by Nya Rawlyns
Watching Michael move with cool efficiency, organizing their gear and barely breaking a sweat reminded him that he was still treading new territory when it came to putting how he felt about the man into its proper cubbyhole. He’d managed to trip over the like part and fell immediately into lust. But that lust had somehow morphed into a near obsession—craving the man and not just physically. He wanted to be around the warden, to understand what made him tick, to engage in word-play and wicked innuendo. Holding him close at night, their bodies wrapped around each other and hands clasped together, seemed as natural as breathing.
Michael’s puffs of air on his ear, the light snores and possessive touches, the way he watched him out of the corner of his eye, making sure he was safe. Lust didn’t build that kind of connection. But something else did.
He had a word for it. A dangerous word, a word that would make or break the very fragile bond they were forging. For now, he didn’t require that word. Instead, he had a fallback position, one where he had tumbled into a world of like for Michael Brooks. Like was a less complicated state of being, less demanding, less of a commitment. The question was... would it be enough?
And if he were honest, sometimes the warden scared him to death. He’d never met anyone quite like him: self-contained, completely self-sufficient, assertive without being cocky... much. You had to earn his trust, though he commanded it of everyone around him. Michael Brooks came complete with a granite wall hiding the real man and a mercurial temperament you toyed with at your peril.
He also harbored secrets...
The most obvious secret, to Sonny, was that his warden cared. And Michael was probably the last person on earth who would admit it. The sum of all those disparate traits made him dangerous. He’d already proven to be hazardous to Sonny’s heart, putting him in a precarious spot because they weren’t in the Garden of Eden, suspended outside of time and the demands of civilization. At some point, they were going to have to come to grips about what happened next. Not necessarily the future, but the day after and the one after that, the near term shit that usually just rolled along without requiring a big investment in energy.
Sonny thought back to his sisters and the will he call, why hasn’t he called drama of young women on the cusp of having their hearts broken and self-esteem destroyed. Was that the way it worked between two guys who found satisfaction fucking each other blind? Or was there more to it?
Will he call? Will I?
When they finally left the wilderness and their cocoon of intimacy, which man was going to ride out on the big red horse? Would it be the angry guide who rode in, resentful and unpleasant, determined to do the job assigned him but only at the expense of a commitment and sense of pride. Or would it be the gentle, caring lover who cushioned a greenhorn from making the kind of mistakes that broke a man.
And it wasn’t just about Michael. Sonny couldn’t be sure who he was anymore. He’d been more than a little disconcerted going alpha-dom on the warden by doing a crazy Ivan and taking charge, rocketing them both into orbit. He’d surprised himself, not so much because he’d revealed that part of his long-buried personality, but because he’d enjoyed it, a lot. The flip-flop in their roles hadn’t fazed Michael at all... or at least he never said anything to indicate it unnerved him. On the contrary, Sonny was pretty sure his warden got his rocks off when stripped of choices and commanded to obey. But only if he was in the mood.
Deep down, Sonny knew that Michael’s occasional submission was a gift. He’d allowed himself to be vulnerable, and it hadn’t come easy. That shift in power between them was fluid, volatile and intoxicating because Michael came with a sidecar of quid pro quos and addenda. And the warden was very reluctant to allow access to the vault of discovery that constituted the shadow man. The few glimpses Michael awarded Sonny hadn’t quenched his curiosity, but rather it had piqued his interest such that his preoccupation nearly drove all other considerations out of his head—like his mandate to collect environmental data and the career opportunities waiting for him on the other side of the continent.
Michael Brooks had blinkered him to anything other than the next fix, the next touch, the next penetration, with its release and screams of ecstasy. He craved the electricity sparking between them. He lusted shamelessly for Michael to fill him with power and passion, driving him to the edge, then denying him the pleasure of breaking apart until his body worshiped at the altar of madness.
In his musings, Sonny recognized that the inconsistencies and holes in his logic were not-so-subtle reminders that Michael Brooks and the wilderness he called home carried their own set of rules, and those rules had nothing to do with the intimacy they had forged within the strange bubble of private acts that were dirty and pure and consensual to the point of no return.
He muttered, “I really need to know how the hell this works,” and jumped when Michael answered, “It’ll fucking work better if you get your ass in gear, Tex. I need to see if that stream’s got dinner waiting under a rock, or if we’re going to be faced with another meal of dehydrated mystery meat.”
Feeling more than a little unhinged from the thoughts racing through his head, Sonny welcomed the chance at a distraction. He desperately needed it, because the last thing he wanted was to push Michael in a direction neither of them was prepared to go. And right that moment, the only filter keeping him from spewing his feelings and ruining everything they’d built in so short a time was standing on the ledge hammering pitons into solid rock.
Ranger George had said, don’t piss him off. Sonny wasn’t sure why that sounded like good advice then and now, but instinct convinced him he’d do more than create hard feelings if he jumped the gun with emo shit, putting Michael on the spot. Forcing the issue. Trust got built slowly. When you lost it, it was with a monumental crash. And out here, in the wilderness, it was trust and having a man’s back that got you through the days and the nights. Friendship was an added bonus. The rest was just details.
