Chapter Text
The dogs on Main Street howl 'cause they understand
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister, I ain't a boy, no, I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
-Bruce Springteen
October 1998
Valentine, Montana wasn't much to write home about. It was scarcely enough to make for an interesting postcard. From where Charles sat at the little town's busiest red light, three other cars waiting with him, he could see the entire town square. Everything was a stone's throw away from everything else. It had been over a decade since Charles had been here last and he didn’t think much had changed. The coffee shop was new to him, but the rest — the pharmacy, the bar, the bank, the collection of little shops—looked exactly like he remembered.
The light changed and he waited for the car across the intersection to pull past. It was a Cadillac driven by a white-haired old lady who could barely see over the massive steering wheel. He turned wide to the left, mindful of his horse trailer and the median-turned-flowerbed.
Matthews & Sons was located just beyond the town square. It was a big rectangular building that had clearly once been a factory or mill. It was brick, with big glass windows set into the longest sides. The entry door, propped open, was on the short side facing the parking lot. He passed wheelbarrows and pallets of garden soil and mulch on his way from his truck towards the store. A clearly homemade shelf just outside was laden with rows of pumpkins - most were for sale, but the topmost row featured carved jack-o-lanterns. Each had a little square paper with a number tacked to it. A sign nearby read: Vote in our employee pumpkin carving contest! A wooden suggestion box sat below it with a pen and pad of sticky notes.
Some of the carvings were quite good. The first was a simple recreation of the "M & S" of the store's logo. The next was a disgusting but detailed jack-o-lantern that was barfing up pumpkin innards. Another depicted a coyote with a cactus, trimmed around the top with little stars. Next to it, one done in a similar style that had a ghost twisting across its surface. Other well-done specimens included a cat face, an image of a horse, a Pac-Man ghost, and one carved to look like a little house with a smaller pumpkin placed inside.
The rest showcased the talents of the store's less artistic employees. One was carved with a big, gaping mouth and a single buck tooth. It was actually pretty adorable, but the one next to it had clearly tried to emulate this one without success. Instead, the pumpkin was completely cut open in the front and someone had placed a chainsaw-wielding action figure inside. Another had obviously been carved using only a hole saw drill bit - whoever had done this one hadn't even bothered to go back and even out the smile, so the mouth looked like the silhouette of a cartoon caterpillar. The worst one could've been plucked from a horror movie - it was meant to be smiling, but the sharp edges of the toothless mouth, paired with the ragged, pupil-less eyes suggested something more disturbing.
Charles stared at this last one for a moment, feeling the same creeping unease he felt when looking at mannequins that were a touch too realistic, then shook himself and went inside. As soon as he passed through the door, a voice called, "Welcome in! What can we do for ya?"
He had to take a moment to orient himself. To the right, shelves of tools and the curled forms of tractor and lawnmower belts. To the left, household cleaning supplies and small necessities like pencils, thumbtacks, and cup hooks. Just next to the store’s center aisle was the register. It was situated atop a massive U-shaped counter with a glass display case full of dusty old pocket knives and knickknacks. Behind the counter, the source of the voice - a woman with a smile on her face and her hand raised in greeting. Her blonde hair was half pulled up, the rest falling in pretty ringlets that framed her face.
Charles approached her, his eyes still busy trying to take in the cluttered space as he said, “Uh - yes ma’am, I was looking for a pelleted horse feed?”
Bird houses and weather vanes were hanging from the ceiling beams behind the counter. Some of them appeared to be handmade. The shelf nearest the register was filled with canned goods that had near-identical printed brown labels from some place called ‘Susan’s Kitchen’. A soft thumping noise drew Charles’s gaze back down, to where a dark gray dog with black spotting was lying on a buffalo-plaid printed bed. He was tucked behind the woman’s legs and had his brown eyes trained on Charles. His tail was smacking a steady rhythm against the floor.
“Sure thing, mister,” the woman replied, “We only got fifty pound bags, that okay?”
“That’s fine.”
He jumped when the woman shouted, “Hey, Arthur! Bring up a bag of horse feed, would ya?”
“Wait - “ Charles protested.
A man’s voice, presumably Arthur's, hollered back, “Senior or standard?”
The woman looked at Charles. “Standard,” he said, “but - “
“Standard!” The woman shouted.
“Yep!” Arthur called back, like a feller placing a bid at a livestock auction. He somehow drew the simple confirmation out into two syllables - yah-uhp!
