Date: Sun, 30 Mar 2008 00:54:12 -0600
From: Avy MacGregor <avymac@hotmail.com>
Subject: Jake's Cowboy Part 21

DISCLAIMER: You are about to read a story that is strictly FAN FICTION and
in no way represents true accounts. I do not - nor do I wish to imply that
- I know Jake Gyllenhaal, his private life or his sexual preferences. This
is also true of all other celebrities represented in this story. This is a
work of fiction based in homo-eroticism, so if you are not of legal age, or
if this type of content might offend you, please move onto something else.

For everyone else - ENJOY!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
What an amazing journey this story has been!

I would just like to reiterate how thrilling this has been for me, and how
writing `Jake's Cowboy' has completely changed my perspective on what
creative writing is all about, and how it fits into my life. I know now
that I will continue to pursue that which impassions me, even when I get
bogged down with other facets of my life, and even when I get frustrated
that I don't have enough time.

I wish I could say that this is not the final chapter, yet I cannot promise
that there will be another one, either. It's one of those instances where
"only time will tell."

Thanks so, so much to everyone who faithfully read each chapter, and took a
moment to send comments and words of encouragement to me. Terry,
Christopher, Stephen, Syd, Drew, Woo, Brian, Al, Dale, Dave, Elo and so
many others...you have been an amazing group of friends to correspond and
draw inspiration from.

Please continue to visit and leave comments on The Gyllenhaal Chronicles
page, letting the authors know what you think, sharing ideas, posting pics,
just corresponding. It's a great group, and all participation is
appreciated! http://groups.msn.com/TheGyllenhaalChronicles/_whatsnew.

As always, you can email me at avymac@hotmail.com, or chat with me under
the same MSN name - although I'm not online very often anymore, so if I
miss you, I'm sorry!

And now, onto PART 21 . . .