Michael paused mid-swing, his eyes darting in Sonny’s direction, the expression on his face contemplative, even bordering on the edge of threatening.
Sonny gulped out, “What?”
“Nothing.” He held the piton up with finger and thumb, twirling it around.
Sonny wondered, What is he? Psychic?
“Just thinking... I have a few extra of these.”
Okay, I’ll bite. “So?”
“You ever see a St. Andrews Cross?”
“Um.” Oh hell, no. Yes. No. Wait... what? “What’s the question?”
There was that grin again. The evil Michael trademark, the one that promised Sonny would be singing the Hallelujah chorus before the night was out.
Grabbing the water buckets, Sonny managed to husk, “Water. I’ll see to getting us some water.”
“You do that, Tex. I just have one more thing to do.” Michael’s voice left it at a question mark. The inflection was there, so was the challenge... Come on, Tex, ask me what I need to do. You know you want to.
Rising to the bait, Sonny took a nibble but refused to get hooked. He growled, “Maybe I’ll help you when I get back.” He swallowed the smug follow-up—not before, and then it’s on my terms, Warden, not yours—as he stalked toward the lake, because don’t piss him off still sounded like really good advice.
Michael called after Sonny’s retreating back, “But you don’t know what I plan to do.”
Sonny turned around and glared at the self-satisfied smirk on Michael’s face. “I know exactly what you plan, Warden.”
“Really. How about you tell me, Tex, just so we’re both on the same page.”
Chuckling, Sonny barked, “You’re gonna need help in figuring out where the extra pole goes.”
“Oh, I already know where it goes, Tex. Question is... this time... do you?”
Sweet Jesus.
****
Michael finished strapping the hobbles on the mule. He’d selected a standard western figure eight latigo leather strap stabilized with a thick
connecting doubled length of leather on a swivel. It was a single buckle, easy on, easy off system that restricted movement while grazing, though clever horses and mules soon learned how to motor at speed by hopping. That meant they could still put some distance between you and them when they had a mind to, but at least they wouldn’t end up in the next state before you went looking for them in the morning.
When he stood up, he shooed Spot in Sonny’s direction and watched him amble after the tall man swinging his water buckets. The mule handled the device with exaggerated care, not flipping out. Michael decided to turn their small herd loose while they had some light, just on a trial basis. He still planned on keeping them restricted to the highline overnight until he was sure they got the concept of this meadow being home away from home.
After grabbing his fishing rod and tackle box, he headed upstream, circling behind Sonny and the parade of critters following him. He wasn’t fooling about needing something fresh to eat. They’d decided to use the water from the stream rather than the lake given the potential for additional hot springs being in the area. Just because the upper section didn’t reek wasn’t worth the risk of developing stomach problems from a high mineral content.
Clearly it wasn’t toxic, otherwise Mr. Beaver and his family wouldn’t be thriving, but it was better safe than running for the woods with a shovel and a grimace. Been there, done that. Rode chafed for a week.
By the time he’d found a small pool that looked promising, the sun had set behind the mountains. It would stay light until nearly nine at that altitude, especially since the trees were less dense thanks to the engineering required to build the dam. Even so, his window of opportunity was rapidly shrinking.
As he settled into the soothing rhythm of casting, Michael blanketed his busy thoughts with nothing more than the sound of the rushing water and the drift of cool air across the back of his neck. Despite the calm of late evening casting its spell, it wasn’t enough to stay a moment of introspection accompanied by a side dish of doubt.
He recognized the too good to be true cautionary flag his brain raised, while at the same time his heart continued to beat double time whenever he looked at or thought about his lover. The fact that Sonny had assumed such a place of importance in his life was a clear indication he was getting in deep. What remained to be seen was if he’d gotten in over his head.
Nothing about their situation was natural. They’d been thrown together to do a job, and probably the last thing either of them had anticipated was having attraction come along as a hitchhiker. Now he was faced with feelings and cravings he had no clue how to deal with. He’d gotten to this place in his life where he appreciated the status of ‘good enough for now,’ not looking to the future. Living on the edge like he did meant he couldn’t be sure he had one.
Seamus Rydell had turned everything he understood on its ear. All he ever wanted was a purpose in life—standing between the wild places he loved and the people who would destroy it deliberately or through sins of omission or willful misunderstanding. Greed and ignorance were his enemies. Solitude had been his friend.
Until Sonny, he’d embraced a form of emotional stasis, tolerating the consequences of that type of solitary confinement because the alternatives were too harsh to contemplate. Tex had smashed that zone of tranquility into a million mirrored shards, each of them sharp enough to saw through his defenses until he was voluntarily exposing his most intimate self to a man he’d known for only a few short days.
Was it possible that the boy who’d never felt loved had finally found a way to ask for it? Perhaps the better question was... was Mister Zero the right one to ask?
The snap on the line jerked Michael out of his reverie. Content with the prospect of fresh fish for dinner, he muttered, “First order of survival... eat. Fish now, worry about where to put the other pole later.”
****
Sonny set the yellow LED lantern on a rock. It illuminated the equivalent of a fifty watt bulb without attracting flying insects. He quickly shed his clothes and boots and waded into the steaming water.
