The Ranch

The Ranch

"I'm no cowboy," Eliot reminded his roommate.

Behind the wheel of his black Hummer H1, Harlan said, "Neither am I."

"But your dad—"

"He's a wannabe cowboy."

"Who just happens to own a 1,583-acre ranch in Texas."

"Land is more like it. The former owner raised turkeys and hogs, but Dad sold the birds and hogs and had the hog barns demolished after he and Mom bought the place. The house, the guesthouse, and the garage occupy the site on which the hog barns previously stood."

"He's a former governor of the state, too."

"Yeah—former."

"And rich."

"Your parents are wealthier than mine. Your father's a renowned heart surgeon, and your mother's a bestselling author."

"Romance novelist."

"Yeah, whose books sell by the millions." Harlan glanced at his friend. "You attend Harvard, just as I do. You've nothing to be anxious about, El."

"Maybe not, but I am, nevertheless."

"Think about the petroglyphs."

They could have flown down from Massachusetts, first class, in a few hours, but they'd decided to drive. What are 1,876 miles, give or take, to a couple of college kids? Six days ago, they'd left, on summer break. A few more minutes would put them at their destination. Eliot was worried about meeting Harlan's parents, his father, especially. To Harlan, they were just mom and dad, but, to someone else, especially someone young, his father's many accomplishments were impressive enough to be intimidating.

As they approached The Ranch's main house, live oaks threw their heavy limbs in all directions, their irregular canopies providing clumps of shade. Grasses undulated in the wind like sea waves.

The residence fronted a glistening lake. Occupying a stretch of manicured buffalo-grass surrounded by dense fields of bluebonnets and paintbrush flowers dotting lush green foliage with their pink and blue blossoms, the single-story limestone house bore deep roof overhangs to ward off the summer sun and the heavy downpours to which the region was frequently subjected.

Windows looked out upon covered walks and terraces and the swimming pool amid a stand of shade trees. The house was a far cry from Eliot's parents massive, secluded Tudor, but he liked the look Harlan's parents had captured. The ranch house was a perfect fit to its pastoral surroundings.

Harlan bought the Hummer to a halt.

Eliot took a deep breath. "Here we are," he said, as if they were about to enter the mouth of hell, rather than the home of his friend's parents.

"Think of the petroglyphs," Harlan advised.

Eliot exhaled. "I will. Thanks."

"Let's grab out baggage."

They took their duffel bags from the vehicle's cargo area, shouldered their loads, and made their way to the front entrance of the house. Harlan rang the doorbell.

His mom, Laura, answered the door. Her face burst into a grin, her eyes sparkling. "Harlan!" She wrapped him in her arms, hugging him to her as she kissed his cheek.

"Uh, Mom?"

She released him, blushing, as she realized she'd probably embarrassed her son in front of his friend. Turning the same radiant smile upon her son's roommate as she'd flashed Harlan, she gave him a hug identical in fervor to that which she'd bestowed upon Harlan.

Thank God she didn't kiss him! Harlan thought.

Releasing him, she took a step back. "You must be Eliot," she said.

Blushing, Eliot said, "Yes, ma'am."

"It's nice to finally meet you, Eliot. Harlan's told us so much about you. I'm Laura, by the way."

Eliot smiled. He liked the personable mom. "It's nice to meet you, too."

A masculine voice from within the house inquired, "Who is it, Laura?"

"It's Harlan," she called, "and his friend, Eliot."

From the corner of his eye, Harlan glanced at his roommate. He repressed a chuckle. Eliot was nervous, no doubt, and Harlan felt bad for him. At the same time, he knew Eliot had nothing to fear. His dad could be gruff at times, and he was as conservative as they came, but he also had a big heart, and he was a caring man, capable of sympathy, empathy, and compassion—well, about most things, anyway. How far his father's understanding and concern went with respect to some issues might be questionable.

Laura, still beaming, said, "George, this is Harlan's friend from Harvard, Eliot Burke."

Naturally affable like his wife, George grinned, extending his hand. When Eliot took it, George gripped him firmly, pumping his hand. "Nice to meet you, Eliot."

Eliot managed a smile himself. "Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Thicket."

"Come on in, and make yourself at home," George invited their guest. "And call me George."

As Eliot stepped across the threshold, his host took the duffel bag from his shoulder. "Let me take that for you, son," he said.

