Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (26 page)

Grabbing the broom, Sally swept the floor while Michael crouched down, holding the dustpan. She murmured, “Wasn’t nothing, jes what friends do for friends.”

Michael emptied the dustbin into the trashcan and hung it on a hook by the back door. No matter how much Sally and her tribe claimed it was nothing, he owed the woman big time. She and Dolly had seen to finding a nurse to stop by when he’d been discharged from the hospital. The kids had run shifts, checking on him. Seeing he had meals on the table, his prescriptions filled. Cody had snuck him six-packs and tended to the horses. The boy had driven thirty miles out and back to Hank’s place, on his own nickel, riding Red, keeping him fit and the mustang from going feral again. Without asking, the kid had also checked on Sonny’s mule and the mare, reporting back on their condition.

The fact Sonny hadn’t sent for his mounts was the only bright spot in a universe that seemed like a black hole sucking all the energy and joy from his life.

He reminded Sally once more, “It wasn’t nothing, and I intend to repay my debts.”

“We’ll see, Warden.” She frowned. “Winter’s coming. Plenty of downtime if you’re still around. I’ll have things need worked on. If you’re here.”

Michael grabbed his hat off the hook and tapped it on his thigh. He wasn’t sure about setting it over the bun. There was no sense knocking the damn contraption askew, not after all that effort to make him look presentable. He scrubbed at his smooth skin and grinned. “How do I look? Sexy?”

“Fetching.” Making shooing motions with her hands, Sally said, “Now skedaddle, boy. I got me better things to do than lube your ego.” Before he made it out the front door, Sally reminded him, “I’ll send the boy with your clothes. You sure you don’t want to go shopping? Get somethin’ decent to wear.”

“Not a date, remember?”

“Right.”

Michael shut the door and shivered. The wind was eastering, the air dampish with the scent of snow. If he was lucky they’d have a storm hit long before he had to head west to the base of the Snowys, dumping a foot of snow and keeping him snug in his trailer with a bottle of whiskey and his memories.

But, first things first. He had a meeting with Paul. He wasn’t looking forward to it because if the answer was yes, then that would be that. A done deal.

Yes would be the little change that meant him finally coming to terms with his recent past. Yes would take him off the cops’ radar and the questions that seemed to hound him without rhyme or reason. Yes would give the government suits an excuse to pat themselves on the back, a reward for them appearing fair-minded while shoving the last of the unpleasantness under the table.

****

W
ithout looking up at the knock on the door jamb, Paul motioned Michael into his office. “Sit. I just need to finish this. Won’t take a minute.”

A minute lasted twenty, giving Michael plenty of time to break out in a nervous sweat. When his boss finally snapped the laptop shut and looked up, he chuckled. “New look for your new job, Brooks?”

Swallowing his relief and a conflicting wash of dismay, Michael said, “I got it then.”

“Pretty much. Just needs the usual signatures. Mind you, it’s not effective until first of the year. Should give you plenty of time to make arrangements.” Although his expression was kindly, Michael sensed his boss wasn’t comfortable with his decision.

Paul reached into his desk and pulled out a file folder, shoving it across the desk toward Michael. “That’s your paperwork. This ain’t your first rodeo, I know, but some of the procedures will be different. You’ll have time to refresh your training, get up to speed on protocols.”

Michael stretched for the folder, but Paul put his hand on it first. “I understand why you’re doing this, son, I do. But it’s a big change, don’t you think?”

Michael shrugged. “Not so big. It’s the same job, pretty much. You’re still the head honcho. I’ll just be working out of the Douglas Ranger Station at the other end of the state.”

Paul wrinkled his nose. “Whole lotta nothing up there. You sure you want that?”

Did he? It was a fair question. The answer wasn’t easy or clear, but at least it was honest. “Can’t say what I want anymore, Paul. My head’s so fucked up, I can barely see straight. And you know it.” George’s words haunted him. “I need time and space.”

“Well, space you’ll have. There’s nothing like ten million acres of land and a half dozen interagency interests to juggle. Don’t expect you’ll get bored.” He leaned forward, his stare intent. “You sure you want to deal with that kind of a mixed ownership landscape, especially now?” He sat back and sighed. “I don’t want you jumping from the frying pan into the fire, Michael.”

