Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (11 page)

“Taste what?”

“Rain.” His knees creaking, Michael stood and walked to the rocky slope they’d been circling for hours. Hands on hips, he surveyed the area, muttering to himself.

Sonny admitted, “Now you mention it, it does feel sort of humid.” The air had gone dense, thick, like back home in Jersey when the east wind brought a storm with tropical deluges. Neck hairs prickling, he said, “If it rains hard, it’s gonna come down that mountainside like a waterfall.” That would solve their water problem, just not in a good way. “If we turn back now, it would only take a couple hours to reach a high enough spot to avoid living under Niagara, right?”

Michael snorted. “Not feeling being a lightning rod.” He pulled the topo map from his rear pocket and spread it on the ground. “I’m no geologist, but this here slope’s mostly a granite outcrop. Runoff and cold causes fissures, splitting the rock and weakening the face.” He looked up. “I think it’s worth the gamble pushing forward. If we’re lucky, a few hundred yards ahead, the trail will slope down and away toward the valley floor. We get low enough we might luck into that natural meadow I was telling you about.”

“If we aren’t?”

“We get wet and have a story to tell.”

Frowning, Sonny growled, “I’m not much good at telling stories.”

Michael gripped his shoulders, his mouth close enough Sonny tasted the scent of fear and determination. “Then let’s make sure we don’t have any to tell, Dr. Rydell.” He released Sonny and barked, all business again, “Tie the stock nose-to-tail. Make it a damn conga line. You handle them while I go ahead and clear what I can. Let’s keep pressing ahead. If I’m wrong...” He let the words empty into the thickening air.

Sonny listened harder, feeling rather than hearing a faint rumble of thunder echoing off the tops of the hills. Doing as instructed, he tied quick release knots, allowing each horse and the mule very little leeway for a kicking contest to start. The mule seemed to understand the concept, settling in his first place position, ears twisting but his body posture and eyes attentive. The big red gelding went last. He had too much acceleration at his command. If the horse spooked it was possible he’d pull the entire line into a mad dash to God knew where.

By the time he reached Michael at the next downed tree, the man turned and barked, “Next time remind me to pack a damn chainsaw.” He’d created a narrow gap, not quite wide enough for the mule and the panniers.

Sonny suggested, “Take the pack off the mule and lead them through. I’ll bring the panniers separately.”

“The stuff in the bags weighs close to a hundred and fifty pounds, Rydell. That’s dead weight. Let me...”

“No. You can control the stock better than me. I can do this.”

Don’t argue with him.

This wasn’t arguing, just pointing out a fact. Sonny knew he didn’t have what it took to handle four spooked animals in a situation going to hell in a handbasket. He’d rather admit his weaknesses and focus on his strengths. It was the only way they were getting off the mountain in one piece.

Working quickly and efficiently, Michael stripped the mule of the bulky canvas bags and dropped them on the ground, leaving the framework intact. He reached to remove the breeching but Sonny stopped him.

“He’ll do what you want if he leads, but not if he’s last in line. He’ll lay down and make you drag him. Leave the frame. It’ll give you something to tie the lead line to.”

“You said he kicks.”

“Not if Peanut is directly behind him. Tie her up close so he can’t get his butt in the air as easily.”

Michael asked, “You ever want to shoot this sumbitch?”

“Every day.” Sonny rolled the bags out of the way as Michael clucked to get the wagon train rolling. When it came time to hoist the linked sacks, he told himself they were light as a feather. He hated lying, especially to himself.

****

O
nce they cleared the last of the rock and tree fall, Michael suggested mounting up and trying to make time on the downhill. It was a good plan in spite of the rain that started as a warm drizzle but rapidly degraded into a cold, steady downpour interspersed with hail and sleet. Michael gave Red his head so he could dig in, lowering his hindquarters as he slipped and slid down the greasy slope.

When the opening in the forest canopy finally materialized, he gave a prayer of thanks. With some luck they had just enough light to see to setting up the tent and securing the horses for the night.

Wearily they dismounted. Sonny offered to place the tent in the shelter of a copse of spruce slightly uphill of the meadow. It was a good division of labor although he could have used Sonny’s height advantage to secure the rope to the trees for the highline. He had worried about going overboard, lugging fifty feet of cotton rope, but in hindsight he was happy with his choices.