--------------------------------------------------------------------

	I stretched my legs down across the lower steps of the porch,
trying to find a comfortable position despite the soreness in my lower
back. The cell phone sat tucked between my ear and shoulder; it had been a
long conversation already . . . one that seemed destined to find no
resolution.
	Gus cleared his throat. "This occurred over a year ago," he stated,
as if for clarification despite his full knowledge of the story
already. "And no proof of sexual relations outside of this young girl's
testimony."
	"I doubt she'll testify to anything," I mumbled. "Do you think this
is futile, Gus? Be honest."
	Gus, forever the big-shot Hollywood attorney, replied assuredly,
"Nothing is ever pointless in the legal world, Jake."
	I leaned back on an elbow, the rough paint-flecked porch plank
scraping my skin. It had been a long, arduous morning already - digging and
setting new fence posts with Arturo, mucking out the horse stalls, trying
to place numerous phone calls in between without those around me
eavesdropping. At the earliest opportunity, I'd made arrangements for
Travis' bail. But Gus had quickly advised me to stand back a distance and
not get directly involved, "for the media's sake."
	"They'll catch wind of it all very quickly," he'd informed me.
	I knew that it was true, and that it would always be true for as
long as I was in the industry, but the reality of it frustrated me anyway.
	In the end, it had been Curtis driving off to retrieve Travis from
the sheriff's station, not me, and I'd been left to down another cup of
coffee and wait for their return. At some point, it had dawned on me that
perhaps the best way to handle Travis' arrest was to counteract it with a
charge of statuary rape against Eric. In Hollywood, at least, such practice
was common - perhaps it would scare Eric into dropping his assault
charge. If nothing else, it seemed a moral obligation where Katy was
concerned - even if she would never understand or appreciate it, and would
undoubtedly protest it in her usual brash way.
	"I'll tell you what," Gus announced. "I'll do a records search on
Eric; with what you've told me, he's probably been in trouble with the law
before. Maybe we can dig up something that'll bring him about-face. Until
then, I'll be in touch . . . And Jake," he added intently, "take my advice
about keeping a low profile on this."
	"I will," I promised. "Thanks for your help, Gus."
	We disconnected and I stood up to stretch, feeling every muscle in
my lower back protest the labors of the morning. Even with the intense
physical training I'd undergone for the filming of `Jarhead', each day
presented a new horizon for muscles yet to be discovered in my body.  It
felt like an eternal workout - one whose only reward was an aching spine
and calloused hands.
	Below me in the grass Spartacus lay curled up fast asleep,
perfectly content in the shade of the elm tree. Although he was a feisty
little pup, full of mischief and endless energy, capable of keeping us up
half the night when he was in an extra ornery mood, he remained an
affectionate reminder of the connection that Travis and I
shared. Sometimes, we joked together about the resemblance of Spartacus to
a small child, and the annoyance coupled with unconditional love that we
both felt towards the animal - similar to Atticus and Boo Radley and Derry
and Red Cloud, yet more endearing because he was a direct part of our
relationship.
	I'd wondered on occasion if raising a family had ever crossed
Travis' mind; it was a topic of conversation that we'd never entertained -
aside from the initial discussion about man's purpose in life and how
Travis felt no obligation to follow the usual path of procreation. Images
of Travis and I running a ranch together, with dogs jumping and children
playing, had crossed my mind like a fairytale daydream - an apparition so
absurd that I'd cursed myself for even having it. There was no way in hell
that Travis and I would ever have that kind of life together, even if we
both wanted it, which I somewhat doubted that he did; as far as I could
tell, he seemed quite content running the ranch as it was and having me
around when I could be there.
	But, on the same token - wasn't I just as content having my acting
career and Travis around when he could be there?
	Perhaps, in the end, that was the destiny of our relationship.
	The sudden buzzing of my cell phone swung me from my thoughts, and
I answered with a quick hello. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed
Curtis' old Suburban barreling up the road towards the house.
	"Hello, Jake," my mother greeted cheerfully.
	"Hey, Mom," I mumbled.
	"You heard my message yesterday?"
	"I did. Why didn't you tell me you guys were planning a trip to
Vail?"
	"Oh, it was a last-minute decision," she answered lightly. "Your
father wanted to get away from the city for awhile, he's had so much going
on since the poetry release."
	"It's summer, Mom," I chided, watching Spartacus awaken to the
sound of the truck engine. "No one vacations in Vail in summertime."
	She laughed that sweet little wispy laugh of hers and said, "I
know! And here we brought our brand new skis and everything . . ."
	I grinned at her remark and watched Derry race across the yard and
head down the drive, Spartacus scurrying behind her in a futile attempt to
catch up.
	"So will we have the pleasure of your company this evening?" my
mother inquired. "Dad's cooking Moroccan."
	My father's cooking was a significant way to entice me, and she
knew it. A small part of me expected her to invite Travis - almost wished
that she would - but the suggestion was never uttered, and I found myself
both relieved and disheartened by it.
	The Suburban pulled up to the house, and all conversation with my
mother ceased. Travis emerged from the passenger seat and I smiled at him -
couldn't help myself, it was so great to see him even though it had only
been a few hours since his arrest.
	"Jake . . .?" The phone chirped at my ear, startling me.
	"Oh, sorry, Mom . . .Listen, uh, I gotta go."
	"Dinner at seven then . . .?" As was typical of her, she was
insisting on a commitment from me right then and there; it left no doubt as
to where my own stubbornness and determination came from.
	"Yeah, sure, I'll come," I agreed. "See you then." I snapped the
phone shut just as Travis and Curtis climbed the steps to join me on the
porch.
	"Hollywood on the line?" Travis asked, tucking his shirt into his
jeans, seeming none worse for the wear.
	"Just my mother," I replied. "How'd everything go?"
	"Court date set for two weeks from now," he replied
nonchalantly. "It's not a big deal."
	I was amazed at the confidence he exuded. Wasn't sure I would be so
like-minded if the shoe had been on my foot.
	Curtis gave me a nudge and pointed down the road. "Photographers
are down at the gate."
	I blinked at him, feeling a slight shockwave. "What?"
	"Two of them," Travis confirmed. "With tripods and
everything. Looks like they're expecting a circus."
	"Jesus, how in the . . ." My voice trailed off as I took in the
news. There was no way in hell they could have heard about Travis' arrest
that quickly - and even if they had, why the interest? Travis couldn't have
meant that much to the media.
	"I reminded them of private property," Curtis stated to ease my
concern before he pulled the screen door open and headed inside.
	As the door smacked shut behind him, I glanced at Travis. He slid
an arm around my shoulders. I inadvertently took a step back. "Aw, babe,,"
he muttered. "Their zoom lenses can't reach this far." He pulled open the
door, said, "Man, I hope there's some breakfast left," then disappeared
inside.
	I didn't follow him in right away, but instead squinted out over
the expanse of field towards the main road beyond, anticipating . . . what?
Flashbulbs to go off? A mob of paparazzi to come up the drive carrying
torches?
	But the only thing visible was the quiet ebb and flow of the tall
grass as it swayed to and fro in the midday breeze.


