by Nya Rawlyns
Weakly, Sonny suggested, “Worse case, two weeks.” With a full crew and ATVs, a few days might have sufficed. But on foot or horseback? Two weeks might not even be sufficient. Hell, where they were going was so remote, they’d probably be trailblazing most of the way, making for a slow go and increased risk of damaging his instruments.
He was ready to kick himself for not budgeting for a helicopter to just plop him down near Timber Lake for a week, then come and reel him up like a damn brook trout. That way he’d never have met Michael fucking Brooks, with the bad attitude and cruel eyes that bored straight into his heart, damn the bastard.
The director leaned over and husked something in Michael’s direction. Sonny caught part of it. It sounded a lot like saddle up apone...
****
Michael’s patience had zeroed out by the time he hit the empty parking lot, empty except for his dually and a late model Chevy. Paul’s SUV was already gone, taking his friend and boss off to the fairgrounds where he could cheer on his grandkids at the arcade.
Scratch the friend bit. Friends didn’t dump bureaucratic assholes on friends just for shits and giggles. He keyed the door open and climbed inside a cab hot enough to grill a steak Pittsburgh rare. His stomach growled.
As he waited for the diesel to stroke itself to life, he shut his eyes, desperate to erase the image of Seamus, aka Sonny, Dr. Rydell from the pixels playing ping-pong behind his eyelids. When he exited the parking lot onto the highway, the Chevy followed him. It was still behind him when he pulled into the KOA campground and parked next to his camper, his tail angled across the entrance to his lot, engine off and pinging as it cooled.
Stalking to the Chevy, Michael pounded on the window until Sonny lowered it, frowning. Michael barked, “I told you I’d meet you at the ranch. What the hell are you doing, following me ho—” Choking back the word home, he muttered, “...here.”
Sonny jumped out of his truck, explaining, “You didn’t wait long enough for me to talk to you. I, uh, thought maybe we could grab something to eat before heading to my cabin.” He grimaced and apologized. “I don’t have anything to offer.”
“Really. Funny how things change.”
“Sorry?” Sonny fidgeted, shifting from one foot to another, his face flushing when he realized what Michael implied.
Before heading inside, Michael turned to see what Sonny was doing. The tall man stood rooted to the spot, hands jammed in his pockets, head down, the cowboy hat hiding his features. Michael didn’t need to see the man’s face to guess Sonny felt like a sack of shit. Slumped shoulders told him he’d hit the target, schoolyard bully style.
Not sure how he was going to undo the damage, Michael tried for an apology. “Listen, about this morning...” I would have fucked you blind. I wanted to. God, how I wanted it. But I had to go. Had to...
Sonny looked up, his full lips pinched tight. Maybe he was mad, not embarrassed. Mad would be good. Michael could work with it, use it to his advantage, though to what purpose he wasn’t sure. Horny had taken a temporary back seat to outrage. He was expected to provide guide dog service to a greenhorn who probably knew less than shit about the canyons and washes in that section of the national forest. Heavily timbered, steep, high enough for altitude to take a toll on your endurance, weather and fortunes changeable without notice—it wasn’t a place for the faint at heart.
Greenhorns had a tendency to get in trouble, sometimes getting themselves and others killed because they made stupid decisions, thought they had it all under control. Michael understood a fundamental fact about the areas he patrolled—control was an illusion. You survived in spite of nature, not because of it. Survival meant being savvy and wise to changing conditions. Other times it came down to nothing but sheer luck.
Or meanness. More than once he’d gotten out of a tight spot simply because he was too damn ornery to give in, give up or negotiate. He’d given up asking why. Not because there weren’t any answers. Answers were a dime a dozen. To get to the meat of it, you had to ask the right question.
Out there, on your own, with only your wits and what you could carry on your horse or your back, the real question was...why not?
Feeling stupid for not inviting the man inside, just letting him cook in the blistering heat, Michael relented and called out, “I need to change, grab some stuff. You might as well come inside. It’s not getting any cooler out here.”
