Rocky's Mountains

By D. Jean Quarles

Laura, a young woman from Minnesota, travels to
Sheridan, Wyoming looking to experience the mountains. There she finds work at Alma’s, a small bar and diner filled with quirky characters - the owner, J.T. is a grizzled man worn by life and his rustic regulars are more than a handful for the naive, Laura.

In this setting, Laura finds herself drawn to Rocky, the cocky short order cook who appears one day when his winter job is finished on the mountain.

While Laura is obsessed with Rocky, it seems his interest is in locating the Lost Cabin gold mine with a sheepherder named Joaquin Soto.

Searching the Big Horn Mountains for gold, Laura is out of her element. The wilderness is daunting, and Joaquin, well, he isn’t at all what he seems to be.

Filled with excitement and adventure, Rocky's
Mountains will leave you breathless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Jean Quarles
• Release date: Apr 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781933868196

D. Jean Quarles

D. Jean Quarles currently lives in Alexandria, MN with her husband. Having lived in Arizona, Washington, and Wyoming, she brings her various settings to her writing. Writing Women's fiction she takes on difficult topics weaving spirituality into her stories. Her adventure fiction, & young adult science fiction are also available.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A cowbell clanged as I opened the door of Alma’s café and the intoxicating aroma of old-fashioned grilled hamburgers, homemade French fries and coffee surrounded me. According to the engraved sign over the door, the dive served food and spirits. From the stuffed two headed calf sitting high on a shelf, to the brands burned into the wood plank tables, the diner practically exuded the essence of the old west. I sighed in pure bliss. This was what I had traveled half way across the country to find. Suddenly, the journey from Minnesota to Wyoming seemed worth it in spite of the endless road with too many long nights sleeping in the car and too little food.

Afternoon, the old man behind the counter said. He had to be eighty years old, with a red face deeply etched with experience. His eyes were pale blue pools surrounded by deep folds of craggy ledges. He looked like the kind who would be a sucker for a hard luck story. I decided it was time to let go of my pride and beg.

I pasted on my best smile. Nice place you have here, I said as I wandered up to the counter and straddled a stool.

Alma’s was a local hangout on the west end of town. Later I learned tourists tended to keep to the east side, which was fine with me. I’d driven long and hard in my attempt to flee that type of person. In fact, the only reason I’d found the place myself, was I had become lost and taken a wrong turn that turned out to be right for me. At that particular moment, I wasn’t so much looking for a job as for some free food. My cheeks were sunken, my hair dull and matted, and dark blue circles underlined my eyes.

I was right about being able to talk food out of him. The owner, J.T. Barstow, was a good man. The hamburger was thick and juicy, and the fries, real potatoes cut lengthwise. I dug in as soon as the plate hit the counter. The fries burned my fingertips, but I persisted.

So what you doing in town? J.T. mumbled. He was missing a carload of teeth and might have had a successful career as a ventriloquist because I never saw his lips move.

I’m passing through, I said, pushing food from one cheek to the other. On my way to the mountains. I wanted to convey confidence in my decision even though I was scared shitless now that I was almost there.

Which ones?

I swallowed. Shrugged. Rockies.

Yeah, those are the Rockies out that window. Which range?

Ah, I haven’t decided yet. I’d never heard the term range before, but I wasn’t going to let him know how stupid I was. I picked at the last of my fries, disappointed that I’d inhaled them. But I’ll know them when I see them, I said.

J.T. pulled a can from his pocket, pinched some gnarly stuff between his fingers, popped the glob in his mouth and chewed.

These mountains here, they’re the Big Horns. He pointed with a crooked finger. Best damn mountains there are.

They’re nice, I said, Spiritual. But I hadn’t seen any others up close. I didn’t get too excited. J.T. took note of my lack of enthusiasm. I wiped my hands on my jeans. He offered me a paper napkin from behind the bar.

I can offer you a job and a place to stay.

Now if he’d been younger, I’d have probably shot out the door. I wasn’t really looking for another man in my life, but he reminded me of my grandfather so it didn’t feel like a come-on. Old guys who’d tried to take me home before usually avoided my eyes or leered. J.T., on the other hand, stared open and honest at me. The other reason I considered the offer was I knew spring in the Midwest was a whole lot warmer than it was in Wyoming. The thought of not sleeping in a bitterly cold car on the side of the road one more night was enough to interest me.

How much do you pay?

Minimum wage, he said. But the cot’s free and so is all the food you can eat. He spat a stream of dark liquid into a tarnished spittoon behind the counter and then wiped away the aromatic drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

I was fascinated. Sure. Why not? I’m Laura, I said. I thought about extending my hand, but couldn’t remember which hand he’d wiped away the drool with.

