if i dont do anything, this place will burn down

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You didn't pay him much mind. You glanced over briefly at him, giving him a small nod before returning your gaze back to the glass in front of you. That was until your gaze returned to him.

He wasn’t dressed particularly out of character. He had on a simple tee shirt, jeans that had dirt on them, and a trucker hat with some local shop logo on the front. Disheveled curls piled underneath.

The first thing you notice was the tattoos up his arm. A few varying ones, holding the same theme — it was the theme though that was unclear.

The second thing was the logo on his jacket. The Meads Ranch, in bold letters underneath some photo of the mountains in the area.

That place was known by many of the locals. If not for it's legacy as one of the most profound ranches, then perhaps for the shit you'd heard Gavin Mitchell, the oldest son, got into. But that could just be rumors.

Either way, that place was legendary. Treated like some folklore.

The man notices you staring, almost if reading your expression, he speaks, his eyes on the drink in front of him. "You know the place?" He asks.

You suddenly snap out of your thought process - which was just repeating everything you'd ever heard of the ranch from headlines or whispers from colleagues - and look at the man.

“I have. Quite the reputation." You answer. "You work there, or just steal their jackets?"

The man chuckles. "I feel like either answer would be bad." He answers as he looks over at you.

The moment his eyes meet yours, it's different. It feels different. Different from the other times you’ve made eye contact with someone else in a bar.

But you disregard it as soon as the feeling washes over you.

“It probably would be.” You respond with a nod. “It’d be a very weird answer to give. Especially to a stranger.”

“Well, that's true. I’m Carmen.” He introduces, forearms resting against the oak bar counter in front of him. “Now we aren’t strangers so whatever I tell you won’t be so weird for you to know.”

You laugh. You actually laugh at what this guy - who, for all you know could be some serial killer in a trucker hat and leather jacket - says. You respond with your own name as you look him up and down, your eyes meeting his once more.

“So, Carmen.” You say as if testing the name out. He almost grins when he hears his name fall from your lips. “What brings a guy who works for the Meads Ranch to a shithole like this?”

“Mm, boredom mostly. Well- that and they’re doing some renovations at the ranch where we stay.” He answers. “So they effectively told us all to get the off the property for the day so they could work. Stumbled here somehow.”

“What about you?” He asks after a pause as he looks at you.

You nod your head back toward the dance floor where your friend is still dancing with a guy. “That girl is essentially my problem for tonight. Her boyfriend broke up with her and she asked if we could go out drinking to help her get over it.” You answer.

“Seems like she moves on quick.” He comments as he watches her, chuckling softly before he looks ahead again, taking a drink of his beer.

You nod. “She sure does.” You reply, as you look ahead again as well.

A beat of comfortable silence falls over you both before you speak again.

“So, how long have you worked for the Meads Ranch?” You ask curiously.

“Almost ten months now. Gavin and I know each other from a few friends of friends.” He answers. “He asked for my help when one of their guys quit and I needed a job for the meantime.”

“You say that like cowboying isn’t what you wanna do for a living.” You note.

He shrugs. “Maybe it ain’t.” He responds.

“Then what is?” You ask.

“Isn’t that a bit personal for me to tell a stranger?” He asks with a raised brow.

You chuckle. “We aren’t strangers, remember?” You point out.

He nods. "How could I forget?" He asks as he pulls out a small piece of paper from his pocket, ripping off a small portion of it that was blank from whatever wording was written on the front.

He grabs a pen from the nearby mesh cup on the bar. He scribbles something down on it before he hands it to you, then sets something on the bar. “Hopefully you and I can keep in touch then, not-so-stranger.” He says.

As you glance down at the piece of paper and realize this man - who you barely know - has given you his phone number, he’s already paid and left, leaving behind a beer bottle on the bar and a piece of paper in your hands.

And now even more questions about him in your mind.

Truth be told, you had no intention of actually calling the cowboy from the bar.

But, alcohol had gotten you into meeting him in the first place and it was how you ended up on the front porch of the handler house on the ranch, your phone pressed to your ear with a beer bottle in front of you.

It was meant to be a casual night. Poker, a few drinks with the other ranch foremen and handlers. But, you had found the small piece of paper with a number scrawled on it in your jacket pocket at some point.

So, here you were. Slightly buzzed, making a stupid decision. Hoping that he both wouldn’t answer and would, all at once.

You took a deep breath when the ringing stopped and a gruff yet familiar voice came over the speaker. “Hello?”

“Hi.” You say, trying to keep your voice steady. “This is going to sound weird and I am sorry for that. I was- you know, what I was doing doesn’t matter actually. I found your number again in one of my jackets and.. fate or something else told me to call you. Probably the beers. Definitely the beers.” You blabber.

Carmen chuckles. “Yeah. I’d say it’s definitely the beer with how you’re ramblin'.” He notes. You can hear him pause, taking a hit of a cigarette if you could guess. “But that’s alright. I was thinking of you.”

