Wolf, WY

by A. F. Henley

  The new wolf buried his teeth in the thick fur of the other's neck; they dug at each other with both front and back paws, and rolled and twisted like something out of a Nature Gone Bad show. Snarls were muffled by mouthfuls of fur; high-pierced yelps and angry growls echoed off the walls of the garage. Randy took several seconds, during which he nearly drowned in relief and shock, to react.

  He found his feet, he stumbled upright, and he ran. He jumped the step at the man door of the garage and he did not look back. As though both wolves were on his heels, he stumbled across the carport and tore the screen door open so hard it bashed against the siding. He didn't reach for it, nor did he try to close it. He let it swing in the wind and kicked open the wood door to the house. With a scream that could have been triumph, but was more than likely panic, he ran into the house and slammed the door behind him. It wasn't until he had twisted the lock and slid to the floor that he dared to breathe again.

  That was where he sat for the next hour, listening through the door for anything that might suggest the wolves were still there, or that they'd left, or that they'd decided to team up to try and huff, puff, and blow the house down.

  There was nothing—nothing but the sound of two doors being battered by the wind. Thwack! Thunk. Thwack! Thunk... thunk... clunk.

  *~*~*

  It took Randy an hour of bright sunlight, close consideration, and a lengthy internal lecture about how 'these things happen' and 'this is what is to be expected' for him to finally get the courage to walk out to the garage the next morning. It was blessedly empty, though the scent of the wolves still remained even with the open door. It took him another hour to dig out the front of the garage enough to open the door and back the truck out. Then he left the truck running, went inside to change out of his sweat-soaked shirt, and grabbed a mug of coffee for the road.

  Even as he drove, he had no idea where he was going or why; mostly he just needed out. If he stayed in the house, he knew he'd spend way too many hours staring at the garage and thanking deities and destiny for the fact that he was still breathing. Reason told him he should have brought out his gun, but his too-liberal bleeding-heart told him that the thought of killing an animal just because it wandered into his yard was ridiculous, not to mention illegal. Yes, he could argue that the wolf had been attacking, but had it? Really? It was hard to say. Regardless, it might not be a bad idea to pull the gun out, clean it up like he'd been shown, and put it within reaching distance, though. There was, after all, a fairly decent chance they might be back.

  Thinking about it, even that far from ground zero, made Randy feel nauseous.

  Sheridan was only twenty miles away, and on sunny days with clear roads, if one obeyed the posted limits, the drive took just under an hour. While the skies had lightened to a baby-blue brilliance, the sun itself looked weak and distant. So Randy told himself he was taking the long way around just in case the weather took a turn for the worse again. He reasoned that there would be more traffic, that the roads would be clear, and that he'd be less likely to have to get out and shovel his way out of a snowdrift if he took the long route. When he got to the interstate, though, instead of merging to the right and heading toward Sheridan, Randy stopped and took a long look in the other direction. None of the previous year's events had gone the way Randy had hoped they would. Not the ex, not the job, not the move. Had he been an idiot to come all this way? Sure, winter in Wyoming had sounded cool, but he'd never really stopped to think just how big it was all going to get. Now there were wolves—eye-to-eye, wide-mouthed wolves that could have, and most likely would have, shredded him if either one of them had got the chance. Was something telling him to get out and be gone? Something other than the high and mighty O'Connell men? Maybe something or someone was whispering a warning: If I gotta tell you again, city brat... things ain't gonna go well for you.

  Beyond the bridge to his left, Montana stretched out far and wide. It would take him as long to get to the border from where he was as it would to drive to Sheridan. Would it be any different up there? What if he kicked it into gear and drove further north—what would Regina be like? What about Winnipeg? Or Salt Lake City or Reno... Timbuk-freaking-tu? The world was big. There were a million places he could go. It wasn't like anything was keeping him there—nothing important, anyway. The mortgage was new; if he walked away from it, he wouldn't be out much more than time and effort. His credit rating could go fuck itself sideways for all he cared.

