth and Gale feels himself grinning back as soon as he lays eyes on him. He’d forgotten quite what that grin looked like, even though he’d taken a screenshot of the bicep photo on the Bad Axe Farm website—and cropped it to John’s face, thank you very much—to use as a contact photo. 

The blurry, outdated image doesn’t compare to the real thing. The real thing is like being hit in the face with a baseball bat and Gale realizes several things about his behaviors and thought processes the last few months in quick succession, all of them culminating in Oh, shit, I might be in trouble.

John gets out of the truck and saunters towards him. His outfit is completed by a pair of worn Wranglers and some Chacos. His feet are a bit dusty, there’s a grass stain on his knee, and, as he steps close and wraps Gale in a hug, he smells the mix of cigarettes and cows and funky musk and pine that has slowly faded from the jacket he gave him over the past few months, the jacket that’s hung carefully in Gale’s closet back in Oakland because he has no intention of giving it back at all. 

He manages to communicate with his limbs just before John starts to pull away and wraps the arm not holding his duffle around John’s back, giving him a little squeeze. John claps him on the back and draws away, but leaves one large hand gripping Gale’s shoulder. Gale’s sweating, overdressed in jeans and boots and a sweatshirt. It’s hot here, muggy, the telltale signs of a summer thunderstorm gathering on the horizon above Casper Mountain, the late afternoon light slanting golden through the heavy-bellied clouds. It smells of chemicals and pine pollen and petrichor and Gale takes a deep breath of it, mixed with John’s scent, and feels something settle deep in his belly. He reaches up, almost unthinking, and grips John’s wrist lightly.

”Buck,” John says, oddly soft, still grinning at him. “It’s good to see you.”

Gale squeezes his wrist lightly, then makes himself let go. “It’s good to see you, too.“ He’s caught in John’s gaze, the crinkles around his eyes—so dark blue they almost mirror the underbellies of the storm clouds. He clears his throat, tears his eyes away. Trouble, trouble, trouble. “Thanks for picking me up.”

”It’s genuinely my pleasure,” John says, and scoops up Gale’s backpack where it’s lying next to his feet. The cutoff t-shirt offers an excellent view of the still respectable biceps. Gale forces his feet to move, following John to the truck. “You don’t have to—“

”I got it, Buck,” John shoots over his shoulder. “Get in. You hungry?”

Gale swings himself up into the truck. He’s plenty tall, but he still has to grip the back of the seat to haul himself in. It’s an F-350, which is generally a truck that Gale feels is too large for anyone to reasonably own, but for some reason he doesn’t have the same urge to roll his eyes as usual. John’s is an older model, the little backseat full of bailing twine and buckets and random tools and a couple of old paperbacks. The interior smells of pine air freshener and stale cigarettes and there’s a collection of rocks, feathers, and dried up plants on his dash and a rosary swinging from the rearview mirror. Gale peels off his sweatshirt and rolls down his window, t-shirt clinging to his back with sweat.

John springs up into the driver’s seat and jams the key into the ignition. He raises an eyebrow at Gale. “So?”

”So what?”

”Hungry?”

”Oh—well, I had a twenty dollar salad at SeaTac, so—“

”Sounds like you’re still hungry.”

”I could eat,” Gale admits. 

John grins at him. “Excellent. You’re veg, right?”

”Mostly, but don’t worry—“

”Oh no, I’ve got you. Now, I’m guessing you’ve got plenty of good Indian food over in Cali, probably wouldn’t even think of trying to find any worth eating in Wyoming, but trust me when I say this place is worth it. Best saag I’ve ever had. Sound good?”

Gale’s stomach rumbles. “I’ll take your word for it,” he says. “Since when was there an Indian place in town?”

John shrugs. “Dunno, but Alex introduced me to it last year and I’m addicted. I’m also starving, so I’m sure glad you decided you’re hungry.” He lurches out of the parking spot and weaves his way into the traffic flowing away from the airport. “How you been, Buck?”

Gale laughs a little. “We just talked two days ago.”

”And? How’s my little lady doing?”

”And, nothing’s changed. Benjamina’s good. She’s angry I left. Spent the last two nights sleeping on top of my luggage.”

”You should bring her next time.”

”Don’t think she’d get on too well with an airplane.”

“Guess I’ll just have to come to her, then,” John says, and Gale has a brief, vivid image of John standing in his apartment, Benjamina in his arms. She’d like him, he thinks. He’d probably let her sit on his lap until his legs fell asleep, probably give great chin scratches and know better than to reach for her fluffy belly if she rolled over to show it to him. 

It’d be nice.

John’s still talking. “—and Mabel are great, can’t wait for you to see them. You’re not gonna believe it, they grow up so fast. Hey, you wanna go up to the mountain with me and Benny if we have time? We’ve gotta check the herd and move them to the next allotment before we leave and we were thinking we’d take the horses out for this one, could be fun.”

Gale almost says no, but then reconsiders. He hasn’t ridden a horse in nearly a decade, and he does miss it. “Maybe,” he says. “I have a feeling Marge and Jack are gonna have me tied down reviewing financial documents or something for most of the next two days.”

”We’ll just have to spring you free,” John says. “All work and no play makes Buck a dull boy.”

Gale snorts. “We’re about to play for five days, John.”

”And moving the cattle is work, so we don’t have nothin’ to argue about, do we?”

Gale shakes his head, still laughing. “Alright, sure. You can explain it to Jack, though.”

”My pleasure,” John says, swinging the truck into a strip mall parking lot. “I love explaining things to Jack. He never seems to appreciate it, though. Here we are.”

The restaurant is tiny, tucked in a long, thin storefront between a gym and a craft store. Gale can smell the spices in the air as soon as he steps out of the truck. The place isn’t too crowded for a Friday night, but it’s early yet, and there’s a pile of takeout orders in plastic bags lined up on the front counter, ready to be collected. The waiter leads them to a table and hands them two menus, rattles off a couple of specials, and leaves to grab them water. John doesn’t even look at his menu.

”It’s the saag all the way for me,” he says. “I‘ll get it with paneer so you can have some. You order whatever. My treat.”

”No, mine,” Gale says.

”Buck—“

”Mine,” Gale says firmly. “As a thank you for picking me up.”

”Don’t gotta thank me, Buck,” John says, a little flush coloring his cheeks. 

“I’ll wrestle you for the check if I have to,” Gale says.

John looks him up and down. “You sure you’d win?”

”Don’t underestimate me.”

John gives him a little salute. “Sir, yes sir. Fine, I’ll recuse myself from battle and get you next time.”

A little thrill goes through him at the possibility of a next time, which is stupid, because this is just grabbing dinner after getting in from a long flight and also he’s bound to eat dinner with John again considering they’re friends now, he thinks, maybe. Or whatever. He’s about to eat dinner with John every day for the next week, even if four of those dinners are just going to be backpacking meals. He’s in trouble.

Gale orders the aloo muttar and they get an order of garlic naan to split. Gale’s still not expecting anything great, no matter how good it smells or how much John talks it up, until he takes his first bite and nearly drops his fork.

John smirks at him. “I told you so.”

Gale takes another bite, tears off a bit of naan, and dips it in John’s curry without asking. It’s even better. “Oh my god,” he says. “Nothing in Casper has any business being this good.”

John grins. “See, the place has its moments. Here, let’s share both.” He pushes his curry into the middle of the table so Gale has easier access.

”You don’t need to—“

”I just saw the face you made when you tasted it, Buck, I do need to. ‘Sides, you’re paying, so I’m sharing. And I’m gonna eat some of yours.” He reaches across and drags Gale’s into the center of the table, too. “Don’t worry, I don’t have cooties or nothin’.”

Gale snorts. “I haven’t heard anyone say the word cooties since middle school, John.“

John smiles across at him, teeth stained slightly green by the saag. “Come on now, Buck. Ain’t you ever gonna call me Bucky?”

Gale rolls his eyes and takes another bite. “Alright, Bucky. You were right. This is incredible.”

”Thanks for acknowledging that. I’ll remember this day as the one where you admitted I was right about something.”

”Don’t get used to it,” he shoots back, but he’s still grinning so hard his face hurts. Doesn’t stop for the rest of the meal, really, nor while he pays the obscenely low bill—another perk of Wyoming over California—or when they leave the restaurant and walk out into a Wyoming summer downpour. Lightning flashes off over the mountains and Gale tips his head back, feels the warm rain dotting his cheeks, his hair, his lashes, breathes in the scent. Dust and wet sage and warm asphalt rapidly cooling. 

John touches the small of his back lightly. “You good?”

Gale opens his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry.” He makes for the truck, John trailing behind him.

”Don’t need to be sorry,” John says. “It’s nice, the rain. One of my favorite things, when it’s been building like this all day and finally breaks. The smell of it.”

”Yeah,” Gale sighs, settling their leftovers on the seat between them. “It doesn’t storm like this, where I am. We get rain and fog and sometimes big storms coming in from the Pacific, but it’s not like this. Smells different. We don’t really get thunderstorms.”

John rolls down the windows as he starts to drive and Gale yelps as the rain pelts his face. “Better enjoy it, then!” John says, sticking a still-bare arm out the window. Gale’s pulled his sweatshirt back on, a little cold now, but John just lets the rain soak his skin, slicking down the dark hair on his forearms and darkening the white of his shirt. 

They’re mostly quiet on the way back to the ranch, full and a little drowsy. John rolls up the windows when they hit the highway and flips on the radio to a country station playing the classics, Merle and Hank and Dolly crooning low in the background. Gale’s almost nodding off, eyes unfocused as the outskirts of town blur by, when Bucky speaks again.

“Can I ask you something, Buck?”

Gale hums, turning his gaze away from the window. John’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched slightly, biting his lip. His posture and expression make Gale sit up straighter, force his fingers to curl, nails digging into his palms. “Yeah?” His voice comes out a little ragged.

John glances over at him. “I maybe should’ve just asked about it over the phone, but I thought—well, I wanted you here with me.”

Gale’s stomach rolls. It almost sounds like—but John looks so serious, unhappy, even. What’s he done wrong, to make John look like that?

”Thing is,” John says, eyes back on the road, “I’ve had some conversations since March. Talked to a few people who have very different memories of your dad than I do.”

Gale’s stomach drops. “John—“ he starts.

John holds up a hand. “Hang on, Buck. We don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t want to, but lemme finish first. I tried talking to Marge, but she said to ask you. Said it wasn’t her decision, what to tell me or not. And I’m just thinking about the—the funeral, and what you said about the gambling, and some other things I noticed over the years but never put much thought to. I want you to know, he never had a bad word to say about you. Didn’t say shit to me. I just knew you didn’t want the ranch.”

Gale’s fists are clenched so tight his knuckles hurt. “Spit it out, John,” he snaps, and John winces. Swallows, and Gale hears the click of it, loud in the quiet between them. 

“He ever hurt you, Buck?”

Gale’s brain whites out for a moment, not expecting a question quite that direct. His first instinct is to say no, then yes, then none of your business. He takes a moment. Swallows. “What kind of hurt do you mean?”

John’s hands tighten infinitesimally on the steering wheel. “He ever get physical?”

”Once,” Gale says, and John exhales something frustrated and angry. Gale continues before he can speak. “After I punched him in the nose. So I s’pose I got physical first.”

John’s fingers loosen on the wheel, tap out a staccato rhythm in time with the drumbeat of I Walk the Line. ”Why’d you punch him?”

He could tell John he doesn’t want to talk about it. He could tell him to go back to Marge and tell her Gale said she could tell him, if he really wanted to know. He could tell him it was none of his business, which would be true, but also false because John is tangled up in this now, whether Gale likes it or not. He’s tangled in the ranch and to untangle the ranch from Gale and James, from the ways they’d pushed each other, their friction rippling out into the land, would be to attempt to untangle the ranch from itself. And John knew a version of James that Gale didn’t, and Gale doesn’t know why. But, he thinks, John should know that James had other faces. John should know why Gale walked away from the ranch, should know why Gale screamed at him outside of a church during a funeral.

And there’s something else—Gale has talked about this to so few people, really. His mother, in the aftermath, as she demanded to know what happened. Marge, in the hospital later. A therapist a few years ago, back when he’d had the time to take advantage of the Berkeley mental health program and thought it might help him. Gale doesn’t talk to many people, period. But in the last three months, he’s started talking to John. Talking to John more than he talks to most people in his life. 

Because, Gale realizes, he trusts him. Because of the thing curling in his gut, because of that trouble he’s in.

“He came back late one night, real late. It was morning, really, I’d just gotten up to start getting the feed for the cattle, cause I knew he wasn’t home to do it. So I was leaving the house right as he was pulling in, driving like a maniac. I ignored him, I didn’t want to fight. I went out and loaded the truck with the hay and started to drive towards the pasture, and I noticed him coming out of the barn with a horse on a lead. My horse. My dad was never big on horses, he preferred ATVs, but I always liked them. So for my fifteenth birthday, he and my mom helped me buy one. We had a couple older ones, too, but I wanted my own to train and ride. Still paid for about seventy percent of her with my own money, but they helped and I was so excited about it.

“And so I saw him leaving the barn with her, and I knew, I just knew. I jumped out of the truck and went over to him and asked him what the hell he was doing, and tried to grab my horse from him. He was still so drunk, he barely clocked I was talking to him at all. He had this way about him, though, when he was drunk. All calm and easy, like nothing was wrong, like he was the only one making sense in the world even as he was practically falling over himself. He never slurred or anything. Tricked a lot of people into thinking he was sober when he wasn’t. 

“Anyway, he just brushed me out of the way. Said something like, I’m sorry but I’ve got to take this horse. Made a bet and lost, gotta pay it off. Some bullshit. And I just lost it. Started screaming at him. Told him he’d take my horse over my dead body, told him he was stealing from me, that it was my money, that everything he did was stealing from me and my mom and the ranch. Told him if he didn’t stop gambling he’d lose everything he cared about. A century of work and commitment, all the blood, sweat and tears our family put into it, he was going to lose it all and it would be his own fault. And he wasn’t listening to me, just kept walking, and I was so furious—I punched him. Right in the face. Knocked him over and when he was sitting on the ground all stunned I grabbed the horse’s lead and took her back to the barn. I didn’t hear him coming after me, and I was putting her back in her stall when he hit me. He had a mean right hook. Smashed me in the cheek and I didn’t know it was coming, so it knocked me face first into a post and then I hit my head hard on the ground when I fell.”

