Dangerous Ground, no. 1

by Josh Lanyon

  Even now he was afraid — but there was no point thinking like that. They were okay. They just needed time to work through it. And the best way to do that was to leave the past alone.

  “Warm enough?” he asked.

  Taylor gave him a long, unfriendly look.

  “Hey, just asking.” Will rose. “I was going to get a sweater out of my bag for myself.”

  Taylor relaxed. “Yeah. Can you grab my fleece vest?”

  Will nodded, and passing Taylor, took a swipe at the back of his head, which Taylor neatly ducked.

  * * * * *

  They had instant black bean soup and the Mexican-style chicken for dinner, and followed it up with the freeze-dried ice cream and coffee.

  “It’s not bad,” Taylor offered, breaking off a piece of ice cream and popping it into his mouth.

  Actually the ice cream wasn’t that bad. It crunched when you put it into your mouth, then dissolved immediately, but Will said, “What do you know? You’ll eat anything. If I didn’t watch out you’d be eating poison mushrooms or poison berries or poison oak.”

  Taylor grinned. It was true; he was a city boy through and through. Will was the outdoors guy. He was the one who thought a week of camping and hiking was what they needed to get back on track; Taylor was humoring him by coming along on this trip. In fact, Will was still a little surprised Taylor had agreed. Taylor’s idea of vacation time well spent was on the water and in the sun: renting a house boat — like they had last summer — or deep sea fishing — which Taylor had done on his own the year before.

  “They never did arrest anyone in connection with that heist, did they?” Taylor said thoughtfully, after a few more minutes of companionable chewing.

  “What heist?”

  Taylor threw him an impatient look. “The robbery at the Black Wolf Casino.”

  “Oh. Not that I heard. I wasn’t really following it.” Taylor had a brain like a computer when it came to crimes and unsolved mysteries. When Will wasn’t working, which, granted, was rarely, the last thing he wanted to do was think about crooks and crime — especially the ones that had nothing to do with them.

  But Taylor was shaking his head like Will was truly a lost cause, so he volunteered, “There was something about the croupier, right? She was questioned a couple of times.”

  “Yeah. Questioned but never charged.” He shivered.

  Will frowned. “You all right?”

  “Jesus, Brandt, will you give it a fucking rest!” And just like that, Taylor was unsmiling, stone-faced and hostile.

  There was a short, sharp silence. “Christ, you can be an unpleasant bastard,” Will said finally, evenly. He threw the last of his foil-wrapped ice cream into the fire, and the flames jumped, sparks shooting up with bits of blackened metal.

  Taylor said tersely, “You want a more pleasant bastard for a partner, say the word.”

  The instant aggression caught Will off guard. Where the hell had it come from? “No, I don’t want someone more pleasant,” he said. “I don’t want a new partner.”

  Taylor stared at the fire. “Maybe I do,” he said quietly.

  Will stared at him. He felt like he’d been sucker punched. Dopey and…off-kilter.

  “Why’d you say that?” he asked finally into the raw silence between them.

  He saw Taylor’s throat move, saw him swallowing hard, and he understood that although Taylor had spoken on impulse, he meant it — and that he was absorbing that truth even as Will was.

  “We’re good together,” Will said, not giving Taylor time to answer — afraid that if Taylor put it into words they wouldn’t be able to go back from it. “We’re…the best. Partners and friends.”

  He realized he was gripping his coffee cup so hard he was about to snap the plastic handle.

  Taylor said, his voice low but steady, “Yeah. We are. But…it might be better for both of us if we were reteamed.”

  “Better for you, you mean?”

  Taylor met his eyes. “Yeah. Better for me.”

  And now Will was getting angry. It took him a moment to recognize the symptoms because he wasn’t a guy who got mad easily or often — and never at Taylor. Exasperated, maybe. Disapproving sometimes, yeah. But angry? Not with Taylor. Not even for getting himself shot like a goddamned wet-behind-the-ears recruit. But that prickling flush beneath his skin, that pounding in his temples, that rush of adrenaline — that was anger. And it was all for Taylor.

