Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (21 page)

He was nowhere near having eidetic memory, but his years of doing research had gifted him with the ability to summon stray facts and images when he most needed them. Whether or not it was a genuine trail, or just wishful thinking on his part, he did know that the tie hack camp lay in the same direction the trail was running.

He’d been forced to take the dangerous straight line to his presumed trailhead, rather than zigging and zagging and possibly working off the line and getting himself hopelessly turned around. So long as he kept it in sight, he’d be able to commit markers to memory. A taller tree. Something off color. Deadfall. A stand of boulders. Once he was on the valley floor, he would use his compass to help him navigate through the forest.

The storm threatening them on the other side of the ridge had dissipated by late morning. On the eastern slope, rock and soil, leaf mold and pine needles littered the ground. It was dumb luck Sonny stopped to adjust the mule’s girth and check his feet with a hoof pick. The mule was shoeless, but that didn’t mean a rock couldn’t lodge in the sole or wedge in the bulb of the heels. When he glanced at the ground, his heart nearly stopped.

A rowel off Michael’s spur had worked loose and fallen on the ground—a sure sign Michael had come this way. It also confirmed Sonny’s suspicion Michael had run into trouble. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whoever had laid those traps, and had probably been spying on them, had done something to Michael.

There was no way his warden would have left him and the horses to fend for themselves. That wasn’t how the man rolled.

Guiding the mule toward a stand of downed trees, he looped the reins loosely around a branch, hoping Spot would stay put while he went forward on foot. He slipped the Remington AR-15 out of the scabbard and slung it over his shoulder. With only a five round capacity and no extra shells, he was going to have to take care he hit what he aimed at first time. There might not be another opportunity.

The hunting knife Michael used to gut fish was in its ankle holster. Feeling vaguely foolish, he set his hat on a stump and slapped moist dirt on his face, making sweeps across his brow, under his eyes, and over the heavy whisker growth along his cheeks and chin.

To the mule, he said, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Spot.” He patted the mule’s neck before moving off, following his nose.

Sonny estimated he was less than a half-mile from the cabin. On a good day, at normal hiking speed, he’d have covered the gently sloping incline in fifteen or twenty minutes. But this wasn’t a good day, and he was forced to expend energy searching either side of the so-called trail just to make sure he was on track. Occasionally he lucked onto a hoof print or two. They were large enough to belong to the big red gelding. If Michael had left a boot print, Sonny wasn’t seeing it, though if he’d been riding that would explain the lack of sign.

At the base of a dry gully, he found evidence of a struggle. Hoof prints, gouges in the hard ground, stones dislodged. The hoof prints led in the opposite direction of the cabin. A splotch of rust on a rock and parallel lines that looked like something or someone was being dragged confirmed his suspicions.

Crouching low, Sonny crab-stepped to the lip of the gully. There wasn’t much to see. A stand of ponderosa pine, old, rotted stumps and new growth filling in where the lumber company had cut down trees for the railroad ties gave him no clues as to where Michael and the trapper might be camped out.

Staying low, Sonny raced down the gully, periodically poking his head up to get his bearings, but he was running out of real estate. At some point he’d have to decide which way to go. His gut told him to stay left and follow the contours toward what might have been a stream.

Avoiding the worst case scenario—that the trapper had already killed Michael—Sonny swung the strap off his shoulder and cradled the rifle as he ascended the short incline. As he topped the ridge, a scream rent the air.

Sonny jumped and spun wildly, not sure which direction it came from. His stomach in his throat, he scanned the area, searching for the source of the heartbreaking cry. On his second rotation he spotted the outline of a cabin in a small clearing. Using the trees for cover he raced for the open area, praying he’d be in time to rescue Michael.

As he approached from the side, Sonny swore silently. The two windows along the side wall had been barricaded shut, preventing him from seeing inside. That it also preserved his anonymity was less a concern. As he rounded the front of the dilapidated structure, muted whimpers and laughter meshed together, terrifyingly obscene.

The door hung at a skewed angle, partially open, yet blocking his view to the inside of the cabin. A sane man would have stopped to evaluate, to plan. That man would have approached cautiously, assessing the best way to handle the situation. Looking, stopping, and listening.