Charles fumbled for his wallet as the woman started messing with the register. He searched her shirt for a nametag, hoping to get her attention that way, but she wasn’t wearing one, “Ma’am, please, wait a second - I don’t - is it alright if I put it on my uncle’s tab?”
He’d just spent the last of his cash at the local veterinarian. Taima would soon be finding herself newly introduced to his uncle’s own mare, along with some other horses he was boarding. She’d needed a clean bill of health first. He had his debit card in his wallet but, with all the chaos of the move, he wasn't entirely confident in how much remained in his bank account. He pulled out his ID, to at least offer the fact that he had the same last name as proof of relation. Not that Smith weren’t the most common last name possible.
The woman stopped messing with the register and instead fished a little invoice pad and a pen from beneath the counter. “Who’s your uncle?”
“Raymond Smith,” Charles said, and tried to hold out his driver’s license, but it was immediately waved away.
“Ahh, don’t worry about that. We know Ray real well. He mentioned somethin’ about gettin’ some help from his nephew. Not sure what I was expectin’, but it wasn’t you - ” She looked him over with a smile and he blushed and ducked his head to watch her write out his uncle’s name and the description and price of the feed. She looked back up with the pen hovering over the page, “Anything else?”
“Um - “
A man walked up the center aisle from the back of the store, carrying the bag of feed over his shoulder, his arm curled around it to hold it in place. He was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a blue striped shirt tucked in snug at his slim waist. The short length of rope tied around his hat bounced jauntily against the brim as he passed by. “Whatchyu drivin’, mister?”
He barely slowed down to catch Charles’s reply. Probably because he was so damned used to everyone yelling at him all the time. “The tan GMC with the horse trailer, but you don’t have to - “
The man did stop then, just for a moment. He, too, looked Charles up and down, smirked, and then said, “You look more’n capable, big man, but the boss will have my ass if he knows I let you carry this out yourself.”
Big man? Charles thought incredulously, and watched the feller continue on out the door, glance around, then turn towards Charles’s truck with a cheerful whistle on his lips.
“That everything?” The woman asked again.
Charles turned back towards the counter. There was a glass canister filled with caramel creams. He lifted the metal lid and placed one on the countertop. The woman snorted, “You can just take that - “
“No, come on - I can’t - “
“Well, then get four more. They’re five for a dollar. If you’re gonna make me write it down, at least make it easy.”
He counted them out for her, and then tucked them away in his coat pocket. The woman finished her writing and tore free the receipt. She handed him his copy and he took it with a, “Thanks, Miss - ?”
“Karen,” she said happily. She dropped her pen and held out her hand for him to shake.
“Charles,” he replied.
“Good to meet you, Charles. Welcome to Valentine.”
The feed had been deposited into Charles’s truck bed and Arthur was now standing alongside his trailer, letting Taima sniff at his outstretched hand. The sunlight brought out the pure gold streaks of his sandy blond hair. He smiled, easy and genuine, as Taima hung her head further out the window of the trailer and let him pet her nose. As Charles approached, he said, "She said hello to me first, I swear."
“Is that so?” Charles replied, a bit wearily. He’d already had a long day and it was still far from over - he needed to get Taima settled, unhitch the trailer, and continue unpacking. As friendly as the employees of Matthews & Sons seemed to be, the combined assault of the visually busy store and all the shouted instruction had scrubbed away any desire to make small talk.
“Mhm, but she probably just knows I dropped off her food for her. Or that I’ve got treats. They’re just dog biscuits, darlin’, I don’t think you’d want one.” It was a little impressive that Taima seemed to have taken to the man so quickly. She was now lipping at the fringe falling across his forehead. He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and stepped back from her with one final pat to her jaw. “I’ll let you get this pretty lady home. You have a good evenin’, mister.”
“Thanks,” Charles sighed, “you, too.”
Raymond Smith wasn’t actually Charles’s uncle - he was something like his second or third cousin, closer in age to Charles's father. The two had once been traveling ranchhands together, but had found partners to settle down with in different states. Charles's father had stopped roaming to be with his mother and her people in South Dakota. Ray had settled with Everett here in Valentine. It was a close enough distance to remain in touch, but far enough apart that Charles had only been to Valentine a couple times as a teenager. During his childhood, it had been more common for Ray to come visit the tribe. Everett had usually stayed behind to tend the ranch, so Charles had only met his uncle's partner a few times before his passing.
