Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2)
Page 17
Michael looked askance at the medical kit in Sonny’s hands. He was pretty sure the damn thing contained a needle and a length of surgical thread. The shallow vee sliced off his hip, leaving a flap hanging, didn’t hurt as much as the puncture holes spaced randomly on his pecs and underneath his arms. Yes, it needed stitching. No, he wasn’t concerned about it, not with the miles of Coflex and wound dressing buffering his damaged skin from his flannel shirt.
Sonny had triaged him within an inch of his life, and now he was on the mule, moving toward camp and away from that chamber of horrors. All in all, it counted as a big honking win in his book.
“Do you need to rest... you need to rest.”
Michael barked, “I’m fine.” The mule twitched an ear. Liar. “Just... let’s keep moving. The sooner we get back to camp, the better.”
“What happens then?”
Good question. Without any way to call for help, it was up to them to effect their own rescue, which meant retracing their steps up the mountain and back to Sand Lake. But first, he needed for Sonny to find his gelding. There was no way he was leaving his old friend to the whims of nature. Not wearing a full kit that could get caught on something, hanging him up and leaving him easy pickings for a mountain lion.
They were rounding a steep incline, picking their way upslope. Michael looked at the skid marks on the stony ground and groaned, “Please tell me you didn’t come down that way.”
Sonny shrugged. “Wasn’t as bad as it looks.” His face colored as he mumbled, “Besides, I was distraught.”
Michael was pretty sure it was actually worse than it looked, but he clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to sound like a nag or be perceived as criticizing. He reached down and stroked Sonny’s cheek. “You done good, Tex. Just, promise me... next time you’re feeling distraught, you’ll think before you leap.”
Sonny countered, “You promise to stay out of trouble?”
“Define trouble.”
Sonny huffed, “Don’t start. I’m fricking trying to breathe here, dude.” He was hanging onto the stirrup, allowing the mule to tail him up the hill on uneven ground. Two steps forward, one back.
Michael growled, “Let me walk for a bit. He can tail both of us up to the flats. After that it’s pretty smooth sailing to the lake.”
“Shut up and ride, Brooks. You collapse on this damn slope and there’s no way I’m getting you back on board. Fifty yards, we’re almost there.”
They bantered back and forth, passing the time, the barbs sometimes sharpish and edgy. Being good natured was a luxury for the past; now their reality dogged them like a bad smell. Michael didn’t take it personally, but he wasn’t Sonny. He mumbled, “Sorry.” Just because he had years of burying shit away successfully, didn’t mean his lover did. Sonny stared up at him curiously. Michael swallowed the thought—I’m no fucking good at this—and admitted, “Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up.”
His lover grinned. “I think I have just the thing to help with that.”
“Thing. What kind of thing?” Despite his injuries and the exhaustion settling around him like a shroud, his cock stirred.
Smirking, Sonny said, “A gag.”
“Oh, you mean like something to shove in my mouth. Something long and... thick?”
Sonny muttered, “Jesus,” and adjusted his jeans. When he looked up at Michael, he threatened, “Be careful what you wish for, Warden Brooks. I get kind of crazy when I’m... distraught.”
Chuckling, Michael pointed to a gap in the trees. “There’s the lake.” He paused and stood in the stirrups, straining to see through the late evening haze rising off the warm water. He immediately regretted the movement. “Looks like the cavalry’s here, Dr. Rydell.” He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“Is that George, the warden from Sand Lake?”
Michael answered, “Looks like. His brother, too.”
In a flash, the ache and burning sensations returned with a vengeance. He’d held them at bay by daydreaming of having another day or two alone with Sonny before they headed back to civilization and the awkward farewell, nice to have known you, let’s do this again sometime dance. As much as he welcomed the help, the timing sucked.
George yelped, “Christ, what happened to you? Your horse come back a few hours ago, had us shitting blue bricks wondering.”
