I sighed and checked my iPhone again. I’d been standing on the now deserted trackside platform for nearly forty-five minutes. I was tempted to call Aunt Connie, but I knew it would be a waste of time. There was next to no cell service starting just a few miles outside Missoula.

And then I heard the unmistakable clop of cowboy boots on the wooden walk, just around the corner of the small depot. As I pivoted, I was greeted by a gravelly voice. “Is that you, Tommy?”

Aunt Connie rounded the brick edge of the nineteenth-century structure, her arms already extended in a welcoming hug. “Welcoming” is probably an understatement. She crushed her chest against mine, my Braves ball cap knocked to the side by her straw Pecos River Tula.

Connie pushed away, her hands on the front of each shoulder. In her three-inch riding heels, we were nearly eye-to-eye. “Tommy, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

A little background.

Connie was Uncle Frank’s second wife, Aunt Amy having been killed by a drunk driver nearly five years earlier. Connie and Frank had met and dated briefly in Eugene while on the track team. Connie was an NCAA heptathlon champion, and Frank a sprinter. They reconnected on Facebook three years ago and were married at the courthouse six months later.

We found out about the marriage the next day via a family Zoom. I remember my mom saying something about Johnny Cash, June Carter Cash and pepper sprouts.

We got Christmas cards the last two years from the happy couple, and they sent me $10 prepaid Visa cards from Walmart on my birthday.

And then, eleven months ago, we received the news. Frank had fallen out of the hayloft, sustaining a fatal spinal injury.

Connie brought Frank's cremated remains back East for interment at the family plot out at Oceanview Cemetery. Things were a little awkward at first, as one might imagine. After all, this sad event was the first time we had laid eyes on Connie in the flesh.

Connie and I seemed to hit it off from the get-go. I don't mean in a creepy way; but simply that our conversations seemed to come easier than those between her and my parents. To be honest, part of my attraction to Connie probably was borderline pervy.

Uncle Frank’s widow was like no female I’d ever met.

I heard my dad tell Mom that Connie was a “handsome” woman. This seemed odd at the time, but the term hit the nail on the head. Connie was everything the cheerleaders I had dated were not. She reminded me of an older version of a swimsuit-wearing Elle Macpherson.

At 5’ 10” and maybe 120 pounds, Connie was all muscle and sinew. She wore no makeup and kept her thick chestnut-colored hair cut bluntly, just above her shoulders. She had bright hazel eyes and deep laugh lines. I now know there was nothing funny about these crow’s feet on her overly tanned face. These were the testament to years of hard work on the ranch. I tried not to undress her with my eyes; but with each hour she spent at our house, it became increasingly difficult not to fantasize about her body.

I tried not to sigh in her presence.

Connie also seemed to treat me as more than a boy.

After the wake, friends and family returned to our house for lunch. It was pretty much as one might imagine: a Honey Baked Ham for sandwiches, almost a dozen casseroles from the church ladies and multiple cakes and pies. There were bottles of wine at a get-it-yourself bar and a giant white yacht cooler on the back porch filled with Modelo, Holy City and AB products.

Connie seemed to hold up pretty well as she made the rounds, shaking hands and accepting hugs from total strangers. But after an hour, I saw her retreat to the quiet of my dad’s wood-paneled den. I was conflicted. Did she need to be alone or did she need a friend?

I stuck my head around the corner. “Aunt Connie, can I get you something to drink?”

“Tom, that’s so considerate of you to ask. I’ll have what you’re having.”

This was a first for me. I headed to the kitchen. I checked out, but bypassed, the bottles of wine. I made a stab in the dark that a rancher’s wife would drink beer. I grabbed two frosty Modelos from the porch and hurried back to the den, avoiding my parents.

I shut the heavy sliding door and handed Connie the stubby brown bottle. After a “Thanks,” she patted the cushion beside her on the well-worn leather couch. We clinked the mouths of our bottles. “Here’s to better times.”

We made small talk; meaning Connie did most of the talking. She asked about school and sports, ultimately asking if I had a girlfriend. She seemed surprised when I said no. She leaned forward and rotated toward me. “Should I have asked whether you have a partner, pretty boy?”

It took me a second to catch on. “I like girls. According to Mom, too much.”

We both laughed.

I guess the laughing triggered something. She broke into tears. “I don't know what I’m going to do.” She buried her face into my chest. Without thinking, I wrapped both arms around her and lowered my face into her thick hair. I wanted to tilt her chin up and kiss the tears from her cheeks.

I restrained myself; but I couldn't help but notice the scent of her hair: rosemary and mint. She had been staying in my room. I knew my sheets and pillowcase would carry her scent. Instantly, I fantasized about masturbating while pulling the top sheet up and over my face. I would jerk off into her panties.