* * * * *


	Katy's presence in the kitchen was startling. An immediate,
discomfited silence fell on all of us, interrupted only by the chime of the
grandfather clock in the next room announcing the noon hour.
	From the pale expression of dread on Katy's face, it was apparent
that she was just as startled to have been found there - and would have
rather been anywhere else at that moment. She had been a recluse all
morning, hiding in her room or wherever she had been, not even coming down
for breakfast - no doubt not wanting to face even me. But now there was
nowhere she could go, nowhere she could hide.
	Curtis, clutching at the opportunity to exit, cleared his throat
and made a move for the rear door. "I'll be at the stables," he announced
before stepping outside.
	I, on the other hand, intended to remain where I stood - to witness
the confrontation firsthand and watch the wretched girl squirm. I grabbed
an apple and leaned against the refrigerator, anxious to see what path the
conversation between the two siblings would take.
	At first, Travis appeared to take no notice of his sister. He
retrieved a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a cup of coffee, the
clattering of spoon stirring creamer filling the room. Katy, eyes nervously
darting between Travis and me, attempted to ease herself from the room,
meandering ever-so-carefully away as if on tip-toe.
	But her escape was quickly halted by Travis' booming voice
commanding her to sit down.
	With hunched shoulders, looking like a convict preparing for
execution, Katy slowly returned to the table and deliberately scraped the
feet of the chair along the floor before sitting down in it. Time ticked by
as she was forced to watch Travis pile cold biscuits and gravy onto a
plate. Twice her eyes caught mine, desperation blinking back at me as
though she expected undeserved sympathy or intervention.
	Travis took a seat at the table and devoured several large forkfuls
of his breakfast before wiping his mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of
his coffee. After a moment, he finally muttered, "We need to talk, Kat."
	She said nothing, simply sat looking at him. I was amazed at how
much fear exuded from her tiny frame; despite her usual insolence, she was
clearly afraid of her brother at that moment. Perhaps, somehow, it had
finally dawned on her that she was in the wrong.
	Travis turned in his chair and surprised me by saying, "Can you
give us a minute, Jake?"
	I was nothing short of disappointed, and I'm sure my face showed
it. I wanted to witness the rebuking of Katy, but I honored his request,
muttering, "Sure," before taking a bite of my apple and wandering back
outside. Jumping down the front steps of the porch, I glanced once more in
the direction of the main gate of the ranch, expecting something - anything
- yet still finding nothing but the tall grass swaying in the midday
breeze.


* * * * *


	"What the hell are you talking about?" Travis insisted, fingers
pressed to his temples, his face strained as though the words I had just
spoken were physically painful to him.
	The porch swing creaked lightly beneath me as I moved, pages of
script spilling from my lap. "I just thought it would be a good way to get
Eric off your back," I explained meekly. "To get him to drop the
charges. And . . . also bring a little justice to Katy."
	Color rose to his face. I expected him to start yelling, but
instead he said, "You assume way too much, Jake."
	As I stood, the old wooden swing hit the back of my legs. Slowly, I
eased Travis' hands down to his sides. He shifted his eyes to mine, and I
could see all of the pain still there, all of the sorrow he'd been
suffering since his brawl with Eric, yet greater magnified now that his
conversation with Katy was over. He'd discovered some horrific things,
things which were difficult for him to even repeat to me - Eric not only
sleeping with Katy last summer, but also being cruel enough to leave her
thinking she was pregnant with his child while he'd whisked Travis off to
Boston. It was a reality so staggering that neither of us could seem get
our heads around it.
	"Eric needs to see that this kind of shit can't go on," I
insisted. "He needs to back the fuck down."
	Travis tapped his pockets. I knew he was in search of a cigarette,
and I deterred him from finding one by clutching his hands in my own. He
looked at me in dismay. "Katy still wants him," he mumbled sadly. "After
all I told her . . . after all I revealed to her about what he'd done to me
. . . I don't get it. I don't get any of it." He exhaled slowly. "I don't
know what the fuck to think anymore . . ."
	"Think about the statutory rape charge," I urged, squeezing his
fingers. "You've got to."
	But he merely shook his head at my suggestion and slid his hands
from my grasp. He pushed the screen door of the bunkhouse porch open and
said solemnly, "I've got to get that paint horse ready for delivery to
Montrose." Then he stepped out into the bright sunlight and headed for the
stables, shoulders hunched.


