Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2)

by Nya Rawlyns

  The mule-called-Spot brayed his dismay as Sonny led the mare away from the highline.

  Michael said, “He’s not going to be happy. I better keep them tied until you get back, otherwise you’re gonna have more company than you planned on.” He didn’t look entirely convinced that plan would work.

  “I’ll only be a couple hours.” Sonny swept his left arm in the direction of a set of low hills fronting a granite rock face further upstream. It was clear of standing timber and offered sight lines across the valley without being overly exposed to the weather. He explained to Michael, “That looks like a good spot to take some readings. If it’s promising, we can go back later and set up a trial station.”

  Sonny frowned, mentally tallying the number of experimental mini-stations he’d packed. They had small solar cells that should keep them operating for the balance of the summer. But really, all he needed was a couple weeks’ worth of field test data to tweak the program he wrote. Anything else would be a bonus.

  “Wishing you’d brought more stuff along, Dr. Rydell?”

  Sonny shrugged. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty. I’m seeing a good six or seven sites right in this area that look exactly like what I was hoping to find.” He had three full kits, with one set of spares he might be able to jury rig into a partially functioning unit, if necessary.

  Assessing the situation, Michael suggested, “If you show me what to do, I can help you triangulate the instruments. That should optimize your data collection.”

  Sonny’s jaw dropped. “Who are you, and what have you done with Warden Brooks?”

  Huffing, Michael said, “Got me some book larning, dude. Not like some tarts I know.”

  “Tart? Who’re you callin’ a tart?”

  “Eyeliner, mascara. Any of that ringing a bell?” Michael batted his eyelashes. Sonny cringed. That was wrong on so many levels, he wasn’t even going there. But apparently Michael was... and did.

  With an exaggerated swipe of his thumb across his tongue, Michael bent down behind the pack mare where Sonny couldn’t see what he was up to. When the man stood, he had a look—not the look, a different look. Still bowel-watering, though. Sauntering around the mare’s rump, Michael approached casually, panther smooth, loose joints wrapped in tense muscle. Sonny felt like prey. Mesmerized prey.

  The grip on Sonny’s chin was distracting enough he wasn’t prepared to duck away from the thumb taking a pass over his eyelids, right then left. It happened so fast he wasn’t sure why he was squinting, or why his eyelids tingled and felt like he’d just emerged from a sandstorm.

  “What the hell?” The bastard had plastered a thick layer of wood ash along his eyelids, like he was applying eye shadow.

  Michael stepped back, surveying his handy work. Nodding, he muttered, “Not bad, not bad at all.” Tilting Sonny’s chin up and down, Michael asked, “You ever consider a nice apricot gloss? It’d be killer with that complexion of yours.”

  “You son of a fucking bitch. You did not just do what I think you did.”

  “Sayeth the bro who let his sisters tart him up for shits and giggles.”

  Gathering up the lead rope, and what little dignity he had left, Sonny huffed, “That’s Miz Tart to you, Warden.” He tossed his unruly mane of hair off his face, going for fetching, and sneered. “I expect the camp to be cleaned up and lunch on the table by the time I get back.”

  “Or what?”

  “Oooor,” Sonny dragged it out, “...or I get angry, and trust me macho man, you will like it when I’m angry.”

  Michael sing-songed, “Promises, promises,” as he ambled toward the highline to keep an eye on the mule.

  ****

  Grinning, Michael cocked an ear, listening as Sonny grumped his way toward the gravel beach rimming their section of the lake. He’d follow that south, then cross at the narrows where the creek joined the larger body of water. From there, he and the mare would pick their way to the first of the small hillocks rising a couple hundred feet from the flat valley floor. Fortunately, the climb didn’t look especially steep, so hoofing it shouldn’t take too much out of him. In theory.

  There was the altitude and a sudden uptick in the temperature to contend with, but they’d all had enough time to acclimate. Michael admitted to himself he’d have preferred to ride, but he also understood having an extra animal to monitor meant a distraction from the reason Sonny was poking around the valley looking for good places to set up his temporary research stations.