  He closed his eyes, just for a second, and he was back in Vaughn's garage in front of the woodstove, sipping on positively awful alcohol, and listening to jazz. Something so unattainable shouldn't feel that cozy. It shouldn't feel that perfect. Any attraction, lust or otherwise, that Randy had manifested for Vaughn was pointless. How it ended up growing, when Randy would have sworn a couple of months ago that he'd give his eye teeth just to see Vaughn get a left hook to the jaw, was also moot. Maybe it had been the way Vaughn looked when Vaughn thought he was alone, with that pensive gaze to the heavens and that expression of lonely hunger on his face. Maybe it was just the way Vaughn smiled when he finally let himself go long enough to twist one on to his face. Randy wasn't really sure on any of it. One thing Randy did know was that he wanted the moment again, whether it was nothing more interesting than sitting beside Vaughn and watching a game, or having Vaughn offer a grin when he came to the door to ask if his kids were there. At least it would be something.

  Randy turned the wheel to the right, and merged toward Sheridan.

  *~*~*

  There was a box of wine from the liquor store in his trunk, a bag of DVDs from the adjoining video/audio store (purchased, not rented, because not even God could guarantee when he'd make in back to the city), and sixty bucks' worth of groceries from the Safeway. If nothing else he could eat, drink, and get lost in movies if—when—the weather flared back up.

  The city was a mess of slush and snow piles. Elevated trucks with treads as deep as canyons grumbled by, their drivers staring down at Randy like he was driving something as foolish as a Corvette and not a bona fide 4x4 pickup. Brightly bundled kids made all manners of snow critters in postage-stamp-sized front yards while their parents shoveled their driveways clear. Snowmobiles tore up and down the side streets, whipping across the larger streets with a hope and a prayer when the way seemed clear of traffic and law enforcement. The entire city seemed to have become a land of winter worship. It was oddly uplifting, like stumbling across Santa's workshop, except that it was well after Christmas and all the little elves had been allowed out to play. When Randy pulled into the parking lot of a diner, looked across the street, and saw two people vigorously scrubbing and hosing their snowmobiles at the Sudsy Bath Auto Wash, all he could do was shake his head over the coolness of it.

  Randy parked the truck, got out with a whistle, and walked through the lot with a grin. He didn't quite make it through the door, though. Instead, he stopped still and stared at the street. Sitting on a wooden bench with his ass on the backrest and his feet on the seat, both knees bobbing up and down as though he was wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch, was Lyle. He had both hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket, and a tight black beanie pulled down far enough to cover the top half of his ears. Other than that, however, his winter accessories were lacking to a remarkable level. He had to be freezing.

  "Lyle?" Randy asked, walking down the path to the sidewalk.

  There was no reply. Lyle was staring across the street, though he didn't appear to be focusing on anything in particular. He had a small smile on his face, but didn't seem to be suffering any ill effects of the cold. On the contrary, there was a deep flush on his cheeks, and as Randy advanced he could see that not only were the hands in Lyle's pockets bare, but his jacket was unzipped to well below halfway.

  Randy tried again, tilting his head in an effort to see Lyle's face. "Hey, Lyle?"

  When there was still no reply, Randy reached for Lyle's shoulder. It was just a casual touch, nothing more th
an the tips of three fingers, but Lyle reacted as though he'd been grabbed in battle. He spun, dropped off the bench and sunk all ten fingers into both of Randy's shoulders.

  Randy stumbled, unprepared for Lyle's advance as Lyle shoved him against the brick face of the diner. The back of Randy's head smacked the wall soundly, and his spine hit the surface so hard his lungs emptied in a huff that he tried to make sound like, "Lyle!" It was as though Lyle didn't hear him, which had to be impossible. They were face-to-face.

  Through watering eyes, Randy could see Lyle's expression; his lips were curled back and his eyes were blazing. His body was so close to Randy's that Randy could feel the heat radiating off him. No wonder he hadn't been cold; Lyle felt like he was burning up.

  "Lyle," Randy flailed until each hand found Lyle's wrists. "What the fuck—"

  Lyle's eyes widened. He eased the pressure of his grip immediately. "Mr. Connor... Randy..." He let go completely and began to pat Randy's coat flat with one hand, then reached around Randy's head with the other. "I'm so sorry!"