It’s such a casual comment, that he was thinking of you. It’s one you don’t make note of. “Uh-huh.” You sigh. “Is this.. odd? Like- me actually calling you?” You question.

You swear you hear him chuckle. “I don’t think so. I mean, I gave you my number.” He points out as you nod, even if he can’t see you.

“Good point.” You slur into the line. There’s a pause before you speak. “So. What’s goin’ on over there now?”

“Uh, not much. Gavin’s losing his shit.” He answers. “Something about an order of gear being lost and accusing everyone under the sun of messing with it. So, basically the usual.”

You nod. “Sounds like the Gavin I’ve heard so much about.” You comment. You pause before speaking again. “So.. you finally gonna tell me what that comment last night was about? The one about that not being your dream career?”

He pauses before he speaks. “That sounds more like first date material than a phone conversation that only happened cause you’re drunk, doesn’t it, sugar?” He asks.

"I don't know. Is this turning into a first date?" You ask in response.

You hear a soft chuckle come from the other side, and the sound alone has your stomach in knots. "Why don't you wait outside of your place's gates tomorrow night and find out?"

That sounds like one hell of a challenge. And after all, you were never one to turn down a challenge.

Maybe that's how you ended up in the man's kitchen at the Meads Ranch. It was mostly quiet - apparently the Mitchell family was quite wealthy despite being in the ranch business, seeing as Carmen had his own home on the ranch. Just across from the barn and the Mitchell house.

Carmen was currently guiding you through making homemade pasta. You weren't quite sure how this sudden course in culinary had gotten started. Maybe it was because you mentioned you were drinking on an empty stomach, maybe it was that he was too.

Either way. You let him move you around like a chess piece on a board: dictating when you stir the pasta, when you add the heavy cream into the sauce.

"Do you always cook like this here?" You question. Surely he had to have, he seemed to enjoy it too much not to. You let yourself watch as a small smile found its way to his face.

"Uh, sometimes. Folks in the bunkhouse seem to enjoy it," he scoots behind you with a murmured 'behind' as he stirs the sauce in the pan on the front burner of the old stove. "And the Mitchells sometimes let me cook if they got a big event."

You look at him. "Really?" You ask, surprised. You glance back down at the pasta as you stir it, every two minutes per his instructions. You immediately feel bad for the way you sound shocked at that, clearly he knew what he was doing. "You don't seem like the chef type."

He lets out a chuckle at that. "What kind of type do I seem like?" He questions as he wipes his hand with a dish rag nearby. You shrug. "I dunno, just.. the moody cowboy type. Like the kind of guy I would expect to work on a ranch like this." You answer.

He looks at your side profile for a while. A minute, maybe two. Comfortable silence fills the space before he's inhaling sharply and leaning off the countertop. "Alright, uh. Time to drain that." He says, taking the pot off the stove. He drains it over the sink with a strainer placed inside already.

You watch, taking the time to stir the sauce that had gone untouched for a few minutes now. "I'm sorry," you find yourself saying. You look at him before you look back at the saucepan. "If that came out mean."

He shakes his head. "Wasn't mean." He says. "You're not wrong. I mean, truth be told I didn't see myself as much of the chef type but- runs in the family, I guess."

You look at him. "How do you mean?" You question.

"My older brother, he was a chef. I fucking admired him for it, he taught me a lot. Probably other people in my family, honestly." He begins. "Mikey, my brother, he uh.. he owned this restaraunt in town. Stupid little sandwich shop but people loved it. You would've thought he was cooking like, top course meals and not overpriced sandwiches."

He continues talking as he puts the pasta back into its pot, walking over to the stove. "Anyway, when we were younger he and I would always be cookin' together. Didn't matter what it was we were making or why we were making it; I was just glad he let me help him, y'know?" He stirs the sauce in, and you take a step back to let him work his magic. "He was the coolest guy in the kitchen. Could make a killer meal and tell a story at the same time."

You tilt your head to the side just slightly as you observe him. The way he stirs the sauce in - not too rough or too fast, rather taking his time with it - or the way he has a small smirk on his face. "Matter of fact, uh, once he and I tried to do that baked alaska shit for our sister's birthday. Our mom came home and she was.. she was pissed. I mean, we had a mess everywhere." He recalls, fondness in his voice. You could listen to him speak for hours. "Safe to say he and I stuck to the cooking and let someone else handle the baking."

You give a soft hum. "Are you and him still as close?" You question.

He exhales sharply. "Uh, we were kind of. He kind of died last year." He answers.

You immediately feel awful (how could you not, bringing up his dead brother like that?) and you stand upright. "Shit, uh. I'm.. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head as he begins plating the pasta, adding a basil garnish. "Don't," he insists as he works. "You couldn't have known. It ain't like I open conversations like that: 'hey, nice to meet you. My brother died'." He says.

You accept your plate when he holds it out to you. "Thank you," you say quietly. "For the cooking lessons and for talking to me about him."