“Nice to see you, too, George.” Michael dismounted, only to end up in a heap on the damp ground. Hands lifted him to his feet, reaching under his arms to pull him upright. He whimpered as searing pain lanced his shoulders.
Sonny barked, “Don’t. Not there. He’s been... hurt.”
George’s brother, Jon, gripped Michael around the waist and half dragged him back to the campsite while, in the background, Sonny tersely explained what had happened. Michael collapsed on the wool blanket, happy to stop moving. His wounds had seeped through their protective bandages and into his flannel shirt. He felt sticky and filthy dirty, drained to the point of not caring if he lived or died. When someone wrapped his shoulders with the sleeping bag and laid him down next to the fire pit, he didn’t object. Sleep pulled him down fast, along with the nightmares.
When Michael woke, it was to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying. The delicious odors made his mouth water as he eased himself upright to look around. George was on the opposite side of the fire, his face in shadows. His brother sat next to him. Michael scanned the area, seeking Sonny, but the night masked all but the blaze and their little group huddled around it.
Panicking, Michael barked, “Tex?” He rocked onto his knees, scrabbling for purchase to launch himself upright.
George spoke, his voice reassuring. “Whoa, boy. Your... friend... is down at the lake. Said he needed to clean up. He’ll be back soon, I expect.”
Michael’s brain registered the hesitation, the pause at the word friend. Half mad with pain and anxiety, he nearly laughed out loud. George had missed the mark by a mile. Seamus Rydell wasn’t just a friend, and to call him that was a disservice to what the lanky man had finally become—his partner in every sense of the word. His lover. Maybe even his soulmate.
Jon asked, “You need help, Michael?”
The answer was yes, but the two men who were his friends didn’t have what he needed, so he said, “No, I can manage.”
George argued, “Jon, go with him,” but Michael shook his head no and moved away as Jon spoke quietly with his older brother. He staggered toward the hot springs pond, taking their well-worn path, pounded into the hard ground by their boots, night after night under moonlit skies with a chorus of coyotes serenading in the distance.
Sonny had worked his way further around the bend, choosing a spot where he wouldn’t be seen from the camping area unless someone was looking for him. His clothes were scattered haphazardly along the shore—his shirt here, a boot there, then another, belt and jeans, underpants tossed to float at the water’s edge.
Michael kicked off his boots, then waded in, not bothering to strip. As he approached, Sonny ducked his head, acknowledging Michael’s presence. As Michael slipped behind Sonny, his lover relaxed into the warmth of the embrace. Michael grunted as the slices and puncture wounds exploded with malicious agony, the stinging so intense he might have fainted had Sonny not gripped his arms and held him tight. Gradually, the sensation of being flayed alive dissipated, until only the heat remained to coddle his ravaged body with sympathetic wavelets.
Resting his chin on Sonny’s shoulder, Michael husked, “You did what you had to do, Tex. If you hadn’t come, I was a dead man.”
“I know.”
“Knowing’s one thing, living with it can be a bitch.”
Sonny murmured, “I’m not sorry, Michael. It’s just...” Sonny’s body tensed as the words trailed off.
“Just what?” Michael wrapped his legs tighter around Sonny’s thighs. “No one needs to know it was you. I’ll take the blame. God knows, I’ve got enough evidence on my sorry body nobody’s gonna think twice abo
ut it. And if they do, fuck ’em.”
Countering with a voice raspy with emotion, Sonny said, “That’s not it, Michael. Yeah, I killed a monster. I’m not sorry, and I don’t give a flying fuck who knows it.”
Michael squeezed his arm, interrupting the tirade. “There’ll be an inquiry. Lawyers. The media. It’s likely to turn into a three-ring circus. You don’t need that shit. I won’t jeopardize your career and your reputation for somebody like me.”
At that, Sonny jerked away, flailing as he hit a deep spot and sank to his neck. Michael grasped his right hand and pulled him to safety.
Sputtering, Sonny shouted, “Somebody like you? What’s that supposed to mean?” He stood over Michael, eyes wild, steam blowing off his skin in waves as he pounded the water with his fists.
