Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2)

by Nya Rawlyns

  They watched the sun sinking low against the backdrop of the foothills to the Snowys while Sonny told Hank about all the assistance he’d received from the rodeo folks who’d helped him find a place for the mule and the mare when he’d arrived in Laramie, all ready to begin his new life at the University. “The rodeo clown, man by the name of Mateo, informed me the mule was bridle wise. I didn’t have a clue what that meant until Mateo saddled him up, hoisted me on board and slapped the mule’s butt.”

  Hank was chuckling so hard he started coughing. “Sorry, man, but that seems like a hard way to learn to ride.”

  “Wasn’t the only thing I learned that day.” He grinned ruefully. “I’d always wondered why cowboys seemed to walk kinda funny. Now I get it.”

  With a wide and knowing grin on his face, Hank stretched and checked his watch. “Getting late. It’ll be time for supper in an hour. Come on up when you’re ready. Cookie tells me we’re having meatloaf, mashed and peas. Her gravy is to die for.” He patted his belly. “In case you don’t know... Cookie is my wife.” He looked Sonny up and down. “Just a fair warning. She’s gonna want to fatten you up. You’d do well to clean your plate. Just saying.”

  They bid each other farewell until dinner. Sonny took a few minutes to organize the small trunk holding his sad collection of used tack and equipment. Now that he was gainfully employed, maybe he could afford a few upgrades. Like an oversize ballpeen hammer to convince the Mule-with-no-name that the rider knows best. As for Peanut, the little mare got showered with all the affection he had to give.

  He whispered in the mare’s ear, “Even if I find someone, kiddo, you’ll always be my best girl.” The problem with that was he’d taken to saying ‘if’ and not ‘when.’ And even ‘if’ was heading at breakneck speed toward unlikely.

  ****

  Stepping around the bustle sweeping alongside the rodeo holding pens was a lot like coming home for Sonny. He’d been on the team penning squad all through his junior and senior undergrad days, though he’d had to back off when he was accepted into the pathobiology graduate program. He’d kept his riding skills honed as an intern during the summer months, packing into the mountains, tracking and collaring cougar and whatever other wildlife his mentors were studying.

  The mule, of course, didn’t give a flying fuck one way or the other. Ride him, don’t ride him... it was all the same to him. His only requirement was that Peanut came with. End. Of. Discussion. Sonny had discovered early on the little mare made the ideal pack horse. She was nimble and quick, much stronger than her fourteen hands would lead you to believe, and trail savvy. The three of them made a good team as long as everyone agreed on who was in charge.

  Sonny wasn’t too proud to admit it wasn’t him.

  The evening events were in full swing, the stands alive with shouting and hooting as the fans egged on their favorites. He’d missed the team penning, but that was on him for dawdling and talking with the ranch manager as long as he had. Now he needed a bird’s eye view of calf roping, if only he could find an open spot to join the group of jeans-clad cowboys lining the top rail.

  Circling the perimeter, his eyes and attention skyward toward the huge floods illuminating the arena, he never saw the man coming until he connected with a mountain of solid muscle. At six-two Sonny was no light weight, but the shorter cowboy damn near bowled him over. Hands the size of dinner plates steadied him while gunmetal blue eyes raked him over with a fearsome scowl.

  Sonny yelped, “Oh hey, man, I’m so sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He pointed toward the crowded top railing and shrugged. “Looks like I’m SOL.”

  The man chewed his bottom lip, his face hidden in the shadows cast by his hat. He twisted his head and yelled, “Yo, Dolly. Come over here.”

  A teen girl, built solid in an athletic way, came rushing out of the crowd, dragging a tall, skinny kid who looked like he’d blow away in a strong breeze. She smiled at the brick wall still clutching his hips in a hero worship way, exposing a chipped tooth.

  “Take this fella...” He tilted his head up enough Sonny nearly swallowed his tongue when he got a good look at a wet dream of ruggedly handsome. “What’s your name?”

  “Sonny.”

  “Sonny. Okay. Dolly here will take you to the contestant’s area. Stay out of the way and you won’t get tromped on.”