John’s looking at him now, mouth open, brows furrowed. Gale can’t look back, can’t watch him, can’t stop talking or he won’t start again.

“He just left me there. Took my horse and drove her into town and my mom found me a half hour later when I didn’t come in for breakfast. Fractured my cheekbone and gave me a concussion. Had to stay in the hospital overnight ‘cause they were worried about a brain bleed.” He huffs a laugh because it’s funny, it really is. He’s the only one who thinks so, but who cares? “He really might have taken that horse over my dead body, for all he gave a shit. Probably didn’t even realize what he’d done.”

”Jesus,” John breathes.

Gale laughs again and it sounds like a wheeze, like a strangled thing. He should stop talking, John probably doesn’t need to know all these details, but he can’t.

”And that night was the last night he ever gambled, as far as I know. He gave my fucking horse to whoever he promised her to and he sobered up and then he came to my hospital room with a bag of McDonald’s and told me he appreciated my honesty. Didn’t apologize or nothing, just gave me a Big Mac and never said a word more about it. But he stopped gambling, and that’s when he started to drink less, too. And then—and then, he uses that—that sacrifice he made of quitting gambling away all our money, when I tell him I want to go to school instead of stay on the ranch three years later, and again when I tell him I don’t want the ranch at all, that I’m not gonna come back and take over from him.” 

He finally turns to John, whose eyes are not on the road, still latched on Gale. He’s breathing hard, panting a little around the flood of words. “Ironic, isn’t it? It would have worked out better if he hadn’t listened. He wouldn’t have had some bullshit to hold over me, and I wouldn’t have to deal with inheriting a debt-ridden ranch I never wanted. Should have just kept my mouth shut and let him sell my horse and every other goddamned thing we had until there wasn’t anything left to inherit at all.”

“Buck,” John says softly. “You’re bleeding.”

Gale finally closes his mouth and looks down at his hands, clenched into fists. There’s a little streak of rusty blood trailing from his right hand where his nails dig in. John reaches over, ever so slowly, giving plenty of time for Gale to pull away. He doesn’t. He lets John’s calloused fingers loosen his own, smooth away the trickle of blood, soothe the bright red half moon on his palm where he cut himself.

”Need to trim my nails, I guess,” he mumbles.

”You didn’t hit first,” John says. “Sounds like he was beating you down for years, and you finally hit back. And then he folded immediately.”

Gale scoffs. John still doesn’t know, doesn’t understand the full context, not really. How can Gale explain the twenty nine years of anger and rupturing and that undercurrent of devotion that never quite ran dry? How can he explain James Cleven to John? How can he explain James Cleven to himself?

John’s hand tightens on his for a moment before he lets go, leaving Gale’s hand cold and tingling, the sting from the cut registering. 

“I mean it, Buck,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad he changed enough to realize the value of what he had in front of him and invest in it. I understand he came real close to losing the ranch more than once, and I’m glad he didn’t, and I’m glad I found it, and I’m glad it brought me to you.”

”He was a gambler ‘til the end, John,” Gale says, too overwhelmed to even acknowledge the last part of John’s statement. “Loans and investments, they’re just the legal version of that addiction.”

”We’ll figure it out, Buck,” John says, firm and certain. “I know we will. I know you said I’m just a gambler, too, but I really do believe that.”

”Don’t count on it,” he replies, but he feels his lips twitch a little. It’s silent for a moment, just the drumming of the rain on the roof and the squeak of the wiper blades. He swallows again. “Thanks, Bucky.”

John looks at him again. “What for?”

He lets his lips twitch again, lets a little smile through for John. “For listening.”

John looks surprised for a minute, then smiles back, that wide, guileless grin. “You just tell me when you wanna talk, Buck. I’ll sit right down to hear it, whatever it is.”

“Watch out. Might get me talking about the heat signatures of supernovas next, and nobody wants to listen to that.”

John just keeps smiling, eyes crinkling. “Well, as it happens, I’m into astrophysics now. Some genius I know turned me on to the stars. So you just try me, Buck. I’ll be here.”

And Gale believes him.

Chapter Text

Gale’s first morning back dawns bright and warm, last night’s rain a fading memory. It’s already hot at seven when he meets Benny and John at the barn to go up to move the cattle.

He runs a slow hand over his horse’s flank, resting his head lightly on the edge of the saddle. She’s a big beautiful bay roan by the name of Bonnie Raitt, gentle and placid. She’d snuffled curiously at Gale as he heaved the saddle onto her back and tightened the straps, mouthed at her bit, snorted into his hand and left a string of greenish saliva. 

He hasn’t been on the back of a horse in over a decade. It’s like riding a bicycle, probably, and he’s not nervous, probably, except for that the horse is tall and warm and all animal muscle and the last time he’d been on a horse was the night before he left for Gillette and he’d ridden so deep into the pines he wasn’t sure he’d come back.

That was a different horse, a different life. Getting on the back of this one feels a bit like pulling the curtain back on a whole lot of shit he’d shoved away and diving in headfirst.

“You good?” John asks from behind him. He’s already on his horse, a tall chestnut with a chest as broad as his. He perches there easy, one hand on his hip, the other coiled loose around the reins, hat pulled low to block the sun from his eyes. 

”Fine,” Gale says, and pulls himself up into the saddle. He adjusts himself a little, testing the length of the stirrups, the tightness of the straps. Feels good. Bonnie shakes her head a little and Gale pats down her neck gently, soothing.

Benny comes out of the barn with a couple of saddlebags, securing them on his own horse and taking her reins to lead her out of the gate. Bonnie, well trained, follows readily. When Gale passes Benny, Benny hands him a hat—black felt, sweat stained, a feather tucked in the band. Gale’s pretty sure it was his dad’s.

”Gotta look the part,” Benny says.

”I got a hat,” Gale says, gesturing at the Berkeley baseball cap he’d slapped on that morning.

”You’ll burn,” Benny says warningly. Gale sighs and takes the hat, tucking his baseball hat away in a saddlebag. It fits his head just right, which is annoying. But Benny’s right. Better sun coverage. 

Gale turns slightly as Bonnie continues out the gate and catches John’s eye. John’s watching him, a little smile on his face. “You make a good cowboy, Buck!” John calls, and Gale just snorts and shakes his head. 

They’re riding up to meet Rosie and Alex, who got up even earlier to go fix a fence in the allotment they’re moving the cattle to. John seems confident that they’ll be able to herd the cattle with the five of them on horses, Meatball, and Alex’s new border collie Redtail, who’s still in training as a cattle dog. Gale can’t really imagine her being ferocious enough to get a stubborn bull moving based on how wiggly and delighted she’d been to meet him the night before, but she sure liked to run. Alex is calling today a “training mission”. Marge is on call to bring the four wheeler up if they had any issues or breakaways. John kept saying they’d have it taken care of by lunchtime, but Gale is prepared for a day in the saddle. Excited, even. To be on the mountain on the back of a horse again would be strange, certainly, but…nice. Something he never thought he’d experience again, and had half-convinced himself he didn’t want. 

Gale holds Bonnie back, waiting for John and Benny, who closes the paddock gate and swings up on his own horse. John gestures towards him. “You wanna lead?”

”I—oh, no, you can.”

”Nah, come on Buck. You know the way. You were riding this trail way before Benny and I ever did, right?”

”I don’t—“

”Yeah you do,” Benny says casually. “Go on. Bucky here wants to see the view from behind, anyway.”

Gale’s face flames. Shockingly, so does John’s, an endearing flush spreading from his ears across his cheekbones. “Alright, alright, let’s get going. We’re running late.”

Benny snickers, jerks his head at Gale to get going. Gale digs his heels into Bonnie’s flanks and, after a don’t tell me what to do moment of stubbornly continuing to chomp at the grass next to the road, she lifts her head and starts an easy walk up towards the mountain. It’s clear she knows the way, and he lets the reins go a little slack, only tightening them when she starts to slow down and give the grass interested looks again.

The upper pastures bloom with clovers and phacaelias and wildflowers Alex doesn’t purposefully cultivate, but which he welcomes into the mix anyway. The ranch looks greener than Gale can ever remember seeing it in mid-July. Whatever it is they’re doing, it’s working. 

The trail narrows as they cross out of the ranch property and up onto the mountain. They wind their way through stands of ponderosa, the scent of warm needles and butterscotch heavy in the air, pollen dusting the leaf litter and drifting in the air. John takes a long sniff, throwing his head back. “You smell butterscotch or vanilla, Buck?”

”Butterscotch.”

”You gotta get your nose checked, it’s vanilla.”

”I never smell neither,” Benny says. “Just smells like pine trees to me.”

”You have no imagination, Bernard,” John says, spurring his horse to come up beside Bonnie. “That’s why I like Buck better than I like you.”

”Yeah, that’s why,” Benny says under his breath, but John ignores him. He keeps up a constant stream of chatter that Gale half tunes out, focused on the mountain unfolding in front of them. He remembers camping up in these high pastures with the cattle and his dad, more for the fun of it than because the cattle needed keepers. His dad building fires, letting him roast a few marshmallows on sticks he‘d carved into points. He’d told Gale the stories of the stars up here, tracing the constellations with a finger. He taught Gale to fish in these streams, netting trout for their dinner while Gale caught minnows and got his line tangled. They’re good memories, most of them. James always seemed more relaxed up on the mountain, out in the woods, than he was on the ranch or in town. One time, he’d told Gale that he wanted to work for the Forest Service when he was a kid, go out on pack strings and build trails and fight fire. That was a far cry from the James Cleven Gale knew, who cursed out the feds on the daily, but sometimes Gale caught glimpses of a different type of man up here on the mountain.

They find Rosie and Alex amongst the cattle, leaning up against a fence line where a few cracked posts lie on the ground from their morning’s repair work. The herd is scattered loosely across the meadow beyond, munching down the grass and wildflowers indiscriminately. John kicks his mare into a trot and rides to meet them, swinging down smoothly at the fence and sliding through the gate.

”There’s my girl!” He calls, weaving around the cattle like he belongs there, murmuring greetings and patting flanks like he can tell them all apart. He probably can. “Come on, Buck, come meet the kids!”

Gale swings off Bonnie a little more cautiously, wincing at the pain in his knees and ass. It’s been a long time since he’s sat in a saddle for that long, and he’ll definitely be feeling it for the next few days. He gets a clap on the back from Alex and a quick hug from Rosie, then follows John into the pasture. He’s crouched down next to a calf with a white face. Mabel.

She’s three times the size she was when she fell into Gale’s lap all those months ago, limp and not breathing. Behind her, a calf with a white splotch on its haunch capers with another calf, chasing each other around a large cow. Gale can’t tell the cows apart, but he’s willing to bet that’s the mama cow, the one who nearly bled to death. She looks fine, standing tall and strong, unbothered by the calves playing around her, head bent to the grass and tail placidly swishing away flies.

John beckons him closer. “Come on, come say hi. They look great, don’t they? Real strong calves. She’s a little small, but she’s a real firecracker. Aren’t you?” He pats her flank, runs his hand over her sloping back. Gale steps closer, holds out a hand. She skitters away from him, but John steadies her with a low cooing noise, and she lets him approach. He places a hand on her head, runs it down her nose. Feels her breath, hot and wet against the palm of his hand. 

Something twists in his chest. Pride, maybe. Grief, maybe. The knowledge that he’d pulled this creature into the world, watched her take her first breath, open her eyes. Had thought she would die, and yet here she is, and her brother and mother, too. The knowledge that he hadn’t failed, that he’d done good. That these animals were here in front of him partially because of him. 

It’s a strange feeling, one he wants to shy away from, put away. He lets himself focus on John instead, on his ease with the animals, on the way the mother cow has barely even lifted her head as a man walks among her calves, touching them. Thinks of the trust that implies between John and these animals. Wonders, again, how he does it without getting attached. Or, how he manages that attachment when the slaughter comes around.

He manages a smile. “She’s beautiful,” he says quietly. “They both are.”

”They are,” John smiles like a proud parent. “Doin’ great. Mama’s doin’ good, too, aren’t you, mama? Aren’t you, sweet girl?” He pats her flank, too, and she flicks her ears, lifts a back leg to brush at him. “Alright, alright, I get you,” he murmurs, stepping away and heading back towards the gate. Gale trails after him. “I was worried about her, but Johnny did a good job. She’s not gonna carry a calf again, but she’s good for the herd. She takes any orphaned calves as her own, and she’s been around so long she’s kind of the alpha. Stands off against the bulls if she decides she’s not having it. Impressive lady.”

”I’m glad she’s okay,” Gale says. “That they all are. Thanks for—thanks for keeping me updated on them. I’ve appreciated it.”

”You gotta stay updated on the kids!” John says, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’re gonna hang on to them as breeding stock, I think. That’s what I’m gunning for, at least.”

”If the lady puts on some pounds,” Rosie says. “Don’t wanna make a tiny thing like her carry too many calves.”

”She’ll grow,” John says confidently. “Be just like her mama, mark my words. Alright, should we get this show on the road?”

Rosie claps his hands. “Let’s move ‘em.” 

John swings himself back up onto his horse and Alex and Rosie saddle up, too. Both dogs perk up at Alex’s whistled command, seeming to understand they have a job to do, now. Meatball’s probably the only husky in Wyoming herding cattle, and Redtail is a little confused on what direction they’re going at first, but really they’re just there to run along the perimeter and bark if there are any breakaways, and they’re both plenty good at running. They open the gates wide and circle around to get behind the bulk of the herd, Benny and Alex moving out to flank while Rosie and John keep to the middle. Gale settles in behind with Bonnie, letting the horse find her own rhythm—she knows what she’s doing. 

It’s a slow, steady push, coaxing the herd forward through the meadow and up through scattered ponderosa and lodgepole, higher onto the mountain. They leave a mess behind—grass and flowers chewed and trampled to the ground, dips and gouges where they’ve lain and wallowed, cow pies everywhere. Again, Gale feels guilt. Knows the cows aren’t good for the mountain. Can’t imagine the mountain without the cows.

The low whistles and calls coming from Benny and Alex and shouts from John and Rosie directing them to move one way or another, alerting to a breakaway, calling the dogs, blend with the shuffle and click of hooves, the bellows of the cattle, the birdsong overhead. In the denser stretches of trees, the dogs work sharply, darting along the flanks to keep stragglers from slipping off towards tempting patches of grass and shade. The calves keep to the center of the herd, held that way by the cattle’s own instinct, ears back and alert. Gale can see Merle even from far behind, the white on his back leg standing out like a brand. 