What an asshole I had become.

Lunch.

“The drive’s a good hour. Wanna grab a bite before we head out? Let’s hit Highlander.”

I tossed my army surplus duffel into the bed of the pickup and climbed into the shotgun seat of Connie’s twenty-year-old Dodge Ram.

We grabbed two seats at the bar of the brewpub. Within seconds, the tender approached, smiled at Connie and looked me over. “The usual? You robbing the cradle now?”

Connie laughed. “Give me two Pocket Cowboy lagers and give my nephew a glass of water. Bill, when did you start being such a pain in the ass?”

Bill returned with two condensation-covered glasses of beer. “Didn't see a reason to waste good water on your ‘nephew’,” he said, while making air quotes.

The ranch.

After forty-five minutes of driving, Connie turned off the paved highway onto a dirt road, passing through a metal gate. Overhead was a wrought-iron arch with a three-foot logo.

“The Rocking J, our brand,” Connie pointed upward with her right index finger.

Fifteen minutes later, we circled into the driveway. Connie hopped out, pointing to my duffle. “Let’s get you situated. Then you can pick a horse.”

Huh?

The log-style home was maybe 2400 square feet, all on one floor. Connie pointed to an open door at the end of the only hallway. “You can bunk in there. Just toss your bag onto the bed. Let’s find you some decent duds.”

I peeked into what clearly was her bedroom. “I’m in the closet. You wearing underwear?”

I must have looked shocked. “Tom, don’t get all prissy on me. How are y’all going to try on Frank’s old stuff? If you don’t take off those city-boy khakis and polo shirt? Let’s get cracking. Whatever doesn’t fit will go to Goodwill.”

And so, I instantly inherited six pairs of boot-cut, well-worn Levis, a single pair of black “go to town” Wranglers, two Carhartt bibs, ten pearl-buttoned cowboy shirts (half faded blue and half “go to town” paisley), one boat-neck fisherman's sweater, an oiled canvas barn coat and three ponchos.

All fit perfectly; as did Uncle Frank’s two pairs of Ariat boots, one with flat barn heels and one with three-inch stirrup heels. His ostrich hide Tecovas “go to town” boots were snug. It wasn't lost on me that eleven months previously, I had fantasized about using Frank’s widow’s panties to jerk off and now I was wearing his boots.

The end of day one.

I was beat.

I lay in bed after an exhaustive first afternoon. After shedding my city-slicker garb, I had donned one of Frank’s (my) pair of Levi’s, a sleeveless Durham Bulls tee and the pair of riding Ariats.

Connie offered a half-dozen horses for my summer’s transportation on the ranch. I opted for Tate, an Appaloosa. According to her, “he” was a gelding. “Good choice. He won’t be constantly sniffing the mare’s asses or humping the stallions.”

Thanks for these images, Connie.

We spent the entire afternoon riding the perimeter fences: repairing washouts, restringing barbed wire where the adjacent rancher’s bison had trampled the fence, or checking for wolf incursions.

I had watched Connie posting up and down in the saddle of Nell, her roan mare. Connie’s ass looked sweet in her tight Wranglers and chaps. More than once I had to remind myself that she was my aunt; granted not by blood, but still my aunt.

Shit, her tits also looked some kind of fine. Before hitting the fences, Connie had switched into what she called “workin’ duds.” These included an old faded Grateful Dead sleeveless tee. The fabric was almost see-through from years of laundering, and the armholes expanded down to mid-torso. The overall combination left little to the imagination. Her nipples tented the gauzy fabric, and the lateral half of each creamy breast appeared as if trying to escape her shirt.

Despite the rough ride (and my dismay), Connie’s tits did not flop out of her shirt. In fact, they didn't even bounce up and down all that much.

My aunt was over forty, but still retained the non-saggy, perky tits of a college athlete; maybe 34Cs with nipples perched well above the equator.

I fell asleep with my hand fisting my boner.

The nightmare.

I awoke in a panic. The room was dark. I didn't recognize the furniture. Where was I?

But then I remembered the dream. I was once again in the back of my 1975 Pacer hatchback with Meg, Tug’s Elle Woods look-alike girlfriend. She had shifted the damp inseam of her cutoffs to one side so that I could fuck her. The pheromone-laden aroma of her pussy was overpowering. Her legs were spread. Her pelvis was rocked forward into a breeding position.

I had told her I didn't have a rubber.

She again panted through clenched teeth, “I don't c…” but didn't finish the sentence.

I looked up. I was staring into the hazel-colored eyes of Aunt Connie.

I awoke in a cold sweat.