  Sonny muttered, “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  Ruggedly handsome smirked. The scowl was less intimidating. He could do the scowl, oh yes, he could. That wasn’t the only thing he could do...

  Dolly had him by the elbow, ushering him through the chaos, the noise lessening as they dashed behind the shelter of the judges’ stands. He managed to mumble his thanks as the girl indicated a place where he could climb onto the top pole fence and watch the chute opening, releasing the calf into the arena.

  The horse and rider were on the opposite side of the chute. He heard yelling, men complaining, cajoling, shouting and then a heartbeat of silence, followed by a clang and a detonation of sound—pounding hooves, screams, hoots and hollers. A chestnut the size of a tank exploded from the runway, muscles bunching as the hind end dug in. In a blur, horse and rider followed the calf who was bending in a line across the axis of the arena. The man was right-handed. The line was all wrong. He’d have to position the chestnut parallel to the calf in order to have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually making the catch.

  Time slowed. The violent movement of air as the loop left the rider’s hands blanketed the roar from the stands. The chestnut ducked his head into his chest, curling into a sliding stop and jerking left, backing up quickly to tighten the rope. The rider was airborne for an instant, his left stirrup flung skyward as he hit the ground running.

  Sonny counted... a thousand one, a thousand two, a thousand... The crowd roared. The field judge checked the tie as the rider remounted and eased the chestnut forward, putting slack in the rope. The calf needed to stay down and tied for six seconds or the team would be disqualified. Only then was there a collective sigh of relief... and appreciation.

  It wasn’t until the horse and rider approached the exit gate that Sonny realized two things: he’d been watching his wet dream compete and he was still holding his breath.

  The announcer bellowed, “Let’s hear it for Michael Brooks, our new leader with a time of...”

  Michael Brooks. No wonder the teen had worn a hero worship, shit-eating grin.

  “Mister?” He looked down to find fangirl Dolly tugging on his shirt sleeve. “You coming?”

  “Coming where, little lady?”

  The girl pursed her lips and puffed up with importance. “Michael said I’m to fetch you.”

  Did he now? That was interesting, all things considered, and it sort of begged the question. Did he want to be fetched?

  He counted once more... a thousand one... searching for an answer.

  Sometimes fate made it easy. The answer was...

  Oh hell, yeah.

  Chapter Three

  Catch and Release

  There were bad ideas, and then there were really bad ideas. Michael watched his mistake dutifully trotting after Dolly who was waving him away from the horse trailer and in his direction.

  What the hell was he thinking, letting Dolly talk him into meeting up with a perfect stranger? She’d kicked dirt with the toe on her fancy boot, put on her mother’s obstinate and not taking no for an answer face, then disappeared into the crowd before he had a chance to voice an objection, let alone think on whether or not he was even interested.

  As in remotely...

  Tall, lean. Legs long enough to wrap a horse’s barrel, long enough to wrap around other things. Blond hair in a curly mess, like a halo of sunshine, a surfer boy, beach bunny dude if he’d ever seen one. Moved like one, too. Careless, loose jointed, like he’d been born on a boogey board, born to the sea. Sonny. His name’s Sonny. Could it get any better than that?

  Jesus, what’s with you, Brooks?

  Rubb
ing his palms along the grain of his filthy chaps, unconsciously counting off the assets of the angel swaggering in his direction, Michael plastered a neutral expression on his face. It was the one he used with Paul when he was in the wrong and not willing to admit to anything without legal counsel and a damn good excuse.

  Except, this time his excuse was he really did want to see this dude again. One hit, one nanosecond of body contact and he’d been holding onto the guy’s hips like he was aiming to lean in and suck face until one of them collapsed. Mostly him. Then he’d sent his accidental contact off to a restricted area, knowing he’d be able to find him later. If he wanted. Maybe. He’d see. See how it went, how he felt after the run.

  Michael snickered to himself, asking the question... How did it go? Good enough to share the feels?

