Read Online A Hard Ride Home by Emory Vargas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emory Vargas
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that Warren had been presiding over the town in name alone. He wasn't keeping townspeople safe. He collected taxes and loaned money and lived up in his big house with no regard for anyone or anything. He had no business here at the Weeping Willow, and Emmett wasn't sure he could stand to be in the room with him without having words.
Jesse didn't answer him. He picked his way across the room and melted against Warren's body like a stretching cat, taking Warren's hat and easing his coat off. "Mayor Grady," he crooned, smiling. "In our little saloon."
Card games resumed, and the conversation rose back up to a low, coarse rumble. One of the girls went back to singing an off-key version of something that might have been opera. But Emmett could barely hear any of it over the ringing in his ears. He started for them, but Roscoe reached over the bar and took his wrist in a tight grip.
"Ain't worth it, Sheriff. Not here, not now," he said very quietly, his tone just sharp enough to cut through the dizzying rage Emmett felt as he watched his father pull Jesse into his lap at the card table.
Jesse wrapped his arms around Warren's neck and nosed and kissed at Warren's ear as Warren looked right into Emmett's eyes like there wasn't anybody else in the room.
"Why, a family reunion," Evelyn drawled, sidling up to Emmett's hip and wrapping an arm around his back to steer his gaze back to the dusty bottles behind the bar.
"You knew."
"Of course I knew. You'd know too, if you had half a mind to listen."
"Does he love him?" Emmett asked, barely able to squeeze the words out. They felt like grit in his throat.
He didn't have to look to know the sort of spectacle Jesse was making of himself, squirming in Warren's lap like a—like a—
"Have you lost your damn mind, Emmett Grady?" Evelyn said in a low hiss. Her long, pale fingernails dug into his forearm.
"It's a simple question."
"You gonna get yourself shot down acting like a lovesick fool over a whore? Leave him be before you cause trouble."
"I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid of my father."
"I didn't mean trouble for you, you lunkhead. Roscoe," she called out, gesturing at Emmett's empty glass. "No one's gonna start trouble tonight with the mayor in here. Sheriff's drinks are on the house."
Emmett knew he was being coddled, that Evelyn was trying to distract him, that the pain in his gut was foolish. He drank anyway, letting the whiskey burn on his tongue and claw down his throat until his face felt hot and windblown.
When Rose came to him and pulled him to the back room to watch Josephine and a skinny farmer play darts, he leaned into her and fingered ironed ringlets and eyed the sweaty press of her tits and blamed the whiskey when his prick didn't rise to attention, even when she tried to tickle her hands into his trousers.
He was drunk. Drunk enough that he probably would have hauled himself to the jail to dry up.
"Not causing trouble," he said solemnly, looking at Rose. She had blue eyes and they weren't the right kind of blue at all.
*~*~*
The last time Warren had come down to the Weeping Willow was a day Jesse failed to show up when he was expected. Warren had ridden down the hill in such a tempest the girls said he'd looked like Satan on horseback.
That was when Jesse had taken with a fever and didn't wake at all for days. The girls told him Warren had gathered him up and took him back up to the house and had Doc Milton fuss over him for a week until he could lift his head without coughing like he was fit to toss up his lungs.
That had been years ago. Warren didn't come to the saloon. He entertained up at the house in his big fancy parlor.
Jesse's palms were cold and sweaty as he smiled and kissed Warren and moaned when Warren palmed his crotch and sucked on the soft spot under his ear. Emmett was gone, off somewhere else in the saloon. The knowledge fluttered in his gut, a small comfort.
"Why don't you take me home?" he asked Warren, whispering. Warren
Jesse didn't answer him. He picked his way across the room and melted against Warren's body like a stretching cat, taking Warren's hat and easing his coat off. "Mayor Grady," he crooned, smiling. "In our little saloon."
Card games resumed, and the conversation rose back up to a low, coarse rumble. One of the girls went back to singing an off-key version of something that might have been opera. But Emmett could barely hear any of it over the ringing in his ears. He started for them, but Roscoe reached over the bar and took his wrist in a tight grip.
"Ain't worth it, Sheriff. Not here, not now," he said very quietly, his tone just sharp enough to cut through the dizzying rage Emmett felt as he watched his father pull Jesse into his lap at the card table.
Jesse wrapped his arms around Warren's neck and nosed and kissed at Warren's ear as Warren looked right into Emmett's eyes like there wasn't anybody else in the room.
"Why, a family reunion," Evelyn drawled, sidling up to Emmett's hip and wrapping an arm around his back to steer his gaze back to the dusty bottles behind the bar.
"You knew."
"Of course I knew. You'd know too, if you had half a mind to listen."
"Does he love him?" Emmett asked, barely able to squeeze the words out. They felt like grit in his throat.
He didn't have to look to know the sort of spectacle Jesse was making of himself, squirming in Warren's lap like a—like a—
"Have you lost your damn mind, Emmett Grady?" Evelyn said in a low hiss. Her long, pale fingernails dug into his forearm.
"It's a simple question."
"You gonna get yourself shot down acting like a lovesick fool over a whore? Leave him be before you cause trouble."
"I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid of my father."
"I didn't mean trouble for you, you lunkhead. Roscoe," she called out, gesturing at Emmett's empty glass. "No one's gonna start trouble tonight with the mayor in here. Sheriff's drinks are on the house."
Emmett knew he was being coddled, that Evelyn was trying to distract him, that the pain in his gut was foolish. He drank anyway, letting the whiskey burn on his tongue and claw down his throat until his face felt hot and windblown.
When Rose came to him and pulled him to the back room to watch Josephine and a skinny farmer play darts, he leaned into her and fingered ironed ringlets and eyed the sweaty press of her tits and blamed the whiskey when his prick didn't rise to attention, even when she tried to tickle her hands into his trousers.
He was drunk. Drunk enough that he probably would have hauled himself to the jail to dry up.
"Not causing trouble," he said solemnly, looking at Rose. She had blue eyes and they weren't the right kind of blue at all.
*~*~*
The last time Warren had come down to the Weeping Willow was a day Jesse failed to show up when he was expected. Warren had ridden down the hill in such a tempest the girls said he'd looked like Satan on horseback.
That was when Jesse had taken with a fever and didn't wake at all for days. The girls told him Warren had gathered him up and took him back up to the house and had Doc Milton fuss over him for a week until he could lift his head without coughing like he was fit to toss up his lungs.
That had been years ago. Warren didn't come to the saloon. He entertained up at the house in his big fancy parlor.
Jesse's palms were cold and sweaty as he smiled and kissed Warren and moaned when Warren palmed his crotch and sucked on the soft spot under his ear. Emmett was gone, off somewhere else in the saloon. The knowledge fluttered in his gut, a small comfort.
"Why don't you take me home?" he asked Warren, whispering. Warren
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