Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Extra Sensory Perception, Mystery, Paranormal, Interracial, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex,
Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - If you thought Nevada was only sand, whorehouses and gambling, you are selling 1,998,257 (2000 Nevada State Census) of the nicest people in the world short. Join us as JD, our apprentice Redneck, learns his trade at the knee of Pinky, the friendly ghost. Watch as he develops his skills in the wonderful world of ranching and how to stay alive doing it. Who knows, there just may be a little romance along with all the action.
Just outside of the wonderful city of Boston, Mass is a place of great evil. This reflection of the realm of the nether world generates two of the worst curses of our great nation. These spawn of the devil are commonly called Harvard MBAs and Harvard Law School Graduates. If a particular spawn unit is both, you have defined the antichrist.
One of these curses upon the American economy causes massive damage to the country by repackaging and respinning failed and disproven business theories and concepts in a desperate attempt to sell books and justify their massively inflated salaries.
The other curse that floats under the veil of civilization and poaches on the innocent by increasing everyone's cost of living by initiating massive and frivolous law suits. We're not talking ambulance chasers' little harmless million dollar flea bites here and there. (We can leave those to the non-Ivy League klutzes.) We're talking about multi-billion dollar class action stuff where the thousands of class action clients get one dollar for every one thousand awarded.
At least that's the way my daddy tells it.
Now personally, I don't see that Pop has a lot of room to talk. He teaches banking at Yale. (He continently forgets all those useless presidents Yale has cursed us with from his anti-Harvard soapbox.) Talk about a racket, that's banking. Here's how banking works.
The good people of the community work their ass off for the 'MAN', and put what little is left over after they pay the Arabs for energy, the landlord for rent, ADM for food, Budweiser for beer, and the government for the outrageous taxes and fees needed to support governmental graft and corruption, into their savings account to earn a small interest rate.
Friendly Joe, the banker, then takes that money and loans it out to his rich buddies at a much higher interest rate to do what is needed to make them richer. Wait! This is the cool part. Friendly Joe doesn't loan it out just once. Thanks to this little do-dad called a reserve requirement, he can loan out that same money to several people at the same time.
Let's say the reserve requirement is 10%. As long as Friendly Joe keeps real money, say $100.00, in the bank, he can loan out $1,000.00 dollars electronically. The really boss thing about it is that EVERYONE acts like the $1,000.00 is real money. It even has a name, "The Money Supply." I've been told that that's not the only element of the money supply, but it's the BIGGEST part of it.
I addition to that, there is this group of super bankers called the Federal Reserve System, "The Fed". (A more accurate name may be Federal Reward - for giving the most money to the winning political party — System, but everyone pretends it has nothing to do with politics. Hollywood doesn't have a monopoly on fantasy.) The Fed sets these percent requirements. Not only does the Fed set reserve requirements, but if Friendly Joe gets carried away and loans out $1,100.00 and he's afraid that an auditor is going to show up, the Fed will loan him $10.00 for a very low interest rate called the Fed Funds Rate until some hard working normal citizen adds $10.00 to his savings account. Another way to get the $10.00 is to take some of that funny electronic money and deposit it in another savings account and act like it's as real as the original $100.00.
Talk about a racket. I've heard of people going to jail for scams like that in other businesses. The only way you can lose money in this deal is if you're stupid or you listen to a Harvard MBA. There must be a lot of Harvard MBAs or a bunch of stupid people in banking, though, because there're a lot of banks losing their shirts these days.
Me? I don't give a hairy rat's ass one way or another. I'm a red neck. Well, more specifically, I'm a red neck wanna-be. I like quiche, so I'm not a true to the rawhide red neck. Now Pop is also the cause of all my "common man" attitudes. He taught economics at the University of Texas during my formative years, and I started school there. Many of my classmates were from ranches, so I spent my holidays and summers trying to get out of Austin by working cattle and horses. It was hard work, but I loved it. Oh, I finished my engineering degree at UT with honors, but my heart was lost to the old west.
Damn, we (my friends and I) even played around with the local SASS (Single Action Shooting Society) member western quick draw clubs. That's something the family never found out about because they believe the Second Amendment is more Satanic than a Harvard MBA. I even got to be pretty good with an old double action Schofield in 44-40 replica that one of the ranchers loaned me and later gave me for helping him improve his water supply. The project was my Senior Project, but the rancher insisted the gun was mine when I tried to give it back.
