The Winter Courtship Rituals of Fur-Bearing Critters Read Free Page B

check, but apparently he wasn’t doing enough of it. “He was pretty,” he said at last, startled into saying the truth because he couldn’t afford to lose Ari, and he really wanted to be that baby’s Uncle Craw.
    Ari sighed and reached out and ruffled his unruly, past-his-ears coarse and curly auburn hair. “Oh Craw,” she mumbled. “What am I going to do with you?”
    “Call me an asshole, because I am one,” he sighed, but he had to admit her touch did soothe something as edgy as an angry wind that threatened to rear up inside him.
    “You’re a good man, mostly,” she said softly. “You just need another good man to make you happy, or you’re going to get all bitter and alone out here.”
    Crawford grunted. “Maybe I’m just bitter and alone anyway.”
    “Maybe so,” she conceded, but he could tell she was humoring him. “You sure have been trying to win a grumpy bastard contest since I’ve met you.”
    He felt his lips move in a pattern only vaguely familiar to either of them. “ Trying to win? I won that contest, hands down!” But he smiled when he said it.
    Ari laughed, and her hand moved to his stubbled cheek. Unlike Ben McCutcheon, Craw’s stubble was neither intentional nor artfully arranged. It just happened because he forgot to shave, and his beard grew in, dark auburn, sort of like his hair, but with more gray.
    “Sure you did. Maybe you could enter another contest now, you think?”
    “You need two players for that game, Ari, and in a town this size, you know that’s not going to happen.”
    “You just said he was pretty.”
    “Yeah, but just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean he wants to play.”
    “All you said was you needed another player, Craw—you’ve got one. Now make him see you’re not just the only game in town, you’re the best one too.”
    Crawford glared at her and was going to say something else—anything else—to get her off this subject when he was just starting to find some comfort in it himself, when the bell rang and a customer walked in. Ari stood up to greet them, and Crawford went back to his grumpy bastard therapy, which some people confused with spinning.
     
     
    The next day he was at Gertie’s house (Ben’s house!) early. He got out of the truck, leaving it to idle in the driveway, and stomped to the door, a bit of knitting clenched in his hand.
    Ben came out, wearing a thin denim jacket like Crawford’s, except Ben was shivering in it. His hands and head were bare, and his teeth were chattering in the fortyish cold of the pre-sun Rockies in the fall. “I saw a coffee shop when we drove in,” he said by way of greeting. “I don’t suppose we could stop there, wherever we’re going.”
    “Sure,” Crawford grunted as Ben shut and locked the door. Locked it. Like someone was going to break into it. Right. “Here. Put this on.”
    Ben took the thing from him and looked at it, open-mouthed. “It’s gorgeous,” he said, surprised. “Are you
sure—”
    “Did I give it to you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Put it on. Your ears are red.”
    The hat was that dark, rusty brown at the rolled brim and in the center of the crown, but the rest of it was a sweet sea-foam green in seed stitch, for interest. (The seed stitch had been a bitch to decrease evenly, but Craw doubted this kid would even look to see. It didn’t matter. The kid’s notice of the details or lack thereof did not take away from Crawford’s pride in his work.) The rusty brown kept the green from being too effeminate, and Crawford was pretty sure it looked fashionable and not gay. His eye for that sort of thing had been good since he’d taken a few design classes in college to go with his business degree, and Ben didn’t seem to have any reservations about jamming the soft blend of alpaca and wool on his head and shuddering blissfully.
    “My God, it’s softer than a baby bunny’s ass!” Ben raised his hands to pet the fabric, and Crawford grinned.
    “You coming? If we want your