They crest a rise and the trees thin, opening onto rolling high meadows dammed by the crest of Casper Mountain still edged in snow. It’s easier going here, without the trees to push the cattle through, but it’s also easier for the cattle spread out and slip away, and they have a few breakaways they have to chase down, slowing them. By the time they reach the edge of the new allotment, a wide pasture bordered by a stand of aspen, it’s well past noon and Gale’s back and legs ache. The cattle spread out quickly, dropping their heads to graze and moving en masse to the small dammed pond on the edge of the pasture. Gale follows the others to let their horses drink from the stream feeding the pond and stifles a groan of relief when Rosie announces it’s lunchtime.

His knees nearly buckle when he slides off the horse, but he catches himself with a tight hand on the pommel and another braced against Bonnie’s neck. She tosses her head and gives him a look—horse side eye. Really? She seems to be asking. It’s only been five hours. You used to ride all day.

They tie off the horses and settle in the shade of the aspens for lunch, Rosie pulling out sandwiches and a couple of cans of Coke from his saddlebags. The breeze rustles through the aspen softly, the leaves shivering. The cattle low in the background. Meatball plunges into the pond, races around with Redtail, rolls in some mud, and comes back to shake off all over Benny, who swears loudly and goes to find a stick to distract him with. John’s still messing with the horses, rubbing his down and checking the straps of the saddles to make sure they’re not chafing anywhere, lifting their hooves to inspect their shoes.

Gale takes a few bites of his sandwich, then sighs and lays back in the grass, stretching his back out. He tunes out Rosie and Alex’s chatter, Benny’s shouts, Meatball’s excited barks, and drifts a bit in the sunshine until John settles himself next to him, pulling out his own sandwich. “You not hungry, Buck?”

He blinks his eyes open. “Just taking a rest.”

”We tiring you out?”

”The horse is,” Gale admits. “Been a long time since I’ve done this.”

”Enjoying it?”

”Yeah,” Gale says, truthfully. “I haven’t been up on this mountain in years. I missed it. Missed the horses, too.”

”Bonnie likes you.”

Gale laughs, sits back up. “She tell you that?”

”Yeah,” John says earnestly. He pops his can of Coke, takes a long sip. Gale watches his Adam’s apple bob, tears his eyes away, takes another bite of his sandwich. John smiles at him. “You ride well.”

”It’s like riding a bike,” Gale says. “You learn how, you don’t forget.”

”You really haven’t been on a horse in a decade?”

Gale shrugs. It’s not like he’s been counting the days, exactly. “More or less.”

It’s been ten years and one month. And twelve days.

”Last time I rode it was up here, just about the same route we just took. The night before I left town for Gillette.”

”Gillette? What were you doing in Gillette?”

”I lived there for a year.”

“In Gillette?”

”In Gillette.”

”Now, what the hell did you do that for, Buck? Place is a shithole.”

”Shithole with oil.”

John stares at him for a moment. “You worked on the rigs?”

Gale nods. “Sort of. I was a roughneck. Just doing maintenance, all the unskilled work. Paid well, though. I was planning to go to college, but I was dead set on the astrophysics program at Berkeley and then I didn’t get in. I was so cocksure about it I didn’t even apply to anything else. But I needed to get out of Casper, and Gillette was the first opportunity that came.”

John shakes his head. “Casper can’t be worse than Gillette.”

”It was then,” Gale says. 

John looks at him for a moment, chewing another bite of his sandwich and washing it down with a long swig of Coke. He looks around at the meadow with its bobbing wildflowers, the cluster of aspens shivering in the breeze, the rise of the plateau above them, the sound of the creek. “Why’d you want to leave so bad?” He asks softly.

Gale looks down at his own half-eaten sandwich. Digs his nails into his fist where the raw half-moons from last night are barely scabbed over. “Dad and I had a blowout fight where I told him I didn’t want to work on the ranch or take it over. Told him I was gonna leave Casper the way he never did and go do something with my life. When I didn’t get in, I couldn’t just go back on everything I said. I didn’t even tell him I didn’t get in, just said I deferred for a year to go make some money.”

John sucks his teeth. “And that was after…after he quit gambling? And drinking?”

“Yeah. Mostly. And he told me I was pouring all his hard work down the drain. That he’d made those sacrifices for me, and I was spitting in his face.”

John hums, doesn’t press further, at least not quite in the same vein. “But you ended up in Laramie.”

Gale picks up his sandwich, takes another bite. Chews slowly. Nods. “Yeah, eventually. Like you said, Gillette’s a shithole. Turns you into a shit person, being there, or at least it did me. Marge came in the spring to visit and talked some sense into me. Sat me down and forced me to apply to UW—she literally sat behind me and wouldn’t let me get up ‘til I did it. And I got in, and I had enough money saved to pay for the first two years, so I went.”

”You ever tell James you didn’t actually get into Berkeley?”

Gale huffs a laugh. “You know, I never did. I told him I decided on UW instead because it cost less. He and my mom had put away some savings for me for college, but after our fight he told me I wasn’t gonna see a cent of it. He’d only help me pay if I went in-state and studied rangeland ecology or agribusiness or veterinary science—something he approved of. I think what actually happened is he gambled it away at some point and it didn’t even exist anymore.”

John shakes his head. “That wasn’t fair to you, Buck. None of it.”

Gale snorts. “Lotta stuff isn’t fair. It’s alright. I got where I wanted to be eventually. I’m at Berkeley now, and in the end it made more sense to go there for the doctorate than the undergrad, anyway. UW was good to me. And I was there with Marge, and that’s where we met Rosie.”

On the other side of the clearing, Rosie looks up. “You talking about me?”

John turns to yell back. “Buck here’s just telling me about how you met.”

Rosie grins. “Oh, yeah? He tell you that I had a crush on him first and kept getting him to go to study group with me hoping to get to know him better? And then one day Marge came to pick him up and I thought well, he’s not interested but maybe she will be. And also started wondering if all beautiful people move in packs or if it was just them.”

Gale’s face is burning. “Shut up, Rosie.”

”Aww, you love me, Galey.”

”Not like that,” Gale snarks back.

Rosie sighs, pressing a hand to his chest. “You’ll forever be the one that got away.”

John barks out a laugh. “You heartbreaker,” he teases. “I can just imagine it. Rosie mooning after you while you move through the world completely oblivious to it. Come on, Buck, look at him! You ever seen anyone that handsome?”

Rosie is handsome. Gale had clocked him the very first day of their shared class and been both quietly pleased and utterly terrified when he’d started talking to him. But nobody that carried themselves the way Rosie did could possibly be queer, and besides, Gale had zero interest in anything beyond experimental hookups at that point. He’d been happy when Rosie and Marge got together and, when Rosie had laughingly confessed to his initial crush on Gale nearly five years after the fact, had laughed along with him and felt only the tiniest pang of regret.

And now—well, to answer John’s question, yes, Gale had. He was sitting in front of him, laughing, with lettuce from his sandwich stuck between his teeth.

“The first time this jackass talked to me, he told me about how he used to be a bike messenger in Brooklyn and would bike around in nothin’ but his skivvies ‘cause it got so hot in the summer.” Gale laughs. “No idea how that had anything to do with anything, but it didn’t quite make the impression he was going for.”

”Hey, what I said was that I was new to Wyoming and I was from New York City, and you said all patronizing that I was gonna find things to be a little different out here, a little colder in the winter and a little hotter in the summer and a whole lot more cows than people. And that’s how I knew you’d never been to the East Coast because nobody who’s been in New York in the summer would ever insinuate it ain’t hot.”

”Still haven’t been to New York,” Gale says.

”No matter how hard I try,” Rosie mutters. “And look who’s the city boy now.”

“And you won’t let me forget it.”

”I won’t let you forget your roots,” Rosie corrects, pointing at him. “Someone’s gotta keep you humble, Doctor.”

”Not a doctor yet,” Gale reminds him, and Rosie waves him away. The conversation turns to the East Coast and to good natured bickering between Benny and Rosie about whether Philly or Brooklyn has the better food, tougher grandmothers, and worse drivers. It’s a well-worn argument, but this time Alex introduces Detroit as a new contender and seems to be racking up some points. Gale tunes them out and focuses on his sandwich again. John chugs the rest of his Coke and grins at Gale. The lettuce is gone. “Gotta say, I’m glad Rosie didn’t snatch you up that early,” John says. “He had to leave some for the rest of us.”

Gale flushes, feels the heat radiating from his face. “Eat your sandwich, John,” he says, and then gets up to go find a tree to piss behind. He doesn’t even have to go that bad, but at least it’s an excuse he can use to tell himself he’s not just running away.

The next day, Gale spends the morning pouring over financial documents with Marge, Jack, and Rosie. By lunchtime he’s got a bit of a headache and never wants to think about money again. Marge must clock his mood and desire to get off the ranch, because she sends him and John to Costco and the grocery store with long lists of supplies they need. It’s already getting late by the time they’re done, but John tells him he’s got an order of chicken feed he needs to pick up at Murdoch’s for Tatty so Gale helps him load twenty bags of heavy grain into the back of the truck. He sighs, stretching his back. His ass is more than a little sore from riding yesterday; so are his knees. He feels, after that day of physicality and a morning of sitting in a hard chair, that he is getting old.

John nudges him. “Hey, I’m gonna run in real fast, try to find some steel buckets with lids for the cabins. People keep leaving their dog shit on the lawn. You wanna wait in the truck or come in?”

Gale shrugs. “I’ll come in. We need anything else?”

”Can’t think of anything. You go swing through the tack, how bout, you might need to start building up a kit after yesterday, hey?”

Gale rolls his eyes, but follows John into the store. It smells of animals and hay and motor oil, crowded with Sunday shoppers trying to get their errands done before the workweek starts. John beelines for the back, clearly knows his way around the aisles. Gale shoves his hands into his pockets and wanders over to the tack section for lack of anything better to do. He peruses the shelves, fingers a long braided bridle, thinks he ought to see if they’ve got any straw hats—Benny was right, he’s gonna burn if all he brings backpacking is the baseball hat.

He turns away from the bridles and steps around into the next aisle, nearly colliding with someone as he does.

”Oh—sorry—“

”Oops—oh.”

Gale’s braced himself on the shelves to avoid stumbling over, not really paying attention to the person he ran into. He doesn’t recognize the voice, but the way it falls from apologetic to flat raises his hackles. This person recognizes him.

He looks up. 

The face is older and the body bigger, more solid, with some heft to his middle, but Gale still recognizes him. The light beard and crow’s feet can’t disguise his slightly babyish features, and his hair is the same. Gale remembers running his fingers through it, remembers the way his body felt pressed up against him. Remembers a blue room at the top of the stairs, sheets printed with baseballs, the boyish scent of too much Axe body spray. 

They stare at each other. A woman pushing a cart comes around the corner and stops short behind him, bracing a toddler on her hip, his face tucked into her neck. 

“Gale,” George says, eyes darting in a thousand different directions to avoid having to look directly at him. 

“George,” Gale says. His voice sounds strange, echoing back in his own ears. The woman with the cart looks between them. She’s pretty, blond, brown eyes and full lips and perfect makeup. The toddler peers at Gale curiously. He looks like George.

“You gonna introduce us, hon’?” She asks. She’s got a bit of a southern drawl dragging at her vowels. 

George jumps a little, like he’s coming back to himself. “Sorry, sorry—yeah, Sarah, this is Gale Cleven. James Cleven’s son. He and I were—we went to high school together. Gale—Sarah, my wife. And Henry, my son.”

Sarah smiles, holds out a hand. Gale, after a long frozen moment, remembers how to move his body and takes it. She has a firm handshake, soft palms. “Nice to meet you,” she says.

”Likewise,” Gale says.

”I was sorry to hear about your dad,” George says stiffly.

”Yeah,” Gale says. 

“How’s the ranch?” Sarah pipes up. “I heard they were planning on doing a guest ranch up there? There was an article in the paper!”

”I, uh—yeah, that’s the plan. Just getting started on it, they’ve had the first few guests in the last month. Going well so far.”

George is still staring at him, brow faintly furrowed like he’s trying to figure Gale out. “You haven’t moved back, have you?” There’s nothing particularly accusatory about it, but Gale still bristles, drawing in on himself. 

“No,” he says. “No, I’m just here helpin’ out for a bit. I’m in California.”

”Finally made it,” George says, a little snidely. Or maybe Gale’s imagining that. “That was always the plan, right?”

”Yeah,” Gale says. 

“I’m sure it's a good place for you,” George says, and Gale hears every ounce of meaning behind his words. Opens his mouth to respond, to say something, but all his words are dried up. He wants to curse at him. Wants to throw a punch. Wants to run away.

”Hey, Buck, found ‘em, we can head—oh, hey George.” John comes up behind him, six galvanized steel buckets strung on his arms. He steps up next to Gale, bumps his hip. The buckets clatter against themselves. “Sarah, beautiful as always. Henry, what’s up, my man?”

Henry raises a hand and provides an approximation of a wave before hiding his face in Sarah’s neck again. 

“Good stuff,” John says. “Hey, y’all met Gale? This is James’ son.”

Gale elbows John, trying to impart the words shut up through the motion. George tracks it with his eyes. Looks up at Gale, brow still a little furrowed. Gale can see him drawing all the wrong conclusions in real time.

”We know each other,” Gale says shortly. “High school.”

John looks delighted by this factoid. “Oh yeah, forgot—of course! Small town, right?”

”Too small,” George says, and Gale finds himself in complete agreement with him. “Hey, we’d better be going. Got a lot of errands to get through. Sunday afternoon, you know.”

”Yeah,” Gale says tightly. “Gotta fit it all in after church.”

George narrows his eyes at him, but apparently can’t quite tell if Gale’s shitting on him or not, so he doesn’t respond, just gives him a nod. “See you, John,” he says, and turns towards the hardware section.

”Say bye, Henry!” Sarah says, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. Henry lifts his head from her shoulder, peering at Gale with one eye. 

“Bye, kid,” John says, and transfers all of the buckets with a clang to one arm so he can wave.

Henry waves again, first at John, then at Gale. Sarah beams.

”Lovely to meet you, Gale! My condolences, with your father and all. Maybe we’ll see you again, if you’re in town more often!” She maneuvers the cart one handed and follows George down the aisle. 

Gale’s heart is racing, muscles so tense he’s not sure he can move. When he does finally get his legs uprooted from the linoleum, he beelines towards the front door. John follows, buckets clanking. “Buck? You alright?”

