Markwildyr.com, Post #158
This week, I’d like to do a short story, which will be published in three parts. The title came to me first, and I built the story around the name. I once knew a man everyone called Gabacho to the point that I don’t even recall his legal name. He was tall, dirty-blond, and blue-eyed. Sort of like the protagonist of the story, except that I made him brown-haired. Apparently in Spain, Gabacho is a derogatory term for a Frenchman or European male. In Mexico, I believe it is a common term for an outsider, particularly a gringo.
At any rate, I hope you enjoy the story.
* * * * *
GABACHO
“Hey, Gabacho! You like
to go skinny dipping?”
I whirled to spot a slender
figure sitting on a log. I’d assumed this was an unoccupied stretch. At first
glance, I took it for a girl, but the voice was definitely masculine… a light
baritone.
He rose and dusted the seat of
his pants, a grin claiming his lips.
I held up the package. “Didn’t
want my clothes to get wet.”
“Orale, you a
good-looking dude. How come you swimming the rio, ‘stead of coming
across a bridge? I look over there, I gonna see some badges shinin’ in the sun?”
As he drew closer, my
confusion grew. Probably somewhere around twenty, his face was as pretty as any
girl’s I’d ever seen. But the Adam’s apple and the broad shoulders gave lie to
the features. This was a guy, all right. But damned if he wasn’t starting to
get to me, especially when I saw where those dark chocolate eyes were looking.
“Nope. No badges. Just wanted
to go for a swim.”
“You ain’t a killer or a thief
or nothing?”
This kid didn’t have much of
an accent. Sounded like anyone north of the river. Course, I knew a lot of the border
Mexican kids managed to go to school in the States.
“Just a cowpoke looking for a
change in the scenery. Heard the señoritas were friendly, so thought I’d give
it a try.”
He nodded to my groin. “You
know how to use that, they’ll be mucho friendly, no?”
I drew on a pair of shorts and
stepped into my denims before I was as dry as I’d have liked. “I get your
drift. Where am I, anyway?”
“You on the Rancho Salvador.”
“Rancho? You mean ranch?”
“He nodded, his gaze now
centered on my bare chest. “You got it.” He moved closer. “You don’t gotta get
dressed on account of me.”
I leveled a look at him,
probably not the one I intended because of his beautiful, tanned skin and full
lips that looked like they could pout one minute and smile the next. A headful
of dark curls didn’t help my concentration. I pulled my shirt over my shoulders
and started buttoning it. “Yeah, I do. Otherwise you might regret it.”
I was right. His sweet smile
instantly became a fetching pout. “Doubt that.”
“Who’re you?” I asked to get
back on solid ground.
He drew to his full height, an
inch or so shy of my six feet. “I am Carlos Pablo Salvador y Bachicha.”
“Salvador, huh? Any kin to the
Salvador this ranch is named after?”
“Mi padre… you know, my
papa.”
I finished dressing and stowed the waterproof bag. “I'm Gary Hawthorne."
"No, you're Gabacho."
I shrugged my acceptance of his judgment. "Sorry if I’m trespassing. Show me the quickest way, and
I’ll clear out.”
He threw a graceful hand
toward the river. “Quickest way’s the way you come.”
“The next quickest.”
“Tell you what. You come have
a meal at the headquarters, and the foreman might have a job for you.”
“Who’s the foreman?”
“Fella by the name of
Bartolome.”
“If you’re your daddy’s boy,
how come you aren’t the foreman?”
An amused laugh bubbled up out
of him. “I play at ranching. Bartolome, he works at it.”
“How come you just play at
it?”
“Me, I’m an artist. Rather
paint a horse than ride him. Good-looking gray you got there.”
I patted Slick’s neck. “Yeah.
He’s a good one.”
“Cutting horse?”
“The best.”
He grabbed the reins of a
handsome black gelding standing nearby. “Come on, I’m getting hungry. You’re
invited.”
I was experiencing a few hunger
pains of my own by the time we finally raised the ranch house. Willows and
oaks, and pines threw shade over a rambling, two-story white house, an
equally big barn, and a few supporting structures. A stunningly beautiful
Appaloosa trotted into the corral and raised her haughty head to watch us
approach.
“That’s Reina, my sister’s mare.”
“She’s well named. She looks
like a queen,” I said. “And she knows it, I’ll bet.”
“Carla don’t let nobody ride
her. Not even papa.”
A woman strolled out of the
house, a quirt in her hand, and raised an arm against the sun to look our
direction.
“That’s Carla. Sometimes she
acts like she’s la reina around here.” He laughed aloud. “Guess she is
too, come to think on it.
Upon arriving at the corral,
we dismounted, and my confusion deepened. Carlos came off the porch to meet us.
Except it wasn’t Carlos. It was his female image minus the Adam’s apple and
broad shoulders. They could have been twins. Hell, they probably were twins.
And she provoked the same reaction in me, a stirring in the loins, a
heightening interest.
We dismounted, and Carlos
introduced us, a bit of amusement playing over his features.
“Carla, this is Gabacho,
Gabacho, this is my sister, Carla.”
She reached out a gloved hand,
and I bowed to plant a polite kiss on it. “Pleased to meet you, señorita.”
“Call me Carla,” she said.
“Are you taking lunch with us?”
“I invited him,” Carlos said.
She turned back toward the
veranda. “The dining room, not the cook house. Thirty minutes.”
We unsaddled and rubbed down
our animals before setting them free to dip their long noses into convenient
buckets of oats. After that, I washed up in a basin despite my recent bath in
the Rio Grande.
****
A man joined us at the table.
A stout, florid man introduced as Guillermo Juan Salvador y Ramos, the patron
of the Salvador family. Two things stood out immediately about this impressive
man. He was no fool, and he was not a man to be trifled with. Before that
uncomfortable meal was over, he’d figuratively pinned me to the wall and knew
everything about me, including the fact I’d fled the States about an hour ahead
of the law on a beef arising from a brawl in a bar. It wasn’t the kind of
charge that had a long life, so if I could stick it out south of the Rio Grande
a few months, it would lose its luster. By the end of the luncheon, I had a job
as a wrangler on the Rancho Salvador. Carlos gave me a sexy grin while Carla
unleashed a pleased smile. Now all I had to do was figure out which one was
giving me a hard-on.
I reconsidered. No, all I had
to do was stay clear of both of them until I could go back home. Don Guillermo likely
wouldn’t countenance the hired help taking either one of his offspring to bed.
Well, is that a
set-up or not? Which way will the wind blow, I wonder. I don’t know because I
haven’t finished the story yet.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
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Mark
As always, you write a mean short story...no matter the topic.
ReplyDeleteI am a big fan of all your writing. Keep up the writing.
D