  Randy nudged Lyle back and took a long breath. "Jesus Christ, Lyle."

  The flush that had been on Lyle's cheeks grew from mere warmth to embarrassment. "Did I hurt you? Are you all right? Do you need to sit?" Though Lyle waved toward the bench, he didn't move away.

  "Pfft." Randy swatted Lyle's hands away, trying for coolness and not at all convinced he was pulling it off. His fingers shook and the back of his skull thumped. He rubbed his head and then pulled his hand back to check for blood. "You a wee bit tense or what?"

  "Let me see." Though Lyle's voice was soft and calm, the way Lyle pulled Randy's shoulders to force him to turn left no doubts as to whether or not Lyle would insist.

  "I'm fine," Randy said, but even as he said it, he double-checked his own fingers a second time to make sure they really were clean. That had hurt. Not that Lyle looked weak by any means, but Lyle was obviously even stronger than Lyle looked.

  Lyle's fingers threaded through his hair. "Does that hurt?"

  "No," Randy lied. He forced a swallow and stared at the brick in front of his face. It had been way too long since he'd been that close to someone, especially in the position of ass to groin, and if he didn't know better, if he wasn't sure it was his own imagination, Randy would have sworn that Lyle had moved closer. Uncomfortably close, or, more accurately, too comfortably close. The hair on the back of Randy's neck began to rise, and his heart tried to throw a couple of extra hitches into the routine.

  "We should keep an eye on that, Randy."

  Now that wasn't a figment of his imagination, Randy told himself. Lyle's tone had definitely changed, becoming deeper and softer. Once again, Lyle's fingers slipped through his hair. This time it wasn't just the throbbing bump Lyle sought out, either. He ran his fingers from crown to neck, taking extra care, or so it seemed, to glide them over every sensitive spot Randy had.

  Randy cleared his throat. He didn't move away even though every instinct in his head told him to; his feet seemed glued in place. "What are you doing?"

  "Making sure you feel okay," Lyle said simply. Both Lyle's palms landed on Randy's shoulders. "You should let me have a look at your back, too."

  Holy shit.

  That wasn't supposed to feel like an invitation. It sure in hell wasn't supposed to make Randy's blood start racing. What in the ever-loving hell was wrong with him? Except, when both Lyle's hands began to peel the collar of Randy's coat down, and the heat of Lyle's breath ghosted the bared skin of his neck, Randy wasn't convinced that he was the crazy one, after all.

  "Lyle, stop." He had a second of panic that at any moment someone was going to run up and body check Lyle to the ground. That he'd be forced to stand there while Lyle was beaten into the sidewalk. Why in the hell would that cross his mind? Why did that mental image come backed by the sound of snarls and yelps? It made no sense.

  He turned, placed both hands on Lyle's chest and applied pressure. "Stop. I don't want anybody getting the wrong idea."

  The attempt to move Lyle back was pointless. Lyle stayed exactly where he was, but he did lift both his hands and lay them over top of Randy's. When he stared Randy square in the eyes, Randy just about gasped. Something in the way the sun caught Lyle's eyes, maybe even the lights from the window of the diner, made them look like they were liquid gold.

  Lyle leaned closer, and everything south of Randy's waist felt like it was going to melt. "What wrong idea would that be, Mr. Connor?" He never broke eye contact. He lowered his voice. The world around them seemed to fade away.

  "I'm not kidding," Randy said, shaking his head in an attempt to reorient himself. "Your dad would kill me. Hell, I think this whole damn town would kill me—"

  "They wouldn't fucking dare," Lyle said with a slow smile.

  Randy pushed again, harder and more insistently. "Get back. I'm serious." He watched Lyle's lip curl, and just like that, the look on Lyle's face dropped from enticing to feral, as if Randy's fighting back was somehow a game. As if that game was somehow exciting. And that just pissed Randy off.

  He yanked both of his hands out from underneath Lyle's and caught the middle finger of Lyle's left one. He tugged it backwards before Lyle even knew what was happening.