”I’ll wait in the car,” Gale manages. “You take your time.”

”Wait, Buck, don’t you want—“

Gale’s out the door before he can finish his sentence. Takes a deep breath, tries to exhale just as slow, but his heart rabbits in his chest, his breathing uneven. He can’t get a good breath in, trying to heave in air while his lungs are still half-full from the previous inhale. He tries the door of John’s truck. Locked.

Fucking hell, what was he thinking? Waltzing around Casper like he doesn’t know half the people in town, like he wasn’t gonna run into someone like George—lucky it wasn’t George’s dad, really, or his fucking sister—

“Gale, hey—Jesus, you alright?”

Gale manages to control his breathing enough to get out, “Can you unlock the car, please.”

The truck beeps, locks clicking. Gale pulls the door open and climbs in. Shuts it firmly behind him. Locks his eyes on the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror, on the feathers collected on the dashboard. John climbs in the driver’s side, starts the truck, cranks up the AC. The buckets are nowhere to be seen. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

”No,” Gale says.

”Jesus, Buck, you sound like you’re gonna hyperventilate—here, drink some water.”

Gale pushes the bottle Bucky offers him away. Hunches forward a little. Presses a hand to his chest. He looks down at himself. White t-shirt, a little cropped from accidentally putting it in the dryer on high. Slim cut black jeans. Teva sandals. He’s wearing his glasses because he’d had to read labels at the grocery store. His hair’s longer than it ever was when he lived here, curling a little around the nape of his neck, styled back carefully this morning but falling out a bit after running his hands through it so many times this morning and the wilting heat of the afternoon. He wonders how George saw him. He wonders how anyone here sees him. He thinks he can guess.

A broad, warm hand lands on his back. He can feel the rough texture of John’s palm through the thin material of his t-shirt. It’s a soothing touch, grounding. “Breathe, Buck,” John says, and rubs a firm circle between his shoulder blades. “Just breathe.”

”I’m breathin’,” Gale chokes out.

John snorts. “Sure. Keep at it. In and out, with me.”

John’s breathing extra loud and extra slow. Gale wants to comment on it, tell him he’s fine, that John doesn’t need to baby him, but he’s too busy following John’s instructions. Gets the inhales and exhales in the right order, slows his heartbeat a bit. Sits back up. John’s staring at him.

”I knew George in school,” Gale says eventually. “He and I—he—we. We fooled around. He was my first, uh. First guy I was with.”

John’s mouth opens, a little “oh” of understanding. “He’s…married?”

Gale shrugs. “Neither of us were out. And he’s Mormon. Might be bi, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

John looks at him long, eyes narrowed. “Is he—you two alright? He do somethin’? You just seem…” he trails off, bites his lip.

Gale takes a deep breath, shoves down memories and shame. “It’s fine,” he says. “We just haven’t seen each other in a long time. I didn’t know he was married. He probably never thought he’d see me again. Just a surprise.”

”Maybe this town is too small,” John says. He offers the water bottle again, and this time Gale takes it. 

“Sorry,” he mutters after he finishes drinking. “Overreaction.”

”That shit can get you,” John says. “That’s the tough thing about goin’ home, you never know when you’ll get jump-scared by someone you fucked at the grocery store. I feel you, Buck. Happens to me whenever I go back to Madison.”

Privately, Gale things John’s probably got a lot more people in Madison who would be delighted to run into him at the grocery store than Gale has in Casper, whether John fucked them or not. He doesn’t vocalize this suspicion. 

John’s hand lands on the back of his neck, squeezing briefly before reaching up to muss with his hair. Gale jerks away from him. “Hey!”

”Hey. Should we get going?”

”Yeah,” Gale says, settling back into the seat. He’s exhausted, he realizes, the toll of the work this morning combining with the stress of the last twenty minutes turning the previously mild headache into something edging close to a migraine. 

“Tell you what, I’ll take you to dinner at Helen’s. How ‘bout that?”

Gale’s stomach clenches. He’s not sure if it's excitement or trepidation or what, exactly. Getting dinner together last night made sense—Gale flew in around dinner time and neither of them had eaten. A second night in a row feels like…more. “You don’t have to do that,” he says.

John winks at him. “Sure I don’t, but I want to.” He slings his arm across the back of the bench seat, hand resting inches from Gale’s neck, and backs out of the parking space. “Besides, don’t get too flattered. We eat free, I’m not being generous. We can see if Rosie and Marge want to go, too.”

Gale tries not to feel disappointed at the suggestion. He’s barely seen Marge since he got here, should be excited by the idea of getting dinner with his oldest friends. Instead, he wants to keep John to himself. “Rosie was making a bistella.”

”What the hell’s a bistella?”

”That’s what I asked.”

”Well, he can make it when we get back from Jackson. Trust me, Buck, you gotta get a taste of the food she’s turning out.”

”Alright,” Gale says.

In the end, Rosie and Marge do join them, as do Benny and Johnny Brady. Johnny’s just as pinched-looking as before, but he softens a bit every time Benny looks over at him, and Gale can tell they’re playing footsie with each other under the table.

The food is delicious—simple, vegetable-heavy, served with pride. They get far too many starters and share them all—crisp radishes and sweet carrots run through herbed butter and salt, zucchini fritters drizzled with dilly sheep’s milk yogurt from Tatty and Helen’s flock of sheep, smoked trout pate smeared on crusty still-warm sourdough, roasted beets and burrata from a neighbor’s dairy. Marge tells him excitedly that her hope for the next year is to breed a few calves for dairy purposes and start providing cream and fresh cheeses for the restaurant and John dives back in to detailing his plans for bison, starting with buying some breeding stock and calves this fall. Rosie analyzes options for the funds from a biodynamic ranching grant he just got them. They’re all of them excited, flushed, talking with their hands. Planning for the future with a sort of vigor Gale never really saw while James was still alive.

Gale only manages half his risotto after the feast of starters, but deigns to eat a bite of John’s beef braise and Rosie’s pasta with a rich, meaty sauce. It’s all from the ranch, or from Tatty’s farm or her sheep or her ever-growing flock of chickens, and it’s good. Hearty and satisfying in a way that Gale’s been missing in the food he’s been cooking for himself the past few months. The restaurant is small, cozy, big windows looking out onto Casper Mountain, fairy lights strung up around the patio, fresh flowers in vases on every table, eclectic art on the walls. Tatty comes and sits with them during dessert, asks Gale earnestly about his research and seems actually interested in his replies. They linger long into the evening, well past dark, until they’re all yawning and the restaurant has mostly emptied out around them.

True to John’s word, Helen refuses to charge them a penny. Gale compensates by tipping twice the cost of his meal as they leave, when he thinks nobody’s looking. When he turns back, John’s watching him, holding the door open, something gentle and appreciative in his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, for once, as Gale approaches. Just smiles knowingly, rests a brief hand between his shoulder blades as he passes through the door, and closes it behind them with a little tinkle of the bell. The spot where John touched him feels warm for the rest of the evening, a little brand of heat still pressed into it when he curls into the small bunk bed at Marge’s and tries to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

The morning breaks cool and a little overcast, sun filtering reluctantly through wispy clouds as they load up the car. Benny, John, and Rich are riding up separately, so it’s just the three of them in Marge’s battered old Honda as they pull out of Casper and head northwest, Rosie’s truck not quite trustworthy enough for an extended drive and dirt roads.

Outside the window, the land unfolds in wide, stark vistas: pale sagebrush and rolling hills giving way to jagged cuts of granite and deep canyons, distant buttes rising like sentinels under the endless, cloudless sky. Pronghorn graze along fencelines opposite cattle; a hawk circles slow and easy in the sharp morning light. Every so often, the long ribbon of highway curves and reveals snow still clinging stubbornly to the high peaks of the Winds far ahead, gleaming white against the early summer green.

Gale watches the landscape roll by, something pulled taut in his chest. He’s told himself for years that he doesn’t really miss it. That he didn’t need these empty skies or these sharp, merciless mountains. But being back here feels a little like slipping into John’s well-worn jacket—familiar in a way that’s almost dangerous. He shifts in his seat and looks away, as if turning his head will loosen the tightness behind his ribs.

"You're brooding again," Marge says, glancing at him from behind her sunglasses. "Don’t tell me you’re thinking about work."

Rosie snorts from shotgun. “It’s his boyfriend, Margie.”

Gale glares at him through the medium of the rearview mirror. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Rosie snorts again. Gale feels suddenly deeply uncharitable towards him. "Oh, come on. You and John have been attached at the hip since you got in. We’ve barely even seen you. It's sweet."

"It’s not sweet," Gale snaps. "We’re—friends."

Marge huffs a small laugh. "Sure. Friends."

”Friends.” Gale repeats firmly.

Rosie leans an elbow on the center console and twists to face Gale. "You blush every time he talks to you and every time he comes up in conversation."

"I do not."

"You do,” Rosie insists. “The entire time we were up on the mountain you were blushing.”

”I got sunburnt.”

Marge reaches behind her and squeezes his knee, warm and affectionate. "Listen, Galey. I love both of you. I really do. And I don't know where this is all going, where it can go, but it’s nice to see you looking... lighter. Happier."

Gale scowls automatically. "I’m not happier."

That only earns him more laughter from both of them. Rosie pats his other knee. "Whatever you say, man."

Gale gives them the silent treatment for a few dozen miles after that, but it quickly shifts to a comfortable silence, broken only by Marge’s humming as she flips through radio stations and the low hum of tires against asphalt. Ahead, the Winds are a rugged wall of granite, the Gros Ventre range rising beyond them as they follow the Wind River northwest. And then, around a bend—there they are, the jagged  sawblade of the Tetons rising from the flat, green valley. Gale’s seen a lot of mountain ranges in his life, loved a lot of mountain ranges in his life. Still, nothing makes his breath catch in his chest like these.

By the time they pull into the dusty parking lot at the trailhead, the others are already there, finishing up last-minute pack checks. Rich straightens up when he sees them pull in and whoops, waving his arms wildly. 

“TE-TONS! TE-TONS! TE-TONS!” He chants, opening the back door once Marge parks and reaching in to bodily pull Gale out. “And you couldn’t wiggle out of it this year!”

”I wasn’t trying to wiggle out—“

“Yeah, whatever. The old crew’s back together! Plus one.” He points at John, who grins and waves.

”No Johnny, then?” Rosie asks, hauling his pack out of the back of the Honda.

”He decided he couldn’t take this much time,” Benny says, scowling. Rosie pats him on the shoulder. “Next year. We’ll take a lot of pictures to make him jealous.”

They do their own pack checks, stuffing last minute snacks into side pockets, filling up water bottles at the spigot by the bathrooms, taking one last shit behind a locked door. Rich is talking a mile a minute, updating Gale on his new job in Laramie and bemoaning the fact that he hasn’t been around to help with all the ranch projects. Marge and John tally dinners, triple checking they’ll have enough food. 

Gale’s already packed and repacked at least a dozen times, but he gives everything one last check—extra batteries for his headlamp, migraine medication just in case, backup chlorine tablets in case his water filter stops working, first aid kit, pack cover in case it rains, portable charger, book co-authored by Paulina he was supposed to have read last month, bear spray. He thinks about adding another book, shoves a small paperback into the side pocket, then shakes his head and takes it back out. He’s usually too tired at night to read, anyway. 

When he’s satisfied, he cinches his straps tight and swings the pack onto his back, testing the weight and balance. It feels good. He hasn’t done a real backpacking trip in almost three years and he was worried his back wouldn’t take it well—it remains to be seen how it’ll hold up, but for now he feels good. He’s kept the pack as light as he could (aside from the brick of an astrophysics book), and it doesn’t feel too bulky, or like it’s going to overbalance him if he steps wrong.

John, on the other hand, is a different story. His pack is enormous. Gale’s been on the ultralight train ever since he threw out his back at twenty five carrying boxes up the stairs to his current apartment, but apparently John hasn’t heard of that yet, despite whining about the state of his knees and back for the entire last month every time the trip’s been mentioned. (John: “Ten thousand feet of elevation gain? Are y’all trying to kill me?” Gale: “Have you been listening to a single word any of us have said about this trip for the last four months?” John: “I’ve been listening, I just haven’t been worrying about the details, because I thought I could trust you all not to kill me!” Gale: “Nobody’s forcing you to come.” John: “What, now you don’t want me there? I’m hurt, Buck.”)

”Last chance,” Gale says, adjusting his hip belt. “You can get a room at Jackson Lake, sunbathe on the beach while we all suffer.”

”You keep trying to uninvite me,” John says, pouting. Gale knows he’s making puppy dog eyes from behind his sunglasses. He’s also wearing jeans and a cowboy hat, which Gale wants to make fun of him for, but the jeans are worn with wear and tight around his thick thighs, and the cowboy hat just works, and both of those things kind of piss Gale off. “Should I be getting offended, Buck?”

”I’m not uninviting you, I’m telling you to quit your whining. We haven’t even started walking yet.”

John grins, impish and a little evil. “Oh baby, you haven’t heard nothin’ yet.”

It’s a promise he fulfills with gusto. He starts groaning less than a mile in and keeps it up the entire way, complaining about everything from the state of the trail (too many downed trees they have to climb over) to the elevation gain (“Why’d they build it straight up? Haven’t they heard of switchbacks?”) to the temperature (too hot in the sun, too cold in the shade) to the scenery (too many trees to see the mountains). Gale starts out amused and rapidly becomes less so when it's clear that John, despite complaining about the amount of energy he’s expending, has plenty of air in his lungs to keep talking even as they start climbing in earnest. 

As they climb, they spread out a bit more. Gale keeps to the front, despite the burning in his lungs and his legs. Marge outpaces them all, often disappearing between the trees, waiting for them at a few junctions leaned up against trail signs showing no visible signs of exertion. John, Benny, and Rich chatter in the back and Rosie floats between talking with them and walking quietly with Gale.

It’s their shortest mileage day, thanks to the later start, and they make it to the campsite well before nightfall, finding spots for their tents and trying to spread out away from the other groups camped at the lake. Gale’s got his tent all laid out, ready to put up, when he realizes what he’s missing.

”No,” he mutters out loud, because there’s no way, no way he could have forgotten his goddamn fucking tent poles.