“I appreciate it, Paul.” He stood to shake hands. “Here’s the thing, though... I won’t know until I try.”

Paul nodded he understood, but as Michael bent to pick up the folder, his boss said, “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Give it the weekend to think on this.” He tapped the folder with a forefinger. “If you’re still wanting the transfer, then I’ll expedite it. Meantime, you’ll have whatever you need to get yourself settled. Is it a deal?”

Michael shrugged. It was no skin off his nose to wait a few days. Nothing he knew of was going to change his mind at this point. His heart and his emotions might be a fucked up mess, but not his ability to do his job. The only difference was, in the near future he’d be looking at a horizon stretching to infinity instead of the sawtooth beauty of the Snowy Range.

As Michael left the office, Paul said, “Hope everything works out tonight.”

Does everybody in Laramie know I’m going to dinner at Hank’s place, for crying out loud?

What You Get at Hello

––––––––

T
he last of the light had faded as Michael drove down to the barn to say hi to his horses. He had a bag of carrots and a couple apples along to appease his guilt for ignoring them, letting Cody be his surrogate while he got his shit together.

He mumbled, “Look how well that worked out.”

Red nickered a greeting and nudged his hand, searching for a treat. The rule was, no hand-feeding. Apparently young Cody hadn’t gotten the memo. He reminded himself to have a word with the kid, then cursed softly. What difference did it make? Soon enough he’d have to find another place to board the horses, along with finding a spot to park his trailer.

Idly he wondered if he could afford to buy a piece of ground to call his own. If not that, then perhaps he could rent something. It only needed to be big enough for himself, with a run-in shed for the horses, and a storage building for hay and equipment. Fenced, with sweet water.

“Yeah, right. Dream on, asshole.”

Disgruntled, he wished he had a good excuse to back out, but Hank was aware he was at the barn, and Cookie had called out dinner wasn’t for another hour so take his time. He flicked on the overhead light and strode toward the tack room, breathing in the sweet scent of alfalfa and the more pungent aroma of manure still sitting in a wheelbarrow at the far exit.

Looking to kill time, he grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and pushed the load toward the manure pile. Tipping it, then rocking it back and forth, he dispensed the load and returned the wheelbarrow to the barn, leaving it resting against the outer wall.

A bray caught his attention. Leaving the light in the aisle on, Michael followed the sound to a pasture at the far end of the warren of paddocks. He didn’t need his night vision to kick in. The mule’s multi-colored coat stood out like a sore thumb. Although he couldn’t see the little bay mare, he knew she’d be hovering close to the mule’s flank.

He called, “Hey, Spot,” and got an ear twitch for his efforts.

Placing his right foot on the lower rung of the fence, he crossed his arms along the top rail and let his attention wander back to Timber Lake, when he and Sonny had sunk to their necks in the steam heat, listening to the sounds of their mounts munching grass and the soft susurrations of water lapping the gravel shore. That was a good memory, one worth keeping.

There were others...

Him laying saddles and whatever he could get his hands on to keep their tent from flying to Idaho, Sonny doing the Hercules imitation, holding their small world up and cussing a blue streak. He’d heard the words, muffled—sometimes yanked away by the howling gale or buried under the ping of icy pellets—but swearing he’d show the elements what a tent pole looked like when the going got tough.

He’d nearly died of laughter.

But then he’d also nearly died of hypothermia. If it hadn’t been for Sonny sharing his warmth and keeping him from falling down that hole where nothing much mattered, where you gave in to the weight on your eyelids, said
fuck this, I’m done
... Seamus Rydell had saved his bacon that night.

Had he said thank you? He couldn’t remember. Maybe it didn’t matter. For him, it wasn’t the words so much, but the being there, working together. That’s what counted, finding a man you could depend on. When you did, a man paid in kind. With loyalty, sometimes with affection. Maybe even love.

Seamus Rydell was like tabs on a file folder. The main label was the researcher, with a list of bona fides and tags that told you what the man did. They didn’t say squat about who that man was. Sonny was the name those closest to the man knew him by, a shortcut to parsing out the bits that mattered to colleagues, family, and acquaintances. Tex was the traveling companion who became his friend, then his lover. Mister Zero was the fantasy, the icing on the cake, the one who gave as good as he got.

