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Vin stood, his hat in his hand. He could feel a drop of water from his wet hair sliding down his back, along his spine, under his shirt. The bath had been a hasty decision, one he'd debated for several hours, ever since the words had actually settled into his head: 'Why don't you come out to my place tonight? We can talk about the horses, about a breeding schedule.'
It hadn't meant anything – or he hadn't thought that it did, not at first. But after he'd agreed, after he'd watched Chris walk away down the street, his spine straight and his face turned forward as if the world were an enemy and he was damned determined to beat it, Vin had realized what had happened.
Chris had asked him to dinner.
The breath caught in his throat, his lungs locking and his nose only able to suck in. The idea of it, the thought of it, had paralyzed him, to the point he thought he might pass out before he remembered how to breathe.
His mind, though, had been calm, far more calm than the part of him that had stood to attention at the very idea of it – or at the very sight of Chris Larabee walking away, his pants so tight that little shiny gold buckle seemed to sparkle in the sun as it shifted and moved with every step.
No, his mind had told him, sternly, sharply, in the same tone his grandmother had used for the years he'd been left with her, no need to think it more than it is. He wants to talk business. Horses. The things you know.
Vin had drawn a deep breath again, this time the air doing what it was supposed to, helped along by the brutal suppression of his hope.
But over the course of the day, as he had helped Mrs. Potter with her weekly shipment, unloading it from the wagon that had brought it in and putting it where she directed, as he had helped Inez stock up for the night at the saloon, the hope had leaked out of its box in his brain, worming its way into his head.
It had started out with the idea that he was sweaty – and he was; moving all those things around had been work, almost as demanding as chasing down cows or building fences. He needed a bath – hell, he could barely stand to smell his own self.
And what did it matter if he put on his blue shirt, the one that Mary and Mrs. Potter, and hell, even Buck, said was the best one he had. 'cause it made his eyes seem to jump right out at people? It didn't mean nothing 'cept that he hadn't done washing in way too long and he really needed to get over to the Chinaman's place soon.
There was nothing here to worry on. So what if water was dripping down his back, under his blue shirt. Wasn't like Chris was gonna notice. Chris wanted to talk about horses.
Which was sensible. Which was the nature of what they were – sensible and smart and friends, nothing more.
"What the hell you standing out here for?"
The voice was sharp and familiar, and Vin felt, for the second time that day, the death of hope as it plunged down into his belly, killing the natural reaction that sprang to life whenever he heard Chris' voice. He turned, clutching his hat so tight that he felt the brim crumple. He'd have to work to get it smooth again, probably get some of Nathan's pastes to make it strong enough not to flop into his eyes.
Chris stared at him, his green eyes flaring in the late afternoon sun, as if there were gold buried in their depth, just waiting for some miner to come along and find it. He was stripped down to his longjohn top, his galluses hanging down at his sides, not nearly heavy enough to pull the waist of his pants away from his skin.
Vin swallowed, wondering what he should say, but his mouth, with a mind of its own, jumped right in. "Waiting for you to tell me what we're doing." Sometimes, he wished his mouth was more in control of his brain. Or at least certain other parts of him which, right now, were sucking all the thought right out of his head. Chris Larabee needed a new set of longjohns. A set that hadn't been washed so many times that they were threadbare and so tight across his chest that they might split apart at even the mildest wind. Or sneeze. Or cough.
He was so caught up in studying the way the cloth stretched across Chris' body, the way the strands separated when Chris breathed, that he didn't realize when Chris stepped forward. He did flinch as Chris' arm came up, but it was too little, too late, and he thought for a passing second that if Chris was planning to hurt him, there wasn't a damn thing he could do.
Then he was lost in heat and wet and tongue, the pressure of an arm around his shoulders and fingers caught in his hair as his mouth was plundered and he tasted and smelled and felt Chris Larabee with every fiber.
The hope he had tried to bury sprang free, filling him from the pit of his belly to the throb of his cock to the beat of his heart.
"Didn't bring flowers," he said later, when he could speak without tripping over a tongue – his or Chris, he wasn't sure.
Chris laughed and Vin felt it all the way through. "That's a good thing. Though a bottle of whiskey might have been nice."
Vin shifted so that he could look down into Chris' face.
Chris stared back up at him, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Vin's hair. "Ain't looking for an excuse," he said softly. "I wouldn't have asked you out here if that was the case."
Vin knew it, as sure as he knew himself, but it was better to hear it from Chris. He nodded and settled back, letting the slow pull in his hair lull him to rest. After a time, Chris said in a whisper, "In the morning, we can talk about the horses. Our horses."
Vin grinned, liking the sound of that. But his mouth, ever so independent, said, "Can we do that while we're having the dinner I came here for?"