Now I ain't gonna say that the rest of the family would like for me to kind of tone it down, but when I wore my best alligator skin cowboy boots, a pair of Wall Mart Wranglers, a hand scrolled leather belt with a solid silver rodeo buckle, and a hand made silk cowboy shirt to my sister's graduation from Vassar the kin folk were not too happy. Never mind that the outfit cost me over $2,000.00, it was not what the good folk running the hootenanny felt was appropriate. Shit, the guys that threw me out were wearing 5 year old Sears reject suits with clip on ties. Damn it, I was offended by their clothes as much as they were by mine.
Now Pop tells me the purchase of the Nevada ranch had nothing to do with that Vassar blowup, but one came awfully close to the anniversary of the other. He claims one of his former students who worked for some bank in Carson City called him and said he could get the 8,000 acre ranch for 10 cents on the dollar. Pop quickly bought the ranch with my share of money from Grandpa's trust fund. You know the one that was to be split up when my brother, sister and I all reached 25. The family convinced me that I was the only one who could run a ranch, so off to Elgin, Nevada and the Rainbow Valley I went.
I really was excited about the new opportunity until I got to the ranch. Well, calling it a ranch may be too kind. The contract Pop signed gave us all buildings, equipment, fixtures, and livestock. I understood then that the former student must have had a grudge against my daddy. The family had just taken a long walk off a short pier.
The first thing I saw when I finally got through the pothole patch and washouts some people might have once called a driveway was the ranch house or what was left of it. The house had been set up on a wash.
Now a wash is just that, it's where all the water runs from the rains in the wet season. Hell, the Nevada Department of Transportation doesn't even try to put bridges on the highways in washes. They just run concrete pads into the low area and put up signs that say "Do not drive into the water." I don't think that the signs were for the locals. Tourists just ain't any smarter than Yale Banking Professors sometimes.
Anyway, the DOT was a lot smarter than the guy who brought in the double wide trailer and set it on concrete blocks. It seemed that he didn't pay too much attention to where he put it. At some point, the wash, being a wash, lived up to its name and washed the dirt out from under some of the blocks, and one side of the house pulled off the other and slid about 10 feet from where it started.
The out buildings were in no better shape. There was what looked like it had been a giant pole barn at some point, but now was just a concrete slab buried under the remains of a fire. There was a large machinery shed that had a portion of the roof caved in and rotting boards on the sides. The only thing that looked like it wouldn't fall apart was the outhouse. (Believe it or not, it was brick, but I was in no mood to check it out.) There was no sign of stock anywhere, nor anywhere to house or feed them. The equipment appeared to be limited to a 10 year old Ford dual tire pickup sitting on blocks and an old stock trailer on rotting tires.
Sagebrush paradise that it was, it really didn't look like there was any reason to drop more money and time on the place. Maybe we could sell it back to the government as a toxic waste dump. I know, I know. To err is human, but God damn it, to fuck up this bad took an advanced college degree.
I slowly walked back to my pickup, sat on the tailgate, and started muttering about how Pop had screwed the pooch on this deal. I must have been deep into it because I heard nothing. Suddenly a woman's voice intruded into my depressed thoughts.
"Would you be the city slicker who got suckered into buying this piece of shit?"
I looked up. About 15 feet in front of me was one of the best looking quarter horse mares I had ever seen. The only thing I could see that was more impressive than the horse was the well built redheaded woman ridding her.
"That would be my daddy. I'm the slicker who's supposed to run this piece of shit."
"I hope you do a better job than the last two idiots who tried to run it. Shit, we still have the Feds running around trying to see if any more of us are growing dope. It's a real pain in the ass.
"You know," she continued. "I tried to buy this at the DEA auction for what it was really worth, but you paid three times that much. I bet you didn't even look at the place before you bought it."
"I didn't even know it was mine a week ago. Pop called me from his office and told me he had made my dreams come true. He bought me a ranch. I'm still looking for the ranch described in the purchase agreement."
She laughed, "Bought a pig in a poke, did he? Is he stupid or something?"
"Just the opposite, He just thinks that people are grateful for what they've learned from him. One of his former students working for a bank in Carson City conned him into this deal. We probably paid too much because the asshole was working on commission. Pop's a professor at Yale."
"Oh God, I hope you're not one of those East Coast Liberals that are trying to destroy farmers and ranchers."
"Nope, I'm just a good old Texas redneck that's an embarrassment to his high society siblings. I'm the black sheep of the family. They put me out here to keep me out of sight. I think it was safer than hiring a hit man and cheaper than locking me in a loony bin."
"What'd you do before you became a great rancher?"
"I was an uncivilized civil engineering student at Texas. The name's JD Barton. What's..."