He’d fallen hard for all of them.

But now, after it was too late, with his lover gone MIA, Michael didn’t know what to think, how to feel, who to be. He tried on sorry for a time. It wasn’t a good fit, mostly because, when he dug deep and took a hard gander at what he’d done—claiming credit for the takedown—truth was... he’d do it again. He knew Sonny had bolted for D.C. That much his boss had shared. As to where exactly, Paul had simply shrugged and blown him off, like it was his fault, his alone.

And it was troublesome that Paul knew the truth, yet he did nothing about it. No running to the cops, no full disclosure, no sitting him down and saying
nice try, son, but let the man stand on his own two feet, you carried enough of the burden, let Rydell share it with you.

Not that Michael disagreed, particularly on a philosophical level, but he knew how bad telling the truth could get. Mostly he knew he had a debt that needed paying. Saving Dr. Rydell’s reputation was all he had to offer. The man was returning to Washington, no matter how Michael ached for a different outcome. Once he accepted that, then making the decision to protect his friend had been easy and all too simple.

The world had already branded him a hot head, a shoot-from-the-hip wild man. And if Sonny hadn’t done it, if somehow he’d gotten free, he knew he’d have cut the trapper down like vermin, without a second thought. And he told himself he’d rest easy at night.

But he hadn’t. Instead, the man he cared about above all others was bearing the burden without having had the opportunity to vindicate his actions to the world, and to himself.

He woke up every morning asking himself,
what the hell have I done?

Michael felt rather than heard someone approach. He hoped Hank had brought him a beer as his willingness to step outside his comfort zone was dying a fast death. The mood he was in wasn’t conducive to making small talk with a stranger.

Resting his chin on his arms, he said, “Listen, Hank... about...”

“Hank’s at the house. He sent me down to find you.”

The cool night air bled from Michael’s lungs, leaving his chest hollowed out and his head near to bursting as blood pounded through his veins. Terrified he was hallucinating—his imagination running wild and putting words in his head to confuse him—Michael whispered, “Tex?”

“Michael.”

Still not able to bring himself to look at the man so close he wore his body heat like a benediction, Michael whispered, “Why are you here?”

“I’m your date.”

“Fuck you are.”

“That depends.” There was a lilt to Sonny’s voice, a teasing Michael recognized from their hours together, passing the time, enjoying each other’s company. The kind of teasing Mister Zero brought to the party.

“Depends on what?” Michael trembled as their shoulders brushed.

Sonny’s voice deepened, his tone now serious. “We need to talk.”

“Talking’s not going to change anything. Not now.” A scrape of boot on hard ground, a hiss of breath told Michael he’d hit the mark. That sorry he’d flirted with briefly reared its ugly head, but so did the hurt, the knowing he hadn’t been worth staying for.

Sonny paused long enough Michael figured that was that, but then he continued like he hadn’t heard the weak challenge. The words seemed to come with a struggle, though—the thought half-formed. “About why I left...”

Bumping his forehead on his arms, Michael interrupted. “I know why you left.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

Michael tilted his head, eyes glued to fists gripping the top rail, the knuckles paled even in the dim light cast from the barn door. He sensed the debate beginning, the recriminations that would follow, a pattern he’d allowed by taking matters into his own hands. By making a decision about a man’s life without asking.

He was in the wrong. He was also hurt. Handling the one was hard enough, handling both was like him ripping his chest open and yanking out his heart and handing it to Seamus Rydell, still beating.

Straightening his shoulders, but still not looking Sonny in the eye, Michael said, “Explain it then,” unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

They watched the mule moving about restlessly. Michael wondered if the animal could sense the tension, feel the discord and the tentativeness making their air heavy, breathing it hard. Michael solved the problem by not breathing at all as Sonny explained, slowly at first, then picking up speed as he got past what sounded rehearsed to the part where neither of them was comfortable.

Sonny fleshed out about his family, how he grew up, bits and bobs Michael already knew or guessed. The aunt in Congress. Her expectations. Sonny’s own fears that he’d disappoint people he cared about, but mostly fearing he’d never stand on his own two feet if he didn’t own up to what he wanted to do with his life.