Michael followed behind him, moaning, “God, this feels fantastic. What’s the temp?”
Sonny consulted his thermometer. “Hundred and two here, but it’s pretty shallow and we’re a fair distance from the source. Good thing you insisted on scouting it out. If it had been me, I’d have just dove in any old place. Might not have been my finer moment since I don’t fancy being parboiled.” He sank onto his heels, letting his skin adjust to the sharp difference between the chilly air and the heat of the water.
They’d been speculating about the history of the lake. Michael resumed their discussion, saying, “My guess is that the dot on the map represents just this section. It’s mostly a pond fed by the hot spring. That would explain why the tie loggers wouldn’t have bothered building a camp in this area. The water wouldn’t have been drinkable, and downstream it’s too shallow and narrow to help move the logs.”
“So you think the upper part is new?”
“Yeah. Probably no more than a couple of years old. Give or take. How much acreage gets flooded depends a lot on the volume of water from snowmelt in the spring and the topography. Here, it’s a natural bowl shape. This had to have filled in fast. After that, normal runoff would be mostly at a maintenance level.”
Michael settled behind Sonny and said, “Come sit here, between my legs.”
Making himself as comfortable as he could on the gravel and mud surface, Sonny leaned against Michael’s broad chest and sighed with contentment as Michael wrapped him in his powerful arms. For some reason, they’d been avoiding talking about anything personal over dinner. It was as if they’d both decided, independently, to back off, cool their jets, and put their relationship back on a buddy track.
That hadn’t deterred them from their pole dance, a mind-bending, athletic explosion of passion that had left both of them gasping for air and accusing each other of mutual death by orgasm.
Michael’s chest rumbled with laughter. Sonny asked, “What’s funny?”
“Oh, just thinking of a quote I heard once.” He nibbled at Sonny’s ear, outlining the lobe with moist tongue and sharp nips. It drove Sonny nuts and he knew it.
Since there was nothing on God’s green earth he liked more than hearing Michael’s deep baritone reverberate against his back and shoulders, he persisted in asking, “Well, what is it? The quote, I mean.”
“It goes something like... ‘it doesn’t matter what you do in the bedroom so long as you don’t do it in the street and scare the horses.’ Don’t remember who said it, though.”
Sonny wriggled against Michael’s growing erection, enjoying the man’s intake of air and breathy, “Oh fuck.”
The moon was rising, waxing gibbous and casting long shadows across the surface of the pond. Unlike the upper portion where the lake was a mirror finish, a true reflecting pool, the hot-springs-fed surface danced and undulated as mist rose into the cool night air.
Michael’s body tensed. Sonny was about to ask if he saw something, when Michael husked, “You asked what we were talking about. Me and George. Back at Sand Lake.” He sucked in a breath, held it, then exhaled. “I shot a man.” The arms wrapped around his chest fell to the side. Sonny twisted around but he couldn’t see Michael’s face, hidden in shadows with the yellow glow of the lantern directly behind them.
Instead of letting Michael retreat, he gripped muscular thighs and murmured, “Tell me,” and managed to hide the surprise he felt bubbling close to the surface.
The silence stretched for so long, Sonny feared Michael had shut him out completely. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick, wavering on the edge of losing control. He described discovering an illegal trap line and tracking a line of carnage that led toward one of the Snowy’s most popular walk-in campgrounds.
“He was killing for fun, not taking the hides, just mutilating them and leaving them to die alone and suffering. When I found him, he was approaching a kid fishing on the edge
of the lake. He had the knife in his right hand. It was still bloody.”
“Did you kill him?” Please say yes, please.
“I never shot anyone before. It’s not that easy. Even under those circumstances.”
Michael’s arms were back, squeezing tight enough Sonny winced, but he gripped the man’s forearms, drew him closer and asked, “What happened?”
“I aimed for his knee. Caught his thigh instead. Nicked the femoral artery.”
“So, he lived?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s too bad.” Sonny meant it.
Michael whispered, “Some people disagree.”
“Then they’re fools.”
“There are all kinds of fools, Tex.” He shrugged, the moment gone.
Sonny stood and extended his hand to help his lover up. As Michael balanced, he said, “Thanks for not being one of those fools, Sonny.”
Acknowledging Michael’s gratitude with a nod, Sonny followed him onto the bank where they collected their clothes and quickly dressed. As they headed back to camp, he thought Michael was right, there were all kinds of fools, and although Michael thought otherwise, in truth he was one...
...the kind of fool who was falling head over heels in love with Warden Michael Brooks.
Chapter Twelve
Trap Line
“You did not.” Michael tried sounding put out. With his deep voice, it came across like a pit bull snarling a warning.
“Did too.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it.” Sonny flipped his hair off his forehead, going for saucy. “Two sisters, remember? Four gal cousins. It was inevitable.”
Peanut grunted as Sonny tightened the girthing system keeping the lone pack stationary on her back. He grinned at his diminutive companion. She was built broad, nearly as wide as she was tall. Michael called her a pony. Sonny just called her his super steed.