Maybe, Eliot thought, Mr. Thicket wasn't as bad as the rumors he'd heard at Harvard had suggested. He seemed like a decent enough dude.

* * *

"So," George ventured, after dinner, as they sat around the antique table in the kitchen area, sipping coffee or tea and sampling cheeses from a platter a servant had placed on the table, "Harlan says you're interested in our petroglyphs."

"Eliot is an archaeology student," Laura said.

'Yes, I remember Harlan mentioning that in his last 'phone call, when he said he and Eliot would be coming to The Ranch."

Eliot, who'd been examining the painted wood plates circling the gilt mirror in the kitchen on the wall, above a handsome antique sideboard, nodded. "Yes, sir—"

"George, please." He smiled at his wife. "We're not much for formalities here at The Ranch, Eliot."

Their guest nodded. "Yes, I am, George." The use of such an accomplished person's first name seemed strange. From what Eliot had heard of George Thicket, such a man wouldn't be likely to countenance informality during his interactions with others. "Thicket is elitist," Dr. Martinez, who taught the Introduction to Political Science class Eliot had taken as an elective during his first year at Harvard, had insisted. Whenever Thicket's name came up, whether in a history course, a course in women's studies, a social justice course, or otherwise, the faculty members and students alike had shared a low opinion of him. Eliot saw, now, that he had as well, without every having examined the politician's record or the many public pronouncements George had made during his lengthy career in public service. Eliot had simply believed the worst, despite his own much-vaunted belief in examining evidence and thinking for himself. By his own standards, he'd rushed to judgment concerning the conservative former governor of Texas. "I'm hopeful the petroglyphs might make a good subject for my doctoral dissertation, once I get to that point."

"I found them purely by accident," George informed their guest. "I enjoy painting—oils. Mostly, I've done portraits, but, I thought I'd try my hand at a landscape. During a ride around The Ranch, I spotted a rock I thought looked interesting, so I stopped the truck and took a closer look. It had strange carvings on it, along with some bizarre paintings—human and animal figures and strange symbols." He sipped his coffee, put a slice of Camembert de Normandie on his plate. "I wished I'd brought a hammer and a chisel with me; I'd have carved a couple out of the rock and brought them back to Laura. She loves such things."

Eliot, who was sipping from his cup, almost spluttered tea over the tabletop's polished surface, a look of horror on his face.

George grinned, then winked. "Gotcha."

"George!" Laura reprimanded him.

"I'm only joking, Eliot. I knew the value of them, and I'd never have defaced such images."

His hand shaking, Eliot put his cup down. He chuckled. "You got me, all right, George. I nearly fell out of my chair."

"Eliot and I thought we'd drive over there tomorrow and take a look at them," Harlan said.

"I'll go with you, if you want," George offered. "I can show you the way."

"Thanks, but that's not necessary, Dad," Harlan said. "We're more than capable of finding the place."

George shrugged. "Fine by me, son."

A bit later, the Thickets had driven to Crawford, a flyspeck of a town a few miles southeast of The Ranch. While they were gone, Harlan and Eliot swam in the tree-shaded pool. The sun was hot, and the cool water felt good on their bare skin.

"When will they be back?" Eliot asked.

"No telling with them," Harlan said, "but given the hour, probably not long. Sometimes, during the day, they're gone an hour, other times, all day. Now that they're retired, they're like a pair of tumbleweeds, blowing wherever the wind takes them, for as long as it blows, the wind being whatever whim happens to move them at the moment."

"I got that, lit boy."

Harlan splashed his friend. "I'm never sure whether you sci guys get anything when it comes to literature."

Eliot splashed Harlan back, then said, "Let's go in. I want to read a bit."

"There's poetry in the library: Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, but nothing much in the way of the avant-garde."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Professor Higgins loaned me a couple of monographs on some petroglyphs found in this area. I thought I'd read them again before we go out there tomorrow."

Harlan shook his head in mock pity. "You sci guys are all alike: all work and no play."

They went to their respective guestrooms. While Eliot read, Harlan slept. He'd done the lion's share of driving during the trip, and he was more tired than he'd realized. When he woke, it was morning.

* * *

Harlan found Eliot sipping teas in the kitchen area.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, Harlan,joined his friend at the table. "Have you seen my mom and dad?"

He nodded. "They're on their way to Dallas to pick up a few things. What's in Dallas?"