Ray lived just a few minutes outside of town proper, just past the sign marking the Valentine city limits. He had a sizable herd of sheep, along with a handful of goats that he unleashed upon the property's weeds. He sometimes also made a little extra money boarding folks’ horses for them when he had barn space to spare. In addition were the three dogs - a male and female Great Pyrenees named Ross and Dianna, respectively, and a border collie called Whitney. The latter came wiggling up to Charles once he was parked alongside the barn. He paused long enough to stoop and give her a few pets, then let her follow as he went to free Taima.
Charles had been on Ray's property for a few days now, learning the ranch’s routine, despite Ray's insistence that he could focus on getting settled first. Charles didn't like being idle, especially not when Ray was doing him a favor by letting him stay. The last times he had visited had been during the summers when he was fourteen and fifteen. The workload was different in October, with the weather sometimes dipping below freezing at night. With the change from the plenty of spring and summer to the scarcity of the approaching winter, it was also a time to be more alert to Montana's predators, especially with most of the ewes pregnant. The young men that his uncle usually hired for help had both left for college in late August. He'd been managing mostly on his own, with some occasional help from his neighbors, prior to Charles's arrival. Ray was a strapping fifty-three, but he was still fifty-three. Charles didn't want him overtaxing himself.
Ray had a partially-finished basement where Charles would be staying. It wasn’t much, but it gave him his own space and had its own exterior door so the two men could come and go without bothering one another. He'd left the rez in a hurry three days back, and had only just found the time to return for Taima and the rest of his things. They'd left South Dakota in the earliest hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, so that Charles could make it to her afternoon vet appointment here in Valentine. They’d both had a long day, and Charles was grateful that Ray had stabled his mare and a couple of boarders to give Taima the pasture to herself.
Whitney followed along happily and waited outside the dropped trailer door for him to retrieve Taima. He didn’t bother trying to shoo her. Even after only a few days, he knew Ray had her well-trained. She would sometimes nip at the sheep while doing her work, but never people or any of the other animals. And Taima had always been good with dogs so long as they respected her. She pricked her ears curiously forward at the sight of the little dog, so Charles paused in leading her to let them meet. Their noses touched. Whitney wagged her tail and licked gently at the much larger animal, and Taima snorted in reply. She turned, unbothered, and allowed Charles to lead her to her new pasture. He got her settled, fed her dinner, then began mucking out the trailer under the watchful eye of Miss Whitney.
There was a battered leather hat on the trailer floor. He picked it up, examining the rope tied in a makeshift band, and it clicked into place where he’d seen it before. Arthur, the feller from the feed store, had been wearing a hat when he walked past Charles with the bag of feed over his shoulder. He had not been wearing it as he stood by the trailer and greeted Charles’s horse.
“Taima,” Charles groaned softly.
About the same moment the man with the pretty Appaloosa left the parking lot, Arthur realized his hat was gone.
He instinctively moved to pull it down against the glare of the afternoon sun, only to come up empty-handed. It wasn’t an especially windy day, but, after a quick scan of the parking lot, he also poked around the bushes and trees lining the asphalt. It wasn’t lying in the path back into the store and he must’ve looked perturbed as he passed by to check near the bags of feed - maybe it had fallen off when he bent down? - because Karen took one look at him from behind the register and asked, “What’s your problem?”
“Was I wearin’ my hat when I walked outside earlier?”
“I don’t know, probably? You usually are.” She considered, then nodded, “You were, because you had to tilt your head back to look that Charles feller in the face.”
“I thought so,” Arthur replied, distraught. “Charles, you said? You get a last name?”
“Smith. Ray’s nephew.”
Relief flooded Arthur. He'd noticed Charles had South Dakota plates. If his hat had fallen into the bed of Charles Smith’s truck or been taken by his wily horse, Arthur’d really rather not have to track the feller down across state lines. He could admit he was a bit stupid about his hat, but that would be a little much, even for him. It was good to know he probably wouldn’t have to resort to such lengths. He nodded his distracted thanks to Karen and made for the office at the center of the store to fetch his keys. Hosea was at the desk, a game of minesweeper open on the computer in front of him. He arched an eyebrow as Arthur reached for the row of coat- and key-hooks behind the office door.
“And where are you going?”
