Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (5 page)

A sob tore through him, terror overriding his sense of self, fear catapulting him into allowing this... this possession, because denial wasn’t part of the compact, the one he’d signed, sealed and delivered when he’d agreed to see where the evening went.

He’d known all along where it would go—here, to this moment in time where he’d already hurtled past the point of no return, throwing caution to the winds. For once he had a reason to step outside his comfort zone, the zone that dictated he be sensible all his life. Tonight was about more than taking a risk, putting himself in someone else’s hands. Tonight, he wanted just one thing—a simple, elegant thing.

He wanted a memory.

****

A
wareness was slow to manifest, lying adrift at the edges of consciousness, pinioned by points of contact, knee to hard muscle, cock burning with a thousand flames, leaking lava to coat and ease the slipping pressure of lust. The pads on his thumbs punished flesh stubbled and rough and released the scent of desire with undertones of fear and confusion.

The fragrance of the moment would be remembered, like actions embedded in muscle memory, and released in a long, slow glide of skin on skin. It went beyond touch, beyond the sensation of otherness, knowing his strokes and humping were simply a prelude to something transitory and dishonest.

Michael released Sonny abruptly, dropping his hands to his sides, stepping back, and allowing the blood pounding through his veins to turn coldly viscous as surprise turned to dismay on Sonny’s face.

It’s not you, it’s me.

He owed the man an explanation. He had none to offer.

Sonny saved him the need, rasping into the chill night air, “You’re right. This is too fast.” He stooped down to pick up the hat, handing it over with a sad smile, and murmured, “Thanks,” as Michael gripped the brim, the transfer expedited with a need to dissemble and bleed back into the night.

Hating himself with every fiber of his being, Michael spun on his heels and stalked to his truck, keying it open and vaulting into the cab. He counted off the seconds as the diesel cranked to life, forcing his retreat into an orderly, sane exit. Stop, look, listen. Turn left. Stare into the glare of a thousand suns until it melted into the blue of strobe lights and the taunts of oncoming traffic.

He almost missed the turn, pulling a hard right at the last minute, his lapse unremarked as traffic whizzed past, content to lose his presence. He’d been part of the conga-line, now he wasn’t. No one seemed to care.

Why do I?

The trailer was dark. Hot. Whispering secrets. There was no Adam here, no vestige of him lurking in the corners of the metal box he called home. Why did it feel as if the air was saturated with his essence?

Stripping to bare skin, Michael tapped his way through the narrow aisle separating table from couch, fumbling with the sliding door into the narrow confines of the head. He stepped into the shower, reached for the spigots. Cold. Hot. Adjusting automatically until the spray hit with tepid force. He wet himself down, closed the valves, and applied the liquid soap, the scent of coconut barely suppressing the heady odor of residual sweat, musk and lust.

The scent of Sonny. The man with no last name. He’d forgotten to ask. He might not have remembered it anyway, but the man’s scent? That he would never forget.

Scrubbing viciously at the grit and grime coating his skin, his hands followed the trail toward his cock. Turgid, rigid. Aching with disappointment. He thrust his hips into his hands, the motion truncated in the cramped space. Moisture clogged the air he breathed, cum clogged his balls.

It hurts, God it hurts so good.

Leaning against the fiberglass wall, he pinched the base of his cock with his left hand, his right finding the magic spot along the taint. Pressing with his thumb, he stroked and denied, denied and stroked until all he felt was Sonny, all he remembered was Sonny, all he wanted was Sonny.

Regret burrowed into his skull. He fought it. He was done with it, pumping it out and away, cursing Adam, cursing Sonny. Wanting one, just one.

He’d have worshiped either.

Flushed, exhausted, he rinsed quickly with the icy cold water that shriveled his skin and reminded him he’d best get used to it. Soon he’d be roughing it in the high country. Keeping it simple and real, once more solitary, just him and his thoughts.

After wrapping a towel around his waist, he let his night vision guide him back to the pile of clothes on the floor. Out of habit, he emptied his pockets and checked his phone for messages, not that anyone called him anymore. He was surprised to see that Paul had rung twice, neither time bothering with voicemail. Typical. The man was a technophobe, hated modern gadgets.