J.T.’s place was more bar than restaurant, although he liked to think he served cuisine. The bar was dark wood, lacquered with at least a dozen coats of varnish containing random bubbles. J.T. had a strange fixation for deformed animals, and had numerous stuffed two-headed lambs and calves lining the walls, all displayed on a twelve-foot-high platform he’d built. He also had a jackalope, some dwarf animals, and a strange calf-lamb taxidermist mix. Deformed tree limbs sanded smooth served as support beams, and over the bar hung an old beveled mirror with a gunshot hole in the bottom right corner. The odor of whiskey permeated dirty brown wood planks, most of the brown stuff having come off the boots of the ranchers. Sheep and cattle was the commerce of the area. J.T. said he kept an even number of each stuffed and on display at all times: Don’t want to play favorites and have another range war. He chuckle-clucked.

I sat there, stupid. That happened a lot when he talked to me. One time, a few days later, he asked me to get him a torch from the jockey box.

Jockey box? I hadn’t a clue what I was looking for. Where do you keep it? I asked, searching in the cubbies behind the bar.

In the truck. In Wyoming it turns out, everyone drives a pickup, wears cowboy boots, and ass-tight jeans.

I walked out to the truck and couldn’t find a damn torch or a box anywhere, but I did find a flashlight. Can you use this instead? I asked. I found it in the glove compartment.

Isn’t that where I told you it’d be?

You said a torch in a jockey box.

Right. He shook his head and gave me a disgusted look. How old are you, and where in the hell did you come from? He stomped away before I had a chance to answer.

I liked the job and caught on quick. I worked from ten until two and then four till closing, seven days a week. J.T. cooked and poured the booze; I waited tables and bussed. Together we had the thing down pat. By the end of the first week I knew the regulars by name: Bill, Sam, Joe, Charlie, and Wyatt. They were all single geezers working long hours ranching, drilling, or mining, and loved to see a young female at the end of their day and I loved the attention they bestowed.

Darlin’, they’d drawl, why don’t I take you home? Tell J.T. you quit. Then they’d make a move to touch my ass or pull me into their laps.

Sorry, honey. I’d slap their hands away. He owns this poor working girl. I loved it.

They’d guffaw, leave a good tip and come back the next night to try again.

You’re good for business, J.T. told me without a smile. Like he didn’t appreciate my success. But no matter what offers the guys threw at me, each and every night I cleaned up, closed up, and then found my cot in the back storeroom, and slept there alone.

For two weeks all was well. Then Rocky walked in. It was late one evening, almost closing time, and J.T. was in the kitchen scrubbing pots and pans. Some of the usual boys were out front finishing off their last beers. Charlie, Bill, Joe, and Wyatt all looked over as Rocky slid into a seat. I expected something foul to spew from one of them. I’d seen them do that before to newcomers after they’d had a few too many drinks. So it surprised the hell out of me when they each lifted their bottles, and called out, Hey, Rocky. Where you been?

Around, he hollered back.

You hear that, Laura Lee? Charlie yelled. The boy wants to buy us a round.

The others slapped their knees and cackled as I took in the sight of this newcomer. He was probably in his thirties, stood 5’7 at the most, was reasonably clean, and well kept. His cowboy boots were scuffed and the heels worn, but they were free of dung and his legs didn’t form an 0" as he stood, so I figured he didn’t ride rodeo. Even though his hair had started to recede a bit, he didn’t wear a cowboy hat. I stared, intrigued by his air of confidence. He was not the type of man I would normally be attracted to, but there was something about him that drew me.

Yeah, I’ll buy these old fools a beer, Rocky said. He was at a table in the middle of the room, alone, legs outstretched and apart.

Last round, I warned.

The boys rose and gathered close to him, even pulled up an additional chair to sit at his table. I got the beers. Four Coors and one Light.

Wimp. I heard Wyatt snicker.

Tell us the story about Dirty Jack, Bill said.

I went back to the bar and started to wipe up. My customers chortled and hung on the guy’s every word. They didn’t notice when I came back to clear off the empty bottles. I was invisible. Pissed me off.

Say! What does a guy have to do to get some food around here? the newcomer called to me from the table.

Guy wants food, I told J.T. in the kitchen.

Kitchen’s closed. J.T. sat reading the Wall Street Journal.

I leaned back out the swinging door, and yelled, Kitchen’s closed.

It is? Well, tell him that’s the last time I buy a round in this shit hole.

I’d left the door open and knew J.T. heard. I waited for him to barrel out and give this guy the boot. Sure enough, J.T. jumped up and danced past me. It took him a couple of huge strides to get across the room, but by then, the new guy had stood. J.T. was bigger, taller, and buff, but he was also close to eighty years old. I worried that someone younger might hurt him. J.T. grabbed the man in a chokehold, which the new guy quickly broke.