  Michael had a good understanding of what the SNOTEL stations did and how they worked after so many years patrolling the National Forest. There were six large installations spread throughout the region, most at the nine and ten thousand foot level. As he understood it, Dr. Rydell was interested in mid-altitude figures to corroborate the estimates the agency used to inform water managers and agricultural interests of climate changes and drought trends.

  It was when his lover waxed poetic about algorithms and programming in some language that sounded like aliens had taken over Dr. Rydell’s brain, that he’d shut down, mumbling uh-huhs and um that’s really interesting until his eyes glazed over and Tex accused him of falling asleep. He denied it, of course. Tex, in the guise of Mister Zero, punished him for lying.

  It had been his best trip to the woodshed ever.

  Michael wondered, now, why he’d been so reluctant to take advantage of an opportunity to participate in something he knew was critical to understanding the ecology and environmental health of an area he loved. Damn the suits and their overzealous need to protect their images. If it hadn’t been for Paul, he wouldn’t be here, with Sonny... calling him Tex. Teasing him mercilessly. Waking up with his lean body tucked under his shoulder. Fucking him until they both nearly passed out. Making love. Loving him...

  Michael thought, Whoa, chill on that emo shit. You start down that road, there’s no going back. Sonny’s not giving you any clues he’s on that page. At all. Be smart. One day at a time, Brooks, just one day at a time.

  The mule pouted, following his buddy mare’s progress. Michael snapped a lead rope to the leather halter he’d exchanged for the potentially life-threatening, unbreakable BioThane device Sonny had been so keen on using. He was sure the plastic halter was perfectly serviceable under normal conditions, but in the high country nothing was normal. Anyone who thought different often got a nasty surprise. And not infrequently, they didn’t live to whine about it.

  He had some qualms about letting his man off the leash, so to speak. It would have been one thing if he himself had been familiar with the area, but—like Sonny—he was ignorant of the conditions. That made it tough just relying on visual cues and the hints offered by tight contour lines on a topo map probably years out-of-date. The map certainly hadn’t indicated that Timber Lake had grown into a substantial body of water from what was once just a hot-springs-fed small pool.

  That it could change in a minute should the dam break was always a possibility, though he had no doubt Mr. Beaver would right that injustice in no time. What worried Michael more was some trapper or a hunter coming in and upsetting a beautiful equilibrium for commercial gain. It happened more often than he liked to think about, and it was a major reason why he carried a chip on his shoulder. Despite Paul’s constant reminders he was only one man and they were running too lean on resources to possibly keep up, he took it personally when the delicate balance got shot to hell because of greed or ignorance.

  This was his job, dammit. He was there to serve and protect. To say different was just an excuse. And when it came to protecting what he loved, excuses didn’t cut it.

  Spot’s ears twitched, his eyes pinpricks of annoyance. Michael dug his fingernails into the mule’s neck and scratched away both their irritable moods. Solving the world’s problems could wait another ten minutes. He had bedding to air and pans to clean. After that, he’d see to catching and gutting a couple trout for lunch. Maybe toss the bones where Sonny would see them.

  After all, a man who didn’t tidy hi
s camping space deserved whatever punishment his boyfriend cared to dish out.

  ****

  Peanut looked on with interest as Sonny crouched on the ground swearing softly. “Dammit, what part of rocky didn’t you get, you idiot? Rocky. Mountains. Anything ringing a bell?”

  What had looked like a grassy knoll from his vantage point by the lake was anything but. Sonny regretted not sitting Michael down before they left on their adventure and giving him the low down on exactly what he wanted to do. Maybe if he had, he’d be in proud possession of pitons or another anchoring device to hold his cache of measuring devices stable.