  Will threw his cup away and stood up — aware that Taylor tensed. Which made him even madder — and Will was plenty mad already. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “This is payback. This is you getting your own back — holding the partnership hostage to your hurt ego. This is all because I won’t sleep with you, isn’t it? That’s what it’s really about.”

  And Taylor said in that same infuriatingly even tone, “If that’s what you want to think, go ahead.”

  Right. Taylor — the guy who jumped first and thought second, if at all; who couldn’t stop shooting his mouth off if his life depended on it; who thought three months equaled the love of a lifetime — suddenly he was Mr. Cool and Reasonable. What a goddamn laugh. Mr. Wounded Dignity sitting there staring at Will with those wide, bleak eyes.

  “What am I supposed to think?” Will asked, and it took effort to keep his voice as level as Taylor’s. “That you’re in love? We both know what this is about, and it ain’t love, buddy boy. You just can’t handle the fact that anyone could turn you down.”

  “Fuck you,” Taylor said, abandoning the cool and reasonable thing.

  “My point exactly,” Will shot back. “And you know what? Fine. If that’s what I have to do to hold this team together, fine. Let’s fuck. Let’s get it out of the way once and for all. If that’s your price, then okay. I’m more than willing to take one for the team — or am I supposed to do you? Whichever is fine by me because unlike you, MacAllister, I —”

  With an inarticulate sound, Taylor launched himself at Will, and Will, unprepared, fell back over the log he’d been sitting on, head ringing from Taylor’s fist connecting with his jaw. This was rage, not passion, although for one bewildered instant Will’s body processed the feel of Taylor’s hard, thin, muscular length landing on top of his own body as a good thing — a very good thing.

  This was followed by the very bad thing of Taylor trying to knee him in the guts — which sent a new and clearer message to Will’s mind and body.

  And there was nothing Will would have loved more than to let go and pulverize Taylor, to take him apart, piece by piece, but he didn’t forget for an instant — even if Taylor did — how physically vulnerable Taylor still was; so his efforts went into keeping Taylor from injuring himself — which was not easy to do wriggling and rolling around on the uneven ground. Even at 75 percent, Taylor was a significant threat, and Will took a few hits before he managed to wind his arms around the other man’s torso, yanking him into a sitting position facing Will, and immobilizing him in a butterfly lock.

  Taylor tried a couple of heaves, but he had tired fast. Will was the better wrestler anyway, being taller, broader, and heavier. Taylor relied on speed and surprise; he went in for all kinds of esoteric martial arts, which was fine unless someone like Will got him on the ground. Taylor was usually too smart to let that happen, which just went to show how furious he was.

  Will could feel that fury still shaking Taylor — locked in this ugly parody of a lover’s embrace. He shook with exhaustion too, breath shuddering in his lungs as he panted into Will’s shoulder. His wind was shit these days, his heart banging frantically against Will’s. These marks of physical distress undermined Will’s own anger, reminding him how recently he had almost lost Taylor for good.

  Taylor’s moist breath against Will’s ear was sending a confusingly erotic message, his body hot and sweaty — but Christ, he was thin. Will could feel — could practically count — ribs, the hard links of spine, the ridges of scapula in Taylor’s fleshless back. And it scared him; his hold changed instinct
ively from lock to hug.

  “You crazy bastard,” he muttered into Taylor’s hair.

  Taylor struggled again, and this time Will let him go. Taylor got up, not looking at Will, not speaking, walking unsteadily, but with a peculiar dignity, over to the tent.

  Watching him, Will opened his mouth, then shut it. Why the hell would he apologize? Taylor had jumped him. He watched, scowling, as Taylor crawled inside the tent, rolled out his sleeping bag onto the air mattress Will had remembered to set up for him, pulled his boots off, and climbed into the bag, pulling the flap over his head — like something going back into its shell.

  This is stupid, Will thought. We neither of us want this. But what he said was, “Sweet dreams to you too.”

  Taylor said nothing.

