This Red Rock by Louise Blaydon Page B

and
    irritation on Frank"s. As I turned onto the dirt track that led
    me down to the house, my face was set, my mouth a little
    down-turned. I am many things, but I"m sure as hell no
    cowboy.
    Frank was quite obviously of the same opinion. We"re
    Italian, and that means we don"t hold with any of that “no
    touching” crap other families pull with their sons and
    nephews, so he pulled me toward him and hugged me hard
    when he saw me, but I didn"t miss the flicker of doubt under
    his smile as he pulled away. He was looking at my chucks,
    pristine and alien in the dirt. “How are you, grissino ?” he
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    asked, in his dark copper voice. He gave me that nickname
    when I was a kid, when I was all height and no muscle. It
    means, for want of a better definition, “bread stick.” I
    couldn"t help hearing, in his use of it now, an undertone of
    “think you can stick this?”
    To be perfectly honest, I was far from sure myself. But
    the last thing I wanted was for Frank to think badly of me.
    He"s a tough guy, my Uncle Frank, but he"s a fair one, and
    he was certainly a hell of a lot more judicious than my father
    was when I came out in my freshman year of college. Given
    that Dad is a businessman making the occasional commute
    to a decent-sized city, and Frank is a rancher who never
    leaves his home on the range, you"d have been forgiven for
    expecting the opposite outcome. But as it was, my dad is still
    coming to terms with things—although I know he will,
    eventually—whereas Frank didn"t even seem to need time to
    think. He just clapped me on the shoulder, ruffled my hair,
    and said, “Cchhh, I knew that, grissino .” The fact that he
    was so great about it was what made me particularly eager,
    suddenly, to impress him, when I saw that doubt in his eyes.
    He knew I was queer, and he didn"t give a damn, but he also,
    I could tell, thought it meant I wouldn"t be up to much in the
    way of ranch work.
    “I"m great,” I told him, and suddenly, I meant it, or,
    goddamn, I meant to mean it. I put on my best eager-beaver
    smile, and tried to un-tilt the natural stance of my hips. I"m
    not, you know, the campiest flower on the bush, don"t get me
    wrong. But obviously, here, manliness was going to be
    important.
    Frank smiled, a little too much as if he knew what I was
    thinking. “Okay, kiddo. Let"s get your stuff inside.”
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    I snatched my valise out of the trunk before Frank could
    get to it, grinning too hard to cover the strain of its weight.
    “Sounds like a plan. Lead on, noble Francesco!”
    Frank laughed, a short little sound in his throat, and
    shook his head. “First on the left, if you"ve forgotten,” he
    said, scooping up the rest of my things in his work-hardened
    arms.
    I threw him another grin and led the way indoors.

    MY BED at Frank"s place, I remember, always seemed like a
    prison-board when we went to the ranch before, but
    evidently my dorm-room student life had hardened me. I fell
    asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow, and
    woke to the glow of an amber dawn inching through the gaps
    in the curtains. I lay still for a moment or two, just watching
    the light intensify, thinking about how it looked almost as if
    the window frame were catching fire. But this was a ranch,
    and ranches wake up early. There was a familiar commotion
    going on outside, men shouting indistinctly in the distance,
    and the constant mooing of cows protesting at their
    treatment. I lay there another decadent minute, luxuriating
    in the warmth of my cocoon. And then, with a monumental
    effort, I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the
    side of the bed.
    Normally, I only dress quickly when a room is cold.
    There"s something about the cool starkness of tile against
    your bare feet that makes you want to curl your toes and
    shudder them into your shoes as fast as you can manage. By
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    this logic, I guess my little