Didn’t I tell you to stay the hell away from here? J.T. faced him.

Who cares what you say, old man. The man named Rocky jabbed a fist at J.T. but it didn’t connect, wasn’t even close. The regulars sat with stupid grins on their faces. I was one second from leaping on the back of the newcomer when an ear-to-ear grin spread across J.T.’s face. Oh, what the hell. I guess you can stay. The two hugged.

I wanted to puke.

What you doing in town? How was the winter in Jackson’s Hole? J.T. pulled a chair up to the table, and both sat down. J.T’s gnarled hand rested on Rocky’s shoulder.

Colder’n shit. And snow so deep, you have to climb out of the second story window to get to work. One storm dumped snow up to my nose.

Well, maybe when you get your growth spurt, you’ll shoot up and it won’t be so bad. Hell, I bet you can’t see over the bar yet, can you, son?

The men about choked on that remark. I stood alone behind the bar and fumed. I finished wiping the counter and then swept the floor while the newcomer told jokes that had the others practically rolling on the floor and slapping their knees. I checked my watch at closing time and motioned to J.T., but he waved me off. I left for my cot in the storeroom, where I lay awake for a long time listening to the faint sounds of their laughter—hating the intruder.

Chapter 2

Early the next morning the storeroom door burst open and in walked Rocky, wearing a dirty white apron around his waist and smelling like woodsy aftershave. I pulled the covers over my breasts. I’d been sleeping nude. I had a pair of panties draped over the ketchup and a bra drying on a can of tomato sauce. I caught him checking them both out.

Sorry, he told me. I forgot you sleep back here.

My face flushed and my ears burned. Well, now that you remember, get out.

He slowly let a grin form. I wanted to kick in his perfectly straight teeth. I need oil. He lifted a finger to point at a spot above my head.

My left hand reached for the bottle while my right hand clutched the thin white sheet even tighter. My eyes never left his face.

What for? I asked when I had a good hold on my weapon.

J.T. hired me on to cook this summer. I guess we’ll see a lot of each other. His insolent gaze moved from my face, down my body, to my toes, and then back up. He winked.

I figured he’d seen too much already. I threw the bottle as hard as I could at his head. He caught it with one hand, tossed it back into the air, and caught it again.

Rocky cooked burgers and fries so the food came out of the kitchen looking great—parsley sprigs planted beside fresh tomatoes, onions and lettuce, buns toasted. He put out a plate like a designer edition of fast food.

Then he spent his free time throwing lines at me like he was fishing the river. And just like the brook trout he fished for, I was easily caught. He was tan and from Wyoming, confident in his cowboy boots and tight jeans. Young women started to frequent the diner, coming in to Alma’s and staring at the door to the kitchen with wide shameless eyes. He paraded in front of them, bowed and acted the gentleman, but me, he ignored. Each night I found myself having torrid sex in my dreams, thinking of him. I tried to pretend I wasn’t obsessed, but it was difficult.

I knew I had issues. My mother had been quick to point out my neediness. I’ll admit I like to be the center of attention. And that had been hard while growing up in a single parent home in the day when that wasn’t viewed as anything but sadly desperate. My father died in a freak accident at work when I was ten. It left me alone and in trouble too often. Mother said I was searching for a father figure. My problem was she was right—every man who came my way was older and married with children.

I’d been so hurt the last time that when I left Minnesota I’d vowed to stay away from men, but now I felt neglected, lonely and rasty. And while Rocky was older, he was also single, a first for me. After several nights of dreaming about him, I figured he could ride me into any sunset he chose. He decided to play with me instead. Reel me in slowly, and then let out some line before bringing me to shore. I never stood a chance and I knew it from the get go.

Each night while I ran around stupid trying to get the orders out, he’d tell me we could have a drink together after work. Every night I’d pretend to reluctantly agree and then when the clock struck midnight, while I cleaned up, he’d pull a Cinderella and disappear.

Still, every morning Rocky found an excuse to barge in to the storeroom. Almost out of grape jelly. Or Making a peach tart, can you hand me a can? Worse yet, the morning he walked in and told me, I wanted to see your smiling face with the sleep still in your eyes, and the drool running down your chin.

Fuck you, became my usual retort, followed by my futile attempt to bean him with a can of peas or whatever else I could reach.

The fifth time he did it, I took my paycheck, gassed up the car, and drove to K-Mart where I bought a nightgown.

Sometimes he’d pick flowers out back, and, wearing a smile, hand them to me in a bunch. Or he’d cook me something special for lunch. Then he’d ask me again to go out for a drink, and I’d be casual and tell him, Sure, only to have him stand me up.