  Chapter Two

  Will looked like hell. Eyes red-rimmed, hair ruffled. There was a black-and-blue bruise on his jaw, which Taylor tried to feel sorry about — but Will looked sorry enough for himself for both of them.

  Taylor watched him pour a shot of bourbon into his coffee without comment. Yep, Will was definitely having a bad day, and it was only seven o’clock in the morning.

  As though reading his thoughts, Will looked up and met his eyes. Taylor, feeling weirdly self-conscious, looked away.

  “So I guess we’re still not speaking this morning?” Will asked.

  And despite the fact that he didn’t want to fight with Will, that he wanted to find some way to step back from the precipice he teetered on, Taylor shrugged and said coolly, “What did you want to talk about?”

  And Will just gave a kind of disgusted half-laugh, and turned back to his spiked coffee.

  So that was that.

  They moved around camp, neither of them speaking, moving efficiently and swiftly as they breakfasted and then packed up — like the day before and the day before that, only this morning the silence between them was not the easy silence of a long and comfortable partnership; it was as heavy and ominous as the rain clouds to the north.

  It was still early in the season — and the weather poor enough — that they met no one as they started down the steep trail, stepping carefully on the gravel and small stones. It was a strenuous descent, requiring attention, and Taylor was glad to concentrate on something besides Will. He’d been thinking about Will way too much lately. For the last year, really.

  The view was spectacular: huge clouds rolling in from the north, snow-covered mountains all around them, and a long, green valley way below, moody sunlight glinting off the surface of a slate blue lake. The scent of sagebrush was in the air — and the hum of bees. The sun felt good on his face after weeks of being indoors in bed.

  Will, the experienced hiker, went first down the trail. The set of his wide shoulders was uncompromising, his back ramrod straight as though he could feel Taylor’s stare resting between his shoulder blades — which he probably could. They’d got pretty good at reading each other’s thoughts, and half the time they communicated with no more than a glance.

  Back when they used to communicate.

  The bulky sweater and comfortable fatigues couldn’t conceal the lithe beauty of that tall, strong male body. Will was the most naturally gorgeous guy Taylor had ever known. And no little part of his attractiveness had to do with the fact that he was pretty much unaware of just how good-looking he was. Taylor’s gaze dropped automatically to Will’s taut ass. Yep, gorgeous.

  Will’s boot slipped on shale, and Taylor’s hand shot out, grabbing him, steadying him.

  Will grunted thanks, not looking at him. Taylor let go reluctantly.

  It was weird the way his body craved contact with Will’s. Any contact. A nudge in the ribs or a pat on the ass. It was like an addiction. In the hospital he’d lived every day waiting for Will to drop by — and to give Will credit, he’d managed to visit almost every single day, even if it was just for a few minutes. It had been strange, though, with Will so gentle and careful with him; at the time Taylor had been too ill to question it.

  Even when Will didn’t touch him, when he just stood next to him, Taylor could feel his nearness in every cell, his skin anticipating Will’s touch — longing for the lover’s touch that never came. Was never going to come, because Will didn’t feel that way about him.

  They couldn’t go on like this. Even Will had to see that — although Will was pretty good at not seeing what he didn’t want to see.

  They stopped midmorning for water and granola bars, still not looking at each other, still not talking. Will consulted his map. Checked his compass. High overhead, a pair of golden eagles threw insults at each other.

  “Are they mating?” Taylor asked, suddenly tired of the stand off. He missed Will, missed their old companionship. He’d been missing him for six weeks — and he was liable to be missing him from now on. It seemed worth making an effort for whatever was left of their trip.

  Will glanced skyward briefly. His eyes were very blue in his tanned face. They held Taylor’s gaze gravely. “That’s your idea of romance?”

  He was partly kidding, but partly not, and Taylor felt himself coloring.

  “Hey.” He lifted a shoulder. Not exactly sparkling repartee, but he didn’t want to fight anymore, didn’t know what Will wanted. He couldn’t not feel what he felt; he’d tried that — had tried for well over a year to talk himself out of feeling what was obviously unwanted and unwelcome.