* * * * *


	I found him in the office a short time later, standing behind the
desk shuffling through a pile of papers. I watched him from the doorway for
a moment, trying to gain a sense of his mood, then I cleared my throat. He
glanced up at me - exhaustion and irritation in his eyes.
	"Hey," I said softly.
	"Hey," he returned.
	The tension between us was tangible.
	"It'll take awhile to get to Montrose," he spoke after a time,
tossing a folder into the wire basket atop an old filing cabinet. "We
should head out soon."
	I bit my lower lip, afraid to aggravate him further but having
little choice. I had to tell him. "Listen . . ." I began. "How long do you
think this delivery will take?"
	He shrugged. "I don't know. A few hours. Why?"
	I shifted feet. Ran a hand through my hair. "My, uh, parents are in
town. In Vail. They want me to have dinner with them tonight . . ."
	I watched him. Awaited the verbal assault I assumed would
follow. But like candle wax, his facial expression melted, taking my heart
right down with it. He kicked the desk chair out and slumped down as though
drained of life. "They're here?" he asked quietly. "In Colorado?"
	I nodded.
	"Why didn't you tell me . . .?" He sounded nothing short of
crushed.
	I stepped into the room and said dimly, "I wanted to tell you. But
I only just found out yesterday. And with everything that's happened, there
just hasn't been a good time to mention it . . ."
	He stared hard at the desk, unwilling to look up at me. After a
moment, he said, "Did they . . . ask about me?"
	Silent curses ricocheted through me as I dropped down into the
chair facing him. Why had everything become so goddamn complicated all of a
sudden?
	"I take that as a no," he stated, still refusing to look at me.
	I rested an ankle atop one knee and exhaled loudly. "If it's any
consolation," I offered, "I'm sure they'll be asking plenty about you
tonight."
	He sat for a moment, mulling things over, that muscle twitching in
his jaw indicating his annoyance, and then he stood up and surprised me by
saying, "Well, I guess I'll see you later then." He walked out of the room,
and I sat stunned for a moment before rushing from the office to find him
leading the paint horse out of her stall. "Hey!" I called out.
	He continued on, heading outside.
	I quickly caught up with him. "Hey!" I repeated. "What's going on?"
	He guided the mare up into the awaiting trailer and disappeared
inside. When he returned, I was fuming. "What the fuck is your problem?" I
demanded.
	He secured the gate of the trailer and walked around to the
driver's side of the pickup. I honestly thought he was going to get in it
and drive off, and if he had, I would have packed my things right then and
there and left , fuck it all. But he didn't - just stood in the open
doorway and looked at me.
	"What do you want me to say?" he finally spoke.
	I grabbed the doorframe. "I don't know, Travis. I just . . . I'm
not the bad guy here. I don't know why you're treating me like I am."
	That twitching jaw again. Eyes turning glossy. In frustration, he
turned and slid into the cab, yanking the door from my grip to slam it
shut. The engine roared to life, and I pounded on the window. He blinked at
me.
	"Come with me!" I called out. "Come to Vail!"
	But he shook his head, mouthing something that resembled, "Just
go. I'll see you later."
	I fumbled for the door handle, but my fingers slipped from the
chrome as soon as he put the truck into gear and started off. I stood with
hands on hips, waiting for the brake lights to flicker, waiting for him to
stop, but he didn't even slow down. The old trailer bumped along behind him
as he took off down the main drive, leaving me to watch his departure with
tears of frustration and anger pricking at my own eyes.


