The Man who Painted the Sky

“Grampaw, wake up.” The high-pitched command dragged him from a dream where he’d been almost flying on his palomino while trying to paint the sunset. He stared at his granddaughter, banishing the nonsense of his dream and concentrating on her blond curls which bounced as she jumped up and down beside his rocking chair.

“Mumma says you have to come to the table.” She grabbed his walking stick, cut from a length of black wattle, a tree under which he’d had his first homosexual experience. It reminded him every day how lucky he was to have a wife as understanding as Sally.

“Here’s your stick.”

“Thank you, Miss Gorgeous.” She giggled and dashed away.

Once seated at the head of the table he led the grace prayer and then let his gaze wander over the gathered crowd. His daughter Elizabeth, named after his late mother, sat on his left. Born first she was a matriarch-in-waiting, with her three children and a husband he had taken years to warm to. However, she’d proved her choice with time. Sam was a hard- working man who oversaw the cattle herd with skill and patience, while he and Sally concentrated on their flocks of sheep.

At the end of the table, facing him, sat his wife. Her once golden braid had turned to silver, as had his beard. She returned his smile and nodded, whispering to their eldest grandson who then passed the salad up the table. On his right were his two sons and their wives who had gifted him a grandson each. Slow breeders both of them and he wondered if either had inherited his inclinations.

After the meal he returned to his chair on the veranda, easing his aching knees from the weight of his paunch. As age had slowed him, so his girth had thickened. He lit his pipe and let his thoughts puzzle on his interrupted dream and the night, years ago, when he decided, he would yield to his father’s demands and propose to Sally.

The sun had been setting itself down for the night, hiding behind the Raft River Mountain Range. Its orange afterglow covered the horizon, smudging the underbelly of the clouds. A purple haze coated the distant hills. He longed to capture the scene in oils, as a record of the day…but in those days it hadn’t been considered a manly thing to do. His father only put up with him “fiddling with those dang brushes” because his late mamma had been an artist. The sunset that evening lifted a little of the despair that sat on his back and haunted his sleep, a constant, dark companion.

The cook called, and he joined the gang for supper. He might be the boss’s son, but he worked as hard as they did. He rode with them and ate with them. He got to spend all his time in men’s company - and some of them were mighty attractive.

He’d been with a few women, mostly prostitutes, especially in his wild young days when he got roistered regular. It’s what you did when growing up. Now he was a bit wiser he knew that other than the physical relief it brought, he didn’t much enjoy it. He made an effort ‘less folk got suspicious. Keeping his eyes closed seemed to help.

Out on the range his gaze lingered on the butts of the younger cowpokes. He enjoyed their fresh young faces and their bronzed rippling muscles as they lassoed the young calves and wrestled them to the ground for branding. Watching them made him want to hug them, ruffle their hair, stroke their arms. Not that he ever had. No girl ever moved him in that way.

How could he tell his Daddy that?

On that particular night all he’d wanted to do was to ride off into the sunset with ‘Sancho Souix’ as the cowpokes called him, a handsome, tanned, cowboy with beautiful, smouldering eyes. Obviously Mexican with a dash of Indian written in his features, he seemed to return Hank’s glances. But he might be wrong, and they were very handy with their knives these Indian cowboys. Despite the desire that stirred him, he didn’t know what to do with it or how to proceed. Safer to do nothing.

He had looked down at the mob and made sure the cowhands were standing watch on the edge of the herd, to prevent any cow making a dash for freedom. Once darkness settled the herd would rest for the night. Before sunup they’d get them moving to avoid the heat of the day when the plains turned into a cauldron of dust, flies and noise.

The horses had snickered, stamping their hooves as they tried to decide whether to sleep standing or lying down. They were as dragged-out as the men. It’d been a long week away from home and they’d be home by dark tomorrow.

Daddy would be mighty pleased with the round-up. He’d be straight into him about marrying and providing him with some grandchildren. Probably had another hopeful filly lined up, who just happened to be passing by. Hank felt like a prize bull being paraded and he was sure the simpering young things felt the same. At thirty he’d heard he had a reputation of being too fussy and his habit of riding off alone to paint the scenery caused snide remarks and whispers behind hands. Damn them all.

The best lady on offer was Sally-Anne Watson. Now, she was someone to ride the river with. Clever and beautiful, her daddy owned a ranch just over the border in Colorado. Daddy scoffed ‘cos Bill Watson ran sheep. Personally, Hank liked working with sheep. For one thing they didn’t make him itch. Horses were fine intelligent animals. It’s just every time he got near them he couldn’t stop sneezing.

 His Granddaddy had claimed this land, arriving along with the early Mormon settlers. He drove off the Indians, and viciously protected his boundaries, ‘til his claim was accepted into the records. As a third-generation rancher Hank was supposed to carry on the tradition but tried not to dwell on it. He’d have to marry Sally-Anne and just get on with life. She was as fine as cream gravy, and it would shut Daddy up. She’d be expecting so much loving. He’d just hobble his lip and do what a man’s got to do or it wouldn’t be much fun for either of them. 

He could forgive his father for his hatred of ‘fancy men’ but there was no way he could tell Daddy how he felt. He’d be honest with Sally-Anne though. Tell her he fancied good-looking men but promise to honour their marriage vows as far as women went. This would give her a chance to refuse his proposal; but like him she was under pressure from her family to take down the boundary fence and make one big spread. Perhaps they could have lots of young ‘uns?  Then none of their children would feel the pressure like he and Sally had. God, what a mess. The only bright thought were the sheep. They could breed some better ones. Daddy would scoff but Sal’s Pa would be dead thrilled.

His memories moved to more recent events. Marriages, grandchildren, and he pondered on his good luck. His whole future had rested on Sally’s understanding. She’d listened without comment, thought about it for days, then accepted his proposal. It was many years before they discussed it again. Once his father died the threat of derision and rejection lifted and he’d weakened. After his first homosexual encounter he’d come home and confessed. She’d forgiven him, knowing he’d fought the desire for many years.

Even now, as he remembered his first time with a man, the rush of excitement, the clumsiness, the passion rising and the exquisite joy of it all, he smiled. The lack of shame afterwards had surprised him, but he’d never again reached the bliss of that first encounter. Nothing ever came close. He tapped his walking stick on the wooden deck, remembering the beat of their galloping horses; a race he’d won and the heart he’d lost that day to an itinerant cowboy, in the shade of the black wattle.

 Now he was a rich rancher, respected in the community; a man of substance, whose unusual tastes and proclivities could be overlooked, providing they were indulged in private. His neighbours took mistresses. He didn’t, but he did hire a lot of good-looking young cowboys. Even if they weren’t gay - they were damn fine to look at.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder and Sally pulled up her matching rocking chair.

“A good day, Hank. Our children seem content with their lives and the grandkids are growing.” She reached for his hand. “Are you happy?”

“I am, and lucky.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “What about you?”

She waved at the vista spread before them, a glorious expanse of land, with a lavender haze over the mountains. “Living with all this splendour, and you, who wouldn’t be?”

He’d tried hard, worked at being a good father and husband. He thought he might have succeeded. He hoped there was a God because death seemed to be hovering nearby. Someone must have created the sunsets and the stars. He just wished that God had been concentrating a bit more when he’d created him. Besides, he couldn’t die yet—he still hadn’t painted the perfect sunset.

(1590words, with title)