  With his ego taking a back seat, he’d still be willing to say it had been a good run. In fact, it’d been stellar, him and Red doing what they both loved. Hitting all the high points, working like a team. He’d call that kind of unity organic, but that didn’t come close to how it felt to be in synch with his equine partner.

  Truth, it wasn’t him at all, it was all Red. Instinct, talent, athleticism. None of that came with training. All he’d done was show the big guy a way to channel his natural abilities, and it’d been balls to the wall from there. If he hadn’t made a choice to pursue a different dream, he could have been somebody on the circuit. For a time.

  Life was all about choices. Picking career over hobby, thank the horse gods, hadn’t come loaded with a barrel of regrets. Michael wasn’t sure his most recent choice striding toward him was going to be without risk, especially not after being dumped for the exact same reason he wasn’t chasing points on the rodeo circuit.

  Here he was, calling the kettle black, when he’d grabbed the brass ring, just like his ex, Adam, had done nearly two years ago. Michael’s successes had been garnered in this arena, local boy makes good shit. He’d ridden that wave until it became clear he had bigger fish to fry. Then he’d done a one-eighty and hadn’t looked back.

  Adam’s choices had been no different. He’d jumped on a chance to hit the national stage and go big time. He was still chasing that dream, getting closer every year.

  Funny how, after all that time, Michael hadn’t once considered it from Adam’s point of view. Now, here he was, chock full of resentment and no more excuses to keep it all for himself. He felt stupid. Weak and stupid. Embarrassed and suddenly wishing he could kick blondie into next week for stripping him of all the reasons for being surly and selfish.

  A hand squeezed his shoulder. A voice, tentative and worried, asked, “You okay?”

  Michael stared at his boots, caressing the guilt and the festering bitterness he’d harbored like a security blanket, but the satisfaction was gone, swept away by more contact. This time it wasn’t incidental. It was friendly and open, and it hit him hard where he lived.

  Shrugging and swallowing his inner turmoil, he muttered, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Then he looked up, into golden russet eyes ringed with dark copper and flecked with gilt. Worried eyes. Eyes that stripped him of anxiety and self-doubt. Eyes that invited him in.

  I am in such fucking trouble...

  Dolly tugged on his sleeve and cleared her throat. They both turned to stare at her.

  “Me and Cody, we’re gonna take the horses back to the ranch now. We’ll unhitch and leave the trailer there. Unless...?”

  Michael said, “No, that’s fine. Just be sure there’s water and hay. I haven’t had a chance to set things up the way I like it yet. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

  Cody leaned out the driver side window. “Thanks again, Mr. Brooks. I appreciate the kindness.” He grinned shyly and ducked his head. Michael wondered if the poor kid was talking about the loan of a horse or the fact that Dolly was now officially his girlfriend. He seemed more than a little confused. And the kid hadn’t yet met Sally, the mother from hell. If he hadn’t been so relieved at Dolly’s change of affections, he might have felt sorry for Cody.

  Putting on his responsible adult hat, Michael said, “Drive safely, you two. Call me if you have a problem.” It was closing in on ten o’clock. He was tempted to say something about going straight home, but bit his tongue at the last minute. He’d been nineteen once. And horny as hell.

  Sonny whispered in his ear, “The boy knows about protection, right?”

  Michael snorted and clapped his hand to his mouth. He managed to gasp, “I doubt it, but Dolly does.”

  They waved goodbye as the rig pulled out into traffic exiting the fairgrounds. Sonny asked, “Is she your sister or something?”

  Michael pulled a face. “Something, yeah. Her mother’s been trying to hook me and the kid up ever since I parked my rig in her campground.” He shivered. “It was getting awkward.”

  Sonny’s face registered a flash of disappointment as he said, “Oh, so you’re just in for the rodeo?”

  “Yes and no. It’s complicated.” He took Sonny’s elbow and pulled him into the shadows behind the judging stand. “Look, I’m sorry about all this. You must think I’m some kind of moron jerking you around.” Michael fiddled with the buckle holding his chaps together, then sucked air, realizing too late what the man must think. His face burning, he rasped, “Fuck, listen... Dammit, this is all a mistake. It’s not... um, not...”