He unpacked and repacked a dozen times. Had everything perfectly sorted, perfectly tucked away. He always takes his tent out of its bag, packs the tent itself into his pack and secures the poles to the outside, resting in a mug or pot that he puts in the side pocket and lashes to the pack by three different straps. There’s simply no way—

He thinks back to the parking lot, the last minute rearranging. Shoving a book into the side pocket, stretching the straps, and then taking it back out. His pack resting against the boot of Marge’s car, falling over when he’d gone to the bathroom. He’d scooped it up without a second thought, didn’t even think to check the ground for anything that might have fallen out.

He still checks twice, unpacking everything carefully, tearing apart his neatly packed clothes, shaking his tent out, checking every single pocket, even the ones far too small for tent poles. Ten minutes later, there’s no escaping it. No poles. No tent. Five nights.

He hopes it doesn’t rain.

The next afternoon, it starts to rain. 

Gale spent a cold, uncomfortable night under the tarp Rosie brought for cooking in the event of a rainstorm. John, who had a bulky, bright yellow two person tent, offered multiple times to share with Gale. Gale refused, something he initially thought would get him a better night’s sleep—he’s never slept well sharing space—but a decision he bitterly regretted by around two in the morning as he shivered and listened to things rustle in the bushes. He’d woken after a few scant hours of sleep, grumpy and with a headache. John took one look at him and said, “would it have killed you to bunk with me, Buck?”

Gale scowled at him. John just smiled and squeezed his chin briefly. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy,” he said, and then made Gale a cup of coffee, which soothed some of his annoyance.

Gale tries to focus on the scenery, the way the wildflowers seem to pop even brighter against the saturated greens of the meadows and the peaks catch and hold the clouds, but the last few uphill miles to their next campsite is a miserable slog. Even John’s finally stopped talking, everyone spread out along the trail and lost in their own private thoughts. Gale thinks about campfires, his warm bed, Benjamina. Thinks about sleeping under the leaky tarp. It’s going to be a long night.

When they finally get to the campsite it’s still pouring. Marge and Rosie set up the tarp to cook under and they all huddle beneath it. Benny and Rich try halfheartedly to light a fire but all the wood’s too wet and they just end up creating a lot of smoke. John cheers everyone up by pulling out a fifth of whiskey and Rosie boils some water and steeps some spiced herbal tea to mix it with. Gale declines the whiskey but takes the tea, letting it warm him up from the inside. They’re all shivering, damp despite wearing rain gear, boots and socks soaking wet and not likely to dry if the weather continues as it is.

”You’re gonna share with me tonight,” John says firmly, settling himself next to him after helping himself to more hot water. 

“I don’t—“

”Buck,” John says, a little annoyed. He gestures out at the rain, at the mist, at the cloud they appear to be stuck in the middle of, obscuring even the view of the peak they’re camped under. “Come on.”

He sighs. There is truly no way he can get by with no tent poles today, not unless he wants to get soaked and hypothermic. And he desperately wants to sleep. “Okay,” he says grudgingly. “Thanks.”

”Thank you for not arguing more,” John says. “I would’ve knocked you out and dragged you into my tent if you’d kept at it.”

”Could sleep under the tarp again, be just fine,” Gale says, just to be ornery. 

John rolls his eyes. “Do you get off on being stubborn with everyone, or is it just me?”

Gale bristles. “I don’t get off—“

”It’s everyone,” Rosie calls from across the campfire. “You’re not special, Bucky.”

Gale glares across at him. “I’m just saying, nobody has to go out of their way to fix a stupid mistake I made—”

”Good grief,” Marge says. “The man has a two-person tent, he’s not going out of his way.”

Benny shoots them a sly look. “I’d hazard a guess he’s thrilled at the opportunity, actually—“

”Fuck off, Bernard!” John sings, throwing a pebble at him. He turns back to Gale. “Not letting you freeze to death isn’t going out of my way. I think coordinating getting your hypothermic ass off this mountain would be more trouble, personally.”

”Thanks,” Gale says dryly. “You don’t snore, do you?”

”If I do, you have my permission to kick me. Gently.”

“Don’t count on it,” Gale says, but he can’t stop the twitch of his lips. He has to turn away to hide the smile, busying himself with putting his food away.

The rain shows no sign of letting up, so everyone else follows his lead, packing away their food and cooking supplies and tidying up. Gale dawdles for as long as he can without it getting weird—volunteers to go do their bear hang and put the food up, brushes his teeth and flosses (Benny makes fun of him for flossing on a backpacking trip, but it’s five nights and now Gale’s judging Benny for not flossing), filters three liters of water so he’s ready to go in the morning. Eventually, there’s no putting it off longer. He shoulders his backpack and makes his way through the wet underbrush to John’s neon tent. He’s got something uncomfortable squirming in his stomach and he’s not entirely sure what it is or why it‘s happening. It’s just sharing a tent. It’s just John. 

Just John.

John’s rustling around, already changed into a hoodie and sweatpants, rearranging his sleeping bag and backpack to make more space. Gale pokes his head in, looks around. It’s just as neon on the inside as it is on the outside. It’s also…very small. Definitely bigger than Gale’s ultralight one person, but they’re two big men and their sleeping pads will be touching, at the very least. 

“Took you long enough,” John says. “I don’t bite, you know. Or even snore. I promise.”

”Shame,” Gale says. “I was looking forward to kicking you.”

”I’m sure you’ll find another reason,” John says earnestly. “Would you come inside? You’re letting in the rain.”

The tent fabric is thick, heavy and plasticky when Gale rubs it between his fingers, and the zippers catch when he unzips the door. Inside, it smells musty and synthetic and strongly of John—that stale cigarette, pine, and sweat scent that hits Gale’s brain like a Pavlovian trigger of warm jacket voice over the phone hand on his knee dark truck cab. 

“Where’d you get this thing, anyway?” He asks to distract himself.

“Walmart.”

”Jesus, John. That’s why your pack is so heavy, this thing must weigh ten pounds.”

”Hey, now, don’t be pretentious. If I’m only gonna be using it a few times a year I didn’t want to break the bank. I went to REI last year before the trip to try to find something and about shit my pants.”

Gale peers around the interior of the tent. “The rain fly works?”

”Never tested it before,” John says cheerfully. “But I don’t see any water inside yet. Come on, Buck, it’ll be fine. If it starts to leak, I’ll join you under the tarp and tell everyone you were right in the morning, how ‘bout that?”

”Comforting,” Gale says, but he climbs into the tent, dripping rain from his soaked jacket, and pulls his pack in after him. 

It’s an incredibly tight fit. They sit there staring at each other, faces a foot apart, before Gale realizes he still needs to change out of his soaked rain gear and into pajamas.

”I, uh—“

”Oh—“ John seems to realize it at the same moment. “Uh—I’ll go outside for a sec.”

”Don’t be stupid, it’s raining and you’re finally dry. Just—“

”Give me your sleeping pad,” John says. “I’ll blow it up for you. Facing this direction.” He points at the front of the tent. Gale’s not sure how he’s planning to blow up a full sized sleeping pad while Gale somehow changes his clothes behind him, but he hands it over anyway and John bends to the task with determination, the tips of his ears a little red. Gale peels off his wet rain jacket and rain pants and shimmies out of his equally wet hiking pants. He lays them out in the sliver of space at the end of the tent and hopes they’ll live up to their quick-dry promise. He doesn’t change his underwear, even though they’re damp, and yanks on a pair of sweats that are also a little damp, shivering. Swaps his soggy fleece for a dry sweatshirt and yanks a knit cap down over his hair, knowing it’ll be disastrous tomorrow. 

When he turns back to John, John’s watching him. He flicks his gaze away when Gale meets his eyes, then turns it back to him. Gale’s sleeping pad is inflated, propped on its side against John’s shoulder.

”You said you wouldn’t look,” Gale says.

”Didn’t see much,” John says. “Just that you’re wet. Come on, get in your sleeping bag. It’s fucking cold.” He taps Gale with the end of the sleeping pad and Gale takes the hint, shifts into a crouch so John can slide it down alongside his own. He pulls his sleeping bag from his pack and burrows down in it, stuffing his mostly-empty pack under his head to act as a pillow. John shifts and fiddles with something for a few minutes before settling down in his own sleeping bag. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, at the rain beading and running down the sides. Gale turns on his side, away from him, but can feel the warmth of him, the closeness. 

He’s not tired. He should be, after the long, cold day and a bad night, but he’s wide awake. He thinks about pulling out his book, but doesn’t want the light of his headlamp keeping John up. But John’s clearly not asleep, either, and the silence between them feels awkward. Not that John’s doing anything to make it awkward, or Gale, really. It’s just the situation. 

Before he really thinks it through, he opens his mouth. “Tell me about your farm,” he says into the silence.

He can hear John tensing, the rustle of fabric, the little intake of breath. John’s quiet for a moment. Gale doesn’t push him, just waits to see if he’ll reply. 

John sighs. “What about it?”

Gale shrugs in the dark. The movement bumps his shoulder against John’s. “You’ve mentioned it a few times, but you haven’t really told me about it.”

John sighs again. “It was…it was everything I dreamed of when I was young and dumb in college.” There’s something wistful and sad in his voice, a little lost.

”Where was it?” Gale asks, though he already knows. He’s not going to admit to the minor cyberstalking he committed.

”Southwest Wisconsin. Near Viroqua—I don’t suppose you know where that is.”

”No,” Gale lies.

”Nobody does. It’s beautiful, though. Rolling hills and forests and farms. Soil like you wouldn’t believe, especially compared to what passes for soil out here.”

Gale rolls onto his back, tilts his head slightly towards John. John’s still on his back, one hand up behind his head, the other resting on his chest. His eyes are half open, trained on the ceiling of the tent, a little smile on his lips. “What did you grow?”

John laughs. “Everything. Every kind of vegetable you could think of. We had an apple and pear orchard, made our own cider. I was in charge of the crops, my buddy Curt did all the animals. We had a little herd of dairy cows, some sheep, a bunch of chickens. His pet project was the goats, and that was a fucking pain in the ass, I’ll tell you. You ever smell a billy goat, Buck?”

Gale snorts. “No.”

”Count yourself lucky. They piss all over themselves and everything around them. The smellier they are the more the nannies love it. Mating season’s a nightmare. Anyway, yeah—we did markets, had restaurant contracts. We got lucky, rented land from some older folks who wanted to see it kept in agriculture, they charged us next to nothing. The market was pretty open for us—it’s mostly orchards and vineyards and wheat out there. We lived in a couple of trailers and didn’t have a shower for the first two seasons and every goddamn penny went right back into the production. Kenny came on our third season, built us a bathhouse and every other bit of infrastructure we had. It was absolute insanity, the whole thing, and I loved it.”

He closes his eyes, dark lashes resting on top of his cheeks. Gale watches him breathe, in and out. Thinks about how little he knows about John, about who he was or where he came from before Gale met him just a few short months ago. About how well he feels like he knows him, anyway.

”What happened?” Gale whispers.

John takes a deep, shuddering breath. Doesn’t answer. Again, Gale waits to see if he will. Holds an apology on his tongue, ready, in case he went too far. He thinks, maybe, he can guess what happened. The smiling man in John’s photos. His voice over the phone in May, sad and a little lost. I lost a friend of mine in May, a few years ago. 

”My best friend died,” John says eventually. “I started the farm with him.”

”Oh,” Gale says softly.

”I met Curt my first day at college. We were roommates. He was a wild fucker, always partying, making friends with everyone who crossed his path. He was a ride, and I sort of just attached myself to him. Figured it would be a good way to make friends, and it was.”

John swallows, shifts a little. Moves his hand from under his head to rub over his face, the rasp of skin against stubble loud in the close space between them. “He was doing animal sciences and after awhile we started talking about what we wanted to do when we grew up,” John continues. “We hatched this crazy dream about starting a farm together. It was always kind of a joke, you know, like when you’ve got a friend who you agree to marry if you both make it to forty or whatever and want the tax benefits. It was like, well, if we crash out and never figure out what we want to do with our lives, we’ll just start that farm.

“Anyway, my first year of grad school Curt’s dad died. They weren’t super close, but he was still pretty torn up about it. Went back home for a bit, and when he came back he barged into our apartment and told me he had thirty thousand from his dad and we were gonna start a farm with it.”

”Thirty thousand isn’t much for that kind of project,” Gale says.

”That’s what I told him, and he said I could either do it with him or be jealous of him when he had a farm and I was stuck in a lab doing research I didn’t care about. And he wasn’t wrong, so I dropped out a few weeks later and we started a fucking farm.“

”And it was good.”

”And it was good,” John sighs. “But he—“ he cuts himself off, swallowing audibly. He opens his eyes again, turns his head to his side to meet Gale’s eyes, the deep blue of his irises dark and fathomless in the dying light. He opens his mouth, closes it again. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Gale says softly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

John frowns. “No, Buck, I—it’s okay. He died five years ago. I—I tried, after. Tried to keep things going, we all did. But it just didn’t work without him.” He bites his lip, attempts a smile that doesn’t quite work. “He taught me everything about animal agriculture, though. Made me fall in love with cows. So it’s thanks to him I’m here now, in a way.”

Gale can tell there’s more, much more, to the story—John’s holding it back. The fact that he’s said anything at all about it feels like he’s placing fragile trust in Gale’s hands, like something he’s withheld in their slow orbiting of each other over the past months has finally been offered, some boundary erased.

”I’m sorry,” Gale says softly. “Is he the friend—back in May, when I called you?”

John clears his throat, darts his gaze away from Gale again. “Yeah. It’s always—uh, it still hits kind of hard, you know. Rough month.”

Gale thinks of the lonely grey cast to his Aprils, of the way December will always be shadowed by Bertie’s death. Wonders if James will always rise in his mind in late February from here on out, no matter how far he moves past his death. “I understand that,” he says.

John’s gaze flicks back to him and he shifts, rolling in his sleeping bag until he’s facing Gale, until there’s a scant foot of space between their faces, their bodies curved even closer than that. “That night you called, that—it meant a lot. It helped me. Probably wouldn’t have slept at all if we hadn’t talked.”

”That’s good,” Gale whispers.

”I haven’t talked about Curt much to anyone,” John continues. “Benny knows, and your dad did. Marge and Rosie know some basics, and I’ve got friends from back home, from the farm, obviously. But it’s—it’s not something I like to dwell on. And that means there aren’t a lot of people who know to reach out or check in or just…understand that it’s rough, you know? But you—you didn’t even know, but you called. You asked.”

Gale shrugs. “I was awake and you were awake, so I thought I might as well.”

John’s eyes have fluttered closed, his voice slowing with drowsiness. “I like talking on the phone with you,” he murmurs. “I’ve liked talking with you.”

