3-Shot Jealousy

So preoccupied was he with both the humiliation and glory of the night on the banks of the Platte that Jess almost missed what was happening in a field at the back of the ranch house, a field his wife had been after him for a couple of years to have planted to vegetables and fruit to augment their needs, as they approached their ranch. It was James who keyed him in.

“My god, who is that? Look at how big and muscular he is, father.”

Jess looked up to see the field half plowed—by a tall, muscular man guiding a plow behind two horses. The man was stripped to the waist. His torso muscles rippled and bulged from the effort. He was dark-headed and his torso and forearms were matted with curly black hair. So hard-bodied was he and so much was the exertion of his work that the veins running through his torso and arms popped out on his tanned skin.

The man looked up; it was the man. The man who had fucked Jess on the banks of the Platte. He stopped plowing momentarily and turned and gave a nod to the owner of the ranch, his two sons, and the three cowboys returning from the Omaha stockyards. Then he returned to the plowing.