  As it was, the late morning breeze threatened to become a full gale. He’d already chased his contraption halfway down the slope a half dozen times, leaving him swearing off smoking in lieu of more quality time in the gym. On the upside, the bank of sensors hadn’t broken despite the rough treatment. That meant all he needed was a way to stabilize the damn thing.

  Or he could find another location. Scanning the horizon, such as it was—mostly jagged granitic outcrops and trees swaying in the stiff breeze—Sonny knew he’d lucked into the perfect spot. From this vantage point, there were three other ridges of similar height and open to satellite transmission if he chose to go that route.

  Michael had suggested triangulating for maximum coverage. With his help, they could probably accomplish that task in a long day, two if they ran into problems. Then a day to check and calibrate readings and they were good to go. The corollary to that plan was setting aside all hanky-panky in favor of getting a good night’s sleep, getting on trail first thing in the morning, and keeping their distractions to a minimum.

  Right, that’ll go over like a lead balloon.

  There was no denying the merit for attending to his task with a certain alacrity. Their supplies were limited. The grass for the animals wasn’t going to last forever. And the run of nice weather was going to end, probably sooner rather than later. Plus they had a hellacious climb back out of this valley and another tedious day or so to Sand Lake, getting the trailer there, loading up...

  “Shit.” Peanut jumped. “Uh, sorry girl, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  All of those steps were directed toward completing a set of tasks for a larger project, accomplishing a goal, taking charge of his career and proving he had the chops to become team leader, maybe even director of the agency. Eventually.

  He had family political connections to grease certain wheels. Not that he liked using them, but given his propensity for staying under the radar as an über task-oriented loner didn’t mean he couldn’t harbor a few ambitions, bucking the odds and making a name for himself.

  It’s what his dad would have wanted for him had he lived. Sonny had always seen himself taking after his father, carrying on the Rydell traditions as the only son. By itself, that was one hell of a legacy to live up to. But at the same time, his family insisted he could do and be whatever he wanted. Those two demands weren’t mutually exclusive. What they were all telling him was they loved him, believed in him, and trusted him—that ultimately whatever route he chose for his life was his decision.

  So here he was, twenty-eight years old, with diploma in hand and knowing he’d made his family proud because he’d done it his way. He’d passed on political science in favor of environmental science and pathobiology, ending up here... on top of a ridge holding his Stetson with one hand while trying to keep a box full of electronic sensors from working the thermals like the eagle soaring above him.

  The kicker was... those damn sensors were going to be the ticket to him finding a political career after all. It was comical and pathetic at the same time. Pathetic because, after all the teeth gnashing, after all the late nights, after denying himself the comfort of companionship, he finally realized one simple fact.

  He’d never asked himself... is this what you want to do with your life, Seamus Rydell?

  Gathering his box of instruments, Sonny stood and gazed down the slope in the direction of their camp. He couldn’t see it for all the trees, but he knew what was happening. Michael Books was attending to their comfort and safety, protecting the animals in his charge. And, if Sonny was lucky, finding a way to goad him into coming up with a suitable punishment for some minor transgression.

  His money was on fish guts littering the area where he normally sat in front of the fire. His heart was telling him to say the words before it was too late.

  And that’s why he relied on his head, not his heart.

  The sad fact was, it was already too late. Even if the answer to the question—is this what you want to do with your life—changed, it still didn’t alter the reality that another question had loomed to demand equal time and consideration. Unfortunately, that question was still lurking in the background, with no clear definition, no goals, and no roadmap for going forward. Like Timber Lake far below him, there was mist and a feeling of transience too powerful to ignore.

  By keeping to things he could control, the answer to what he wanted to do with his life was simple, even if he did a one-eighty. One thing he had learned from all his years of scholarly effort: the simple solution was often the most elegant. Dr. Seamus Rydell lived his life by those principles of elegant simplicity.

  He was pretty sure the man Michael called Tex didn’t...

