The Red Door Ranch squatted out on the plains, hulked down against the wind. They had the spread of land here, yellow with the grass husks, but it was parched into submission. It was another drought year already. I thought wistfully of the gray-green of the Rockies, but then I thought of Jeb and his hamfists and thought again.

I was shown to a two-bed bunkroom, and the manager told me I'd have to share it with Matty, then left before I could ask if Matty were man or dog.

The hands seemed okay, the usual mix of loners, desperados, and dream chasers. Couple of old timers, some brash lads, skinny as peeled willow sticks. I saw a few rodeo buckles flickering a gleam from under their coating of dust, one man limping so bad that if he were a dog you would've shot him. I didn't find out who Matty was until that evening, when I dished up chops and mash.

Matty came in last. Course, I didn't know it was Matty then, I simply saw another rangy hand, more angular than the young ones, hipbones jutting like fence posts. It wasn't 'til she held her plate out that I saw she was a woman, taller than most, a long string of nothing and limber but with a man's flat figure.

"Matty," she said, by way of introduction. "Guess you're Darlene. We're bunkmates. Hope you don't talk in your sleep."

And that was it. I gave her three chops; she scooped spuds onto her plate with a few carrots and left, taking her dinner away from the others, out onto the verandah. She didn't seem to want to talk to no one, and the men left her alone.

As a bunkmate, she was self-contained, didn't bother me any. I had the bottom bunk as I rose before her, creeping out into the purple mornings to get the breakfast started. I grew to like that time of day, rising when the moon was setting, going out into air so chill and crisp that the world seemed reborn, and my mouth froze and dribbled as if I'd had a triple shot of bourbon. I'd step into my jeans, tread into my boots, and close the door quietly so as not to wake Matty.

I tried not to stare at her, give her some privacy, but of course I'd see her dressing and undressing--impossible not to in our little room. I'd normally be first in bed, but sometimes I'd watch her through slitted eyes, feigning sleep, as she shed her clothes with economical movements. A dusty, flannel shirt, dirty Wranglers stiff with horsehair and sweat and plain boots--no fancy tooling and wheeled spurs for Matty.

She didn't wear a bra. I guess she didn't need it as when she took her shirt off, her breasts barely swelled from her chest. Her nipples were large and dark, and there were faint silver lines running out from them. I wondered if she'd had a baby. She slept only in her underpants, and every night she'd move to the ladder at the end of the bunks. Her head and those small plum breasts would disappear from my line of sight and there'd be only her muscular legs, lean and strong, climbing the ladder. Her underpants were gray with age, simple, no frills, sturdy looking. They suited her well. Sometimes, if the moon was high and its cold light bathed the room, I could see the fuzz around her bikini line, the unevenness of her hair underneath the close-fitting panties. She didn't shave, and her shins were covered with an overlay of long dark hairs, like the leg barring on a good dun pony. There was a line of fluff running down from her navel, under where the waistband stretched over her angular hipbones. I wondered if her pubic patch were diamond shaped.

'Course, we talked a little. Clipped sentences, a short laugh sometimes, but you couldn't really call us friends. There weren't the shared confidences, the frilly laughter of women. But then, Matty was an odd sort of woman.

Jeb's letter came one day in fall, when the plains scraped clean, the yellow grass withering away like day old bumfluff. The manager passed it to me with raised eyebrow. In the four months I'd been at the Red Door I'd never had a letter before. I recognized Jeb's writing, and my arms chilled into bumps like it were winter, not the low light of fall. Stuffing the letter into my back pocket, I thought I'd read it later, alone.

Alone came that afternoon. I'd taken the buckskin pony I favored out to my favorite spot on the creek, a nearly dried up trickle in the hard ground that still managed to support a stand of cottonwoods. There was a curve in the trunk of one that supported my back, and I could look out over the piddle of creek water and out to the Rockies, way out west on the horizon. Kremmling was on the far side of them, but I didn't think about that often.

I ground-tied the buckskin, and sank down against the tree, the letter in my hands. I was starting to pick at a corner of the envelope, when I heard a cough. I knew that sound: Matty's cough, a short, sharp little bark, not the phlegm-clearing hack of the men. Looking around, I caught a movement on the far side of the creek, her horse shifting from hoof to hoof, half-hidden by a thicket of willow.