Sonny shuffled toward the camper and with a nod entered the cramped space. The trailer sported an unused slide-out option, but Michael never spent that much time in the trailer to care about the few extra square feet of space it might provide. Now, holding two full grown men, the amount of real estate available proved woefully inadequate.
“Why don’t you sit here so I can get by.” He gently maneuvered Sonny onto the bench seat to the right and idly took note that the man’s long legs forced his knees to press against the opposite seat. He tossed his cell phone on the table. “Punch number nine. It’s for the deli across the road. Order me Italian with everything on whole wheat. Get whatever sounds good for yourself. There’s beer and a couple sodas in the fridge.”
“Where should I tell them to deliver it?” Having a strange voice echo inside his aluminum cage was odd. Nice. But odd. That was the trouble with being alone. You forgot how it was with other people around. Sonny prodded him to answer, with a “Mr. Brooks?” that left no doubt the man was irritated in a formal, prissy and pissed way.
That was fine with Michael. If he had Seamus Rydell angry as sin, then maybe the next step would be horny as hell. But for now he had the good doctor in his home, sitting at his table, and dancing to his tune. He strode toward the rear bedroom, calling back, “Just tell them it’s for me. And put your money away. They run a tab for me.”
Michael wasn’t sure, but he might have heard Sonny’s sexy baritone mumbling ‘special snowflake.’
****
If Michael Brooks was trying to punish him for unspecified crimes and misdemeanors, he was doing a damn good job. In retaliation, Sonny wanted to yell it wasn’t his fault he’d been allocated that territory—a slice of pristine wilderness—to test a few hypotheses and collect enough samples to justify his salary. He’d arrived in Wyoming expecting to monitor a gaggle of teenage volunteers or student interns. He never counted on having one, count him, one surly senior warden as his minder and go-fer.
And he definitely had been blindsided by falling into lust with this perfectly perfect cowboy who had swept his libido off the dusty arena dirt and turned him into a fifteen-year-old, hormones out-of-control, blue-balled parody of himself.
Christ almighty. He knew how to be around women. Stay out of the way and let them run the show... It had served him well all his twenty-eight years. Now, here he was, sitting across from sin incarnate, and all he wanted was to rip Michael’s clothes off, eat him alive, then bottom him so hard the man wouldn’t be able to walk for a week, let alone ride.
Except, that wasn’t going to happen. Michael Brooks, the rodeo stranger, was one thing. Michael Brooks, the owner of two horses boarded at the same ranch he called home for now, was another. But the man parked across from him devouring a hoagie, that man was a colleague and the one and only person he had to rely on to get into the back country and to help him carry out his survey. A man who could well hate him for all he stood for. A man who probably didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.
Fucking someone who could drop you off a cliff without batting an eye if shit got awkward was not the kind of career move Sonny had planned on when he’d returned to Wyoming.
After wiping his fingers on a napkin, Michael pursed his lips, his eyes and chin tilted upward, exploring a spot on the ceiling. Once more Sonny was struck by the sheer strength of the man. Veins bulged through skin thinned to accommodate heavy muscling, yet he would never call Michael muscle-bound. Solid, yes. If the man were a horse, Sonny would describe him as having good bone. He chuckled at the analogy.
Michael asked, “What�
�s so funny?”
Before he realized he was speaking, Sonny blurted, “I sometimes look at people and compare them to horses.” He gulped and hastened to add, “I don’t mean anything by it.”
“What am I?”
“Pardon?”
“You’re comparing me to a horse. So tell me, which breed am I?” He looked interested, which was a major leap off the ledge of disapproval he’d been crouched on during their strained, mostly silent lunch.
“Um, draft cross?”
“Cross, huh. Crossed with what?” There might have been a hint of laughter in the question.
Scrubbing at his chin with thumb and index finger, Sonny paused to assess the possibilities, then said, “Arabian.”
Eyebrows raised, Michael mumbled, “Interesting. Why Arabian?”
