Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (22 page)

Resting his chin on Sonny’s shoulder, Michael husked, “You did what you had to do, Tex. If you hadn’t come, I was a dead man.”

“I know.”

“Knowing’s one thing, living with it can be a bitch.”

Sonny murmured, “I’m not sorry, Michael. It’s just...” Sonny’s body tensed as the words trailed off.

“Just what?” Michael wrapped his legs tighter around Sonny’s thighs. “No one needs to know it was you. I’ll take the blame. God knows, I’ve got enough evidence on my sorry body nobody’s gonna think twice about it. And if they do, fuck ’em.”

Countering with a voice raspy with emotion, Sonny said, “That’s not it, Michael. Yeah, I killed a monster. I’m not sorry, and I don’t give a flying fuck who knows it.”

Michael squeezed his arm, interrupting the tirade. “There’ll be an inquiry. Lawyers. The media. It’s likely to turn into a three-ring circus. You don’t need that shit. I won’t jeopardize your career and your reputation for somebody like me.”

At that, Sonny jerked away, flailing as he hit a deep spot and sank to his neck. Michael grasped his right hand and pulled him to safety.

Sputtering, Sonny shouted, “Somebody like you? What’s that supposed to mean?” He stood over Michael, eyes wild, steam blowing off his skin in waves as he pounded the water with his fists.

Attempting to defuse the situation, Michael quietly explained, “I have a rep for losing my cool. Hell, I already shot the asshole once. That first time I was making an assumption about what that lunatic had in mind.” Michael yanked at his shirt, popped the buttons and pulled it open to reveal the sodden bandages soaked through with dark blood. “I think this will be enough to convince a jury I was acting in self-defense, don’t you?”

“No, wait.” Sonny’s lips trembled, as he husked, “You aren’t listening.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Michael frowned, putting emotional distance between himself and the man determined to ruin his life for no good reason. Michael could protect Sonny from everything except the man’s self-imposed guilt. He had some experience with that. He also knew that solutions were thin on the ground when it came to dealing with the
mea culpas
creating emotional chaos in your head and heart.

If Sonny took the high road and confessed, it might be a crap shoot whether or not some asshole attorney looking to score points in the political arena would nail him with second degree, crime of passion shit. And that wasn’t the only worst case scenario. Justifiable homicide might not garner criminal charges, but it would have long-lasting consequences with that incident coming back to haunt Sonny for the rest of his life.

Michael owed Seamus Rydell more than he could ever repay, but taking the responsibility for shooting a madman was a good start.

Tight-lipped, Sonny said, “I think we’re done here,” as he waded around Michael, heading for the shoreline.

Confused, Michael followed him out of the water and watched as Sonny gathered his clothes, yanking them on until he was fully dressed. With a sneer, Sonny said, “I almost lost you today. Do you think I give a shit about taking out that asshole who was torturing you?” Michael took a step toward Sonny, but the tall man held up his hand to stop him. “Do you
really
think I care about publicity or what it means for my goddamn job?”

“Sonny...”

“No! No, Michael. You don’t get it at all.” He turned and stalked away, leaving Michael gasping for air and wondering what the hell had just happened.

****

S
onny ordered Jon to take care of Michael while he saw to the horses and his mule. George asked if he needed help, and without waiting for an answer, joined him as he led the stock to the stream for a drink.

It was odd how you noticed things long after an event. Arriving at the camp, he’d focused on seeing to Michael’s wounds, getting him comfortable enough to sleep. He’d occupied his thoughts with the mundane—tidying up, gathering kindling for the fire, bringing up buckets of water so they could have coffee. He wasn’t sure how he’d feed four men, what with their stores so low, but George had anticipated that by offering to share the few provisions they’d brought along.

That’s when it clicked. “How the heck did you and your brother get here?” He looked around the area. “Not seeing any horses.”

“Teleportation.” Sonny cringed. Great, another jokester. He was not in the mood. George grinned. “Sorry. Just jerking your chain. Jon and me used his Gator. We had to take the long way around after we come across those landslides. Sumbitch ATV’s got clearance but it’s not that good.” He looked contrite, as if anything he’d done would have made one iota of a difference.