Finished with the tent, Sonny asked, “What else do you need?”

“Grab those two gunny sacks, left side, my rig.” At the last second he remembered to say, “Please,” but Sonny had already trotted back toward the tent and the pile of bags he’d protected with a small tarp.

When the man returned he held the sacks out, his face dripping wet but curious. Michael instructed, “Wrap one of them around that trunk with the rope and do two half hitches. I’ll thread the line over that branch and run it across.” He nodded to the tree in question, standing dark and heavy with water. “Once I have it secured, you take the end and repeat with the other sack.”

They worked silently, moving around each other like a well-oiled machine. When Sonny finished tying off the tree-saver device that protected the bark from abrasion, they attached the swivels to which the lead ropes were secured and spaced them evenly to give each animal enough room to move around but not get tangled up with his neighbor.

Michael smiled to himself. Dr. Seamus Rydell surprised him, and he was a hard man to impress. At least, that’s what Paul always said.

With the horses safely attached to the highline and munching on the sparse grass, Michael allowed himself a sigh of relief. He’d been genuinely worried about having to stay on the side of the mountain in what was promising to turn into a snowstorm if he was any judge of the weather. The temperature had dropped like a rock as darkness finally descended, though his night vision kicked in readily enough.

Sonny touched his elbow to get his attention. “There’s a stream in the hollow. I’ve got the collapsible buckets. Want me to bring some back to offer the guys?”

“Okay, but be careful. It’s dark as pitch out there and we don’t know who our neighbors might be.”

Sonny strapped a headlamp onto his hat and switched it to the green filter. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my first rodeo, boss.”

Teasing, Michael said, “That’s all well and good, but I ain’t coming to rescue you if you can’t last for an eight second ride.”

Laughing out loud, Sonny shouted back, “Just eight seconds, Warden? You really need to get your expectations and priorities sorted.”

Michael stood, slack jawed, for a few very long seconds. Despite being chilled to the bone and soaked to the skin from sweating like a galley slave inside his Gore-Tex raingear, his cock did a happy dance at the thinly veiled promise.

Tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground, Michael rued not having the foresight to carry one of their LED lamps with a red or green filter to cut out glare and insure his night vision remained intact.

When he finally found the tent, he quickly checked that it was tied down and taut enough to withstand snow falling off the upper limbs onto the curved roof. His walking, talking wet dream wasn’t so clueless after all. Sonny had positioned the tent on a flat section, with the entry flap facing where the stock was tied, allowing them to keep an eye on them. He’d tucked the spare tarp and their sleeping bags, along with their go-kits, into a vestibule to the right of the mesh door. A second mesh entryway allowed for fast egress if something went wrong.

The wind howled in the treetops but in their protected copse of trees it was relatively quiet. Ticking off the minutes, Michael started his cycle of worry and annoyance. The irritation came because he had to rely on someone else to perform a task he usually reserved for himself.

The worry was a mixed bag of confusing impressions. He liked the man, a lot. Rydell put up with his skewed sense of humor, mostly. He didn’t complain, much. He was smart and resourceful, not unexpected, but people had a habit of disappointing. He was cheerful and caring. The kind of guy who’d have your back.

All of that added up to friend material. Michael had very few he called friend. Paul Trader, George. And if push came to shove he’d have to add Sally and Dolly, much as it pained him to do so.

When he laid it out and took a hard look, friends for him were thin on the ground. Most times he couldn’t care less. He led a solitary existence, either patrolling the back country or holed up in his trailer, drinking or reading—usually both. Once in a blue moon he went cruising the gay bars in Cheyenne, but those times had gotten few and far between. Sometimes he scored, most times he didn’t.

Besides, a quick fuck was just that: a once and done. It had gotten to the point it no longer satisfied the itch. If anything, it made it worse. The music was too loud. The posturing asinine and sophomoric. One waxed torso looked like every other. He was coming thirty-four and already ten or twelve years past his prime, if you believed the twinks and gym rats who sneered at his ragged fingernails, farmer’s tan, and keep-away persona.