  Will snorted, but he was smiling. Sort of. “You’re a nut, MacAllister. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “A girl never gets tired of hearing it,” Taylor deadpanned, and Will did laugh then. He shoved the map back into his pocket, shrugged on his backpack.

  * * * * *

  They reached the meadow a little after one o’clock. The clouds roiling overhead were thunderous and black. The pine and fir trees were singing and swaying in the wind; the lake was choppy and dark. The gray green grass rippled like the earth was breathing beneath their feet.

  “Let’s get under the trees,” Will said. “We’ll pitch the tent and have lunch. Wait it out.”

  Taylor could see he was worried about the worsening weather conditions; Taylor was just grateful for flat terrain. He’d wanted to call for a rest an hour earlier, but he’d have died first. He could feel the ache of coming rain in his chest, and told himself to get used to it. The doctors had said the broken ribs were going to hurt forever — especially when it rained. The bullet had torn through skin, muscles, and a couple of ribs. Following the shock of impact — like a land mine going off inside his chest — the pain had been unbelievable. Unimaginable.

  The miracle had been that no major blood vessels had been hit while the bullet ricocheted around his chest cavity. But it hadn’t felt like a miracle at the time. His right lung had begun to squeeze, he’d had to struggle for each short breath, and it had been agony — like getting stabbed over and over. His vision had grayed out, he hadn’t been able to call out or move, feeling the warm spill of his own blood on his chilled skin — and the blood had felt good, that’s how cold he’d been. Cold to the core.

  And then Will had been there. And he’d been glad. Glad for the chance to see him one last time, to say good-bye, even if it was just inside his own head because he sure wasn’t capable of speech. And the expression on Will’s face had been comforting. At least at the time. Now he knew it for what it was. Guilt. But at the time it had looked like something else, something it had been worth dying to see.

  He glanced at Will, walking beside him as they tramped across the long meadow. Will appeared a million miles away, but he felt Taylor’s gaze and looked over at him. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and Taylor knew he had been about to ask if Taylor was all right.

  And as tired as he was of Will asking if he was okay, he realized he preferred that to this new awkwardness. And he sure as hell preferred it to Will no longer giving a damn.

  He started to say so, but something in the brush caught his attention: the sheen of black material.

  “Hey,” he s
aid, stopping and nodding.

  Will glanced at him, tracked his gaze, and saw exactly what Taylor had. He followed as Taylor waded into the currant bushes dragging what at first glance appeared to be a black seat cushion from out of the bush.

  “It’s a parachute,” Will said, taking it from Taylor and turning it over.

  Taylor nodded. “Still packed.”

  They met each other’s gaze, and Taylor raised an eyebrow.

  “Let’s have a little look-see,” Will drawled.

  “I’ll take the right.”

  They separated, fanning out across the meadow. It took less than half an hour to locate the other three parachutes — two still packed, one torn wide open by something with claws and a lot of optimism. It seemed clear to Taylor that all four parachutes had been jettisoned at the same time. The speed of the plane and the headwind had resulted in several yards between each landing, but not nearly the distance which would have resulted from dropping them out the plane door at deliberate intervals.

  “That’s it,” Taylor said as Will rejoined him. “The fifth chute will have gone with the hijacker.”

  “Then it won’t have gone far.” Will’s face was grim. He was staring past Taylor, and Taylor turned. Near the lake the trees grew in a thick wall of white firs, Jeffrey pines, and incense cedars. And there, dangling from a twenty-feet tall cedar like a dreadful Christmas tree ornament, was what remained of the missing parachutist.

  * * * * *

  “He’s carrying a knapsack,” Taylor commented, as they stood gazing up at the macabre thing swinging gently in the wind.

  “Christ,” Will said.

  “I’ll go up.” Taylor started forward, but Will caught his arm.

  “Uh, no, you sure won’t.”

  That of course was a big mistake; Taylor freed himself, his face hard again. “Is that so?”

  Will said calmly, “Yep, MacAllister, that is so.” Even if he had to knock Taylor on his ass to make it so.