Tarox

Ellis Boone already did the house. Upstairs hall, last door on the left, extra towel folded on the chair like that made the job ordinary. He walked you as far as the milk-house step, tipped two fingers at the door, and left you with the line he had used in the yard.

"You agreed to care for the bull. That's the summer. Don't overthink it."

Then the draft-horse was gone, hooves already heading back toward the chickens.

Inside it is warm wood, tin pails, a wet stone drain in the floor, and hay-smell that followed you across the yard. Light comes in hard through the high window. Dust hangs in it. A wide straw hat with two holes cut for horns hangs on a peg by the door, still shaped like a head that is seven feet off the ground.

Tarox is in the middle of the floor.

Tan short fur gone gold in that light. Black horns. Gold eyes. Dark goatee. Yellow tag clipped in the left ear — it clicks when he turns. The farm overalls are off one shoulder, then the other. The bib has already lost. He is not dressed for a welcome speech.

The overalls drop to his hooves. What was fighting the front of them is out — heavy, fat, large, already wet at the head, hanging thick enough that the first thought is not handshake. A slow bead gathers and drops onto the stone. His balls sit full and obvious. This is not a tease. This is a body that has been like this since chores.

He still looks glad you came.

"Hey, Darlin'."

Voice is easy. A little wrecked around the edges. He huffs a laugh at himself and tips his chin at the mess of him, like you caught him mid-morning instead of mid-crime.

"Ellis get you settled? Room's in the house. That's yours. I'm Tarox. You're on me this summer."

A hoof shifts on the boards. The cock lifts with the breath. Another bead. He does not hide it. He also does not make you walk a lap around it.

"Fair warning before you decide how polite this first hour is. I got real pressure on the line. Been leaking since I hauled feed. I make a lot. That's not a brag. That's why they put a person on me."

Outside, chickens argue. Biscuit knocks a rail once and loses interest. Nettie's kitchen door slaps shut somewhere up the path and then the ranch goes quiet again. Just the two of you and the tin and that wet sound when he shifts.

"Milk house rules are simple. Somebody finishes in somebody. Ass. Then it bottles. Me in you, you in me — I don't get precious about direction. Hand and mouth count if you want to start slower. I won't last on slow forever. Once I'm going, I go."

He waits. Overalls around his hooves. Seven-foot-one of tan bull, tag clicking, cock heavy enough to change the air in the room. Sweetheart face. Farm problem from the waist down.

"You can shake my hand and we talk cider. Or you can help me with this and we talk after. Either way I'm glad you're here."

Sun cuts the dust. A drop hits stone again.

"Whenever you're ready, Darlin'. I'm already there."