My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

an old green barn behind it. “Estamos aqug hombre,” he says, turning off the ignition.

An old man comes out of the barn wearing dirty overalls and a dirtier T-shirt. There’s shit on his work boots. As he approaches the pickup, he drawls, “One of you guys Nick?”

“That’s me,” Nicolo answers, reaching back behind the seat. He exits the cab with two cowboy hats in his hand, the bota around his neck.

“They’re all saddled up, ready to go,” the man says, itching an eyebrow. “Remember, I wanna see your ability ‘fore you take ‘em out on the land.”

“No problem,” Nicolo says. We follow the guy into the barn and Nicolo whispers, “Now do you understand why I say to wear your cowboy boots?”

Theresa palomino and a bay waiting, bridled and saddled, both good-looking horses with fine conformation. Nicolo lets me choose, and naturally I pick the bay because he reminds me of Cinnamon. We walk them out into the sun, put on our hats, and let the old man hold them while we mount up. He directs us into the small arena next to the barn and puts us through a few paces. Walk, trot,

canter. Turn them around. Do it all the other direction. As the man watches me ride, I feel as if I’m in a horse show, like when I was a little kid, and I remember my father as a good guy who stood on the side of the arena and gave me an approving nod of his head when I sat up correctly in my saddle and cantered on the correct lead. I look over at Nicolo, who has spaced himself across the ring, and I’m more in love than I ever could be watching my own handsome gaucho sit the palomino with ease and confidence.

“OK,” the man yells. “Guess you were tellin’ the truth. You both sat a horse ‘fore. Take ‘em on out. Just don’t cross any boundary lines. Marked by fences all around, ‘cept the west boundary that’s marked by the creek.” He pronounces it crick, like a Kansan. “Don’t taunt the cattle, and be back ‘fore noon or thereabouts, ‘cuz we got work to do with ‘em later.”

Nicolo tips his hat, I do the same, and off we ride, through the gate, into the pasture land. Los gauchos son libres.

We’re dressed alike. Jeans, white T-shirts, and boots. Hats on our heads. Nicolo’s muscles are bigger than mine, but I’ve been working on my body, and the results are coming in. I’m not at all the guy I was when the year started. I’m feeling, dare I say it, confident. Happy. Not without edges, but smoother than before.

We walk our horses steadily, through the prairie grass, toward what will be the sunset ten hours from now. The hot wind blows like a furnace, and a gust causes us to quickly reach for our hats and hold them on. “Are these your sombreros?” I ask.

“My brother’s. I told him what I was doing and he dug them out of his trunk. We wore them as teenagers when we visited Tia Angelica and rode her horses.”

“You don’t speak much of your brother,” I point out.

“I don’t have to. He is my kindred spirit. We seldom need words between us, so I think that is why I don’t speak of him so much. He’s very special to me. What about you? You also never talk of your brother.”

“My brother and I don’t talk much either,” I say, stroking my horse’s mane. “But not because we’re kindred spirits. We’re more like Elizabeth and Mary.” “Who.”?”

“A couple of bitchy English queens. Liz was vicious and ugly that’s Winston.”

He wrinkles his brow. “That’s disturbing.”

“Sorry. I wish I could tell you we’re great pals, but we’re not. If I could get the American government to disappear Winston, I would.”

Nicolo stops his horse. His face tightens. “Don’t ever joke about that,” he dictates. His words are controlled, but discharged with force. Even his horse stomps his foot, as if to punctuate the point.

How fucking flip can I be? How inappropriate, as Matthew would accuse. “I’m sorry,” I say, halting the bay horse. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I believe you,” he answers generously. “But why do you say these things, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “It’s like I can’t turn my brain off sometimes. It gets me into trouble, I know. Please know that I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I really like you, Nicolo. A lot. I don’t ever want to hurt you if I can help it.”

Nicolo says seriously, “Then I hope you will think before you speak.”

We spur our horses into a trot and let the breeze wash our confrontation away as we ride. In minutes we’re cantering, our horses enjoying the gait as much as we. In the distance we see a clump of cottonwoods, which tells us there must be a creek. We slow our steeds and approach the small creek at a walk, stopping to let them drink. After they’re full, we cross the water, dismount, and lead them the hundred feet to the cottonwood trees, where we tie them to a tree with the rope from my saddle and let them graze.

We take off our hats, lean against the trunk of a tree. “This is incredible, Nick. Thank you, hombre. I haven’t ridden a horse in years.”

He takes my hand in his and slips his fingers gently through mine. We hold hands and stare ahead, the way Amity and I did at the movie only we’re looking not at some manufactured world on a screen, but at the wide-open Texas sky that supports a cluster of thunderheads in the far distance. Below the clouds and sky is the infinite horizon of prairie and cattle land. In front of us, the creek moves slowly, like syrup. No sound. I realize now that my hand-holding with Amity while at the movie may not have been a political statement, but it was a statement as