”So have I,” Gale says softly. 

“Mmm,” John sighs sleepily. “Glad you’re here, Buck.”

”I’m glad you are, too, John. Bucky.”

A little smile flickers over John’s lips. “You know, I don’t mind you callin’ me John. Sounds nice, from you.”

Gale opens his mouth but he isn’t sure what to say in reply. It doesn’t matter, in the end. John’s asleep.

Gale wakes the next morning to the gentle patter of rain, and warmth. He’d fallen asleep cold but now it’s almost too hot. The tent hadn’t allowed for much space between them in the first place, but any attempt at keeping themselves to their own sides evaporated in the night. Gale lies curled on his side, John pressed against his back like a furnace. His forehead rests against the base of Gale’s neck and Gale can feel the hot, even puffs of his breath, humid against the down of his sleeping bag.

He doesn’t like sharing bed space. Never has, never sleeps well when he does. He hadn’t really expected to fall asleep at all last night in the confined space of the tent with John’s breathing and shifting right there next to him, and he hadn’t for a long time, lying awake blinking into the darkness, turning over John’s words, John’s past, in his head. But he had, at some point, and he hadn’t woken when John shifted close enough to touch. He lies there for a moment, eyes closed against the weak morning light, and listens to John’s breathing, to the rustle of his sleeping bag as it rises and falls with the rhythm, to the faint whistle as John breathes out through his nose. 

Slowly, he shifts onto his back, trying not to wake John. When he settles again, John’s forehead is pressed to his shoulder. His hair is a riotous mess of curls, still a little damp from the rain and the sweaty closeness of the tent, mouth hanging open, a spot of dried drool in the corner. 

Gale lies there for a long time, alternately watching John and watching the raindrops slide down the rain fly as the grey dawn breaks into grey day. Eventually, the sound of the others moving around and the need to piss forces him to move. He eases carefully out of his sleeping bag, trying not to jostle John, but the movement wakes him anyway. John blinks up at him, eyes bleary, small smile curving his lips, and mumbles a soft, “Mornin’,” before burrowing deeper into his sleeping bag until nothing but his nose and eyes are visible. 

“It’s late,” Gale says. “Everyone’s up.”

”It’s still raining,” John says, raspy.

”Yep.”

John sighs heavily, put-upon, and crawls out of his bag. Gale leaves him to it, crawling out of the tent and putting his still-damp rain gear back on to join the others under the tarp. Marge is wrapped in her sleeping bag, staring blearily down into her cup of coffee. Rich stirs a pot of oatmeal big enough for all of them. “Thought we’d want something warm today,” he says.

”Thanks, Rich,” Gale says, and sits down, shivering a little. Rosie hands him a cup of coffee.

”Full service,” Gale remarks.

”You’re making the next pot,” Rosie says. Benny and John stumble over eventually, bundled up and rubbing sleep out of their eyes, just in time for Rich to dish out bowls of oatmeal. Gale makes another pot of coffee.

It’s the kind of weather that begs for a slow morning, for crawling back into your sleeping bag and dozing a little longer, but they’ve got a long stretch to go today, some of it off-trail. This is the section Gale’s the most excited about—he’s done most parts of this trail more than once, but he’s only been to the lake nestled under the South Teton once, when he climbed it back in college. They’d done a marathon day and hadn’t camped out, but he remembers standing on top of the peak, looking down at the long lake nestled between granite and gnarled whitebark pines, a meadow spotted with wildflowers on the far shore, and wishing he could spend a little more time there. He’d been the one to forcefully add it to their itinerary, even though it added a couple miles and a couple thousand feet to the trip. 

By mid morning, the rain eases to a fine drizzle and the clouds start to break against the peaks. They’ve been steadily gaining elevation, following a ridge up above the treeline and into the stark alpine tundra, just rock and cloud and snowfields. Twisted whitebark pine and subalpine fir growing close to the ground, creeping up north facing slopes. Low growing wildflowers, the bright blues and magentas of alpine forget-me-nots and campion. Streams of snowmelt trickle down from the high peaks and ridges, miniature waterfalls collecting in the cold streams they splash through. The rain has saturated the world, made it technicolor, the greens darker and the wildflowers brighter. 

At the top of the ridge, they veer off trail, trekking up towards a high pass and the divide of the Tetons. The world widens around them, peaks rising, stretched out in jagged rows, sharp spines cutting into the sky, some still clutching at wisps of broken storm clouds. Below them, tarns gleam blue. Snow still covers the pass, softening in the sun but firm enough to walk across with only a little slipping and sliding. John sinks a bit, and Gale holds out a hand to pull him up and over, back to the solid ground of granite. To their left, the South Teton rises, a perfect triangle capped with snow. To their right, Mount Wister is a solid wall of granite. Below, the lake stretches long down the narrow glacial valley between the two peaks. Gale can spot that wildflower meadow from here. 

Gale’s throat tightens. He looks over to Marge and Rosie, taking in the view next to him, his arm around her shoulders. He’s been coming here with them for almost a decade now, ten years of exploring and discovering and learning the rhythms and tricks of this place. He’s summitted nearly all the hikable peaks in this range, camped next to most of the lakes, drunk this water, walked these trails. Ten years of memories, of laughter, of cold streams and sunburns and mosquito bites, of inedible dinners and morning coffee, of bear sightings and pika tracking, of birdwatching and stargazing. Long conversations, learning each other, solidifying their friendship, learning this place, these mountains, until they felt as beloved and known as a family member themselves. Gale feels it beneath his skin, the way his heart lightens and his mind quiets when he’s here. 

Wyoming tugs at him the way it always has, quiet and insistent. Most of the time, he can push it down, ignore it. Focus on the rest of his life, on Berkeley and California and the stars. 

Not here.

He looks towards John, who’s panting slightly, pant leg soaked from the snow, hands braced on the straps of his pack. His head turns back and forth, taking in the view, his face lit with something like wonder, something like joy. Gale remembers that feeling from his first trips here, still feels it now. It only makes it harder to ignore the tug in his chest, that tightness that can’t quite decide between grief or joy.

”Alright,” Benny says finally, dropping his pack. “We doing this thing? Only two thousand more vertical to get to the top of that fucker.”

”Twenty four hundred,” Rich corrects.

”I’m rounding down. Makes me feel better. We all in?”

“I’m gonna pass,” John announces. “I think I’m getting enough vertical feet in and the views are plenty scenic from right here. My knee’s acting up, I’ll down a couple Tylenol and enjoy a nap while you jackasses sweat more.” 

“I’m gonna stay behind, too,” Gale says quickly. Marge shoots him a look, lips lifting in a half smirk. Gale glares at her. “I’ve already done this peak.”

”Yeah, yeah, Cleven the climber,” Rosie says. “Suit yourselves. We’ll photoshop you into the group photo later.“

They all drop their packs, Gale and John taking a few necessities for camp—the tarp, just in case it starts raining again, Rosie’s stove, the food the others aren’t bringing with them. The extra gear fills both their packs to brimming, but it’s all downhill to the lake and it won’t take them long to get there. The others stash their packs and gear behind a boulder, sheltered from the wind, and finish their last preparations. Benny pisses off the side of the cliff only for the wind to blow it back onto him. Hilarity and bullying ensue.

Eventually, they’re ready to go. Gale and John stand and pull on their heavier packs, John grunting, Gale only suppressing one with effort. 

“Scream if anything bad happens,” Gale says. “We’ll hear you.”

”Your concern is touching,” Rosie says, clapping him on the shoulder and leading the way up the faint trail that threads up the ridge towards the peak. Marge gives Gale a Look as she passes, accompanied by a knowing curve of her lips. He pretends not to notice and waves cheerfully. She rolls her eyes. 

Silence settles between him and John in their wake. It’s not awkward, but it does feel charged. Something’s shifted, Gale thinks, feels it like electricity arcing beneath his skin. The ease between them, the memory of his breath warm against his neck this morning. He’s still in trouble. He’s not sure he would categorize it as that, anymore.

”Shall we?” John jerks his head down at the lake, and Gale nods. They pick their way down the steep slope, sliding a little in the loose talus, sending stones clattering down towards the water. John swears a few times, catches himself on Gale’s shoulder once when he slips. Returns the favor when Gale’s foot slides out from underneath him and he drops into an uncomfortable crouch, palm scraping against the rock to stop himself from overbalancing with the heavy pack. John pulls him back to his feet, steadies him.

”Thanks,” Gale says, panting a little. His knees are starting to protest the ups and downs, too.

John hums. “Your hand?”

”It’s fine,” Gale says. John reaches for it, and Gale lets him take it between his own, lets him bring it up to study the scrape carefully. He brushes a little gravel off with a gentle finger. “You got a bandaid?”

Gale laughs a little. “Yeah, Bucky, I got a bandaid. It can wait ‘til camp, though.”

John huffs a little, but lets his hand go. They make their way down the remainder of the slope and hop across boulders down to the shore. 

“Let’s camp over there,” Gale says, pointing at the meadow and the cluster of boulders above it, sheltered by a few trees. 

John groans. “All that, and you’re really gonna make me walk to the other side of the lake before we can quit for the day?”

”Yeah,” Gale says. “Come on.”

John mutters something, but follows his lead. It only takes them a few minutes to get to the meadow, and Gale investigates the sheltered area behind the boulders, finds evidence of other campers—footprints, an old fire ring. “See?” He says. “Good campsite.”

John drops his pack and lowers himself to the ground, back leaning up against a boulder, stretching his leg out with a soft grunt. He’s rubbing at his knee distractedly, and Gale decides to cut him a break. 

“I’ll get camp set up,” he says. “Pull out the tent and I’ll get it up.”

”Thanks, Buck,” John says tiredly, and digs in his pack. Gale busies himself with his own, pulling out his food, laying out his still-damp socks and pants from yesterday to dry in the sun. He takes the tent and claims a spot sheltered from the breeze, tucked between a boulder and an old, gnarled whitebark. Then he steps down to the shore to fill their water bottles and his gravity filter. 

When he wanders back up the shore to the campsite, looking for a spot he can hang the filter while it works, John’s changed into shorts and is massaging some sort of balm into the scar that traces over his knee. His touch looks firm and steady, but there’s a flicker of tightness around his mouth that Gale catches, even from where he stands. 

He should leave it alone. Should let John have his quiet. He’s given enough to Gale in the past day. But the question pulls at him anyway, insistent.

Gale hooks the water filter bag to a gnarled branch of a stunted, half-dead whitebark pine and lowers himself into the sparse shade beneath it, arms resting loosely on his knees. The dry wood of the trunk warms his sweaty back.

“What happened?” he asks, nodding toward John’s knee.

John looks up, shrugs. “Got in an accident a while ago. Shattered my tibia and dislocated my knee, tore a bunch of shit. Leg was a fucking mess for a long time, but it’s healed pretty well. Just acts up sometimes. Been putting it through a lot.” He stretches it out, twists his ankle around, gets to his feet. “Got this CBD shit that helps a lot, but you know. Getting old.”

”Yeah,” Gale says, thinking of how sore he was the day after riding, of how out of breath he’s been on the climbs of this hike. “I feel that.”

”My whole body’s acting up these days, besides my knee,” John says cheerfully. “That’s what a decade of manual labor and a few dozen idiotic decisions’ll get you.”

”And yet you chose to go on a notoriously difficult backpacking trip for five days,” Gale says dryly.

”Few dozen and one idiotic decisions,” John amends. “Couldn’t miss it, Buck. But what I can miss is climbing up another tower of rock when we’ve got a lake right here in front of us just begging to be jumped in, and a sunny meadow right next to it. What do you say?” 

“Yeah,” Gale says, because it is hot, and the lake does look inviting. “Why not.”

John lets out a boyish little whoop and runs down the little trail from the campsite towards the lake, pulling his shirt off and flinging it to the side as he goes. Gale can’t help himself, he laughs. Takes it a little more measured, grabs his quick dry towel from his pack and a fresh water bottle, a bag of trail mix, some clean shorts, his sunscreen. Stows his phone carefully away and pulls off his hat, running his fingers through his sweaty hair. Tries to arrange it into something approximating his usual style before realizing he’s being an idiot and is about to jump into a lake anyway. 

By the time he gets down to the shore, John is buck-ass naked.

Gale drops what he’s carrying. The water bottle clacks against the rocks and rolls down to hit John’s foot where he stands perched on the rocks, toes in the water. With his back to Gale, Gale can only see tanned, well-muscled arms, the sunburned back of his neck, the white of his ass and thighs and the way his muscles clench as he balances on the slick rocks, body tensed against the cold of the water.

John turns, bending to scoop up the water bottle, and steps out of the water to hand it back to Gale.

He’s so broad, so tall. His muscles come from a life spent moving, laboring, working, and his entire body reflects that from the ridiculous severity of his farmer’s tan to the softness around his belly and thighs. He’s broad and hairy and manly, but there’s delicacy to him too, in the swoop of his collarbones, the curve of his neck, his plush lips, the jut of his hipbones. His feet, delicately arched with long toes, pale against the granite pebbles of the shoreline. The wicked scar tracking up the front of his right shin, pink and hairless against the pale of his skin, the other twisted over his knee and shiny with ointment. His chest hair is thick and glued to his skin with perspiration, thinning where it trails over his belly and thickening again at his groin. His soft cock nestles in thick brown curls, and John seems to have no self consciousness about how bare he is, no instinct to curl or cover. 

Gale takes the water bottle, sets it down carefully at his feet. Pulls his eyes away from John’s chest, his cock. Wraps his own arms around himself like the action will hide John away, then forces himself to let them fall down to his sides.

John grins at him, turns away, wades back into the water. Shivers a little as it closes over his feet, his ankles, his shins, and turns to call over his shoulder, “Come on, the water’s fine!”

It takes Gale a moment to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but he manages eventually. “You’re already shivering.”

”Feels good!” John calls back, and then, with a whoop, splashes forward and throws himself bodily under the surface, striking out with a few kicks and then resurfacing, shaking his head like a dog and crowing loudly. “Fuck! Fuck! Come on, you loon! Get naked and get in here!” 

Gale turns his back on John, strips his t-shirt, strips his hiking pants. Folds them neatly, makes sure they’re not going to get splashed. Slides off his boots. Turns back around and picks his way over sharp rocks and down to the water, resolutely not looking at John.

John is looking at him. “Underwear too, Buck!” He calls. “All or nothing!”