  ****

  Not usually troubled by bouts of insecurity, Michael found himself mulling over the change in Sonny when he’d returned to camp. At first Michael had chalked it up to the frustrations of failing to set up his first batch of sensors. That problem was solved when Michael produced a box of pitons he carried in his emergency supplies. That and the extra lengths of climbing rope he toted around had come in handy in the past when he’d had to rescue some hapless tourist or hunter who’d taken a bad step and ended up wishing he’d stayed home in front of the TV.

  When Michael suggested they work together to set up the data collection stations, Sonny had blown him off. As was his very bad habit when he thought he was in the right, Michael had tried teasing first, then more aggressive insisting. Sonny had nearly taken his head off. And it wasn’t Mister Zero coming out to play.

  You didn’t need the words spelled out in neon to know when someone’s telling you to fuck off and mind your own business.

  Usually that pissed him off. It rarely hurt his feelings. There was a reason for that anger, it kept you from owning you were a slave to sappy emotions and making a fool of yourself. This time, he was so gobsmacked by the turnabout all he could do was tumble everything around in his brain, trying to ferret out what was going on with Sonny.

  They’d separated as per Dr. Rydell’s instructions, both of them riding to save time, their gear stuffed into leather saddle bags and fanny packs. Michael had given Sonny his hammer, which was no hardship. Rocks worked just as well, even better in some cases, especially when your thumb got involved. If he knew he was going to meet up with Tex later, he’d insist his lover suck his thumb, then move on to other things. Now he just gritted his teeth and wondered how long it would be before he could head back to the trailhead and get his life back to normal.

  He needed some quality time alone, hiking the trails and keeping an eye out for trouble. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to shoot another bad guy.

  Red snorted, his ears swiveling toward the southern, pinched end of the valley. Rydell had gone in that direction to check out an alternate location. He’d planned on circling back and meeting up at the creek. Michael mounted and urged Red forward, curious why the big guy was so on edge. He didn’t have long to find out.

  The mule came barging up the slope like the devil himself was on his tail, with Rydell kicking his flanks mercilessly. They topped the ridge, both of them blowing hard.

  Michael shouted, “You better have a fucking good reason to run that mule up a grade like that, Rydell.”

  Gasping for air, Sonny yelped, “You have to come. Christ, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Slow down. You’re not making sense. Come wh
ere. What’s going on?”

  The mule spun in a slow circle, his brain disengaging with the need to keep going. Michael grabbed the reins and pulled him in close, muzzle to Red’s shoulder. Michael leaned forward and said again, “Get a hold of yourself, Doctor. I need to know what’s happening before running off like a chicken without a head. It’s a good way to get you and your mount hurt.”

  With the reins in Michael’s control, Sonny scrubbed his scalp, his eyes wild. He pointed toward a dense stand of timber and stuttered through an explanation. All Michael heard was ‘trap’ and ‘badger.’ He handed the reins back to Sonny and reached behind his right leg to pull his rifle out of its scabbard.

  “Follow me down the hill, Dr. Rydell.” Michael reached over and pinched the man’s arm, none too gently. “And go slow. I’m not in the mood to deal with you being a stupid fuck. You hearing me?” Sonny’s eyes finally refocused as he stared at Michael, nodding he understood.

  Resting the rifle across his thighs, Michael gave his gelding his head, allowing him to find the best way down the slope while using his considerable bulk to body block the twitchy mule. Michael hoped, once they reached the bottom, the good doctor would have regained some of his senses.

  Panic didn’t suit the man, not at all. And it was hardly called for. Trapping of badger was legal year round in area one, which was essentially the entire state of Wyoming. The Snowys had a few exclusionary areas, the main one being south of route 130 in the Nash Fork section, and that applied to beavers. Here, they were well north of the banned area, so whoever was running a trap line was within their rights so long as they had the proper permits.

  The prospect of getting back to doing his job, even if it entailed simply checking a piece of paper, made him feel marginally better. It was time to reset his inner clock and get back on warden time.

  And to hell with Seamus Rydell.