Before I could say another word, we heard the rattle of a sidewinder just before it struck. Without thinking, I pulled my old Colt from its holster and blew the snake's head off. Between the noise of the pistol and the fright from the snake the woman had lost control of the mare and was hanging on by a thread.
I slowly held out my hand to the horse and approached. "Whoa there baby. You did a good job of protecting your rider. I'm proud of you. It's okay now, sweetheart. Calm down and give me a little kiss. You're the good girl. You are a gift. Aren't you the prize now?"
The mare returned to all fours, calmed herself, and nuzzled my hand as I rubbed her head and whispered more sweet nothings in her ear. The woman was not so calm, though, as she dismounted and got in my face.
"Are you some kind of fucking idiot? You never approach a panicked horse like that. You stupid bastard, you could have killed both of us. Where in the world did you learn to be so dumb? I've seen rodeo clowns with more sense."
"Well for one thing, Rodeo clowns are really smart cookies. They know their stuff and save lives or serious injury almost every time the step in front of a bull, so if you're trying to insult me, that's not the way.
"Next, I did a hell of a lot better job of calming your mount than you did. I seem to have a way with horses and livestock. In Texas they sometimes called me Whisper as in horse whisperer."
"You mean you actually believed that Robert Redford crap?"
"Horse whisperers have been around almost as long as domestic horses. I know for a fact it's not crap. I think once you calm down you'll agree I just proved it."
"Bull shit is what you just proved. Listen, rhinestone cowboy, I'm a veterinarian. I've worked with horses all my life, and there is no such thing as a horse whisperer."
"Lady, I don't care who or what you are. You have been nothing but rude, arrogant and insulting since you trespassed on my property. It may not be much, but it's paid for and all mine. Now if you can't be civil, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."
"You fucking asshole, you can't throw me off this place. I'm leaving."
She gave me a long, nasty look, remounted her horse and left without another word. As she trotted over a hill, the bitch shot me the bird. So this was western hospitality?
I shook my head in disgust, jumped into the truck, and headed to town. I needed to make sure my maps and the state maps were the same, and find out what happened to the ranch's livestock. Who knows, there was a chance I had the wrong property.
The sheriff's office was easy enough to find, but finding someone there took some time. I finally found a fifty-something woman in a small room filled with file cabinets. Her significant backside was on display dangerously stretching her denim pants as she placed folders into the drawers. As she was filing, she kept muttering in very colorful language about slowly roasting people over active Bar-B-Q pits who didn't leave file markers when they removed files.
I stood in the door and cleared my throat. The woman screamed and threw several files in the air as she jumped much faster than I thought a woman of her girth could. "Don't you ever sneak up on me again like that, or you're gonna be singing soprano."
In my meekest, 'aw shucks' tone of voice, I replied, "I'm sorry m'am. I didn't mean to scare you. I was just looking for someone from the sheriff's office."
She took a deep calming breath. "You would be looking for me then. Sheriff and the mayor are out fishing. What can I do for you?"
"I'm JD Barton, and my family bought a ranch down the way from a DEA auction. I just wanted to check in with you folks and introduce myself. Also the contract indicated there was livestock, but I can't find any. Then I need to check my maps with the local plat maps to make sure everything's in order."
"Seeing as you've already bought the place, don't you think it's a little late to be doing what your title company should have done before you signed the paper work."
"Well I didn't really buy the place. My daddy did and gave it to me for a college graduation present."
"That was a damn nice thing to do for a boy just starting out."
"Normally I would agree with you, but he used my Grandpa's trust fund to buy the place in my name, and he didn't even see it first hand. When I got here this morning I found half the ranch house washed away, the barn burned down, and the rest of the out buildings rotting out. The brick outhouse was the only thing that looked solid."
"Oh my, you must be the folks who bought the old Pinkston place. We were wondering who was dumb enough to pay that much for that rundown, worthless hunk of nothing."
"You know, Lady, I'm beginning to ask myself the same thing."
"Where are my manners? I'm no lady, I'm Sally Jackson. Everyone calls me Sal. Behind my back they call me Big Sal, but the fuckers ain't got the balls to call me that to my face."
"I don't know why they would call you that. I find you quite attractive."
"You sweet talking thing, you keep talking like that and we're gonna be great friends. Where are you from anyways?"
"You learn anything about ranching down there in Texas?"
"I worked my way through college working on ranches. I even helped out the clowns at some local rodeos."