* * * * *


	I sat within the quiet comfort of the Lexus, leather seats
cushioning me as I gazed off at the facade of the Gyllenhaal chalet -
classic A-frame architecture with high windows overlooking the grandness of
Vail Mountain beyond. A vacation home I'd visited a hundred times before,
yet couldn't bring myself to get out of the car and enter into at that
moment.
	I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and stared down at my
flip-flops. I was still angered and hurt by Travis' hasty departure, still
trying to understand why he'd treated me like such shit. I imagined him
driving back from Montrose with whiskey in hand, regretting the day he'd
ever met me, destined to perish in some head-on collision. The morbid
thought sent shivers through me, and I shut off the engine to finally
emerge from the rental car, wanting fresh air.
	I stood for a moment and glanced around the upscale cul-de-sac,
devoid of its usual wintertime occupants. How many times had I walked these
same front flagstones? Stood in this exact spot, gazing at snow-covered
slopes beyond? Memories returned . . . memories of skiing with the family
. . . partying with college friends . . . spending long weekends with
Kirsten. It amazed me how much time had gone by - and how I felt like such
a completely different person now.
	"Jake!" my mother exclaimed the moment I stepped through the front
door. She pirouetted over to me with that ever-gracious smile, pulling me
into a tight hug, the faint scent of lavender surrounding her. Such sweet
familiarity that I hesitated to let her go. She stood back and studied me
for a moment. "Look at you," she commented, fingers tracing my facial
hair. "My son the mountain man."
	The rich aroma of roast lamb and onions filled my nostrils. From
the kitchen, I could hear the clatter of pans.
	"Come in, come in," she urged, pulling me from the foyer. I stepped
into the grandeur of the front room and stood a moment absorbing the
familiar surroundings - all rustic and alpine, leather and pinewood,
ceilings so high that one could get dizzy from looking up at the rafters. A
fire burned in the gas fireplace despite it being the middle of summer. An
old picture of Maggie and me riding the ski gondola, colorful scarves
hiding everything but the excitement in our eyes, sat perched on the mantle
just as it had for a decade.
	"Here," I said, presenting my mother the bottle of wine I'd picked
up along the way. A small gesture, which she accepted with a smile. "Pinot
Grigio," she observed, turning it over in her hands. "Perfect."
	The awkwardness I felt was nothing short of peculiar. My mother,
ever the perceptive one, tried to assuage my apprehension by grabbing my
hand and pulling me towards the kitchen. "Come," she suggested, "let's open
it."
	My father stood at the rangetop with his sleeves rolled up and an
apron tied around his waist, stirring a large pot of something, steam
rising to his face.
	"Hey, Pop," I said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
	He glanced at me with clouded glasses. Said, "How are you, Jake?"
then returned his attention back to the food preparation.
	I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my cargo shorts and
replied, "Good. Fine."
	Silence ensued. Being at a loss for words around my parents was
something foreign to me - and at that moment I could think of absolutely
nothing to say.
	As if on cue, my mother handed me a glass of wine.
	"So you've been busy helping out on the ranch?" she inquired,
leaning against the counter with her own glass of wine propped up in one
hand.
	I nodded. "Yeah."
	"Hard work," she said. "No wonder you look a little rough around
the edges."
	"Do I?" I hadn't noticed a change in my appearance. But then, I
hadn't been looking at myself in the mirror much lately.
	The incessant tapping of spoon against saucepan echoed through the
room, as though my father was hoping to gain my attention by making the
most irritating noise possible. Finally, he stopped and turned to me. "So
does your character require this rough and ruddy look?"
	I tried to snicker, but it came out more as a gasp. "No," I
replied. "He's a drug addict. Remember?"
	He peered at me from over the rim of his steamed-covered glasses
and said harshly, "Then you should start getting out of the sun, don't you
think?"
	I gulped my wine down, already dreading the evening.
	Dinner was served out on the back patio. We sat around the
wrought-iron table, surrounded by citronella torches, listening to cicadas
in the evergreens. The meal was impressive, with roast lamb, couscous,
steamed vegetables, baba ganoush. I couldn't help but wonder why my father
had gone to the trouble of preparing such a spread when it was obvious he
was intending to admonish me at some point - like a death row inmate being
served his last meal.
	"So when are you coming back to L.A.?" my mother inquired,
refilling my wine glass. "Must be soon, your movie starts shooting in a few
weeks, doesn't it?"
	I nodded. Took a sip of the pinot grigio before answering. "I'll be
back on the twenty-first."
	"That's cutting it a bit close, don't you think?" my father
commented.
	I shrugged and stuffed a forkful of lamb into my mouth. My taste
buds exploded.
	"I hope you've had time to study the script," he said.
	"I have."
	He glanced at me. "Don't be so nonchalant about this role, Jake,"
he warned. "Coming on the heels of your `Brokeback' Oscar nomination,
you've got a really good shot at making this one phenomenal. Don't blow
it."
	I stared at him in disbelief. "I won't."
	Although he often gave me construction criticism - criticism which
I took seriously because he was far more knowledgeable about the business