The ice thinned under Sonny’s ass, but in for a penny, in for a pound. “Because you’re hot-blooded. High maintenance. Strong.”
And fierce. Drop dead gorgeous with a kind eye. Good slope to the shoulder, great hip. Balanced gait. And fuckable. Sometimes being around women and learning when to keep your mouth shut was a good life lesson to learn.
Squirming in his seat, Sonny wanted to melt into a puddle of goo under the intense stare. Finally he asked, “What about me? Do I remind you of any particular breed?”
“Yes.” Michael slid off the seat and barked, “Time’s wasting. We need to see what supplies we have on hand and make a list for what we need to pack in.” He stopped at the door, holding it open but stalled mid-thought. “That mule yours?”
“Yes.”
“Ride or pack?”
“Ride.”
“’Fraid that was the case. I’ll have to ask around, see if I can borrow a pack animal from one of the outfitters.”
“My mare can handle that job.”
“That pony?” Michael snorted. “Then you better plan on packing light, Dr. Rydell, because where we’re going it ain’t gonna be a picnic for the stock.”
Sonny followed Michael into the stifling heat, muttering, “Picnic? Not hardly.” If anything, it felt more like they were gearing up for a hanging.
His.
Chapter Six
Ghost Lodge
Michael perused the map as Sonny slowly navigated the last of the torturous switchbacks before the run down Route 101, the powerful diesel making light work of hauling their cargo.
They hadn’t talked much since leaving the ranch, so when Sonny spoke, it startled Michael. “I’m sorry, what?” He rustled the map. “I was looking to see the best place to set up.”
“Aren’t we going to the campground?”
“No. Saddle and pack stock’s not permitted at Deep Creek, and they aren’t going to make an exception for us.”
“Where then?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
Michael still harbored serious resentment for being burdened with his babysitting job, despite the challenges it offered. Normally he’d have been over the moon at having an opportunity to penetrate deep into the bowels of the forest, especially in a section he didn’t often get to patrol. He’d forgotten how many trails crisscrossed the plateau, the main ones being Deep Creek and Crater Lake. Those drew the fly fishermen looking to hook one of the trophy brook trout the region was famous for.
“Will it be crowded... the campground, I mean.”
Michael did a sideways glance at Sonny. The man was concentrating on driving, yet his thumbs did a tap dance on the steering wheel, betraying either nerves or something else. Some people got squirrelly handling a big rig on narrow roads and at altitude. If that had been the case, the man would have been glancing down at the tachometer as much as he was checking the rear view mirror.
In reply to the question, he said, “Too early.”
“Oh.” Sonny sounded disappointed. “Um, too early for what?”
Jesus, did Dr. kissmyass Rydell just get off the banana boat?
Keeping his voice even and his explanation geared for a five-year-old, Michael said, “It’s called the Snowy Range for a reason.” He held up his left thumb. “For one, it’s never not winter. Two, there are more than a hundred lakes with three-quarters being legit fisheries. Three, just because the gates are down on the roads doesn’t mean there’s full access this early in the season. The serious fishermen will hit the easily accessible sites first where the splakes are aggressive and put up a good fight.” He took a breath and continued, “Last but not least. Bugs.”
Sonny gripped the steering wheel tight enough his knuckles whitened. Apparently he hadn’t missed the snark in Michael’s voice.
“I know about the weather and trail conditions.” Sonny tapped the brake as an SUV approached on a sweeping curve. “I just thought, with so few established campgrounds for RVs, that it would be full to overflowing.” He shrugged. “I was a little concerned about having a mob of hikers and curiosity seekers out there on the established trails with us.”
“Well, there’s only twelve sites available and limited parking for day trippers, so I really doubt we’ll run into too many folks.” Michael paused and looked directly at Sonny’s profile. “Why? You shy?” The blush spreading up the man’s neck to his ears was entertaining to watch.
Going back to examining his map, Michael shifted subtly, making room in his jeans for an unwanted erection. It seemed every time he engaged in a conversation or looked at Dr. Rydell sideways, nagging visions of what he wanted to do to and with the tall man created havoc with his libido.