Gale looks up. John’s out far enough that it looks like he’s treading water, just a grinning head and a mop of dark hair plastered to his forehead.

”Never said I was gonna skinny dip,” he calls out to him.

”Ah, come on—now where’s the fun in one of us going all the way and the other only going half?”

”Jesus, Bucky,” Gale says, and steps into the freezing water. He yelps involuntarily. Glacial meltwater has a different sort of coldness to it than even the freshest snowmelt. His toes burn with it.

”Spoilsport!” John shouts, and dives back under the water. Gale looks down at himself. Looks up at the water, at the ripples where John moves beneath it, at the peak above them where their friends are probably watching. He tries to think if he’s ever skinny dipped before. All these years of camping and backpacking and climbing, all the lakes he’s ever swam in, the rivers, the warm currents of southern oceans and the freezing waves of the Pacific—he doesn’t think he ever has.

He grits his teeth, shucks off his underwear in one quick motion, kicking it up onto the shore, and runs into the water. Dives in the way John had, wholly unimpeded, and lets the water swallow him up.

He comes up gasping, the cold so intense his entire body thrums with the energy of it, letting out something embarrassingly close to a shriek. John’s back up, bobbing in front of him, laughing. 

“Fuck!” Gale yells, with feeling.

”You get used to it!” John shouts back. They don’t need to be yelling, they’re close enough to each other, but something about the cold of the water, the racing of his heart, the breath-catching freedom of the cold against every inch of him, brushing every crack and crevice with no fabric in the way, makes him want to shout. To scream. He laughs. Dives back under. Opens his eyes beneath the surface and sees the rocky bottom, the minnows darting between his toes, John’s pale legs treading water, John’s face when he plunges back under the surface, eyes open too, looking at Gale and smiling, bubbles rising from his mouth, his nose. Gale lifts a hand and waves at him.

John laughs, he can tell from the stream of bubbles that leave his nose, and waves back. 

They push back to the surface together, gasping in air, both laughing a little. John grins at him, eyes flicking down. “Didn’t think you’d do it.”

Gale had almost forgotten he was naked and resists the urge to cover himself under the water. “You’re a bad influence.”

John throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, I am!” He dives back under the water and before Gale can react his hands are around his ankles, tugging him until he slips under the surface, too. Gale kicks out at him, rolling in the water so he can grab at John’s arm, his shoulder, wrestling with him and diving lower until they scrape the rocks at the bottom, frightening the minnows away. They surface laughing again, gasping, pushing against each other, shivering with the cold. “I have to get out,” Gale chokes, snorting freezing water out of his nose and forgetting to feel self conscious about it. “I’m f-freezing.”

John pulls at his arm and they stumble out of the lake, splashing noisily and dripping water everywhere. Gale’s abandoned underwear are soaked and sandy and he scoops them up as he passes, following John up to the sun-soaked grass and flopping down next to him, relishing the feel of the warmth hitting his frigid skin, making it prickle pleasantly. Beside him, John lets out a pleased hum, shakes through a full body shiver, and flops onto his back, eyes closed. Gale pulls on his shorts and follows suit, closing his eyes against the warmth of the sun. They’re quiet for a long moment, basking, Gale hyper aware of the warmth of John’s body six inches away from him, stretched out long and languid in the grass. Eventually, John lets out a long sigh.

”Mmmm,” he says. “Felt good.”

”Yeah,” Gale sighs, opening his eyes. John’s are still closed, but his face is turned towards Gale, his nose gone a little red. His curls are already drying in the heat of the sun, springing up soft and mussed around his ears, over his forehead. His face is relaxed, lines in his forehead softened, lips curled just slightly. 

Something thumps heavy in Gale’s chest. He sits up, pulls his knees up, leans his arms on them. Looks away, across the lake, towards the mountain. Revels in the severity of it all, in the stark granite of the landscape, the freezing cold of the water, the intensity of the sun. The delicate tenacity of the marsh gentian blooming around them, of the bees that pollinate them in this thin air, of the tiny fish living in that freezing lake. The improbability of the two of them here in the middle of it all, in a place stripped down to the stark essentials of life, so unwelcoming to humans and yet a place where Gale feels embraced, cradled, understood. No pretensions. No illusions. No pressure. Just him in the rock and the wind and the sky. In the water, naked, no barriers left between him and the world. 

Sharing it all with John, who makes him feel a little bit of the same.

Beside him, John sits up with a little grunt, knee cracking as he draws them up to mirror Gale’s position. “You seem happy,” he says softly. Gale feels his eyes on him, a burning intensity to his gaze.

“I love this place,” Gale replies.

John hums, cocks his head a little. “I do, too. Didn’t know there was anything like this, growing up. Not until they brought me here last year.” He’s staring at Gale as he speaks, his curls a fluffy halo around his head, his stubble thick and a little patchy on his jaw and cheekbones. He smells like sweat and crushed grass and musk. There’s a drop of water slowly sliding down his neck and Gale can’t take his eyes off of it. Can’t take his eyes off of John.

”Gale,” John says quietly, and then he leans forward. Barely even has to move for how close they already are. Pauses for a moment, inches away, and when Gale doesn’t pull away, he closes that final distance and presses his lips to Gale’s.

Chapped skin, pillowy soft lips. Gale’s mouth opens to him immediately, but John doesn’t push. Keeps it light, soft, sweet, hand coming up to cup Gale’s jaw with a featherlight touch. If Gale had had to guess how John would kiss, he would have expected a whirlwind, a devouring. This is something different, something hesitant and almost shy, like John is savoring him, like he’s expecting Gale to push him away. That’s the last thing in the world Gale would do right now—instead, he pushes forward into John, deepening the kiss with such enthusiasm John makes a little shocked noise and Gale overbalances, forced to plant his hand in the grass next to John’s bare hip to stop himself from falling over into his lap. 

It’s still light, mouths barely parted, tongues brushing just a little, but Gale feels like he just climbed out of the water again, like sunlight is hitting his body and turning him to a thousand shivers, a lightened, alive thing. He reaches up and buries a hand in John’s wet curls, anchoring himself, feels the hard beat of John’s pulse in his neck where his wrist brushes, wonders if John can feel his own racing heart. Tries to remember the last time a kiss felt like this. Maybe Rob, at the beginning, when they’d tried going on a few dates before realizing they were better off as friends. Maybe George, in that blue bedroom at the top of the stairs. 

And then John pulls away. Gale makes a noise when he does, something undignified, a little hiccup. His fingers trail and catch in John’s hair and he follows the bob of John’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, can’t quite bring himself to meet his eyes.

”Jesus,” John whispers, and draws away further. “Sorry, we shouldn’t—you’re my fucking boss.”

That jolts Gale out of his thoughts. “What?”

”You own the ranch I work for,” John says, and rubs a hand over his eyes. “I shouldn’t—Jesus, I shouldn’t be seducing you.”

”I’m not being seduced,” Gale snaps at him, drawing away. He feels like he’s just jumped back into the cold water, only this time there isn’t anything nice about it. “Give me a little agency. And I’m not your damn boss.”

John shakes his head. “You own the ranch I work for,” he repeats. “Your dad was my boss, and now you are. I answer to you, ultimately. We all do.”

”That’s bullshit,” Gale snaps. “You don’t answer to me, I don’t know shit about ranching and what I do know is you’ve all been running the show for a lot longer than four months.”

John clenches his jaw. “Still. Should’ve controlled myself until we had a chance to actually talk about this, but god, I have a hard time doing that around you.”

”What do you mean?” Gale asks, frustrated. “Talk about what? You kissed me. I kissed you back, in case you didn’t notice. Don’t make this into something more than it needs to be.”

John stares at him, eyes dark. “I think you know I want to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you, Buck.”

Gale opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants to do a hell of a lot more than kiss, too. Has for a while, really. And he’s known John does, too—John’s been flirting with him since day one, and Gale started out stiff and determined not to warm up to him, and then John wormed his way into Gale’s heart anyway. He’s been flirting back since April. His defenses were down as soon as they delivered those calves together; before that, even, at the bar watching Benny and Johnny dance around each other and drinking a ginger ale John bought for him.

When it comes down to it, it took all of two days for John to smash through all of Gale’s carefully constructed walls. 

He licks his lips, turns away from John because he can’t take the intensity in his gaze. “I’m not your boss. I’ll grant you the situation is a weird one, but I’m not in charge of the ranch and I’ve got zero desire to own it or make any of you feel like you answer to me.”

John sighs. “Yeah, alright. Still.”

”Still what? What do you want me to say? I want to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you, too. What’s stopping us?”

John snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to get you to notice me since March, Buck. Couldn’t help myself. I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He gestures at Gale, sweeping a hand up and down to encompass all of him. “I’d seen photos, but that didn’t prepare me for this.” 

Gale looks down at himself. Old hiking shorts spotted with dark patches of water, legs he always felt were a little too thin, feet he always felt were a little too large. Bitten nails, chest and arms that are lean but nothing compared to John’s bulk and muscles. Gale knows he’s not bad looking, and he puts care into his appearance and his grooming, but he wishes his hair was more agreeable without him having to style it, he finds his lips a little too full against the sharp planes of the rest of his face, and wishes that his body would let him put on muscle instead of just going hard and lean when he tries to work out or bulk up. He thinks he looks a little weird when he smiles with teeth and knows his posture is bad and wishes his beard wasn’t so damn patchy whenever he tried to grow one and—well, John is John and Gale’s not sure why he’s looking at him like that when John’s the one Gale can barely keep eye contact with because he’s so goddamn handsome. 

John reaches out, places a thumb on Gale’s bottom lip. Smiles at him a little sadly. “You’re the most gorgeous fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. Thought that from the first moment I saw you. And now I know you’re the most gorgeous, and also that you know everything there is to know about the stars, and can deliver a breech calf and ride a horse like a dream and tell me all the names of every peak in this range, and that you’ll call me when you can tell I’m feeling low and talk to me about the stars, and that you’re the most stubborn fuckin’ son of a bitch I’ve ever met. And I don’t know what the fuck to do with all that information besides kiss you about it, but I should’ve—we should’ve talked about it first.”

”What’s there to talk about?” Gale asks again, feeling the drag of John’s calloused thumb as he speaks. John’s words have chased away the feeling of coldness, the sudden discomfort, leaving him feeling warm and syrupy and like he’d really like to kiss John again.

John laughs. “A whole fuckin’ lot, I think. Okay, maybe you’re not my boss. But you don’t live here. I’m trying to buy a ranch you own. I’m one of the people who got you into a debt situation you didn’t have any idea about until a few months ago. Me and your dad—“

”Leave him out of this,” Gale snaps.

John raises his hands. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying—Buck, I think you’re somethin’ else. I really do. But I’m not made for something quick or casual. Never have been. And I don’t want to make this into something that hurts, not when I feel like I can finally call you a friend. It’s meant a lot to me, getting to know you these last few months.”

Gale’s mouth is dry, heart thrumming. The things John is saying, they’re too much for him to take in. It sounds like confession, it sounds like devotion, it sounds like things that Gale’s barely scratched the surface of, even as he’s been twining his life with John’s little by little the last few months. 

He thinks, I want to keep kissing him. He thinks, I should never touch him again, not if I know what’s good for me. Because John is right, about all of it, and if John isn’t made for something quick or casual, Gale thinks he might not have been made for anything at all. Quick and casual, or whatever the opposite is. He’s never had a real relationship, not really, not since George in high school. Some hookups in college, a guy he saw for about six months when he was a senior, but they never labeled it and when the guy moved after graduation Gale didn’t feel much about it at all. The string of hazy, half-remembered hookups in Gillette, on his knees in alleyways and bar bathrooms, more about an urge to self-destruct than chasing any sort of pleasure. What he has with Rob, which is comfortable and fond and nothing but casual. 

He doesn’t want John like that. He doesn’t want John like he’s wanted anything before. 

”Meant a lot to me, too,” he croaks, and John finally smiles again, that grin that imprinted itself into Gale the very first time he saw it. He forces himself to say more, to show his vulnerable underbelly the way John just did with him. To put into words what four months of texts and phone calls and photos of calves meant, the way a frantic ride to the airport and a gifted jacket made him feel, the way his bones seemed to settle when he saw John again, shared curry with him, sat in the passenger seat of his truck surrounded by his scent, listened to him talk about a farm he loved and a person he lost in the quiet darkness of a tent. “I like you, John,” he manages, which doesn’t really cover it, but they’re the only words he can find.

John’s smile crinkles wider. His hand slides down from Gale’s mouth to cup his jaw, squeezing his chin, “I like you too, Buck,” he says. Then he pulls away, stands, stretches like a cat in the sun. The tall, broad bulk of him, arms stretching to the sky, toes curling in the soft grass. His back muscles bunch, his biceps strain. It’s a show, Gale knows it, put on for him, and Gale’s a rapt audience. John’s ass is right at eye level, lean the way his belly isn’t but still enticing, still plush enough that Gale can imagine the way it would feel under his hands. 

“Gonna go take that nap, Buck,” John says. “Think about it, yeah? That’s where I stand. Don’t wanna pressure you. Don’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable at all, or push you into something you can’t give me, but—yeah. You know.”

Gale’s throat sticks on itself as he swallows. “Yeah,” he says.

John turns back to him, shoots him a wink and a little smile, and trails off towards camp. Gale stays sitting on the soft grass, staring out at the lake, letting his eyes go unfocused against the glittering of the sunlight reflecting off the water. On the far shore, a rustling in the bushes reveals a mountain goat, stepping down delicately to drink, a kid following close behind, its oversized head and knobbly legs comedic. Gale catches his breath, freezes, watches them. He wishes he had his phone to take a photo, but knows the photograph would never adequately capture the white shag of their fur, the strangely delicate way their bodies move over the rocks.

The sound of John rustling around by the tent makes both their heads shoot up, freezing for a moment and staring across before apparently deciding that neither human poses a threat and going back to their drinking. Gale watches them until they leave, quiet, still.

The warmth of the sun makes him tired, a little fuzzy. He blinks his eyes closed, lets himself fall back onto the grass. Reaches up to run his fingers over his lips, thinks about the way John felt, the way John tasted. All that John said. Wants, in a throbbing, needy way that makes him feel a little desperate, a little vulnerable, a little frightened. I don’t want to make this into something that hurts, John had said, and Gale understood him. He didn’t want to make John into something he longed for, not when their lives and futures weren’t aligned. John was meant for Wyoming, for Casper, for the ranch, for the cattle and the bison and the wide open sky. Gale was meant for California, for the degree he was chasing, for the postdocs and research positions that came after, for the observatories, for the stars. He’d fought like hell for a decade to get to where he was. He still barely knows John. Doesn’t understand where this desperate attraction came from, or how it grew so strong without him even noticing. 