  Running his hand through his unruly mop of hair, Sonny backed away one step, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “I guess, but you already know the answer. I’m a raving lunatic.”

  Sonny jammed his hands in his pockets, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “I’m a little particular about the lunatics I keep company with.”

  “How’s that?” Michael’s belly flip-flopped. Tall, blond and sexy hadn’t bolted for the exit, but he clearly wasn’t comfortable answering Michael’s retort.

  Sonny shook his head ruefully, like he was reconsidering, and said, “You’re right, this is a mistake...”

  Michael thought again about choices and taking a chance, then blurted, “I’m gay.”

  The muscle in Sonny’s cheek twitched as he continued, “...or not. I happen to fancy gay lunatics. Especially if they want to go someplace and grab a beer. Have a conversation. Choke on stale peanuts.”

  “See where the evening goes?”

  “That, too. If you’re going to be around, I mean.” He licked pouty, full lips and muttered, “Not much for casual, if you get my drift.”

  ****

  Sonny sipped his beer, pacing himself. They’d headed north to a roadhouse surrounded by grazing land and not much else. He thought he’d hit all the local watering holes during his term as a student, but apparently this place liked staying under the radar, catering to local ranch hands and a few biker groups making it a stop on their road trip.

  The entertainment stepped away to recharge, the echo of twangy guitars and nasal pleas to love me truly overwhelmed by cheers and jeers and the raucous laughter of men and women determined to start their weekend off with a bang.

  Michael teetered on his bar stool, his bulk providing a buffer between the wall and a leather clad biker already three sheets to the wind and argumentative. He was pushing Michael, nudging his shoulder and elbow, seeing how physical he could get. Instigating a confrontation. Sonny braced himself, ready to move fast if necessary.

  Michael grinned, the same grin that turned Sonny’s bowels to water, the kind of grin that was nasty-assed scary. Freeing up the shoulder under assault, Michael said, “Man, when you’re right you’re right.” He tilted his beer bottle in the biker’s direction and shouted to the bartender, “Another round for my good friends here.” He slid a couple twenties onto the bar, then deliberately turned his back to the biker, the smile still on his face, but colder, tenser.

  The biker clapped a hand on Michael’s back and moved off to harass someone else.

  Sonny hissed, “Shee-it.” Ruefully he admitted, “I think I might have messed my shorts.”r />
  Chuckling, Michael said, “That makes two of us. Good thing I’m off for a bit. Might be just the right time to finally do some laundry.” He chugged the rest of his beer and set the bottle aside, then resumed their conversation. “Why State? Seems like a school like Cornell or U-of-P would’ve suited a city boy like you better.”

  “You got the city boy half right. I hail from south Jersey, near the shore. It’s way more rural than you’d think.”

  “All right, but why here?”

  “Short answer? Living where we did, tourist central... it got old. You spend most of the year with everything shut down and locked up tight for the winter. Then when the good weather hits, so do the hordes pouring out of Philly or coming down from the Big Apple. Like damn locusts. It’s like living in a fishbowl. Or maybe it’s more like indentured servitude. Chasing the almighty day-tripper dollars, never really getting to enjoy the beach or the boardwalks without shoving through a mob of people who don’t even see or appreciate what they’ve got.”

  “And...?”

  Sonny blinked. He tried to shake off the sensation of being analyzed, picked apart and resected into a new whole. It was as if his body language and words were being processed and set aside for later. The man sitting across from him, the man with grit lining his cheeks and dirt under his fingernails, was waiting for what Sonny wasn’t saying.

  Eyes the color of steel blued to a flat finish and limned with restrained violence assessed and evaluated, coming up unsatisfied. Sonny had been concerned that Michael Brooks had jumped in the deep end, trying to deflect the biker’s aggression with amelioration, buying them escape time for the price of a few bottles of beer. He’d been wrong, dead wrong. It might be a feeling, intuition, or an educated guess, but Sonny had no doubts that the man sitting across from him was perfectly capable of handling and dispatching whatever got thrown at him. And that included attitude clad in leather.