The high-pitched scream trailing into a sobbing whimper stripped away sanity, and in that void rage and unimaginable pain filled the vacated space.

Sonny swung wide and came at the door full tilt, ramming it open with his left shoulder, using the impact to direct his momentum. He twisted and raised the rifle, planting the stock against his left shoulder and caressing the trigger with a lover’s touch. He squeezed off three rounds, noting the tight pattern of blood blossoming on the trapper’s torso. The man’s body sailed toward the fireplace, his body impacting with a crunch and crumbling to the dirt floor in a heap.

Sonny stared at the bloody mess, mesmerized, unaware of time passing until Michael whispered, “Help,” and he turned to find Michael’s feet and legs slowly sinking toward the steel traps.

Yelling, “You fucking do NOT get to hurt him anymore,” Sonny swung the butt of the rifle at the traps, knocking them to the side as Michael’s feet touched down.

The rifle tumbled to the floor as Sonny reached for his hunting knife, his left hand steadying Michael’s ravaged torso. It took an eternity before he was able to saw through the restraints making a bloody mess of Michael’s wrists. Sonny eased his broken lover to the floor, then made quick work of loosening the bindings off his wrists and ankles, taking care not to further chaff the severely damaged flesh.

Holding Michael in his arms, Sonny crooned, “I’ve got you, babe. You’re safe now.”

Michael weakly husked, “That was a damn fool thing to do...” as he drifted away.

Grimly Sonny murmured, “It’s what fools do, Warden Brooks. Get fucking used to it.”

Cavalry

––––––––

M
ichael gritted his teeth, partially from the pain, but mostly because Tex was driving him batshit crazy, stopping every two minutes to check on him.

“You’re bleeding again.” Sonny tut-tutted, not something Michael had ever actually heard a human do, but what came out of his caretaker’s mouth certainly mimicked the sound. Sonny added, “You need stitches.”

Michael looked askance at the medical kit in Sonny’s hands. He was pretty sure the damn thing contained a needle and a length of surgical thread. The shallow vee sliced off his hip, leaving a flap hanging, didn’t hurt as much as the puncture holes spaced randomly on his pecs and underneath his arms. Yes, it needed stitching. No, he wasn’t concerned about it, not with the miles of Coflex and wound dressing buffering his damaged skin from his flannel shirt.

Sonny had triaged him within an inch of his life, and now he was on the mule, moving toward camp and away from that chamber of horrors. All in all, it counted as a big honking win in his book.

“Do you need to rest... you need to rest.”

Michael barked, “I’m fine.” The mule twitched an ear.
Liar
. “Just... let’s keep moving. The sooner we get back to camp, the better.”

“What happens then?”

Good question. Without any way to call for help, it was up to them to effect their own rescue, which meant retracing their steps up the mountain and back to Sand Lake. But first, he needed for Sonny to find his gelding. There was no way he was leaving his old friend to the whims of nature. Not wearing a full kit that could get caught on something, hanging him up and leaving him easy pickings for a mountain lion.

They were rounding a steep incline, picking their way upslope. Michael looked at the skid marks on the stony ground and groaned, “Please tell me you didn’t come down that way.”

Sonny shrugged. “Wasn’t as bad as it looks.” His face colored as he mumbled, “Besides, I was distraught.”

Michael was pretty sure it was actually worse than it looked, but he clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to sound like a nag or be perceived as criticizing. He reached down and stroked Sonny’s cheek. “You done good, Tex. Just, promise me... next time you’re feeling
distraught
, you’ll think before you leap.”

Sonny countered, “You promise to stay out of trouble?”

“Define trouble.”

Sonny huffed, “Don’t start. I’m fricking trying to breathe here, dude.” He was hanging onto the stirrup, allowing the mule to tail him up the hill on uneven ground. Two steps forward, one back.

Michael growled, “Let me walk for a bit. He can tail both of us up to the flats. After that it’s pretty smooth sailing to the lake.”

“Shut up and ride, Brooks. You collapse on this damn slope and there’s no way I’m getting you back on board. Fifty yards, we’re almost there.”