Attempting to defuse the situation, Michael quietly explained, “I have a rep for losing my cool. Hell, I already shot the asshole once. That first time I was making an assumption about what that lunatic had in mind.” Michael yanked at his shirt, popped the buttons and pulled it open to reveal the sodden bandages soaked through with dark blood. “I think this will be enough to convince a jury I was acting in self-defense, don’t you?”
“No, wait.” Sonny’s lips trembled, as he husked, “You aren’t listening.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Michael frowned, putting emotional distance between himself and the man determined to ruin his life for no good reason. Michael could protect Sonny from everything except the man’s self-imposed guilt. He had some experience with that. He also knew that solutions were thin on the ground when it came to dealing with the mea culpas creating emotional chaos in your head and heart.
If Sonny took the high road and confessed, it might be a crap shoot whether or not some asshole attorney looking to score points in the political arena would nail him with second degree, crime of passion shit. And that wasn’t the only worst case scenario. Justifiable homicide might not garner criminal charges, but it would have long-lasting consequences with that incident coming back to haunt Sonny for the rest of his life.
Michael owed Seamus Rydell more than he could ever repay, but taking the responsibility for shooting a madman was a good start.
Tight-lipped, Sonny said, “I think we’re done here,” as he waded around Michael, heading for the shoreline.
Confused, Michael followed him out of the water and watched as Sonny gathered his clothes, yanking them on until he was fully dressed. With a sneer, Sonny said, “I almost lost you today. Do you think I give a shit about taking out that asshole who was torturing you?” Michael took a step toward Sonny, but the tall man held up his hand to stop him. “Do you really think I care about publicity or what it means for my goddamn job?”
“Sonny...”
“No! No, Michael. You don’t get it at all.” He turned and stalked away, leaving Michael gasping for air and wondering what the hell had just happened.
****
Sonny ordered Jon to take care of Michael while he saw to the horses and his mule. George asked if he needed help, and without waiting for an answer, joined him as he led the stock to the stream for a drink.
It was odd how you noticed things long after an event. Arriving at the camp, he’d focused on seeing to Michael’s wounds, getting him comfortable enough to sleep. He’d occupied his thoughts with the mundane—tidying up, gathering kindling for the fire, bringing up buckets of water so they could have coffee. He wasn’t sure how he’d feed four men, what with their stores so low, but George had anticipated that by offering to share the few provisions they’d brought along.
That’s when it clicked. “How the heck did you and your brother get here?” He looked around the area. “Not seeing any horses.”
“Teleportation.” Sonny cringed. Great, another jokester. He was not in the mood. George grinned. “Sorry. Just jerking your chain. Jon and me used his Gator. We had to take the long way around after we come across those landslides. Sumbitch ATV’s got clearance but it’s not that good.” He looked contrite, as if anything he’d done would have made one iota of a difference.
That raised another question. “Why were you looking for us, anyways?”
George knelt and scooped water into the folding bucket. When he stood, he said, “You recall, at the lake, when Brooks said he thought the cabin by the shore might have seen some recent use?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Didn’t think nothing of it at first. We get hikers and fishermen using the cabins as shelter all the time.” He filled the second bucket. “Next day I get a call from Paul Trader... You know him?” Sonny grunted he did. “Anyways, we’re shooting the shit and Paul tells me this trapper Michael shot had been in the hospital. Under guard, mind you. Well, he managed to slip past the cop and next thing you know, he’s in the wind.”
That wasn’t exactly a surprise given their recent encounter. “When did that happen?”
George’s brows came together in a frown. “That’s the thing. It was like thirty-six hours or so after he was admitted. Of course, the hospital notified the sheriff, but they didn’t think to relay that information to the Forest Service... or to Paul. I guess, with Frontier Days going on, they had more important things to do with their time.” The man’s tone of voice made it clear he wasn’t on board with the cops’ priorities.