But he wants. Oh, he wants. And now that he’s tasted it, he’s not sure how he can convince himself to go without. He’s not sure he wants to.

It feels like walking a trail above the Pacific shrouded in heavy fog, something he can’t make out or predict, a place where he won’t be able to see what’s in front of him, what’s below his feet, won’t know if there’s even solid ground until he takes the next step, and another, and another. It feels like something he should turn his back on, walk away from, stay on solid ground and safety. Only he knows that past the fog would be the most beautiful view he’s ever seen. Only he wants to keep going, because he has a feeling the path tracks along the edge of a cliff but doesn’t fall off of it. Only if he turned away every time there was fog, he’d never go outside at all.

There is a moment that night when Gale pretends he’s going to sleep out under the stars. That moment lasts for precisely as long as it takes for the rest of the group to crawl into their tents, and then he’s crawling into John’s. John’s got his headlamp hanging from the top of the tent and he’s already blown up Gale’s sleeping pad for him.

”Don’t think you fooled anyone, Buck.”

”I was just filling up some water,” he says innocently.

”Sure. Get in here. It’s getting chilly.”

It’s really not. The warmth of the day lingers, and though the night air has a bite to it, it's a welcome relief. The temperature seems to rise a few degrees in the time it takes Gale to crawl in, roll out his sleeping bag, and shimmy out of his hiking pants and into sweats. John just watches him, propped up on his elbow on top of his own sleeping bag, one knee up. He’s wearing only a thin t-shirt and his boxer briefs and Gale tries not to look at the bulge in them. Tries not to think of what lies beneath. John doesn’t offer him the same courtesy—his eyes are on Gale the entire time, watching as he changes, as he settles in. Gale gets into his own sleeping bag, but turns on his stomach with his arms propping up his head and looks towards John.

John bites his lip, smiles a little. Not his usual grin, but something a little shyer. A little uncertain.

Gale’s heart pounds in his chest, dinner gurgling in his stomach. He thinks of John in the sunlight this afternoon, the slow roll of water droplets down his back. Thinks of how smooth his skin was, how plush his lips were against Gale’s. Thinks of John’s voice, of I’m not made for something quick or casual, of don’t wanna push you into something you can’t give me. Of his own inability to give any sort of answer, any sort of reassurance.

He still doesn’t have the right words. They’re all tangled up in him, caught somewhere around his sternum. But maybe he doesn’t need them yet, not for this.

He reaches over and runs his pointer finger over the plush pout of John’s lower lip. John’s mouth parts, opening under the caress. He licks his lips as Gale pulls away, just catching his finger with the tip of his tongue. “Gale—“

Gale doesn’t let him finish. He moves his hand to anchor John’s jaw, to hold him in place, and kisses him.

John’s lips, already parted, open wider around a quick intake of breath. Gale doesn’t let himself think too hard, doesn’t force himself to hold back—he takes the opening and pushes closer, slipping his tongue between John’s lips the way he’d wanted to that afternoon, tasting him. The lingering sweet burn of the whiskey he drank with dinner beneath the mint of his toothpaste, the memory of cigarettes though John hadn’t been smoking much on the trip at all. John exhales a little grunt into Gale’s mouth, tilts his head, and deepens the kiss, pulling Gale in, sucking on his tongue for a moment before slipping his own alongside it, licking into Gale’s mouth like he’s savoring it, like he has to take it slowly lest the taste overwhelm him. Gale’s blood rushes in his ears, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingers where they’re pressed to John’s face. Heat pools in his gut, in his cock. Less than a minute of kissing and he’s getting hard like some teenager, like someone who’s never even been touched before.

John pulls back, breaking the kiss and Gale’s mortified to hear a little whine come out of him at the loss of contact. A strand of saliva stretches between their mouths before breaking, dripping cold on Gale’s cheek. They stare at each other for a long moment, Gale’s hand still on John’s jaw, John looking at him with something akin to awe.

”Are you sure?” John whispers. 

Gale just nods. Licks his lips. “I like you, John,” he whispers again, and he means so much more than that. Can’t put anything beyond that into words. 

John just nods. Looks solemn, reaching up and running a thumb across the curve of Gale’s cheekbone. He slides his hand around the back of John’s neck and tugs him back in. 

John kisses with enthusiasm now, any surprise and shyness gone as quickly as they came. He tugs Gale towards him, shoving his sleeping bag down until he can twine an arm around him, cupping the small of his back and bringing their hips together. Gale gasps into his mouth when he feels John’s hardness against his own. John pulls away to breathe out a moan against his neck.

”Fuck, Buck,” he whispers. “I don’t—do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Gale swallows, shudders in a breath as John grinds against him. He snakes a hand down between them, palms John’s cock. It’s big, proportional to the rest of him, and hot through the fabric of his underwear. “A little bit, yeah,” he says, voice raspy. John groans again, louder this time, and thrusts a little into Gale’s hand, like he can’t help himself. Gale can’t help the twitch of his own hips in response. John’s big hand comes up to cup the back of his head, carding through the tangled strands of his hair as he brings him in again close, kissing with tongue and teeth and desperation. Gale worms his hand from between the clutch of their bodies and tugs at the waistband of John’s underwear until John gets the message and pulls back enough for Gale to yank it down his thighs.

In the dim light of the headlamp he can’t get the look he really wants, but it's enough to see the heft of him, the flush of arousal beneath the dark hair fuzzing his belly and thickening around his cock, the dark, flushed head of it and the bead of precome at the tip. Gale licks his lips unconsciously and John laughs, dragging a hand down Gale’s flank to grip at his ass.

”I think you’re a little overdressed,” he says breathlessly, and Gale tears his eyes away from his cock and kicks his legs free of the sleeping bag, yanks his sweatpants and briefs down in one go until he’s as bare as John. He feels a bit silly, bundled in a hoodie and a flannel on the top and bare on the bottom. John’s not laughing. He’s staring at Gale’s hips, at the curve of his ass, at his cock, drinking him in. It makes Gale want to cover himself up again, so he tugs John into another kiss instead and pushes his hand up under his shirt, stroking across his chest, catching his fingers on a nipple and pinching it until John gasps into his mouth. His hands are huge and hot on Gale’s skin, skimming under his hoodie, pulling him closer. His palm fits perfectly against the small of his back, the pads of his fingers falling into the divots at the base of Gale’s spine. 

“Lemme touch you, baby,” he murmurs into Gale’s ear. Gale doesn’t usually like pet names, thinks they’re a bit cringey, really, but something about the rasp of John’s voice, the way he says it like he’s speaking the name of a god or a saint, perfect earnestness, a little crack in the middle of the word—he likes it. Maybe he just likes it because it’s John who’s saying it.

Gale nods, and John lets out a little whine, dipping his head to mouth at Gale’s neck, catching the sensitive skin between his teeth and nibbling lightly, not nearly enough to mark him up but enough to leave Gale gasping, arching his head for better access. John hums against his Adam’s apple and noses the collar of his hoodie aside, licking against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He pulls away for a moment, looks Gale in the eye, and spits into his own palm. Licks at it messily, spreading the spit around. Gale moans. Can’t help himself. John grins at him, leans back in, and latches his teeth into the crook of his neck at the same time he wraps his wet fingers around Gale’s cock. 

Gale arches back and grinds up at the same time, muffling the noise he makes with a palm slapped hastily over his mouth. John huffs a laugh into his neck, licks up to his ear, whispers, voice gravel, “That good?”

”Fuck,” he whispers. It’s broken, breathed out high and needy, sounds like someone who’s never had his cock touched before. It feels different. Gale hasn’t really enjoyed a handjob since high school—it always seems perfunctory, a little mechanical, nothing overly sensual or exciting about it. It’s what he does to himself in the shower when he wakes up hard and needs to get it taken care of; it’s what you do to someone else when you owe them an orgasm and want it over with.

John turns it sensual, the way his fingers trail and grip, the way his callouses rub a perfect roughness over Gale’s slit. The way he’s taking his time, like he’s using this moment to memorize the feel of Gale by touch alone. He’s clearly enjoying it, panting into Gale’s neck even though he’s not getting any stimulation himself. 

John lifts his hand away from Gale’s cock and Gale whimpers at the loss of contact. Slaps his hand over his mouth again, mortified, but John gently tugs it away and lifts his own fingers to Gale’s mouth. Gale doesn’t understand at first, just looks at John, panting a little. John smiles, hooks Gale’s bottom lip with his fingers, pulls his mouth open.

”I need you to get me wet,” he says. “Don’t want to hurt you, baby.”

Gale, groaning like John’s giving him his cock, opens his mouth to his fingers. John slides in two, then three. Keeps his thumb under Gale’s jaw, holding him hooked open. Pushes them in deep, stroking the flat of Gale’s tongue, brushing the backs of his teeth, swiping at the inside of his cheeks, stuffing him full. Collecting his saliva, scooping it off of his tongue when he pulls his fingers out, leaving Gale’s mouth empty and stretched and drooling for more.

John rubs Gale’s saliva over his fingers, coats his palm. Reaches back down, and this time he lifts a leg to hook over Gale’s, pushes their hips together, and takes them both in his hand, his palm big enough and fingers long enough that he can. It’s different, to feel the hard heat of John pressed against him, the friction just on the edge of painful despite Gale’s saliva coating them both. John grunts, knocks his forehead against Gale’s, and kisses him again. 

“Fuck, Bucky—“ Gale bites out, arching into him, and John grins against his lips, their teeth clashing together. John’s hot against him, and so hard Gale thinks he must be hurting, hurting the way Gale is, his balls tight and drawn up, gut clenching. He knows it’s going to be over quick—he won’t be able to help it. His breath comes in wheezing pants, the rustle of their sleeping bags and John’s quiet grunts making obvious what they’re doing if anyone else is awake. Gale can’t bring himself to care. John breaks away from his lips and presses his forehead to Gale’s clavicle, hot breath gusting across his skin, stubble brushing against his nipple. Gale buries his face in John’s disastrous curls and breathes him in. Presses closer, fingers scrabbling at John’s shoulders. Groans, and John twists his wrist just so and slides his thumb across Gale’s slit, pressing just a little. He’s dripping pre, and so is John, mixing with the spit and sweat in a sticky heat with just enough friction to keep him on the edge, teetering, desperate.

”John,” he groans, and John moves down a little farther, brushes a kiss across Gale’s pec, and takes his nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, biting.

Gale shouts, arches back, and comes.

”Oh fuck,” John groans, and swirls his tongue over Gale’s skin. “Yeah, baby, come on—you’re so—take it, take what you need—“

He’s babbling, words mumbled against Gale’s skin as he works him through his orgasm, panting as Gale starts to squirm from oversensitivity. “Just hold on, you can take it, I’m almost there—I’m almost—oh, fuck, Gale—“

John follows him over the edge, rutting up against Gale and spilling over his belly and his own sleeping bag. He buries his face in Gale’s armpit and lets out a long, guttural moan, body tensed and tight before finally relaxing, boneless, still tucked into Gale’s side. Neither speak for a long moment, their panting loud in Gale’s ears. Their come is already cooling, drying tacky on Gale’s skin and clumping in the hair on their bellies. Gale shivers a little.

John draws away. His eyes are a little glassy, reflecting the light of the head lamp, and his cheeks are flushed. “You alright?” He asks, voice hoarse.

Gale takes a moment. Really thinks about it. Tries to parse out all of the emotions running through him, the endorphins and adrenaline and fondness and fear.

“Yeah,” he whispers eventually, and John smiles. Then, “we made a mess.”

”I’ll clean you up, baby,” John says, pulling away. Gale almost protests the loss of his body heat—it’s cold, now, and the come is drying tacky and chilly. John rummages at the bottom of the tent where their gear is piled, pulls out a water bottle and a bandana. Carefully wets the fabric and wipes at Gale’s stomach. It’s cold, too, but the gentleness John cleans him with is tender and sends warmth crawling up from his belly to his chest. He knows he’s blushing. He wouldn’t usually let someone do this to him. He lets John.

John cleans himself perfunctorily, wipes at his sleeping bag, grimaces. There’s a spot of cum on the bottom hem of his t-shirt. Gale points it out silently, and John grimaces again. Gale reaches for his own bandana, dips it in his water bottle, daubs at the fabric. It’s not terribly effective—it’ll stain, and so will the sleeping bag, and they’ll smell like sex and sweat in the morning and he doesn’t care.

He throws the damp bandanas down to the bottom of the tent and slides back down, pulls his sweatpants back on, straightens his sleeping bag. John follows suit, pulling on his own fleece and straightening his sleeping bag until they’re back lying face to face, staring at each other. John offers a small smile. Gale returns it, lifts a hand, strokes his thumb against John’s rough cheekbone, feeling the stubble and the weather-roughed skin. 

“Can I—“ John starts, a little hoarse. He clears his throat, reaches out and brushes a strand of Gale’s greasy hair off his forehead. There’s a part of him that wants to hide from the gentleness of that touch, from the way it settles something deep inside him. “Can I hold you?”

It almost hurts, the way he says it. Gale closes his eyes for a moment. When was the last time anyone asked that of him? Had anyone, in this context? Face to face after an orgasm, the sexual tension dispelled and the heavy desire lifted away from both of them, no gearing up for another round—he can tell that much from John’s heavy-lidded eyes, from the exhaustion in his own bones. No, this was a request to hold for the sake of holding, for closeness, for the warmth of another body pressed against your own—no more.

Gale doesn’t sleep well with others. Even on the nights he stays with Rob, they usually end up on opposite sides of the bed, and he rarely sleeps well.

He thinks of John’s breath against the back of his neck that morning. The way he lay there watching the sun rise and didn’t want to move.

He nods, shifts a little closer. John reaches out and pulls him against the bulk of his body, slides one arm to pillow under Gale’s head and drapes the other across Gale’s side. They’re still in their separate sleeping bags, legs sequestered while their upper bodies tangle together. Gale’s forehead ends up pressed to John’s sternum, echoing with the beat of his heart. 

He closes his eyes. His body aches with exhaustion but his heart is thundering, his mind racing. He thinks he won’t sleep—how can he? But John drops off quickly, breath evening out, arm a heavy, grounding weight, heartbeat steady, and Gale follows him into slumber instantly.