When all was said and done, home was still an empty metal box. The whisky or tequila or scotch left him hung over and feeling like shit. He was a loner by fate and by design. He liked it that way... mostly.

“You decent?” Sonny. Cheerful, hug me and I’ll be your friend forever Sonny.

Letting his foul mood get the best of him wasn’t going to help their situation, so he avoided his fallback surly position and barked, “Depends on what you mean by that,” keeping his voice light and teasing. He surprised himself by how little effort it took.

Crawling on his hands and knees, Sonny entered from the opposite side of the tent and stripped off his snow-covered jacket and soggy boots. The jacket he shook out on the other side of the flap, then zipped them in.

Michael stated the obvious. “I see the snow started.”

Pulling a face, Sonny grumped, “You could have told me which two days were summer. I would have changed my plans accordingly.” He traded his miner’s lamp for the small lantern, flooding the interior of the tent with cold, harsh light. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he assessed Michael, then chuckled and said, “No jacket, bare feet.” He tossed his hat to the floor and swept his wet mop of curly blond hair off his forehead. “Now I don’t feel so overdressed.”

Michael pointed to the bedrolls. “Open yours up. We’d best zip them together to conserve body heat. It’s below freezing already. I don’t fancy waking up an icicle in the morning.”

“What about our wet clothes? Those kits with the change of underwear and stuff was all I grabbed.” He frowned and muttered, “Sorry.”

“You did fine. What we’re wearing will dry from our body heat. When it’s this cold, they’ll just retain moisture and freeze if we leave them out. Trust me, it’s not a good way to start your day wearing an ice cube.”

As Michael finished zipping the sleeping bags together, he observed, “You were gone a long time. Everything okay out there?” He tried not to sound mother-henish, but Sonny gave him a look that said he was busted.

“Guys were thirsty so I made a couple extra runs, let them drink their fill. I don’t think we need to worry about it until morning.” After adding his chaps to the pile of wet boots and outerwear, Sonny slipped inside the sleeping bag, propped himself on an elbow, and said, “Last camping trip I was on, we packed to the eleven thousand foot level up above Dubois. Found a huge hanging valley with a stream, lots of grass. I’d guess there were a couple hundred acres of good forage. The drovers let the horses loose overnight, sent dogs out to round them up in the morning. Too bad we couldn’t do that here.”

Michael agreed it would have been nice, but then explained, “Mine don’t do well with hobbles so I never felt comfortable setting ’em loose. I like knowing they’re nearby if I need them in a hurry.”

Joining Sonny in the bedroll, Michael lay flat on his back and braced his hands behind his head, staring at the low ceiling. The shadows on the wall of the tent and the roof revealed several inches of snow had already fallen. His best hope was for less than a foot. Any more than that and they’d be weaving snow shoes from the spruce branches in order to find the elusive Timber Lake.

Although they were keeping a respectable distance between them, the ground under the tent wasn’t quit as flat as it looked. The tent straddled a small gully, with just enough of a dip that it took a real effort not to roll into each other. Sonny inched closer.

“You hungry?”

“Not for food.”

“Oh.” Sonny paused for a couple heartbeats, then tried again. “You sleepy?”

“Why?” Michael kept his answers terse, enjoying pushing the man’s buttons.

“No reason.” He shifted, moving closer. “Do you want to tell scary stories or sing camp songs?”

“No.”
What is he, eight years old?

“Well, then, what do you want to do?” He was cracking, the irritation in his voice bordering on whining.

“Not sure you’d like it.”

“Try me.”
That’s my boy. Bring the demon out to play.

“Nah, never mind. Forget it.”

“Wait... what? Come on, don’t be like that. Give me a chance.”

“Maybe another time.”

Shrill enough to startle the horses, Sonny yelled, “Dammit, Brooks. Stop being such a cock tease. Tell me what you want to do.”

Bingo.

He turned his face, giving Sonny Rydell his shit-eating grin, the one that seemed to turn the guys’ bowels to water. He wasn’t disappointed. The man’s face drained of color as he licked parched lips, his eyes darkening with lust.

Michael whispered, “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”