“Ray’s.“
“Don’t you think you oughta finish your shift first?”
Arthur set his truck keys back on their hook and turned to frown at him. “Hosea, I been here all day.” The store opened at seven. If he stayed until closing, like he usually did, then he’d be leaving at seven, too. He and Hosea were the only ones that regularly worked twelve hour shifts at Matthews & Sons. The second son in question was stretched out on the couch against the wall, enjoying a pack of those florescent orange peanut butter crackers he liked. Arthur gestured towards him and said, “John can cover for me.”
“I’m on my lunch break,” John replied around a mouthful of orange mush.
Arthur scowled, “At two in the afternoon?”
“I came in late.”
"Ain't that a surprise. All the more reason for you to close up. Hosea, come on - "
“What do you need to rush off to Ray’s for, anyway?” the old man asked. He had turned the desk chair around to watch Arthur. The chair creaked as Hosea leaned back in it. It was probably about as old as Hosea himself - wooden framed, with tarnished metal legs that had once ended in little wheels. They had long since been replaced with rubber feet. Arthur had vague memories of the chair’s previous wheels getting caught in a shag rug that had graciously found its way to the dumpster at some point in the eighties.
“I think his nephew might have my hat.”
Hosea turned back to the computer with a snort. “I don’t reckon that’s important enough for you to rush out on us.”
“But, what if he don’t notice it’s there? And - “
“And your hat sits in some horseshit for a few hours? Wouldn’t be the first time, as much of it as you have between your ears.”
Arthur scowled. From John’s reclined position on the couch, he muttered, “Don’t know why you care so much about that stupid hat, anyway. Not like you ever liked Lyle Morgan.”
“At least I remember my folks - “ It was an ancient argument, a ritual dance so familiar that Arthur could’ve opened his own mouth and said John’s words along with him.
“I remember my pa!”
Yep, them was the words. But before he could say his next line, Hosea cut them off with a sharp, “Boys.” They both turned to look at him. He was twisted in the chair, his hand still on the mouse, and had one sleek eyebrow raised at them. “Arthur, you’re gonna stay until closing - ” He opened his mouth to protest, but Hosea’s second eyebrow joined the first, effectively silencing him. “ - so that I’ll have a ride home. I’ve got a book of Ray’s I need to return, anyway. I’ll go with you. John is going to leave here in another hour or so and pick Jack up from school.”
“Aw, Hosea,“ John whined, “Abigail’s got him - “
“It wasn’t a suggestion, John. Alright?” Hosea directed the question at John first, then met Arthur’s gaze, and said again, “Alright?”
“Yessir,” they muttered in unison.
Hosea had insisted on calling ahead first, even though Ray’s place was on the way home and Hosea had known the man even longer than he’d known Arthur. Hosea had settled in Valentine with Bessie some time in the late sixties. Raymond Smith had followed soon after and had always been their nearest neighbor. Their homes were separated by a buffer of pasture and untamed forest that Arthur had traversed more times than he could count on horseback, especially in the later part of winter when Ray needed help with shearing and, a few weeks later, lambing. There was always some overlap between Ray’s sheep birthing their young and the Matthews-Van der Linde cattle having theirs. The months from February to April were always awash in baby hoofstock, cold late nights, and frigid early mornings.
Ray had always used hired help when he could find it. When he couldn’t, Hosea, Dutch, and their assorted children lent a hand. Arthur had vague recollections of Ray mentioning a nephew in the past, but he didn't think he'd ever seen Charles Smith before today. Arthur had also spent most of his visits to Ray's property outside - either helping with the sheep or, in his younger years, keeping himself occupied while Hosea, Bessie, Ray, and Everett did the boring adult thing of sitting around on the porch and talking. Arthur'd never much been one for sitting still, especially as a kid, so they'd typically turned him loose to catch bugs or climb on hay bales. There was a good chance that Ray had pictures of Charles in his house that Arthur had never seen or hadn't cared enough at the time to ask about. But he was certainly becoming much more interested in Charles Smith now.
Ray and Hosea got on well - they’d been friends now for over thirty years - but Arthur also knew that sometimes Ray and Hosea’s friendship consisted of nothing more than companionable quiet and the rehashing of shared memories. They'd gone through the loss of a partner around the same time, and their friendship was forged in the fires of grief and narrowly-avoided alcoholism. It was something to be grateful for, but it wasn't something you always wanted to talk about.