The third was a text message...

where the fuck are you

change of plan

Sat 11

new guy here connected fucker

saddle up apone

yer babysitting

over out

Michael muttered, “Dammit. Why me, Paul? What did I ever do to you?” That was all he needed...to play nursemaid to some yahoo, probably from the state capital looking to schmooze with a few fly fishermen in search of votes.

He cursed the heavens, his boss, fate, the weather and himself, then threw the cell on the couch and watched it bounce once, then roll onto the floor. As he bent to retrieve it, he sighed with frustration.

“Way to end a perfect, fucking night. Guess this means my vacation is over.”

Meet and Greet

––––––––

M
ichael tapped the last of the old straw into the wheelbarrow and set the manure fork against the wall. With a grunt he wheeled the load out of the stall and down the concrete aisle, enjoying the strain on muscles still aching from his exertions in the arena the night before. Tipping the mess onto the manure pile behind the barn, he mumbled, “Shit,” when something in his shoulder popped loud enough to echo in the still morning air.

A chuckle warned him he wasn’t alone.

“You know you pay me an arm and a leg to do that for you, don’t you, Mr. Brooks?”

“It’s Michael, and yeah... But I like seeing to my own stock much as I can.” He removed his deerskin gloves and offered his hand in greeting. After a few pleasantries, he said, “Sorry I can’t stay long. My boss called me in for an emergency meeting later this morning.”

“Thought you said you were on vacation.”

“That’s what I thought, too, Hank. But apparently it got overruled.” He tipped the wheelbarrow against the wall and grabbed the broom setting nearby, using quick strokes to clean the aisle. He liked keeping his space neat and tidy, even if he was only leasing it. As he worked, he chatted with the ranch manager, observing, “See you have a couple new boarders.”

Hank nodded. “They came in yesterday. Seem to have settled in just fine.”

“Is it me, or is that the ugliest mule on the planet?”

Laughing out loud, Hank agreed. “Pretty is as pretty does. Owner won’t argue the point, but apparently the mule’s trail savvy enough to overcome his other, less attractive traits.”

“Little mare looks like a sweet ride. Make a good kid’s mount.” He eyed the petite bay with appreciation. “She’s got a kind eye.” He paused, squinting at the mule. “Had a mule, back when I got my first gig up in the Big Horns. Tried packing with him but never did work out an arrangement that suited. Ended up giving him to an outfitter.”

“How’d that work out?”

He and Hank leaned against the metal fence, arms folded along the top rail, their eyes scanning the brightening horizon to the east. The individual paddocks stretched for nearly an acre apiece, like exaggerated dog runs, each one with access to the stalls. It was a nice setup for folks who wanted to retrieve their mounts quickly, without needing to round them up with a four-wheeler on the thirty-acre pasture just over the rise.

They settled on staring at the mule as Michael explained, “The outfitter tried everything. Special made panniers, cloth saddlebags, you name it. Mule just laid down and refused to get up. There was talk of just shooting him to be done with it, but then one of their trail guys asked if he could have a go.”

Michael paused as Hank lit up, inhaled and then exhaled, thinking
I’ve got to quit
before accepting a smoke. He layered on the guilt, adding it to the pile he’d created the night before. The added weight of it barely registered.

“So what happened?”

Shifting the cigarette to his left hand, Michael twisted enough to give his right arm space. He made a popping motion, a short, sharp jab at Hank’s face without connecting. Hank’s eyes bulged but he didn’t move a muscle.

“That. First goddam thing every morning. Pop that sumbitch on the muzzle hard enough he blinked, but not so hard he’d swing his butt around and nail the guy. After that, he was fine. He packed a load or a rider, didn’t much matter.”

“What happened if you didn’t do that?”

“Well... and I only heard it second hand, the mule got so good at his job, the head wrangler figured the mule was safe. So the one time they decided to overlook that step was when a hunting client got tossed down a ravine. He survived.”

“What about the mule?”

“He didn’t.” Michael shrugged. A lot of their stories didn’t have happy endings. It was harsh country. Men made harsh decisions. It was what it was.

