He felt all tight. He ached, and he rubbed his knee absently, but it wasn’t his knee he needed to rub, so much as his groin. He was wrought up about how he felt about Etta and about the prospects ahead of him, racing the red gelding and having himself proved out as a man who knew what he was talking about. After a minute he stretched out, took up the detective novel he had begun, and tried to read. But his mind kept wandering. He finally got up and went to the barn door and smoked a cigarette. He never would let himself smoke inside the barn. As he stood there, he looked at his truck and considered driving down to the roadhouse and getting a few drinks to relax him. Maybe a woman, too, although after what had happened to him the last time, he was hesitant in this direction. He considered the few drinks, imagined them, even tasted them, but he didn’t move, except to throw the butt of his cigarette in the dirt and step on it. It was a heavy thing he had taken on, he realized—Etta had put her trust in him, and he sure didn’t want to disappoint her.