Arthur parked in Ray’s driveway, relieved to see the tan GMC nearby, the horse trailer parked alongside the barn. He let Hosea lead them up the porch steps and stood close to the older man as a buffer against the October chill. Hosea’d left his scarf on the seat of Arthur’s truck and the wind was picking up now.
“Mr. Matthews, always a pleasure,” Ray said, smiling as he opened the door. Hosea offered the book he had tucked under his arm. Ray took it with a nod of thanks. “You and your boy want to come in a minute?”
“I believe Arthur here’s got some business with your nephew.”
“Already?” Ray asked. “Poor kid ain’t been in town a week yet.”
A smile crept onto Hosea’s features, one that had Arthur bracing for impact. “He seems to believe your newest resident is a thief."
Ray arched an eyebrow as Arthur’s face began to burn. “Hosea,” he hissed. Louder, he stammered, “Not - not your nephew, Mr. Smith, sir - his horse.”
“His horse,” Ray said flatly.
Arthur nodded, silently cursing the man still smirking at his side. “They came by the store earlier - I reckon she stole my hat. Can’t find it anywhere but I had it on when I carried her feed out, s’far as I can recall. Just thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask your nephew about it - Charles, right?”
“Charles,” Ray agreed. He poked his head out the door to point towards the side of the house. “He’s in the basement. Got his own door thataway if you want to go knock for him.”
“Yessir, thank you.”
“Hosea, tea?” Ray asked, as Arthur took a step back and turned away.
He heard Hosea murmur, “Sounds great, Ray. Thank you,” and then the door shut behind them. By the light of the moon, the glow of the porch light, and the wash of the floodlights off the barn, he found his way around the side of the house. The house was built into a hill that sloped down along one side, exposing an exterior wall of the basement. A coir mat sat in front of the door and a single bulb jutted from the wall above, emitting a warm glow.
Arthur knocked, and immediately had the breath knocked out of him. Charles Smith answered the door shirtless. He was wearing pajama pants - thank God - and his chest and hair were still damp from the shower he had clearly just vacated. There was a moment where both men's brains stalled. Charles recovered first. Arthur was too busy taking in the majesty of the other man's plush, well-muscled chest.
"Arthur, right? I don't think we were properly introduced." He shifted, removing his hand from the door so that he could offer it to Arthur. He was holding a comb in his other hand, which drew Arthur's gaze finally away from Charles's chest to stare at the inky black of his wet hair. Charles cleared his throat, hand still extended, and prompted, "I'm Charles."
Words still seemed to be a few steps beyond Arthur's grasp, but he took Charles's (big, warm) hand in his own. He could tell he was starting to make the other man uncomfortable - his shoulders had hunched and his hand twitched in Arthur's, eager to pull away. Arthur released him, his face burning in the evening air, and forced his brain to form words, and for his mouth to cooperate and actually speak them. All he managed was a rough, "Nice t'meet you."
"It is Arthur, right?"
"It's Arthur," he agreed. He weren't the best with words in average circumstances, and he was pretty damned sure Charles Smith was the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen. How had he not noticed it back at the store? How had he not tried to prevent his idiotic brain from getting so muddled?
He weren't drippin' like a newly-formed Aphrodite last time you saw him, Arthur thought. And the shirt helped.
The shirt certainly must've helped, as had the distraction of Charles's almost equally pretty horse. Without the Appaloosa present, he managed to tear his gaze from Charles's miraculous tits, but now had to focus on not being distracted by them again. It made it hard for him to remember that he was on a stranger's doorstep, unannounced, and that the other feller still had no idea why. Somehow, instead of explaining himself, what came out instead was, "Don't think I got your horse's name either."
Charles blinked, took a step back from the door, and cocked his head to the side as though Arthur's words had the physical ability to flummox, like some sort of idiocy ray. "Taima," Charles said. He frowned and Arthur noticed because he was successfully looking at the feller's face like a normal goddamn person. "Are you - did you come all this way for your hat?"
“My hat!” Arthur cried, grateful that Charles had got to the reason for his visit despite Arthur’s apparent inability to do so himself. “Yes! I - well it ain’t like it’s out of the way, really. We’re neighbors, actually and - well - “ He closed his mouth, reminded himself to breathe, and finished, “Have you seen it?”
