“What do you say I show you around the place?” José leaned against the doorjamb. He tossed an apple up and caught it.
How long had he been watching? Bobby Ray stood. He was several inches taller than the older boy, but he knew size didn’t always win a fight.
Everything about the Masterson Mountain Ranch felt foreign, especially the heavily pine-scented air. The only sounds were the rustle of pines, whinny of horses, birdsong.
They walked around the place for an hour, and Bobby Ray didn’t see a single car go by.
“You expecting someone?” José smirked. “You keep looking toward the road.”
“How far are we from town?”
“Too far to run, dude.” He nodded toward the barn. “Do you like horses?”
Bobby Ray sneered. “I’ve never met one.”
José jerked his head. “Come on, then. I’ll introduce you to a few. The Mastersons board horses. One of our jobs is to exercise them. Some of the owners come out to ride every day, but most live in Sacramento and only come on weekends or holidays.”
The barn smelled of hay and fresh manure. José opened a stall. “Come on.”
Bobby Ray looked at the size of the gelding and stood by the gate. “Is riding part of the bachelor arts program?”
“It’s one of the best parts about this place.” José ran his hand over the horse’s back. The animal nudged him, and he stroked the white patch on its head. José took the apple out of his shirt and fed it to the horse. “Where you from?”
“San Francisco.”
“I’m from Stockton. My folks come up once a month. Well, my mom comes. My dad got arrested for grand theft auto. How about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you got family?”
“What makes you think it’s any of your business?”
José’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “We have to live together. I’d like to know who’s sleeping in the bed three feet from mine.”
“Well, rest easy. I’m not gay, and I haven’t killed anyone yet.” He’d had enough of the barn, horses, and José. “Are we done?”
“With the tour, yes. But we’re far from done. We’re just getting started.”
Bobby Ray headed back to the house. What now? He didn’t know any of these guys. He didn’t want to know them. Frustration bubbled up inside him. José walked by him and went back to the table where he’d been reading and taking notes. Bobby Ray wandered the room, pausing to peruse the bookshelves: classic novels, biographies, books on carpentry, husbandry, auto mechanics, history, technology, science.
The open archway into the kitchen allowed him to watch Chet Masterson working with one of the boys. Something smelled good enough to make Bobby Ray’s stomach ache with hunger. Another boy stacked bowls, napkins, and silverware on the kitchen counter.
“Okay, gentlemen! Come and get it!” Masterson stood in the kitchen archway. “Chili and corn bread tonight.”
Bobby Ray hung back until everyone headed for the kitchen. He followed their lead, picking up a bowl, napkin, silverware and serving himself. Tumblers of water sat on the table, full pitchers at each end. Tense, Bobby Ray took his seat. José ignored Bobby Ray while the others gave him quick, assessing glances before digging spoons into their chili. The corn bread was warm enough to melt the butter and honey Bobby Ray spread on it. After the first tentative bite, Bobby Ray dug into the meal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that tasted so good. When others got up for seconds, Bobby Ray did too.
Everyone cleared their own dishes. “Kitchen’s open if you get hungry later,” Masterson told Bobby Ray. “Clean up after yourself when you’re finished.” He nodded toward the living room. “We’re having our family meeting in fifteen minutes.”
Bobby Ray figured he could make it to the road and run a couple miles by that time, but when he stepped out the door, Starsky and Hutch came awake and stood. He went down the stairs cautiously and started across the yard. The two dogs followed. One nudged his hand, and Bobby Ray stopped. Maybe if he made friends, they’d let him go. He stroked the head of one of the dogs, scratched the other behind the ears. He tried maneuvering around them, but a car pulled into the drive.
Straightening, Bobby Ray watched an old, polished red convertible Dodge Dart park next to the brown extended cab F-250 pickup. A middle-aged man got out. He had a short-cropped beard and shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. He snatched a rumpled sports coat from the backseat and shrugged it on over his short-sleeved, open-collared plaid shirt while the dogs bounded around him in greeting. He looked at Bobby Ray. “Jasper Hawley. And you are Mr. . . . ?”