Within a few weeks of hiring Rocky, J.T. hired another cook and waitress to help out. It’s dead all winter, and then May hits, he told me. The cowboys and ranchers come to town. Tourists show up wanting the real Wyoming experience. We’re going to need the help. Besides, you can’t keep working seven days a week.

Only I had nothing else to do, and I didn’t want the competition. I’d made good money, raking in twenty to thirty bucks in tips each day, but J.T. didn’t ask for my opinion.

Everything changed one night when Rocky stayed late. Or perhaps I told Maggie, the new waitress, I had to leave early. It doesn’t matter, except I sat and waited on the back step for him to come out. I wore a short brown skirt and white tee with no bra. I knew my nipples were clearly revealed. I was done playing Rocky’s game. I’d decided to make the first move.

When J.T. wandered by, he raised an eyebrow. You feeling a bit warm? he asked.

Nah, I’m feeling fine.

J.T. nodded, finished throwing the garbage in the trash and told me to behave.

Rocky came out a second later.

How about that drink? I asked.

Rocky studied me carefully, and then shrugged. You legal?

I laughed.

I have to make a stop first, he said.

I climbed into his pickup, fastened the seat belt and arranged my skirt so plenty of thigh showed.

We drove east on Broadway and into the hills above town where the rich folks lived. I was curious.

I need to tell a friend I can’t make her party tonight.

We can go. I don’t mind, I said.

I do. It’s a . . . well . . . let’s just say it wouldn’t be good. He pulled into a driveway. Candlelight danced from a dozen windows. Wait right here. I’ll be back in a second.

I listened to the night sounds of crickets, frogs, and the wind pulsating between the leaves of aspen. Occasionally the sounds of splashing and laughter floated close. I stayed. He took five minutes.

We stopped at a liquor store on our way back to town. He ran in and bought a bottle of chilled white wine—Green Hungarian. I didn’t know if he was trying to impress me or what.

He drove west out of town on Big Goose Road. I sat beside him with the bottle of wine between my legs. Every once in a while, we drove close enough to the river so, with the moon’s help, I could see it as well as smell its musty banks. The road twisted and turned and then Rocky flicked his blinker on and took a dirt side road.

Where we going? I finally asked.

My place. He took his eyes off the road and watched for a reaction. I didn’t give him one.

Rocky stopped the truck beside a wooden one-lane bridge. Down the road, I saw houses; dark, square shapes against the night sky, and farther off, the foothills.

What’s this? I asked.

Thought it’d be nice to sit here by the creek for a while. It’s kind of peaceful.

I thought we were going to your house?

We will. It’s that one over there. He pointed to a small dark shape alone and to one side.

I followed him out onto the bridge and sat down, stuck the bottle back between my legs and let my bare feet dangle over the edge. Water sloshed around rocks a foot below.

This is the Little Goose Creek, he said as he pulled out a pocketknife. He sat beside me and eased the bottle away. I wet my lips. He popped the cork—like he’d been popping corks at some big, fancy restaurant. Later I found he’d done just that in Cheyenne, frequently serving celebrities like Willie Nelson and Hoyt Axton.

The whole time I was trying to make up my mind if I wanted to screw with his brain, like I knew he’d been doing with mine—like all the guys I’d known before had done. I couldn’t decide who would be the bigger loser if I didn’t put out. I wanted him like I’d never wanted any guy before, mostly because he didn’t seem all that interested in me. He attracted people to him, women especially. I wanted to be the one he took home.

Rocky handed me the bottle, I took a long swig and passed it back. Then I watched him take a swig, his Adam's apple pumping. Sexiest thing I’d ever seen. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck two holes and dark fur curled where I could see it. His whiskers, which had been close-shaved that morning when he entered the storeroom, were slowly reclaiming their territory. I waited until he’d stopped drinking and then reached over and fiddled with the buttons on his jeans. I kissed him on the lips.

Mmm, I said. He was a great kisser. He had firm lips that took control away from mine. I didn’t mind. I worked to get control of a different area. He helped me and we got the fly open.

Maybe we shouldn’t do this, he said. The good old ‘take it away’ trick that salesmen use. Wouldn’t you know he’d sold used cars before, too? The man had too many experiences.

I stood. Peeled off my t-shirt, dropped my panties and smiled. I sat right down on his erection, my legs sprawled on the bridge, my ass in his lap and my upper body hanging over the water. A cool breeze fluttered against my bare skin, puckering my nipples. I shivered then started to move. He nipped at my neck and shoulders. I screamed and jerked and came. So did he.

He sat for a long time holding me. You know this is a public bridge, he whispered.

I laughed and his penis slipped out.

Let’s go up to my house.

I rose, grabbed my panties and started to put them on. Then I giggled, went to the bridge and hung them from one