“I’ll fetch it for you,” Charles replied. He still looked kind of puzzled, which Arthur couldn’t rightly blame him for, but he was starting to smile now, too. He moved out of the doorway, leaving the door open, and Arthur quite shamelessly used the opportunity to take in as much of the little basement apartment as he could without going inside.
Charles was clearly in the process of unpacking, which meant he'd probably be staying in Valentine a while. Boxes were arranged in neat piles, only some of them opened, and critical pieces of furniture - a couch, a kitchen table - were still missing from the floor plan. Arthur’s hat was resting atop the refrigerator. He had to avert his eyes at the sight of Charles in profile - the strong line from bare shoulder to waist, his long legs, the muscles of his arm. There was even something tantalizing about the way he snagged the brim of Arthur’s hat with his index and middle fingers. Something precise and controlled in the small gesture. Looking at the other man head-on would only produce more embarrassing, open-mouthed gawking, so Arthur found himself suddenly very interested in the vinyl flooring.
He only looked up when his hat entered his field of vision. He took it from Charles’s outstretched hand and froze before returning it to its rightful place on his head. The leather was shiny and buttery-smooth. It even looked like the old bit of rope had been burned at the ends to stop it fraying. He looked up at Charles, surprised, and said, “You cleaned it? You - you put leather conditioner on it. Hell, you didn’t have to do all that.”
Charles shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. Arthur’s eyes noted the way the gesture emphasized the swell of the other man’s pecs. He very valiantly tore his gaze away after what was probably only a couple of seconds. “I found it on the floor of a dirty horse trailer. Cleaning it up a bit is the least I could do, seein’ as how my horse stole it from you.”
“Can’t believe I didn’t notice, to be honest. Guess she had me plenty distracted. She’s a real pretty girl, your Tamia.” He put his hat back onto his head and added, “She - I mean you don’t just have her as a work horse, right? Girl like that - you must be pretty fond of her.”
“I am,” Charles agreed, one eyebrow slowly arching, the smile still playing at the corner of his mouth.
“So, um - well - I ride, too. Got a girl of my own. And since you’re new in town, maybe I could - there’s some real nice horse trails around here. Maybe I could show you them? Some time?”
Charles didn’t answer right away, and Arthur resisted the temptation to turn and run, or else fall prey to the man’s chest again - like a little sea creature entranced by an anglerfish’s lure. Charles looked him over. The smile widened by a few scant millimeters. “You after my company or Taima’s?”
“Both - “ Arthur blurted. “I mean, yours, mostly, but - but both.”
The smile reached the opposite corner of Charles’s lips - and, christ, he had a lovely mouth, too. How was Arthur going to manage sharing company with him again? Without making a fool of himself? “The phone hasn’t been reconnected yet, but I know the number. Let me see if I’ve got somethin’ to write on.”
The moment he turned away to survey the boxes, Hosea’s voice called from outside, “Arthur! You found that damned hat, yet?”
“Here - “ Arthur blurted. He had a Sharpie in his breast pocket. He’d ended his shift in the basement, scrawling ‘received’ dates on their inventory overstock and arranging things so that hopefully his boneheaded coworkers would grab the oldest stuff first. Charles took the marker but, even with the problem of something to write with solved, there was the issue of something to write on. Arthur thrust out his hand, palm-up. Charles looked at it, then back towards Arthur’s face.
“Arthur!” Hosea called again.
“I’m comin’, old man! Gimme a minute!” Arthur barked over his shoulder. Then shrugged helplessly at Charles and stuck his hand out a little further. “Be awful hard to lose it, like this.”
Charles steadied Arthur’s hand with his own and carefully wrote the ten numbers across Arthur’s palm. It tickled a bit but, more than anything, the small contact had Arthur’s skin burning. “Any of your folks ever talk to you in a normal tone of voice?”
“We’re a bit of a rowdy bunch, for sure. I think we grow on you, though.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Charles replied.
Arthur grinned. “I guess so.” He tipped his hat to the other man and ducked away before Hosea could holler at him again or he got sucked back in by Charles’s good looks.
Hosea was waiting in the truck. When Arthur put his hands on the steering wheel, the older man frowned at him and asked, “What’s that on your hand?”
Arthur smiled and ducked his head to line the key up with the ignition, as if he hadn’t done it a million times before, as if he couldn’t start his truck in his damn sleep. “Nothin’,” he replied, and turned up the radio before Hosea could ask him again.
