“Stop it! Someone could come in!” Ian “Rusty” Redfern said, pushing at Bill’s chest, forcing him to retreat.
Bill Webster stepped back from Rusty’s hospital bed. “I just wanted to kiss you ‘cause…” Bill wanted to show Rusty how much Bill cared for him, worried about him, loved him.
“Well don’t,” Rusty grumped, fussing with his blanket. “Fucking thing itches. And this gown…” He made a face and moved around in the bed.
Bill stuck his hands in the pockets of his Wranglers so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and straighten the bedding.
Rusty let out a huff of air. “I’m sorry, Billy,” he said, turning sad eyes Bill’s way.
Bill’s heart melted as it always did when Rusty called him “Billy” and gave him the sad-eyed look. His hands itched to touch Rusty again, but he remained resolute. When they were on the ranch, Rusty was much more open about their relationship. But in public, where folks he didn’t know could see or hear, he locked himself in the closet.
Over the past few months, Bill had noticed Rusty slowing down. At first the older man denied it, but his symptoms eventually became too obvious to ignore. When Rusty admitted to periods of dizziness as well as passing out once or twice, Bill got worried and nagged Rusty to go see the doctor. Rusty steadfastly refused.
Bill would be lying if he said he didn’t miss their marathon hard, sweaty fuck sessions—Rusty’s idea of foreplay was to kick off his cowboy boots before launching himself on top of Bill—but the gentler, more romantic pace of late was wonderful, too. Evenings spent just sitting, cuddling, kissing, and falling asleep together reminded Bill of the earlier days of their relationship when they were first exploring the depths of their love.
The fifty-year-old foreman of the Lazy W was used to being in charge and leading by example. But Rusty’s enforced slowing down meant he couldn’t be the foreman he wanted—no, needed—to be, so Bill renewed his efforts to get Rusty to go to the doctor.
“Last time I saw the quack he put me on beta blockers. I bet that’s why I feel like shit now. I’m gonna stop taking them,” Rusty had declared.
“The hell you are!” Bill countered.
It took weeks of arguing before Rusty finally gave in and Bill drove him into town.
Two weeks after that doctor visit, there they were, in a hospital room, waiting for Rusty to have surgery. Yes, the beta blockers were partially to blame for what the doctor had called bradycardia something or other, but no, Rusty couldn’t quit the pills and he needed a pacemaker.
“This is all your fault,” Rusty snapped. “I don’t need one of those fucking things stuck in my chest! I’m too young. If I just rest up a few days and stop taking those fucking—”
“Shut up!” Bill said louder than he’d intended. More quietly he continued, “You do need a pacemaker, and you have to keep taking the meds for your blood pressure. Doc Hathaway said so.”
“What the fuck does he know?”
Bill ground his teeth.
“He hardly looks old enough to be out of short pants.”
Dr. Hathaway did look young. Certainly younger than Bill’s own thirty-two years. Attempting to lighten the mood, Bill said, “You like younger men.”
Rusty grunted. “Yeah, right. Saddled with ‘em.”
If you looked up “sexy cowboy daddy” in the dictionary there’d be a picture of Rusty, stripped to the waist, his lightly-furred ripped chest glistening with…
“And the quack is just as bossy as you, too,” Rusty said, breaking Bill’s erotic mental musings.
“Yeah, yeah.” The sudden tenting of Bill’s jeans forced him to sit in the chair next to Rusty’s bed rather than pace the small room with its three walls and one curtain. “We both know that you don’t ever do anything you don’t want to.”
“You saying I’m stubborn?”
“As a mule.”
“Prefer bull,” Rusty said, failing to hide a smirk.
“And you’re still as strong and as virile as one, too.” Bill patted Rusty’s left biceps but removed his hand before Rusty could object.
Rusty snorted.
“And even if you don’t think so now, you will when they fit that device in your chest.”
“Doubt it,” Rusty said quietly, turning his head away.
It was pointless reminding him of what the doctor had said about his heart beating too slowly to get enough oxygen to his muscles and organs, and how, once the pacemaker was doing its thing, Rusty would be almost back to full strength. Rusty didn’t trust doctors and so didn’t believe what they told him, and that was that, end of story.