"Rodeo clowning is a nasty business. I saw my husband killed drawing a bull off a rider a few years ago. Walked right up to that loco bull and hit him in the nose. Saved the cowboy, but the bull was faster than Sam figured. You can't make mistakes in that business, or you pay the price. Hey, it's lunch time. Why don't you buy me lunch to make up for taking 10 years off my life?"
"It would be my pleasure, Miss Sal."
We walked out of the city complex. Sal pulled a pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket and lit it with an old fashion Zippo lighter. Her first drag consumed almost a third of the unfiltered smoke. She let out a sigh as she released the remains of her addiction.
"JD, do you partake in the evils of tobacco?"
"No m'am. I never developed the taste for it."
"Boy, knock off that m'am and miss shit. It makes me feel old. Shit, the first time a good looking man takes me to lunch in years, and he tries to make me out to be an old woman. That ain't the way to get on my better side."
"I'll work on it, Sal."
"Good. See that you do."
We walked into The Spoon Café as the lunch crowd was clearing out. As we sat in a booth, Sal waved to a cute young blond waitress and called, "Becky, two chicken fried steak dinners, thousand island dressing on the salads, two iced sweet teas, and later two apple pies with double ice cream."
"And what will the gentleman have Sal?"
"You better watch out, girl, or I won't leave you a tip."
"Sal, you don't tip worth a damn anyway, so who gives a shit about your two bits?"
Just then, an older version of Becky came out of the kitchen, sat down next to Sal, removed a cigarette from Sal's pack and lit up. Sal looked at her and ask, "Jesus, Mary, don't you ever carry your own smokes?"
Mary looked very serious as she replied, "I can't afford to carry anything but the habit. No one tips around here anymore. Two bits a meal doesn't cut it these days."
"Now I've tipped more than a quarter."
"Not in this town you haven't. I was curious, so I checked. Everyone agrees that you're cheap."
"JD, don't you believe a word this dyed blond haired hussy tells you. I may be easy, but I ain't cheap."
The two women started laughing at that. I wasn't sure enough of my status to join the laughter, so I just smiled. Becky came to the table with two of the largest glasses of sweet tea I had ever seen, and two salads big enough to fill up a horse. She took the cigarette from Mary's fingers and put it out in the ash tray. "Mama, there's an order up, and you quit smoking a year ago. We've talked about what this does to your health."
"Okay, okay, I just don't get a break. I tell you that there is no rest for the wicked."
Sal couldn't pass up a chance at revenge. "Mary, you just want to be wicked. You ain't gone out with a man in five years. You haven't had the opportunity to be wicked. I know. I was curious and checked. Every one says you're a spinster."
I took a moment to compare the three women during this teasing. I revised my first impression of Sal. She was 10 years younger than I first thought and more Mae West than the Goodyear Blimp. Her below-the-shoulder hair was red with an occasional bit of gray saying no dye on me. She was a real redhead. I expected at any moment for her sex appeal to ooze out with the old Mae West line, "When I'm good I'm good, but when I'm bad I'm really good." Damn, she was smoldering.
Mary was a shorter, less endowed, version of Sal only with a blond pony tail. Both women's faces had occasional laugh lines that more added character to their faces than distracted from their looks.
Becky was Mary less twenty years and a knock out. Her movements were quick and efficient. She was proud of herself and the place she ran. The restaurant was so clean that it looked like it was just opening instead of minutes after the lunch rush. I wondered if the food would be as good as my estimate of the front of the house.
It was. Lunch was a delight. The fried steak was not the usual piece of shoe leather that people pounded the hell out of to pass for 'chicken fried' steak, but a real steak properly made and the mashed potatoes and gravy was manna from heaven. Sides of fried okra and corn on the cob filled out the huge platter of food.
We had a delightful conversation about ranching in Nevada. Her knowledge of stock, land and resources was impressive. Sal was one smart cookie.
As we were forcing the rest of the ice cream into our over filled stomachs, Mary came back out. "You're going down to The Dance Hall tonight, aren't you? I heard they have a new CW band that just got a recording contract."
Sal paused a moment and looked at me. "JD, you know how to dance?"
"I've taken a turn or two around the floor in my wayward youth."
"Think you could keep up with a couple of old decrepit widow women tonight?"
"I don't do decrepit widow women, but I would be proud to go dancing with two of the best looking women I've ever met."
Mary blinked at me in shock and replied, "You want to take our daughters?"
"Well, if you think we need chaperons, I guess they could come with us."
Sal busted up laughing. "Can't you see the Texan coming out of his ears? Damn this boy is good for my ego. Play your cards right, Tex, and you might just have some fun tonight. Mary and I are taking you out on the town."
Edited by Virlaine with my thanks