He nods. "Thanks for listening." He replies.

—

After you two finish eating, you volunteer to do the dishes. Stood over the sink, you washed the plates off delicately with a sponge you were sure hadn't been replaced in the one to two week recommended period, the smell of the lemon dish soap filling the space.

Carmen, though he'd agreed at first to let you wash the dishes as your contribution to the evening, was stood beside you. He was mainly in charge of drying the dishes with a small kitchen towel, setting them on the drying rack.

The space was silent. Then he speaks. "You know, I told you a lot about myself." He says. "I think it's only fair you tell me somethin' about you. Make me feel like I'm not the only one spilling my guts."

You let out a laugh. "What exactly do you want to know?"

"Why are you in the ranch business?" He begins.

You shrug. "Needed a job and a place to stay. It's not exactly my scene. But, it's somethin' so I can't complain." You answer. "Plus it makes me feel full of purpose, y'know? Hard to explain I guess but.. something about working with the horses or wrangling cattle just feels nice."

He looks at you for a long second, before he comes up with his next question. "Hm, do you date at all?" You laugh at that one. "Not really. Dating scene around here isn't exactly glitz and glamour. And every time I think I have the time something on the ranch pulls my attention."

"Like having to take girls to bars to get over bad boyfriends?"

You laugh. "Pretty much, yes." You answer. You finish washing the last plate as you hand it off to him. He wipes it dry, then places it on the drying rack with the others.

"Okay, my turn." You say.

"Haven't I told you enough about myself tonight?" He questions as the two of you make your way into the living room. You settle onto the torn up sofa with a few questionable spills on them. You pay it no mind - you'd sat on worse.

"Not nearly," you answer as he takes a seat on the sofa with you. "Why do you work for the Mitchell family? Surely you've heard the rumors about them, why get involved?"

He hums. "If I didn't associate with anyone who had rumors spread about them, I'd live a very lonely life." He answers. "The Mitchell family may be.. out there, sure, but they ain't bad. They take good care of their staff, the ranch. For every piece of gossip I like to believe there's something decent to balance it out."

You nod along as he talks. The way he speaks about things as simple as that has you captivated. "Okay. What about you when it comes to the dating world?" You ask. "Surely a cowboy who can cook is being sought after."

He chuckles. "Not really," he replies. "I had one girlfriend. Broke up with her about three years ago. She and I were just on different paths in life, y'know? Didn't see a point in us bein' together if it was gonna end someday."

You laugh. "Jeez, are cowboys always this philisophlical?"

He shakes his head. "No," he answers as he sits up some. "My turn. Why'd you call me last night?"

You sigh. There was the million dollar question. Why had you called him? "I had a few too many drinks and.. I dunno. I guess drunk me was interested to hear about that 'what I wanna do for a living' stuff you were saying at the bar."

"Well, glad you got to see it in action tonight then." He says. "That, cooking? That's my want, if you will. I love it, can't get enough of it. Anytime they need someone to cook for an event or bunkhouse poker nights, I do it."

You laugh. "God, you really are like somethin' out of a Hallmark movie." You say. It wasn't mean, quite the opposite. Appreciation. "And you're wasting that talent in a place like this?"

He chuckles. "It ain't a waste if it's securing me a second date." He says simply. Awful confident, you think.

"You sound sure of that, cowboy."

"You gonna tell me no?"

"Nope."

—

Two dates turned into three, and pretty soon the Meads Ranch became like a second home to you.

It had been three months, which gave you time to establish somewhat of a routine. You'd stay the night in Carmen's place - which usually entailed him cooking for you and you repaying him in the bedroom - eave before morning calls at 5:30 am. You snuck out the back gate entrance and took the longer way to your own ranch.

Was it stupid? Probably. But it also made sense to you in a way. He filled this tiny void in your life you'd felt like would remain empty forever. Replaced it with his recipes and his never-ending stories about his somewhat insane sounding family.

Today was supposed to be the same, only difference was Carmen had been radio silent all day. No texts throughout the day or on his lunch break from whatever task they had him assigned to.

You'd driven to the Meads Ranch at around 5 pm to check in with him and partake in your usual routine. Something about the air just felt.. different. You couldn't tell what it was, even as your shoes crunched the gravel beneath them when you approached his house on the property.

The lights were turned off. Inside, nothing remained. No furniture, nothing. It was quiet. You pulled your phone out to call him, to see if he had taken to the bunkhouse instead.

It rings, then the automated voice comes through. "We are sorry, but this number is no longer in service." It fades out as soon as those words hit. Had this man seriously gotten you to sleep with him, spend time getting to know him, only to leave?

Tears sting your eyes as you make your way back to the car. Every conversation repeats as you walk. You'd told him mostly everything about yourself - where you grew up, your first pet's name, hell you told him about your parents.

He told you things too. Well, except his last name. You hadn't even thought to ask that. So instead, your brain curses the one thing you had, his first name.

Screw you, Carmen.