They bantered back and forth, passing the time, the barbs sometimes sharpish and edgy. Being good natured was a luxury for the past; now their reality dogged them like a bad smell. Michael didn’t take it personally, but he wasn’t Sonny. He mumbled, “Sorry.” Just because he had years of burying shit away successfully, didn’t mean his lover did. Sonny stared up at him curiously. Michael swallowed the thought—
I’m no fucking good at this
—and admitted, “Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up.”

His lover grinned. “I think I have just the thing to help with that.”

“Thing. What kind of thing?” Despite his injuries and the exhaustion settling around him like a shroud, his cock stirred.

Smirking, Sonny said, “A gag.”

“Oh, you mean like something to shove in my mouth. Something long and... thick?”

Sonny muttered, “Jesus,” and adjusted his jeans. When he looked up at Michael, he threatened, “Be careful what you wish for, Warden Brooks. I get kind of crazy when I’m... distraught.”

Chuckling, Michael pointed to a gap in the trees. “There’s the lake.” He paused and stood in the stirrups, straining to see through the late evening haze rising off the warm water. He immediately regretted the movement. “Looks like the cavalry’s here, Dr. Rydell.” He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Is that George, the warden from Sand Lake?”

Michael answered, “Looks like. His brother, too.”

In a flash, the ache and burning sensations returned with a vengeance. He’d held them at bay by daydreaming of having another day or two alone with Sonny before they headed back to civilization and the awkward farewell
, nice to have known you, let’s do this again sometime
dance. As much as he welcomed the help, the timing sucked.

George yelped, “Christ, what happened to you? Your horse come back a few hours ago, had us shitting blue bricks wondering.”

“Nice to see you, too, George.” Michael dismounted, only to end up in a heap on the damp ground. Hands lifted him to his feet, reaching under his arms to pull him upright. He whimpered as searing pain lanced his shoulders.

Sonny barked, “Don’t. Not there. He’s been... hurt.”

George’s brother, Jon, gripped Michael around the waist and half dragged him back to the campsite while, in the background, Sonny tersely explained what had happened. Michael collapsed on the wool blanket, happy to stop moving. His wounds had seeped through their protective bandages and into his flannel shirt. He felt sticky and filthy dirty, drained to the point of not caring if he lived or died. When someone wrapped his shoulders with the sleeping bag and laid him down next to the fire pit, he didn’t object. Sleep pulled him down fast, along with the nightmares.

When Michael woke, it was to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying. The delicious odors made his mouth water as he eased himself upright to look around. George was on the opposite side of the fire, his face in shadows. His brother sat next to him. Michael scanned the area, seeking Sonny, but the night masked all but the blaze and their little group huddled around it.

Panicking, Michael barked, “Tex?” He rocked onto his knees, scrabbling for purchase to launch himself upright.

George spoke, his voice reassuring. “Whoa, boy. Your... friend... is down at the lake. Said he needed to clean up. He’ll be back soon, I expect.”

Michael’s brain registered the hesitation, the pause at the word
friend
. Half mad with pain and anxiety, he nearly laughed out loud. George had missed the mark by a mile. Seamus Rydell wasn’t just a friend, and to call him that was a disservice to what the lanky man had finally become—his partner in every sense of the word. His lover. Maybe even his soulmate.

Jon asked, “You need help, Michael?”

The answer was yes, but the two men who were his friends didn’t have what he needed, so he said, “No, I can manage.”

George argued, “Jon, go with him,” but Michael shook his head no and moved away as Jon spoke quietly with his older brother. He staggered toward the hot springs pond, taking their well-worn path, pounded into the hard ground by their boots, night after night under moonlit skies with a chorus of coyotes serenading in the distance.

Sonny had worked his way further around the bend, choosing a spot where he wouldn’t be seen from the camping area unless someone was looking for him. His clothes were scattered haphazardly along the shore—his shirt here, a boot there, then another, belt and jeans, underpants tossed to float at the water’s edge.

Michael kicked off his boots, then waded in, not bothering to strip. As he approached, Sonny ducked his head, acknowledging Michael’s presence. As Michael slipped behind Sonny, his lover relaxed into the warmth of the embrace. Michael grunted as the slices and puncture wounds exploded with malicious agony, the stinging so intense he might have fainted had Sonny not gripped his arms and held him tight. Gradually, the sensation of being flayed alive dissipated, until only the heat remained to coddle his ravaged body with sympathetic wavelets.