than I was and I respected his opinion, just as I respected my mother's -
he had never before been so downright skeptical about my commitment to a
role. I was immediately defensive. "I've been pouring over the screenplay
for weeks," I stated. "I know it inside and out, forwards and backwards. I
could sit here right now and recite it to you word-for-word."
	Which was untrue, but I'd be damned if I was going to let him make
me feel inadequate.
	My mother chuckled and patted my hand, always the mediator. "No
need for that, Jake, honey. We don't want to be here all night . . . DO we
Steve . . ." She gave my father that watch-what-you're-doing-Stephen look,
and he backed down, at least temporarily - at least until the main course
of the meal was finished and dessert was brought out.
	It was a few bites into the lemon sorbet that the subject of Travis
finally emerged. A small part of me was relieved, simply because it meant
that we might finally, actually, be able to move forward, while still
another part of me dreaded it, for very obvious reasons.
 	It was my mother who started it all, inquiring about the ranch and
the Cooper family - how many generations of ranching there had been, how
business seemed to be, how difficult it was to deal with the inherent
drought, how Travis' father had died. I discussed it all with her as
casually as possible, continuing to nibble at my sorbet and ingest more
wine. But it all seemed too easy, and I soon found myself prematurely
letting my guard down.
	The compelling question came from my father, bringing me straight
back to center: "So tell us again why exactly it is you're out here?"
	I shrugged lightly, feeling a knot in my stomach begin to tighten
as though a vice were being turned. "It's been one hell of a great learning
experience for me," I replied. "I handle a horse much better now and can
rope pretty good, too. Hey, the next cowboy movie I do should be a piece of
cake."
	I grinned. My father sat back in his chair, running the tip of his
middle finger along the rim if his wine glass. His lemon sorbet sat
untouched, melting in its glass bowl. It was impossible to read his
expression through the reflection of torchlight off of his glasses, but the
sternness of his mouth clearly showed his agitation. After a moment, he
finally said, "So you're here learning how to ride a horse."
	I grinned again but felt nothing short of hollow inside, that knot
twisting deeper in my stomach. "Not just riding a horse, Pop," I
chuckled. "Roping and herding, too."
	"Hmmm . . . " was his only response.
	There was a moment of silence, only the cicadas droning. Then my
mother said, "Jake . . .your father and I . . . well, we're a little
concerned . . ."
	"Yeah?" I said lightly. "About what?"
	"About YOU," my father replied for her. "About what's going
on. About why you're here."
	"I told you," I said. "I'm helping out on the ranch and preparing
for this movie." But I didn't feel half of the confidence I was uttering;
my palms were sweaty, and I rubbed them along my shorts, feeling like a
nervous schoolboy sitting across from the principal.
	My father sat forward. "So what . . . you're telling us you're a
ranch hand now?"
	It sounded so absurd that I laughed. "Not exactly . . . well, sort
of . . . I guess . . . Hey, if `High Stakes' doesn't work out, I could
always be a cowboy, right?"
	It was meant to be a joke, a statement to lighten the mood. But my
father was not amused. He frowned and said sternly, "Don't tell me you'd
give up your acting career to be on this ranch."
	I chuckled again, more nervously. "Of course not . . ."
	"Jake . . ." my mother spoke quietly. "Where is all of this
leading? What are your intentions?"
	"My intentions?" I echoed.
	"You know damn well what we mean," my father snapped.
	I ran my hands over my face. Slid down in my chair and glanced up
at the twinkling stars above - every nerve, every muscle in my body on
edge. I had expected this conversation, had rehearsed it a hundred times in
my head just on the journey from Buena Vista to Vail alone, but now that
the moment was before me, I couldn`t bring myself to deal with it. "I'm not
sure what you're talking about," I mumbled, feeling a hint of bile rise up
in my throat. "I don't know what you want me to say . . ."
	My father slammed his fist on the table, rattling dishes, bringing
me bolt upright in my chair. "We're not stupid, Son!" he bellowed. "We know
this runs deeper than ranching! Are you really prepared to lose everything
you've worked so hard for over this?!"
	I gaped at him. He pushed his chair back and marched off across the
patio, disappearing into the night shadows, leaving a deathly silence in
his absence.
	"Jake . . ." my mother spoke a moment later, her voice barely
audible. "You've got to understand that this is very difficult for us. For
him. He's not . . . prepared to face the fact that you . . ."
	"Oh God, Mom," I pleaded, scraping my chair against the
flagstone. "Don't even say it." I stood up and began piling dirty dishes
together, feeling about 300 degrees hotter than normal, my head reeling.
	"Jake . . ." my mother implored, sitting forward in her
chair. "Please don't do this. Don't shut us out."
	But I was shaking my head, gathering dishes up into my arms. "Don't
do it," I insisted, voice quaking. "Don't go there. I just . . . I can't do
this." With arms fully laden, I headed inside, silverware clattering to the
floor as I raced into the kitchen. I dropped the dishes into the sink
before my arms completely gave out, and then I stood there, hands gripping
the granite countertop, feeling as though my heart was going to pound
straight out of my chest.