She came from around the trees, zipping her jeans. I guessed she'd gone for a pee.

"Knew this was your spot," she said when she saw me. "I've seen you here before, looking west at them mountains. You miss 'em?"

I turned the letter over in my hands. "The mountains, yes. Who's in 'em, no."

"Husband? Lover?"

"Ex-husband." The stress on the first word came out harsher than I intended.

"Was it him gave you that shiner you had when you first came here? And the limp?" Matty settled down next to me, her back against the same tree, half turned away so that she faced the plains and the distant blur of Pawnee Buttes.

I nodded, though she couldn't see me. "He messed me around a bit."

She turned at my words, flipping around to kneel in front of me. Her thighs spread wide, and her shirt hung loose out of her jeans. Surprisingly gentle fingers pushed my hair back, tucking the stray wisps behind my ears. Her fingers were rough and grazed my cheek. "No woman should put up with that shit," she said, and her voice was gritty, resolved. "That why you left?" Her hand fell down, rested on my thigh.

I pretended not to notice. "Yeah. He only hit me once."

"Once is enough." Her hand moved slightly, picked a grass seed from the inner seam of my jeans.

I trembled at the touch, stiffening. I'd heard the talk of course. Cowboys aren't very forgiving of women who don't like them, and Matty was so often alone.

"I have a letter from him. He wasn't supposed to know where I am. Guess that sonofabitch in the agency in Denver told him."

"What's it say?" Her fingers curled around my thigh, but it felt good, supportive.

In answer, I handed her the letter. "Don't know. You open it."

Brown eyes searched my face for a moment then Matty nodded. Taking the letter, she ripped the envelope across, pulled out the single sheet, torn from the ranch ledger. It didn't take her long to scan the contents.

"Fucking prick." She crumpled the sheet up tight, wadding it into a ball and threw it hard across the creek. It lodged in the thicket of willow, out of my reach. "You don't need a jerk like him."

"Gonna tell me what it said?" I looked down, at her brown paw and broken nails, rimed with the yellow dirt.

She shot me an inscrutable look. "Threats. Comment about you being a lousy lay. Something about him coming when you least expect it."

"He always came when I least expected it. Don't all men?" I tried to sound tough, worldly, but my voice shook. Jeb's threat coiled in the pit of my stomach, making me want to run far, far from the Red Door, out east, to a city maybe, where he'd never find me.

"Wouldn't know 'bout that." Matty's words were flat. "But then, I like women. Guess you've heard the talk."

I nodded and focused on those distant mountains. Kremmling was over there, but now it didn't seem so far.

"You don't mind?"

I switched my gaze to her. "Why should I?"

"Some women do. They think I might do this."

And suddenly, the hand on my thigh moved, slid higher, curled around and grasped my crotch hard through my jeans. I jerked instinctively, color flooding my face, but I didn't move away. In that second, I knew I wouldn't, that Matty could give me something I needed.

The flat planes of her face were unreadable in the low afternoon light. A leaf spun down from the cottonwood, the first leaf of fall, and caught in her short-cropped hair. I swallowed hard, aware that the next move was mine, but not sure how to go about it. Did she want romance, this tough cowboy? Would she accept tenderness from me? Or did she want to use me as Jeb did? She swallowed once, and there was a faint tremor in one finger where she gripped me.

I leaned forward and stroked a finger over her thin lips. "Will you protect me?" I asked.

"The price of your compliance? Don't want that." Her hand withdrew.

I wondered if calves felt this way when the branding iron lifted. "No."

"What then?"

"Jeb will come." I spoke steadily. "If you can't protect me, then it's best you stay away."

In answer, she leaned forward, her hands on my thighs, thumbs pointing toward my pussy, and pressed her lips to mine. Her lips were firm, skinny and hot, as if the heat of summer had been sucked into them. One hand raised and unbuttoned my shirt, tracing the lines of my collarbones over and over. Her hand palmed down over my stomach to the snap of my jeans.

"Lie down."

