FIC REPOST: Western Lovers: Cowboys & Archaeologists (1/44) (New Chapter)
Title: Western Lovers: Cowboys and Archaeologists
Author:sassywitch
Beta by the talented alassenya
Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: NC-17 for the series.
Summary: Billy is a man to be reckoned with. Can Dom heal his wounded soul and his own into the bargain. Could Billy make him forget the bitter lessons of the past?
Feedback: Feedback is my writers crack, which is not to be confused at all with plumbers crack.
Acknowledgements: There are so many people that have helped in the creation of the Double L and it’s families. Thank you to alassenya for everything, and I mean everything, hisniblets for the dialect help, thanks for billyhasmyheart for all the research assistance particularly with the bike specs and to glasgowhobbitfor the recipe help. celtprincess13 brings you better grammar and punctuation than I ever could. Thank you all, The Double L wouldn’t be the same without any of you.
Disclaimer: Not at all true in reality. These men whilst adorable and perfectly happy to slash themselves, their actual relationship is something that they only know. This story is adapted from a series of books that I adored when I was younger written by Elizabeth Lowell.
Word Count: 1111
Previous Posting:
Posted to: fellowshippers, monaboyd and sassyfic
Header Art: Courtesy of the incredibly talented loki_girl.
Authors Notes: As many of you know, Western Lovers is my own particular labour of love, even though in the past it was ostensibly finished, there was always something missing for you the reader. I wanted to remedy that for you. The story is basically the same story, but it has so much more now. At the end of this series of postings you will all know all of the Western Lovers family and all of their pasts and secrets. On behalf of all of them and me, I hope you enjoy their story as much as they do.
Summer 1999, The Mortensen Spread, USA
Dust sprayed around him in a huge billowing cloud as Billy pulled his tundra green BMW R1100RT bike to a halt beside a dilapidated gateway. The grey weathered timbers that formed the arch over the entry were sagging tiredly. One of the uprights had fallen to the ground and was balancing precariously against the top rail of a fence that was almost as unstable as the gateway. As far as Billy could see, the only thing holding up the entire structure was the gate that lay against the fence, connected by only one hinge.
A sign, nailed to the only stable upright, proclaimed the future of the property: foreclosure.
He kicked the mail box that lay on the ground. As it turned over in the dust, the name painted on in faded black letters attracted his attention.
Mortensen.
This was the place he had come to find.
After giving the mailbox a final kick, sending it tumbling out of the way, Billy rode slowly down the rutted driveway. His shrewd green eyes took in the state of the property as he made his way down the long drive towards a ramshackle collection of buildings.
He parked the bike under a huge spreading tree and pulled his helmet off. He dropped the helmet onto the seat of his bike, unzipped his dusty denim jacket and stretched lazily as he took stock of his surroundings.
The ranch wasn’t much to look at but he knew already that it had potential beyond the four dilapidated buildings he could already see. Walking to what once could have been a stock enclosure, he squatted and sifted his hand through the red dirt at his feet. He lifted a handful of the dry dust to eye level and looked at it without really seeing it, letting his thoughts turn to what might have been ... and what might yet be. As the wind blew the dust away from his fingers, he vowed that he wouldn't let this chance slip away from him so easily.
Standing up, he brushed the powdery residue from his hands and turned back to the main building. He ought to find the owner and make his presence known.
“Whadya want?” a slurred voice called from the porch as he approached what appeared to be the house.
“Are ye the owner?” Billy responded, walking slowly down the slight incline.
“Fer the next two weeks.” Mortensen - tall, lean and almost as dessicated as the land around him staggered to his feet. It didn’t take a genius to work out that he was already well on his way to drunk, and the sun hadn’t even reached its peak.
“What went wrong?” Billy asked casually as he stepped up onto the sagging stairs to the porch, his weight bending the weathered wood and making it creak loudly.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Billy ignored both the hostility in the older man’s voice and the smell of cheap spirits that emanated from his pores, and extended a hand for the other man to shake.
Mortensen ignored Billy’s outstretched hand and pushed past him into the house. The screen door smacked crookedly against the door frame, its sole remaining hinge struggling with the task of keeping it vertical.
“Ah’d have thought that a man could run a spread like this well with a son or two.” Billy commented, as he gazed out over the view that even neglect and despair couldn’t destroy.
“You want something?” Mortensen stepped back onto the porch, two cans of beer in his hand. He took a large gulp from one as he extended the second to Billy. “Or are you just here to talk my ear off?”
Billy refused the can, one eyebrow quirked in silent disapproval as the man shrugged his shoulders and sank back onto the seat he had so recently vacated.
“Strikes meh ye widnae get much company out here.” Billy walked along the porch, taking careful stock of the sagging railings and the worn floorboards. “Ye should have a son to help.”
“I don’t have a son anymore. Don’t need anyone,” the man growled as he threw his now-empty beer can onto the small mountain of cans at the end of the porch.
“Because it seems ye’re doing such a shite-hot job of running things on your own?” Billy turned to look him in the face.
“It’s not my fault. He fucked off.” He popped the top on the second can of beer, and took a long drink from it.
“And that widnae be your fault at all.” Billy shook his head in disbelief, unable to hide his disgust.
“He left. Not me.” He staggered to his feet, advancing towards Billy haltingly. “What the fuck do you want? My son is none of your business.”
“Ye're Viggo Mortensen …. senior?” Billy asked quietly.
“You fucking know I am,” he answered. “Or you wouldn’t be asking.” His brow was furrowed, as if he were searching his beer-soaked brain cells for some sign that they had met before.
“Where is your son?”
“Gone.” He pressed a finger to Billy’s chest, “And good riddance to him too. Useless prick. Was more worried about saving the world than doing what he should for his folks.”
“Sounds like ye’re more interested in the bottom of a bottle than your own family.”
“Get off my property. This is none of your business. Who the fuck are you anyway?” He swayed on his feet and another wave of sour, fetid breath washed over Billy.
“I’m a friend of your son’s. That makes it my business. I’m not going to let you piss away your son’s inheritance, just because ye’re a drunk.”
“Get off my property. I don’t need you, and I don't need him.”
“Ye’re wrong, Mortensen. I’m the answer to your prayers.” Billy took a step forward, forcing Mortensen to stagger backwards and fall into the chair he had been sprawled in when Billy arrived. Billy leaned over him, his face hard and set, his voice cold and menacing. "This is how things are going to work. I’m going to pay the money ye owe. I'm going to have a half share in this ranch. Yes I am, and don't argue. If ye ever want to leave, that is your own choice, but ye will only sell to me.” Billy stabbed his finger into Mortensen’s chest, punctuating each of his demands.
“Or what?” Mortensen snarled his eyes wide in surprise at the sudden aggression.
Billy leaned down, his face so close to Mortensen’s that the stale booze on his breath almost made Billy gag.
“Or I’m your worst fecking nightmare.”