* * * * *


	The mountain roads were dark and rife with unpredictable
switchbacks, but I drove around for awhile anyway, trying to clear my head
from the barrage of thoughts that ricocheted like gunfire: Travis, my
parents, my refusal to come clean. I'd always prided myself on being strong
and honest in life . . . But apparently that no longer held true.
	Truly, when it came right down to it, I was nothing but a fucking
coward.
	I wasn't sure how I was going to face Travis, or if he'd even be
home. I wondered if he'd gotten over his anger. Wondered if he'd realized
how unfair he'd been to me. After everything that had happened, after all
of the trials and tribulations between us and between everyone else, I
wished I could have at least offered him confirmation that I'd come out to
my parents.
	But I couldn't even give him that.
	When I finally, reluctantly, returned to the ranch, all seemed
quiet; the photographers had gone home, the main house stood in darkness,
not a soul was stirring as I parked the car and walked the distance to the
bunkhouse. The tap-tap-tapping of my flip-flops was intrusive to the
otherwise quiet night, and so I yanked them off and continued the trek in
my bare feet, specks of gravel pricking at my heels.
	As I approached the bunkhouse, I noticed one lone, dim light on
inside, the only noise coming from Spartacus who was whining from within
his kennel, sensing my arrival. When I entered into the screened-in porch,
I was surprised to discover Travis slouched in one of the over-sized wicker
armchairs, fast asleep. He was clad only in a sweatshirt and boxers,
snoring lightly. The muted light from inside illuminated his striking
features, and I stood for a moment looking at him, watching his chest rise
and fall with each breath. In his slumber he looked peaceful and carefree -
the complete opposite of how he'd looked earlier in the day when he'd sped
off to Montrose. It was how I wished he could look all of the time. How I
wished he and I could be all of the time.
	Leaning down on my haunches, I touched his knees and whispered,
"Travis." He stirred slightly but didn't awaken. Slowly, I ran my hands up
his thighs, fingers touching his cool skin. "Travis," I repeated, this time
louder. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked at me, momentarily unsure of
his surroundings.
	"Hey," I said, sliding my hands up under his boxers until I reached
warmth.
	"Hey," he whispered groggily. "What time is it?"
	"It's late."
	"Guess I fell asleep." He sat up a little, rubbing his eyes.  I
could smell the whiskey on him.
	"Sorry I didn't come back sooner," I said quietly. "I . . . was
driving around for awhile . . ."
	He looked at me with sleepy eyes. "How was dinner?"
	"Not so good," I whispered.
	"No?"
	I exhaled, turning my gaze away from him. "I couldn't do it," I
said dimly. "They hinted at our relationship, but my dad got so fucking
angry, I just couldn't admit to anything. I panicked. I choked."
	Travis sat silent for a moment, pondering things, I suppose, and
then he gently plucked my hands from within his boxers and stood up. "It's
okay," he said.
	"No," I protested, "It's not okay . . ."
	But he was already heading inside, muttering, "Let's just get some
sleep. I'm too tired to dwell on this tonight."
	From within the bunkhouse, the light switched off, leaving the
porch in shadowy darkness. I remained on my knees for a moment, listening
to the silence, battling the emotions inside of me. Then I succumbed to
defeat and headed inside, shredding my clothes along the way, sliding
beneath the cool sheets to lay next to him. Instinctively, I leaned in to
kiss him and whisper good night, and he in turn surprised me by wrapping
his arms around me, pulling me in tight, saying nothing but saying much
more than I felt I deserved.
	I closed my eyes and concentrated on sleep, but it was difficult to
come by. Minutes, then hours, passed by in utter restlessness until finally
I slipped out of bed and took a blanket to the couch, curling up in the
fetal position, waiting for the first signs of dawn. A brief sleep
eventually did wash over me but was short-lived when Travis joined me,
pulling back the blanket to lay on top of me.
	It was the first time that we'd had sex without saying a word to
each other . . . without kissing or even touching except for his cock
pushed deep inside of me and his fingers clutched in my hair, pulling my
head back. Despite some precum and a smear of his spit, the pain of the dry
fuck was intense; I cringed and bit the inside of my cheek, trying to deal
with the burning sensation sweeping through me. He thrust in long and deep,
fingers tugging at my hair, breath hot against my neck. It wasn't long
before the pain dissolved into slow pleasure, and I realized that in a
foreign, twisted way I enjoyed him taking me like this. It was somehow
gratifying, as though there really was truth in being able to fuck the
misery out of someone.
	The coupling didn't last long. Without a single grunt, Travis
rammed me one final time and then released his load deep inside of me,
pushing against me so hard that it felt as though his entire body might
follow suit. He remained rigid for a moment, breath unstable, cock
pulsating against my clenched ass muscles. I was unwilling to let him go. I
wanted more, tried to stuff my hand between my body and the couch cushion
so that I could stroke my burgeoning cock, but he pulled out, leaving me
groaning, his load of cum starting to trickle out of me. Without
forewarning, he grabbed my hips, hoisted me up onto my knees, and ran his
tongue up the length of my inner thigh to my puckered, dripping hole. It
was almost more than I could bare; I grabbed my cock and began vigorously
stroking, precum seeping onto my fingers.
	With hands pulling my ass cheeks apart and mouth fully latched onto
my hole, Travis sucked and licked and lapped up every last drop of cum that
oozed from me. It was something he had never done to me before, and I was
so close to orgasm I was almost shaking, my hand furiously stroking, my
legs practically giving out on me.
	Travis sensed my impending orgasm and swiftly pushed me over,
replacing my hand with his mouth, swallowing my cock down to the hilt, his
nose nudging my pubes, his throat muscles thoroughly working me while his
fingers tugged at my swollen balls. The moment he shoved two fingers into
my chute, jamming them against my prostate, I lost it - every muscle
tightening, every nerve tingling. As I exploded into his mouth, his clutch
on my balls became almost painful, yet rope after rope of cum pumped out of
me anyway - so much so that I was amazed he could consume it all.
	I soon discovered that he wasn't even swallowing it, he was holding
as much of it in his mouth as he could. And when I was completely spent and
breathless, he moved up, coaxed my lips apart with his fingers, and
proceeded to feed that load of cum right back to me. My dick jumped, I
thought I'd orgasm all over again from the sensation of him feeding me the
cum that had just spouted from my own cock. I hungrily accepted the
offering, rolling the thick, warm liquid around on my tongue before letting
it slide down my throat, loving the utter messiness of it all.
	When every last drop was depleted, Travis wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand, stood up and wandered off to the bathroom in the
darkness, his bare feet padding across the floor. I watched him
disappear. Heard the toilet flush a moment later. When he reemerged, he
didn't return to the comfort of the bed but instead nudged me on the couch,
sliding down beside me, pulling me into his arms. We said nothing - just
laid together, content in each other's presence, an unspoken truce passing
between us . . . the bond we shared seeming still to hold strong despite
our silence.
	And as the first muted rays of sunlight began to slowly seep into
the room, we both drifted off into a brief yet peaceful sleep.