“So, you think he made his way to Sand Lake?” Sonny tried piecing together the timeline. Michael never mentioned the date of the shooting, so he had no frame of reference for placing the trapper at Sand Lake, then later on near Timber Lake. He admitted, “I’m a little lost on what’s happening when.”
George explained, “Between the time you boys left on trail, and Michael taking that pot shot at the campground, it was coming a good three or four weeks. Plenty of time for that asshole to get into the high country and disappear.” He picked up the two buckets of water and waited for Sonny to unhook the lead ropes from the halters. Sighing, George said, “Course, we’ll never know for sure, but it’s a good bet that fella’s been squatting in abandoned cabins for a good, long time. There’s certainly plenty to choose from, and not all of them are on established trails.”
Sonny spat, “You mean to tell me, we could have avoided all this if we’d known he was on the loose.”
“Don’t worry, son. Paul will have a word. It won’t happen again.”
Sonny wasn’t concerned about it happening again. The fact was, choices had been made that had put Michael Brooks at risk. If Michael’s boss had known about the escape, he’d never have agreed to Sonny’s field trip. Sonny would have been disappointed, but he also would have understood, knowing a man’s life might be at stake—in which case, he’d never have met Michael at all. Fate was not only fickle, she was a beeyotch of the first rank.
George was saying something, but Sonny hadn’t been listening. A hand on his wrist jerked him out of the fog mucking with his brain.
“I said, son, you might want to cut him some slack.”
Turning to face the older warden, Sonny sneered. “You also said to listen to what he says and don’t make him angry. Now you want me to cut him some slack.” He twisted his wrist, looking to loosen the man’s grip. He failed. “Anything else I should know about Michael Brooks, Warden?”
The man released his wrist and gave him a baleful glare. “No, I expect you think you know everything there is to know, Dr. Rydell.” He tipped his hat and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get our bedrolls out. I want to hit the trail at dawn’s light.” He nodded in the direction of the tent where Jon was still tending to Michael’s wounds. “Jon will help you bring your horses and your gear back to the Sand Lake Campground. The rig’s already there.” He gave Sonny a gimlet-eyed glare and sneered, “I assume you can drive the rig and the animals back to your place without help?”
Stung by the man’s change in tone, Sonny simply nodded. Pivoting on his heels, he retraced his steps, befuddled by the warden making him feel like pond scum. What the hell was going on?
He’d sparred with Michael Brooks and shared bits of his life—the things he cared about, his passions. They became friends, and despite everything that had happened, he was in no doubt that facet of their relationship had been genuine.
Then, like it always did, lust jumped aboard and ruined everything. How many people got to bring the old saw I’d kill for him to life? Well, he’d done it. And even now, he would never, ever regret it. So what more could he do to show Brooks how he felt, because apparently what he’d done so far wasn’t enough. All Michael saw was him being worried about his exposure to the media, or how his politically sensitive professional relationships would be impacted by the simple act of saving a man’s life.
What was up with that? Did Michael really think he was that shallow?
Sonny grabbed the wool blanket and moved to a spot near where the horses and the mule grazed. All he had to do was get through the night. The two wardens would be on their way back to civilization while he and Jon spent however long it took to reach the campground. After that, he’d deliver the animals to the ranch and email his report to Paul Trader and his minders in D.C.
Life would get back to being neat and tidy. He’d have a schedule. A purpose. Everything would be predictable, as it should be, as it had always been.
And after tomorrow morning, there was no need to see Michael Brooks ever again.
Chapter Seventeen
Sleepless in Laramie
Michael watched with amusement as his newest caregivers bustled about the hospital room arranging magazines on the rolling table and setting up the flowers and greeting cards along the window sill.
Sally’s daughter had somehow morphed into a competent young woman with a mind of her own. Dolly stood her ground when her mother suggested she leave to see to running the RV park office. “It’s sorted, Ma. Cody’s seeing to everything jes fine.” Dolly smoothed the light cotton blanket along Michael’s right leg. “’Sides, how often am I gonna get to tend to a genuine hero?”