As much as he despised being coerced into playing this bureaucratic game, pushing for an agenda no one—not even the good Doctor—understood, his gut instincts had kicked in, warning him to tread carefully. Whatever Sonny thought about the objectives of their little jaunt into the wilderness, Michael was a hundred and ten percent sure there was way more to it than fine tuning resource management. When it came to the environment, Ma Nature usually caught the short end of the stick as the politicos traded up for more lucrative ends and means.
The drumming on the wheel resumed. Jaw tight, chin jutting forward, Sonny’s posture filled the cab with nervous energy. Tap. Tap. Tappity tap. Repeat.
“You don’t know what that is, do you?” Asking a stupid question out of the blue was preferable to breaking the man’s thumbs, but only just. Besides, he’d noted the clench to the good Doctor’s square jaw when he’d been ticking off the reasons why they weren’t likely to draw a crowd. Michael would bet a week’s pay Rydell didn’t know what a splake was.
Tap. Tap.
Maybe he’d have to break one thumb. Just one. Too bad it was the right since Dr. Fidget was right-handed.
Sonny growled, “What is what?”
Saved by the bell. Michael carefully folded the map into quadrants, wondering what the hell he was doing, engaging surfer boy’s attention when all he wanted was to be left alone to wallow in his bad luck and the fact his self-imposed chastity belt was getting tighter by the minute.
Before he could conjure a reply, Sonny said, “I know what it is. I have a doctorate, you know.”
That and five bucks bought you a caramel latte in his part of the world. “Then tell me, Dr. Rydell. Tell me what it is.”
As the grade steepened, Sonny downshifted to slow the rig, using the engine instead of the brakes. Michael estimated they had another ten miles or so before the turnoff to the camping site he’d selected as an alternative to begging for leniency from the neighboring ranger district. The prospect of having running water and vault toilets for at least part of their stay had been very tempting. But, rules were rules.
When the road levelled out again, Sonny cleared his throat and muttered, “They’re hybrids.” Michael raised his eyebrows, impressed. Sonny continued, “Spawn of male brook and female lake trout. They’re genetically stable, but it’s rare to find any reproduction except in some northern Canadian lakes.” He rubbed the right thumb along the hard plastic but didn’t tap. “A lot of the bigger lakes around here get stocked regularly.”
“No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Sonny rested his right hand on his thigh, his posture relaxing, although his voice betrayed his lingering annoyance.
Michael spent most of his days in solitary splendor, but on the few occasions when he was required to interact with kids, he enjoyed answering their questions and piquing interest in what his neck of the woods had to offer. Sonny reminded him of his young charges—jittery, full of energy that needed an outlet, inquisitive but often unwilling to admit they were interested.
Warming to the subject, he explained, “You already know summer’s about two days long up here. That makes for a short growing season for the trout and limited food supply as well. Despite that, they’re prolific, with overpopulation leading to stunted growth. The splakes don’t reproduce and they’re highly aggressive. They hold the brook trout numbers in check as well as providing decent sport for the fly fishermen.”
Sonny glanced in Michael’s direction. “You seem to know a lot about it.”
Shrugging, Michael replied, “I did a turn with the Cooperative Fish and Wildlife research unit at Wyoming State.” That turn had netted him his Master’s Degree and a strong recommendation from his advisor he pursue anger management training. He’d ended up a Warden instead. But Sonny Rydell didn’t need to know those particulars about his career track. Nor did he have to know he was still on semi-suspension for putting the public at risk.
Right. Risk as only a bureaucrat would define it.
He’d saved the kid’s life. He hadn’t been able to save the animals the pervert had tortured and left to die horrendous deaths. His sole regret was that the bullet had only nicked the femoral artery. The asshole had survived and was going to be living on the public’s nickel, hopefully in a throw-away-the-key correctional facility.
“Brooks?”
Michael jumped at the interruption to his racing thoughts and yelped, “What?”