The ground was hard, littered with small seeds and animal tracks. Matty hovered above me then lowered her face to mine. The kiss lingered and clung. She was assured, parting my lips to slip between. She tasted of cinnamon, the gum she chewed I guessed, and she took my breath, stealing it so that my head spun, rustling like the cottonwoods. Her hand moved to my breast, squeezing it, pinching the nipple.

I flinched; Jeb used to do that, but Matty's touch wasn't harsh like his, she knew the line between pleasure and pain. My nipple peaked, bloomed into her hand, and I arched up toward her. She stroked my breasts for a minute, carefully circling over my bra.

"Take it off." Her eyes were dark, unreadable in the rosy sunlight.

I sat up, shrugged out of my shirt and bra, spread the shirt on the ground and lay back down. Waiting.

Matty returned, and her warm lips closed over my nipple, her rough tongue lapped at me like a kitten. I held her hair and let the sensation flow over me, small shafts of pleasure arrowing straight and true. Over her head the cottonwood branches moved slightly, and more leaves floated down, brushing her face before settling on my skin.

My confidence building, I reached for her, eager to feel those planes of muscle, smooth and flat under my hand. I wanted to explore the hollows of her hipbones, bury my face in the curve of neck and shoulder and inhale her scent. But she evaded my seeking hands, a small flinch, just enough to get the message across.

"Not yet." She raised her face from my breasts. "Not until I've fucked you." Pulling away from me, she sat back and tugged at my boots, briefly rubbing my feet in her strong hands. My jeans followed, then the black lace panties that Jeb had liked so much.

I couldn't read her face as she crumpled them in her hand and put them in her pocket, but I knew my own reaction as her fingers lowered, probed, then pushed inside. She rubbed with skill, sliding through the wetness, rubbing me just as I rub myself. I closed my eyes, so that there was only the sunlight dappling behind my closed lids and Matty's fingers, bringing me closer to the edge.

Then, just as my heels were digging into the dirt, arching my back up, pushing helplessly against her fingers, just as my orgasm hovered a breath away, she stopped, withdrew. I lay there panting, and I heard the scrape of her zipper, the sound of jeans being pushed down. In the next moment, she was on top of me, and a hard cock probed my folds, found its place, and with one sure thrust was inside.

My eyes widened in shock, and for a suspended moment, I was back in Kremmling with Jeb pounding away on top of me. Pushing at her shoulders, I twisted, but I couldn't move. Her hips rocked against mine and the cock pushed deeper.

"Matty!"

She must have seen the terror in my eyes, as she rose up on her hands, so that our bodies separated. I felt the loss of her weight.

"It's okay." She soothed me gently, unlike her normal brusque tone. "Feel."

I felt down over my belly, down to where her cock wedged open the lips of my cunt. Hard silicone jutted between my folds, and my questing fingers found the straps that held it to her pelvis. She moved gently, and the dildo slid easily to and fro. My fingers traced where it joined her body, feeling her pussy hairs curling around the edges of the harness. I pressed the cock back against her body and she made a small, abrupt sound of pleasure.

The balance was restored. I fumbled with the buttons of her dusty shirt, wanting to see her small breasts again. Her nipples were bitter chocolate drops, big dark pennies against her pale skin. I traced one of the silver lines, first with a finger, then with my tongue. My arousal, which had withered, surged again, fiercer than before, and I curled a leg around her thighs, feeling the embedded dust and grit abrade my calf.

Matty didn't need any more encouragement. She began to rock again, increasing the pace until she was fucking me fast and deep and hard. Yet her lips dropped down, caressing mine with a sweet and gentle tenderness.

I came fiercely, shivering around the pounding cock, pulling her into me so that my tongue could mate with hers. I couldn't reach her cunt to slip my fingers inside, but she didn't seem to mind, and her strokes built to a pounding crescendo.

We lay together afterwards without speaking, Matty and me, watching the way the branches swayed above our head. The sunlight dimmed and Matty raised her head.

"Storm coming."

Over toward the west, dark rain clouds boiled out from the mountains in a thick, charcoal mass. Our horses raised their heads and stood alert, ears pricked, glancing uneasily toward the storm.

I dressed hurriedly, trying not to see the amused look in Matty's eyes as she tucked away her cock, and zipped her jeans. I found I didn't know what to say to her. The natural thing would be to tuck myself under her wiry arm and curl a hand around her waist. Whisper words of pleasure and thanks into her ear; let her play the role of my protector.