  Lyle stepped away almost as quickly as he'd come forward. "Ow, fuck! Okay! Fuck!"

  "Look, I get it," Randy said quietly. He didn't release Lyle's finger but he did let up pressure. "I know what it's like to be eighteen. You're all revved up and raring to go, all this juice is pumping through your blood, and hey, what the fuck, everyone should get their chance to do a little experimenting. That moment isn't about to come from me, though. Don't get me wrong, I think you're hot as all fuck. If we met in a club, I probably wouldn't even force you to show me your I.D. before I followed you around back."

  He leaned forward and tried to make his expression one of sincerity as opposed to hostility. "But I know you. And I know your family. I've made cookies with your baby sister, for God's sake." He let Lyle's hand slip out of his grasp. "There's got to be some other guy around here that you—"

  "They're not you," Lyle growled his reply through his teeth.

  Randy snorted a dry laugh. "Yeah, well—"

  "Lyle?"

  They both jumped, Randy and Lyle, and Randy spun to check out who was going to be the first to attempt to kill him for daring to touch a local. The set of eyes that shone out of the elderly cook's face were not on Randy, however. They bored into Lyle's like they were trying to drill through him.

  "Where's your daddy, son?"

  Whatever Lyle mumbled, Randy's didn't recognize the name. Something-something-hardware.

  The cook nodded, first at Lyle and then at Randy. "You can carry on, friend. I got him until his daddy gets here."

  Mental images of Lyle being set in front a firing squad with a dozen different Vaughns staring over their rifles filled Randy's head. It took Randy less than a second to decide that wasn't about to happen. No one should get in shit for trying to figure out how their cock worked. Or, more so, who made it work. Someday in the future he'd pull Lyle aside and read him the riot act about acceptable behavior when trying to make a move on somebody—just because that somebody might be another guy, it didn't mean that a person got the right to be an aggressive asshole. Someday soon. In private.

  "It's okay. He wasn't doing anything wrong." Randy lifted his chin and nodded at the cook. "This was between us. And besides," he offered Lyle a quick smile. "We were just fooling around, weren't we?"

  Lyle shrugged, not helping his case in the least, and Randy held back a sigh. Randy narrowed his lips and tried to catch Lyle's eyes, doing his best to send a message through them. I'm trying to help you out here.

  Lyle lifted his eyes, the gold now nothing more than the flecks that adorned both his and his father's eyes, but the meaning within them was clear. Don't bother.

  "Come on in here, son," the cook said. "Get out of the cold and wait at one of the tables. I want a quick chat with your
daddy, anyway."

  Lyle rolled his eyes and sighed. "I guess I could go for a coffee."

  He sounded deflated and used up—like he was just going to go on in and wait for his sentencing. Flip me over, Randy's dad said in Randy's head. This side's all the way done. It was his dad's 'you've gone and got yourself a little burned, haven't you?' idiom, but it was also his way of saying you still had a way to go before you were completely cooked.

  "Actually, I could use a coffee too." Randy smiled when Lyle's expression brightened. "I'll wait with you." He flashed a quick scowl at the cook. "I'd hate to have Vaughn get the wrong story, after all."

  Though Randy felt the cook's eyes on his back, he didn't let it bother him. He walked up the steps to the diner, pulled the door wide, and waved Lyle through in front of him.

  *~*~*

  When Randy and Lyle had first sat down, Randy had offered to buy Lyle a late breakfast or an early lunch to pass the time. It had only taken two repeats of that offer to get Lyle to accept. Lyle had eaten like he'd never seen food before, which at least set Randy's mind at ease over the possibility Lyle might have been coming down with something. Although the over-heated flush remained with Lyle the entire time they ate, at least Lyle didn't make any more moves on him.

  It was two full days before Randy saw anyone from the O'Connell family again. The last he'd seen them, Vaughn had been walking out of the diner with Lyle in tow, and the two of them had climbed into Vaughn's truck and been gone before Randy could follow. Though Vaughn did have a chat with the cook that had watched the two of them argue, he'd seemed surprisingly cool and in control when he'd collected Lyle from the table they shared.