"Their main residence."

"I thought this was their main residence."

"No, it's their home away from home, the place they come to to get away from it all." He sipped his coffee. "Ugh! I remember now why I never drink instant."

"If you never drink instant, why are you drinking it now?"

"Mom's not here to brew the good stuff."

"You don't know how to brew coffee?"

"I know, but it's just too much trouble."

Eliot shook his head.

"They say when they'd be back?"

"About three o'clock."

"That gives us most of the day. We could—"

"I'm going to check out the petroglyphs." He showed Harlan a rough map. "George drew this for me. You coming or am I driving your Hummer?"

"I'm coming. There's no way you're driving my Hummer."

Eliot picked up a bag beside his chair. "You ready?"

"Mind if I finish my coffee first?"

"Pour it into a Thermos; you can drink it on the way."

"Wow! You really are eager to get started, aren't you?"

"That's one of the main reasons I came to The Ranch."

"I thought you came to meet my parents."

"That's the other main reason I came to The Ranch."

"So what do you think of them?"

"So far, so good."

"You still terrified of my dad?"

"I was never terrified of him."

"Petrified, then."

"He's sure seems different than the monster he's supposed to be, according to the professors and grad students at Harvard."

Harlan grinned. "Human, would you say?"

"Tentatively, based on what I've seen so far, yeah, human. If you're still not ready, hand me your keys, and I'll—"

"I'm ready, I'm ready! I just have to leave word with Juanita concerning where we're going and when we'll be back."

"Harlan, you're twenty-two years old. You can come and go as you please."

"In this part of the country, it's wise to let someone know where you're headed and what time you expect to return. This is rugged, open country, where we could encounter anything from a flash flood to a rattlesnake."

Harlan located the live-in housekeeper, who doubled as the house sitter when his parents were in Dallas. "Juanita," he told her, "my friend and I are going for a drive. We should be back before Mom and Dad, but if we're not, let them know we went to visit the petroglyphs."

A few minutes later, they were on the rutted road that led south. As Harlan drove, Eliot, riding shotgun, gazed at the landscape. He liked what he saw: great, gently rolling grasslands and a variety of trees the types of which he didn't know, but which Harlan identified, when asked, as post oak, blackjack oak, eastern redcedar, and black hickory. There were also a few scattered evergreens. Once, Eliot saw a white-tailed deer leap as it ran, apparently avoiding an obstacle he himself couldn't see. The vast panorama spread out below a magnificent azure sky splattered with white clouds.

"I can see why your parents like it here."

"It does kind of grow on you," Harlan admitted.

Half an hour later, Harlan stopped the Hummer.

"We're here?"

Harlan tapped the map his father had drawn for them. "'X' marks the spot." He pointed to a scattering of limestone boulders on either side of a creek. "That's where Dad saw the petroglyphs."

Eliot grabbed his bag and started running toward the site.

He spent the next three hours photographing and drawing the images on the rocks, consulting Professor Higgins's monographs, taking notes, and using something that looked like a police radar gun.

"What the hell is that?" Harlan asked.

"Portable X-ray fluorescence scanner: pXRF, for short."

"What's it do?"

"Scans rock paintings in situ and provides immediate readings concerning the chemical constituents of the pigments used to paint them."

"In situ?"

"In place, at the original site."

"Damn. Who knew archaeology was so cool?"

For Harlan, the day passed slowly, but for Eliot it flew by. He worked non-stop, quickly and efficiently, so that he completed his initial examination and recording of the petroglyphs shortly after noon, almost three hours before he'd anticipated.

Reluctantly, he climbed into Eliot's Hummer, consoling himself with the thought that he and Eliot would be at The Ranch for another three weeks. He had plenty of time to study the petroglyphs.

On the way back to the ranch house, Harlan shared an idea. "We still have a couple of hours before three o'clock, and my parents aren't returning home until even later. Why don't I show you the guest house?"

Eliot considered the invitation. "You sure it's all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I have a better idea."

Harlan frowned, thinking he probably wanted to go online and read some drab papers about petroglyphs or email a couple of professors he'd promised to keep up to date on his findings. "Such as?"

* * *

Eliot's idea was better, way better, in fact, than Harlan's suggestion that he show his friend the guest house.

