CLAY GARCIA was fairly sure that this year, las posadas, the Christmas marathon, would finally kill him. Traipsing all over Santa Clara County and beyond, from one house to the next, his cheeks pinched by an unending series of aunties, teased by cousins he was sure he’d never met before, and eating enough tamales and enchiladas and buñuelos to stun a bear got harder and harder each year, especially when you had to get all the normal ranch chores done around it.
And on top of it all, Warshaw was in Fresno. Which meant he was nowhere near any of las posadas, which meant nowhere near Clay, and anytime now Clay’s dick was just gonna drop off from all the jacking off he’d done. If he wasn’t careful, it’d fall right in the posole.
Well, Clay thought, at least it would give his family something new to talk about.
December 23, near the end of the traditional Mexican season of nightly celebrations, and it was the Garcias’ turn to host the party. Never mind that they had only just returned a few hours previously from the last one or that Clay had a mare in foal he needed to keep an eye on. No, what mattered tonight was that the Double-D ranch was the site of this evening’s festivities, and every last member of Clay’s extended family had shown up to say a rosary before the Nativity scene, dig into a feast of truly staggering proportions, and return to the topic of the season: who was Clay dating?
All the dancing he’d done around that topic, Clay figured he could have won himself a whole new category of charreada. Where is she? Who is she? Do your cousins know her? When you gonna bring her home? When you gonna propose?
Clay pictured himself proposing to Warshaw, his smoldering, laconic older cowboy, and snorted softly. Yeah, if Clay got on his knees, Warshaw’d have exactly one thing on his mind, and it wouldn’t be marriage.
“Tu no decis ni pío.” Tia Marta peered at him suspiciously over her knitting, bright eyes sparkling with amusement, and Clay ducked his head. There was a real good reason he’d held his tongue on the subject. Marta continued in Spanish. “I asked you if your friend’s gonna be back in time for midnight Mass tomorrow? Does she go to our church?”
Clay reddened, and he stumbled over an appropriate response. “She had to go visit her family in Fresno.” That was only technically a lie. Warshaw had picked up some seasonal work at a spread he’d been at a couple years ago. He’d sounded cheerful about the prospect before he’d left, looking forward to meeting up with a couple of buddies still down there.
Clay refused to speculate what kind of buddies they were, and Warshaw’d never talked about having any family to speak of. ’Course the two of them did precious little talking in the time they stole together, unless it was of the harder-faster-oh-Jesus-right-there variety. “No sabe quando ella volverà,” Clay said quickly.
Really, unless you counted the pronoun, it was exactly as Clay had said. He really did have no idea when Warshaw planned on heading back up this way, and that thought alone had kept Clay up more than a few nights. Muttering something about giving his mother a hand with all the dishes, he ducked out of the overheated living room to the cooler and blessedly empty kitchen. Running hot water over a dish for form’s sake, Clay looked up at his reflection in the window. Coal-black hair and eyes the same color, sharp cheekbones set in copper skin. Passable or not, Clay appealed to too many girls for his liking, which, with Warshaw in his life, was exactly cero, thanks.
Shaking his head, Clay took the opportunity to gulp a quick cup of coffee before heading out to the barn to check on his pregnant mare, letting the screen door slam behind him.
He stalked across the yard in front of the house, weaving his way between the bumpers of the many cars packed together along the long driveway leading down to the Double-D’s front gate. Clay’d been hoping the cool night air would chill some of his frustration, but instead, as he crunched across the sandy drive leading to the barn, his emotions still boiled. It shouldn’t be such a big deal who he dated. He was twenty-two, plenty old enough to lead a life his family didn’t need to know about.
Unlatching the heavy wooden door, Clay slammed it back along the rollers, giving rein to his emotions and letting a warm gust of horse-scented air billow out into the California winter night. He stood outside for a minute staring up at the starless sky, letting the smells of heat and dung and animals dissipate, before stepping across the threshold and reaching for the battered flashlight on the shelf. Turning on the lights would get all the horses riled up, and there was only one Clay was currently worried about. Besides, he’d been helping with the foaling since he was a kid, and even in the dark, knew what to look and listen for.
Walking slowly along the stalls, Clay pointed the flashlight at his boots. He stopped in front of one box and peered at the animal inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Querida? Como estas, bebe? You good over there?” A tall buckskin mare, belly heavy with foal, stood her ground, nostrils flaring with irritation. He cooed at her softly. “You doing okay, mija? You need anything?”
“Hell yes, I need something.”
Clay whirled at the low growl from the shadows behind him. He played his flashlight wildly over the empty stalls before lighting on the familiar salt-and-pepper mustache of his lover. “Warshaw!”