Matty had no such doubts. She waited 'til I was dressed, then pressed her hips into me, hard enough that I could feel the outline of her cock, and kissed me possessively. "It'll be okay," she said when she'd finished.

She caught her horse and swung up, leaving me standing facing the mountains. The clouds were sweeping closer, bringing with them the smell of rain. The air was heavy, oppressive, the birds silent in the face of the storm.

"Come on," she said, impatiently. "We need to ride fast if we don't want to get wet."

I mounted the buckskin and we turned their heads for the ranch, urging them into a fast canter. Their hooves thudded on the hard ground, and they ran faster, the wind under their tails as they raced the tumbleweed east. I wanted to shout aloud to the wind, sing into it. Instead, I pressed my cunt hard against the saddle, feeling the new tenderness.

The rain caught us as we reached the yards; the first fat heavy drops hit the ground like tea stains. The manager was waiting for us as we led the horses into the barn. If he knew what we had been doing from the state of our clothing, or the bulge in Matty's jeans, he didn't say nothing.

"Visitor for you, Dar," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Over at the big house."

Matty had vanished like a ghost. Her horse shifted from hoof to hoof in front of his stall. The manager looked around for her, shrugged, then put her horse away himself, dragging off the heavy saddle and throwing it over the partition.

"What's got into her?" he asked, seeming not to notice me frozen in place. A visitor. There was only one person it could be. The joyful afternoon and the afterglow of loving vanished, leaving me small and scared, shrinking into my boots. Gingerly, I touched my eye, remembered the ache of his fist and the gentle touch of Matty's lips. Gone, both of them. I didn't have a truck so I couldn't leave, and there wasn't anywhere I could hide on the ranch. Someone would find me eventually, and chances were it would be Jeb with his heavy footfalls and his tracker's instincts.

Instead, I took my time settling the horse, checking the water trough, stirring his feed around and around in the bucket, then taking a brush and removing the sweat from under the cinch. The manager had gone, back to the big house, and I would have to follow. Time to cook for thirty hungry men.

The wide yard and stock pens were between the house and me. A step. Another. The space yawned wider than the gulf between me and my ex-husband. But it was Matty's fickle callousness that stung the most. Stand by me. Yeah, right.

I was three-quarters across the yard when I saw Jeb's figure loom in the doorway opposite, and start across toward me. The heavy raindrops darkened his hat in uneven blotches. I could see his expression, and it had the gloating look he got when something rightfully his was returned. I'd only seen it before when he got money, a calf, a stolen stock saddle, but I knew it well. I swallowed, and kept walking, concentrating on my stride, one, two, marching in even beat.

The blue pickup came hurtling around the side of the house. Lucky the gate was open, or I think it would've crashed straight through. It skidded to a stop and the passenger door flung open, rocking with the abruptness of the halt.

"Get in, Dar."

Matty leaned across the stick shift, her expression low and glowering. I hesitated, a look at Jeb, at the stretch of dirt between us.

"I said, get the fuck in!"

Across the yard Jeb broke into a run and reached for the knife that hung from his belt. I'd seen him use it before, on baling twine, willow sticks, steak, downed calves. I knew he liked the feel of it in his hand.

I leaped into the truck, slammed the door. Matty didn't look at me, simply set her face in hard lines and gunned the throttle heading fast for Jeb, fast for the gate. Jeb flung himself to the side nearly in time, but the pickup struck him a glancing blow on one shoulder, spinning him against the gatepost, then hard into the dirt.

I looked back, over the pickup's tray, over the jumble of Matty's and my mixed possessions--our clothes, everything we owned thrown in a hasty pile in the back--and saw him, his face black as he held his shoulder.

As we jounced off down the corrugated dirt driveway, the storm broke with a crash of thunder, a dark curtain of water, sweeping the road to mud. The fresh, sharp scent of rain was in the air and I thought I could smell the sagebrush.

Go back to the Rode Hard, Put Away Wet page.

"The Other Side of the Rockies"
from Rode Hard, Put Away Wet
© 2005 Cheyenne Blue