That raised another question. “Why were you looking for us, anyways?”

George knelt and scooped water into the folding bucket. When he stood, he said, “You recall, at the lake, when Brooks said he thought the cabin by the shore might have seen some recent use?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Didn’t think nothing of it at first. We get hikers and fishermen using the cabins as shelter all the time.” He filled the second bucket. “Next day I get a call from Paul Trader... You know him?” Sonny grunted he did. “Anyways, we’re shooting the shit and Paul tells me this trapper Michael shot had been in the hospital. Under guard, mind you. Well, he managed to slip past the cop and next thing you know, he’s in the wind.”

That wasn’t exactly a surprise given their recent encounter. “When did that happen?”

George’s brows came together in a frown. “That’s the thing. It was like thirty-six hours or so after he was admitted. Of course, the hospital notified the sheriff, but they didn’t think to relay that information to the Forest Service... or to Paul. I guess, with Frontier Days going on, they had more important things to do with their time.” The man’s tone of voice made it clear he wasn’t on board with the cops’ priorities.

“So, you think he made his way to Sand Lake?” Sonny tried piecing together the timeline. Michael never mentioned the date of the shooting, so he had no frame of reference for placing the trapper at Sand Lake, then later on near Timber Lake. He admitted, “I’m a little lost on what’s happening when.”

George explained, “Between the time you boys left on trail, and Michael taking that pot shot at the campground, it was coming a good three or four weeks. Plenty of time for that asshole to get into the high country and disappear.” He picked up the two buckets of water and waited for Sonny to unhook the lead ropes from the halters. Sighing, George said, “Course, we’ll never know for sure, but it’s a good bet that fella’s been squatting in abandoned cabins for a good, long time. There’s certainly plenty to choose from, and not all of them are on established trails.”

Sonny spat, “You mean to tell me, we could have avoided all this if we’d known he was on the loose.”

“Don’t worry, son. Paul will have a word. It won’t happen again.”

Sonny wasn’t concerned about it happening again. The fact was, choices had been made that had put Michael Brooks at risk. If Michael’s boss had known about the escape, he’d never have agreed to Sonny’s field trip. Sonny would have been disappointed, but he also would have understood, knowing a man’s life might be at stake—in which case, he’d never have met Michael at all. Fate was not only fickle, she was a beeyotch of the first rank.

George was saying something, but Sonny hadn’t been listening. A hand on his wrist jerked him out of the fog mucking with his brain.

“I said, son, you might want to cut him some slack.”

Turning to face the older warden, Sonny sneered. “You also said to listen to what he says and don’t make him angry. Now you want me to cut him some slack.” He twisted his wrist, looking to loosen the man’s grip. He failed. “Anything else I should know about Michael Brooks, Warden?”

The man released his wrist and gave him a baleful glare. “No, I expect you think you know everything there is to know, Dr. Rydell.” He tipped his hat and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get our bedrolls out. I want to hit the trail at dawn’s light.” He nodded in the direction of the tent where Jon was still tending to Michael’s wounds. “Jon will help you bring your horses and your gear back to the Sand Lake Campground. The rig’s already there.” He gave Sonny a gimlet-eyed glare and sneered, “I assume you can drive the rig and the animals back to your place without help?”

Stung by the man’s change in tone, Sonny simply nodded. Pivoting on his heels, he retraced his steps, befuddled by the warden making him feel like pond scum. What the hell was going on?

All he’d wanted was a few days in the mountains to set up his instruments and run a couple experiments. Instead, he’d been saddled with attitude and a rollercoaster ride that had him in hormone overload one minute and the depths of despair the next.

He’d sparred with Michael Brooks and shared bits of his life—the things he cared about, his passions. They became friends, and despite everything that had happened, he was in no doubt that facet of their relationship had been genuine.

Then, like it always did, lust jumped aboard and ruined everything. How many people got to bring the old saw
I’d kill for him
to life? Well, he’d done it. And even now, he would never, ever regret it. So what more could he do to show Brooks how he felt, because apparently what he’d done so far wasn’t enough. All Michael saw was him being worried about his exposure to the media, or how his politically sensitive professional relationships would be impacted by the simple act of saving a man’s life.