They drove to a location midway between the ranch house and the petroglyphs site, where, Harlan knew, a wide ravine lay, covered in thick buffalo grass. A creek ran through the ravine, over stones that gave its swift-running water a voice. Here and there, wildflowers loaned bright colors to the landscape. It was a place pleasing to the eye and, best of all, not easily seen from higher ground, including the rough, rutted "road" his vehicle and his father's had made during their many trips about The Ranch. The only telltale sign of their presence, for someone who knew the area, would be Harlan's Hummer. It wasn't possible to hide the vehicle completely, but he could set some fallen branches against its chassis to conceal the black SUV as much as possible.

Harlan wasn't worried. No one would be driving along the road. His parents had gone to Dallas and wouldn't be back until hours. None of the servants except Juanita lived on The Ranch, and she did only when her parents were living in Dallas. Besides, she only drove to and from The Ranch, along the driveway. Even using fallen branches as camouflage was probably unnecessary, but he had a feeling the gesture might ease El's mind, so it was worth the time and effort.

He got a machete from his vehicle, used it to trim a few branches and sharpen their ends so he could insert them into the soft soil, then added a few more branches, criss-crossing them, so they obscured nearly all of the Hummer. He didn't want to overdo it; too much vegetation, concentrated in one spot, would draw attention to the vehicle, not hide it.

He returned the machete to the vehicle's cargo area, and, when he returned to the spot in the ravine he was pleasantly surprised to see that El had done some preparation of his own. "Pleasantly surprised" was putting it mildly: Harlan was overjoyed. E grinned at his friend, lounging in the thick, tall buffalo grass, wearing nothing but a smile. He looked like a model, like a god, Harlan thought, his cock beginning to stiffen and swell inside his jeans. Studying the broad shoulders, deep chest, six-pack abs, muscular thighs, and tapering calves he knew—and loved—so well, Harlan began to strip off his own clothes.

"Our hair is different colors—mine blond, yours dark—as are my blue eyes and your hazel ones—but our bodies are like those of twins," El said, admiring his friend's, as Harlan removed each item of his clothing, his shirt, his boots, his jeans, his briefs, revealing his own broad shoulders, barrel chest, tight, muscular abs, sinewy thighs, and shapely calves. Both of the men had similar buttocks, too—sleek, compact, firm, fuckable—although it was always Harlan who gave and El who received. When they married, by unspoken mutual accord, Harlan would be the husband; El, the "wife." Harlan's dominance and El's submission were the true, key differences between the two lovers.

At the beginning of the semester, Harlan, on bended knee, had popped the question, presenting El with a marble-size diamond ring. El had wept, before and after saying "yes." For months now, they'd been engaged. They'd come to The Ranch so that El could meet his future husband's family. Harlan had already met his future in-laws, who'd welcomed him without reservation, knowing his sexual preference matched that of their son, who'd come out to them at the tender age of twelve. Before the left The Ranch at the end of the summer break, Harlan would announce his engagement. He hoped t receive the same acceptance from is parents as he and El had received from Mr. ("call me Dad, son!") and Mrs. ("call me Mom, Harlan!") Burke. Harlan wasn't as worried about his mom's reaction as he was his father's response. El was terrified of being rejected by both of them.

Whether his parents accepted his decision or not, or his sexuality, Harlan was going marrying the man of his dreams. It's just that he—and El—preferred their acceptance.

"I've never made love outdoors," El said, on the verge of giggling. "Let's not let this opportunity pass."

Harlan joined him, the two men who were much more than roommates or even friends seated naked n the tall, thick grass, amid wildflowers, a swift-flowing creek babbling softly in the background. Their faces turned toward one another, and they kissed, Harlan taking El in his arms, and El, reciprocating, embracing his fiance.

In affairs of the heart, Harlan and El were as much alike as they were in appearance. Their mutual love easily kindled their passion, now, as always; between them, foreplay wasn't necessary. Their cocks stood erect, rigid and insistent with desire.

"How do you want me?" El asked.

"By now, I wouldn't think you'd even have to ask," Harlan answered.

"Just being polite. I'll assume the position." Facing away from Harlan, on his knees, he leaned forward, lowering himself to the carpet of grass and took the weight of his upper body upon his forearms and elbows. His back, arched so that his ass was high in the air and his legs were parted wide, El signaled his willingness to be penetrated. He looked back, over the curve of his left hip, and smiled at Harlan, who'd knelt behind him.