* * * * *

	"Jake!" a voice called out.
	I grunted and turned, my arms laden with a heavy bucket of
feed. Arturo stood in the open doorway of the stables, pointing out towards
the main house. "You've got a visitor!" he shouted.
	Thoughts of a trespassing reporter crossed my mind, and I
reluctantly set the feed down and followed Arty outside, sliding off my
work gloves to shove them in my back pocket. The sun was excruciatingly
bright, and I turned my backwards ball cap around to shade my eyes. I
didn't recognize the rental car parked in the grass, but I did recognize my
mother standing on the front porch, talking with Mrs. Cooper.
	"What the . . ." I muttered.
	Travis hopped up over the metal railing of the cattle chute to
stand beside me. "What's she doing here?" he asked, removing his Resistol
to wipe the sweat from his brow.
	"I have no fucking clue . . ."
	As if sensing my presence, she turned, smiled and waved. I smiled
and waved back, but it felt hollow. I wondered how she'd even found me.
	"You should go talk to her," Travis urged, nudging me forward with
his elbow.
	I squinted at him. Glanced back at her. Then I grabbed Travis by
the hand and began pulling him along with me as I headed for the house. If
I was going to have to face my parents again, if we were going to have a
repeat of last night's conversation, it would be with Travis beside me this
time - no more hiding, no more shame.
	Travis, unconvinced by my decision, stopped in his tracks and
pulled away from my grasp. "You don't have to do this," he said.
	But I ignored his statement and reached out to grab his hand once
more, squeezing it so tight he nearly winced. "You're coming with me,
Cooper," I commanded. "And that's that."
	He argued no further, and we walked the distance to the house
together. Ascending the porch steps, I greeted my mother with a quick peck
on the cheek. "What are you doing here?" I asked.
	She chose not to comment on the fact that I was still holding
Travis' hand, as if it made no difference to her. "I wanted to say
goodbye," she said quietly. "We're heading back home this afternoon." There
was sadness in her eyes. And fatigue, as if she'd been up all night, just
as I had.
	Mrs. Cooper quietly excused herself, expressing her pleasure at
having met Naomi before stepping back into the house.  I held tight to
Travis' hand, refusing to let him leave my side. I glanced at the rental
car. "Where's Dad?"
	"He wouldn't come," my mother replied. "He's . . . packing."
	I nodded, unable to mask my disappointment. "I see . . ."
	She touched my arm. "He'll come around to all of this, Jake."
	"Mm-hmm."
	"He will," she assured me. She diverted her attention to Travis,
who promptly removed his hat, bowed his head slightly, and said,
"Mrs. Gyllenhaal." She smiled and reached out to embrace him, and this
simple act of acceptance by her nearly stopped my heart.
	"Call me Naomi," she insisted as they released one another.
	He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
	My mother turned back to me and pulled me into a tight hug, and my
throat constricted as I struggled to fight back the tears. "Everything will
be fine, Jake," she whispered into my ear. "I promise you that . . . He's a
stubborn man, but he loves you. You know that."
	"I know," I agreed, trying to sound nonchalant but still feeling as
though it would take a miracle for my father to accept my relationship with
Travis, no matter how many reassurances my mother offered.
	She took a step back, but held fast to my hands. "We'll see you in
a couple of weeks," she said. "We'll talk more then. Okay?"
	I nodded. "Sure."
	She kissed my cheek, whispered goodbye, and descended the steps to
her car. I watched her drive off with an odd mixture of sadness and relief
filling me.
	"You amaze me," Travis said.
	I turned and eyed him quizzically. "What?"
	He leaned against the wide balustrade of the porch, arms
crossed. "You thought you had no courage," he said. "You underestimated
yourself. I underestimated you. You have more strength than twenty men,
Jake Gyllenhaal."
	"Hardly," I scoffed. "I was scared shitless. Almost pissed my pants
. . ."
	He chuckled and stepped forward to pull me close.  "Then I guess
you really are a gifted actor."
	A cool breeze picked up, bringing with it the rustling of leaves on
the cottonwood tree. And in that instant, as soon as the rush of air hit my
hot skin and Travis wrapped his strong arms around me, I felt as though a
small portion of the heavy burden I'd been carrying around with me finally
lifted from my aching shoulders.
	"Travis," I said.
	"Mmm?"
	"I don't suppose you'd accompany me back to L.A. and hold my hand
when I announce our torrid love affair to my father?"
	He took a step back and laughed, those green eyes finally sparkling
again as he playfully flicked my ball cap from atop my head and cupped my
bearded face in his hands. "Babe," he whispered. "You don't need my
hand. You've got my heart. You've always, always got my heart . . . I'm
sorry for ever doubting you," he added quietly. "I'm sorry for treating you
like shit yesterday. I know that you love me, Jake . . . just as much as I
love you . . . you and I, Jake, we're for eternity . . . nothing will ever
change that, no matter what . . ."
	"No matter what," I echoed.
	He brought his lips to mine. The cool breeze wrapped itself around
us. And I knew then more than ever that the world be damned - our love
would endure. It was stronger than any conflict, stronger than any
controversy tossed our way. A force to be reckoned with, like an
unshakeable, infinite bond. And although it was a relationship destined to
be rife with stumbling blocks that to most would probably have seemed
futile to even pursue, to me, it was the most beautiful, precious gift I
had ever been given. A treasure well worth fighting for.

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