What was up with that? Did Michael really think he was that shallow?

Sonny grabbed the wool blanket and moved to a spot near where the horses and the mule grazed. All he had to do was get through the night. The two wardens would be on their way back to civilization while he and Jon spent however long it took to reach the campground. After that, he’d deliver the animals to the ranch and email his report to Paul Trader and his minders in D.C.

Life would get back to being neat and tidy. He’d have a schedule. A purpose. Everything would be predictable, as it should be, as it had always been.

And after tomorrow morning, there was no need to see Michael Brooks ever again.

Sleepless in Laramie

––––––––

M
ichael watched with amusement as his newest caregivers bustled about the hospital room arranging magazines on the rolling table and setting up the flowers and greeting cards along the window sill.

Sally’s daughter had somehow morphed into a competent young woman with a mind of her own. Dolly stood her ground when her mother suggested she leave to see to running the RV park office. “It’s sorted, Ma. Cody’s seeing to everything jes fine.” Dolly smoothed the light cotton blanket along Michael’s right leg. “’Sides, how often am I gonna get to tend to a genuine hero?”

Michael objected, “Um, not exactly a hero.” Every time somebody used that word, he cringed.

“Girl’s right,” Sally grumbled, “...for once.” She patted the other leg.

Michael figured if there was such a thing as luck, it was happening right there. His legs were fine, so the gals could touch them all they wanted. The rest of him not so much. The doctors hadn’t been able to stitch what became old wounds by the time they’d hauled his sorry ass into Laramie. By helicopter, for God’s sake. His first ever ride in one of those contraptions, and all he got to see was a sturdy-built woman in a helmet shoving an oxygen mask over his mouth and reciting his vitals to another paramedic jammed into the space behind her.

It turned out a couple of the puncture wounds had hit paydirt, going deep enough to damage his spleen and his gall bladder. He’d been bleeding internally, and the rough rides on the mule and then the ATV hadn’t done much to improve his situation. By the time they had him on a gurney and were life-flighting him out of Sand Lake, he’d already said his silent goodbye to Sonny. He figured accepting he wasn’t going to make it wasn’t the same as giving in, and George’s
you’ll be fine, boy
—uttered without much conviction—had more or less sealed the deal.

What he remembered most about that flight was wondering if anybody would miss him. Now he pondered why he’d asked himself that. The stream of visitors had been non-stop since they’d brought him out of recovery to his private room.

Calling it private was a misnomer. Even in the middle of the night, it was like Grand Central Station, with nurses, Mrs. Trader, and one or the other of the mother-daughter tag team keeping a vigil on him. This morning he got the daily double, both women insisting on making his life as pleasant as possible.

Michael appreciated the effort, he really did, but a little Sally went a long way. He was more used to the reticent youngster, but since her metamorphosis into girlfriend to the hapless Cody, she’d become a force to be reckoned with.

Grumping he needed to pee and then he needed coffee had the ladies jumping to assist him. Sally arranged the pole on wheels and the complex of lines while Dolly folded the blanket and sheet back to allow him to swing his legs over the side. When he had touchdown on the cold floor, both women eased him upright and held him steady while he regained his equilibrium.

Muttering, “I think I can get to the ensuite on my own,” he nearly laughed out loud at Sally’s perplexed look.

Dolly giggled and said, “It’s a bathroom, Ma.”

The older woman sniffed audibly, proclaiming, “I knew that.” When they reached the bathroom, she body blocked her daughter, declaring, “Nothing you need to see here, girlie.”

Michael hurriedly said, “Nothing nobody needs to see here, excepting me.” He bowed his head right and left, muttering, “Ladies,” as he shuffled into the bathroom and secured the door. There was no lock, but at least he’d established a little independence. He’d take his small successes where and when he could.

The day was bound to go downhill pretty quickly. The interview with the detective assigned to his case had been delayed until he had been stabilized after surgery. That meant today was his lucky day. On the bright side, Paul was bringing an attorney buddy of his to sit in. He’d been assured it was all routine.