Hank unraveled his frame and said, “On that unpleasant note, you want to come in for breakfast? Cookie will be serving it up pretty soon.”

“Thanks, but I best be getting back.” He scrubbed at his chin whiskers. “I got the feeling I should look presentable for this meeting.” There was a first time for everything.

“Okay then. You still want them turned out with the big group or wait?”

“Wait. I got a feeling I might need them next week. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Good enough, Warden. And good luck with that meeting.” Tipping his hat, Hank strode toward the main lodge, leaving Michael alone to watch his two geldings for a few more precious minutes.

****

D
oubling over, Sonny checked his pulse, his lungs starved for oxygen. He was used to pounding the pavement, getting his distance in by measuring city blocks, not miles of back country roads that ended at a cattle grate and yet another access point for privately owned grazing land. Unlike in the north, up near the Wind River Range where the herds were moved to higher grazing ground managed by the BLM, the valley stretching east from the Snowys was crisscrossed by large and small operations that specialized in hay as well as beef cattle production.

From his vantage point on a ridge overlooking the guest ranch, he could see the plumes of irrigation as the unwieldy devices made their slow, stately way across immense fields of alfalfa and barley.

His thigh muscles burning from a buildup of lactic acid, he opted for a slow jog rather than the sprint that had seemed a good idea when he’d awakened to a boner and memories of being dumped unceremoniously behind that damn roadhouse. Every stride, every impact with the packed sandy road had been a
fuck him, fuck him
rhythm driving him to a level of stupid he hadn’t permitted himself in a very long time.

He was going to pay in pain. And he didn’t care. At least that kind of pain was real. He could deal with it. Ice it, massage it. Own it.

But in spite of his resolve, the phantom refused to release him. Like a fiend it still possessed his every thought, every step of the dance replaying in his mind on an endless repeat loop. Feeling those hands on his hips, the fingers around his throat, that knee spreading him open. The wash of emotion pouring off Michael, it had threatened to drown them both. Michael had been on the verge of an assault, the promise of an act so out-of-control Sonny still quaked at the memory.

He’d been churning the incident over in his mind for hours, losing sleep, losing confidence. Now he was running to expunge his inability to stop craving it, whatever “it” might have been. A memory, that’s all he’d wanted, a chance to let the bad boy inside come out to play. Instead, a wicked man had teased him to the point where his inhibitions simply collapsed, then abandoned him to blue balls, leaving him horny as fuck and madder ’n hell.

Huffing, “I hope I never see that bastard again,” he slid down the bank on his heels and ass, landing with a satisfying thud near the warren of paddocks. Wheezing from the effort, he circled behind the barn, the dry air sucking moisture from his skin, coating it with a layer of awareness and regret that he’d decided on wearing just his nylon track shorts for his morning exercise. The chill was pebbling his nipples but doing nothing to cool his jets.

Fingers to the pulse in his neck, he power walked while counting off beats as he stared at his watch, satisfied he hadn’t lost too much fitness during his stint in D.C. There hadn’t been a lot of free time to keep after his fitness goals, not when days and night were taken up with schmoozing the head honchos at the USDA and acting like a talking puppet for his cousin Renee. The learning curve had been as tough as he feared, though he was grateful to have survived without too much damage to his self-esteem. He just needed to overcome one more hurdle, then he and his career were off and running.

Sniffing the air, he detected the faint odor of smoke and smiled as he rounded the corner of the barn, expecting to find Hank tending to morning feeding.

The collision rocked him onto his heels, hurtling him backwards as his running shoes lost traction and dislodged his center of gravity. He was going down. Muttering, “Dammit,” he braced for impact only to have strong hands lift him up and set him upright—hands that cupped his hipbones, with thumbs straying south to the elastic on his running shorts.

Without looking, he’d recognize that touch anywhere. On sturdy cotton it had burned through the layers, leaving residual heat and a lingering sensation of unbridled power. On his bare skin, it created a rupture in his sanity, the shock waves so profound he shut down every sensation but that touch. A single point of contact that picked up where they’d left off the night before.