The Influence(14)

It turned out that two more cows had wandered away (some asshole had not locked one of the gates—and there would be hell to pay for that once he found out who), so Cameron got on a horse himself and led a crew to track them down. One was actually off his property and on the road, standing confusedly before a cattle guard, while the other ended up munching weeds in a ditch from which it took all four men to drive the steer out. He wasted half the morning bringing back those two strays when he should have been taking care of other business, and he gathered all of his workers together when he got back, ordering them not to take time off for lunch today, reminding them that they were one phone call away from being deported, and warning them that anyone who left any gate open in the future would be beaten and then fired.

He himself did go inside for lunch, making some microwaved macaroni and cheese, washing it down with a brew and watching a Headline News show on the kitchen TV while he ate. He had just finished when there was a knock at the front door. “Come in!” he bellowed, too lazy to walk out to the front of the house. “Entrar!”

Moments later, a young brown face peeked nervously around the corner. “Senor?”

Cameron frowned. “What is it?”

“Melquiades say he know who left open gate. He say it Ramon. But Ramon gone. We no find him. Melquiades think he run away.”

“Good,” Cameron said. But it wasn’t really good because now he would have to find another cowhand. Things would be gearing up pretty soon before the spring roundup, and he was going to need every man he had.

The boy who’d come to deliver the message was about to leave when Cameron told him to wait. He looked the kid over. Slim and somewhat effeminate, he couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Cameron wasn’t sure, but he thought the boy was Jorge’s son. Jorge was one of his most loyal workers, had remained last year even after Cameron had beat him nearly senseless for stealing oranges, a crime it turned out he didn’t commit. If Jorge had stood for that, he surely wouldn’t make a fuss over…

Cameron closed the kitchen door and pulled the windowshade.

He wasn’t a homo or anything. He just needed a little release. With Debbie gone, his supply had been cut off, and as men in prison knew, when women were scarce, things sometimes needed to be taken care of using whatever else was around.

And this one didn’t look like he’d mind a little Sandusky.

“What’s your name, boy?” he demanded.

“Rudolpho.”

Shit. It wasn’t Jorge’s kid.

That’s what was the matter with all these fucking wetbacks: it was almost impossible to tell them apart. He remembered this one only because of that stupid name. Rudolpho. Like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. If he recalled correctly, this one was older, nineteen or twenty, and when he’d first come over, before Cameron had knocked some sense into him, he’d been prattling on about a wife and kid he’d left back home in Mexico.

Damn.

Cameron had wanted someone younger.

Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Turn around and face that wall,” he ordered in Spanish. “And drop your pants.”

There was hesitation, a frightened pause, and that was all Cameron needed to get hard. He shoved the kid, making him bend over and clutch his ankles as he pulled down his own pants. The height was off—it would have helped if the kid were a few inches taller—but Cameron grabbed the boy’s waist, bent his knees a little, positioned himself and thrust. There was a short sharp cry, then silence as Rudolpho grimly willed himself to take it. Cameron started pumping. Knowing there was pain beneath the stoicism made him finish faster, and with a loud grunt, he came, spurting deep.

He pulled out.

This was the difficult part, the embarrassing part—afterward. Feeling disgusted, Cameron pulled up his underwear and pants and left the room. He wanted to clean off, but he didn’t want to see the boy or talk to him, and he waited until Rudolpho had left, until he’d heard the screen door slam, before taking a hot shower and scrubbing down hard. He wondered if the kid would talk.

Maybe he should have him killed, Cameron thought.

But the feeling passed, and by the time Cameron was through showering and drying off, he felt fine. He put on new underwear before pulling his old jeans back on, then slipped on his shirt, socks and boots, and walked out onto the porch. He saw Rudolpho standing by himself near the barn. The little swisher didn’t seem any worse for wear, and Cameron wouldn’t be surprised if the kid would be up for it again.

He’d probably choose someone else next time he felt the need, though.

Maybe he’d even hire a maid. The house was a fucking mess, and it would be nice to have a woman again.