Meet and Greet
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Michael tapped the last of the old straw into the wheelbarrow and set the manure fork against the wall. With a grunt he wheeled the load out of the stall and down the concrete aisle, enjoying the strain on muscles still aching from his exertions in the arena the night before. Tipping the mess onto the manure pile behind the barn, he mumbled, “Shit,” when something in his shoulder popped loud enough to echo in the still morning air.
A chuckle warned him he wasn’t alone.
“You know you pay me an arm and a leg to do that for you, don’t you, Mr. Brooks?”
“It’s Michael, and yeah... But I like seeing to my own stock much as I can.” He removed his deerskin gloves and offered his hand in greeting. After a few pleasantries, he said, “Sorry I can’t stay long. My boss called me in for an emergency meeting later this morning.”
“Thought you said you were on vacation.”
“That’s what I thought, too, Hank. But apparently it got overruled.” He tipped the wheelbarrow against the wall and grabbed the broom setting nearby, using quick strokes to clean the aisle. He liked keeping his space neat and tidy, even if he was only leasing it. As he worked, he chatted with the ranch manager, observing, “See you have a couple new boarders.”
Hank nodded. “They came in yesterday. Seem to have settled in just fine.”
“Is it me, or is that the ugliest mule on the planet?”
Laughing out loud, Hank agreed. “Pretty is as pretty does. Owner won’t argue the point, but apparently the mule’s trail savvy enough to overcome his other, less attractive traits.”
“Little mare looks like a sweet ride. Make a good kid’s mount.” He eyed the petite bay with appreciation. “She’s got a kind eye.” He paused, squinting at the mule. “Had a mule, back when I got my first gig up in the Big Horns. Tried packing with him but never did work out an arrangement that suited. Ended up giving him to an outfitter.”
“How’d that work out?”
He and Hank leaned against the metal fence, arms folded along the top rail, their eyes scanning the brightening horizon to the east. The individual paddocks stretched for nearly an acre apiece, like exaggerated dog runs, each one with access to the stalls. It was a nice setup for folks who wanted to retrieve their mounts quickly, without needing to round them up with a four-wheeler on the thirty-acre pasture just over the rise.
They settled on staring at the mule as Michael explained, “The outfitter tried everything. Special made panniers, cloth saddlebags, you name it. Mule just laid down and refused to get up. There was talk of just shooting him to be done with it, but then one of their trail guys asked if he could have a go.”
Michael paused as Hank lit up, inhaled and then exhaled, thinking I’ve got to quit before accepting a smoke. He layered on the guilt, adding it to the pile he’d created the night before. The added weight of it barely registered.
“So what happened?”
Shifting the cigarette to his left hand, Michael twisted enough to give his right arm space. He made a popping motion, a short, sharp jab at Hank’s face without connecting. Hank’s eyes bulged but he didn’t move a muscle.
“That. First goddam thing every morning. Pop that sumbitch on the muzzle hard enough he blinked, but not so hard he’d swing his butt around and nail the guy. After that, he was fine. He packed a load or a rider, didn’t much matter.”
“What happened if you didn’t do that?”
“Well... and I only heard it second hand, the mule got so good at his job, the head wrangler figured the mule was safe. So the one time they decided to overlook that step was when a hunting client got tossed down a ravine. He survived.”
“What about the mule?”
“He didn’t.” Michael shrugged. A lot of their stories didn’t have happy endings. It was harsh country. Men made harsh decisions. It was what it was.
Hank unraveled his frame and said, “On that unpleasant note, you want to come in for breakfast? Cookie will be serving it up pretty soon.”
“Thanks, but I best be getting back.” He scrubbed at his chin whiskers. “I got the feeling I should look presentable for this meeting.” There was a first time for everything.
“Okay then. You still want them turned out with the big group or wait?”
“Wait. I got a feeling I might need them next week. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Good enough, Warden. And good luck with that meeting.” Tipping his hat, Hank strode toward the main lodge, leaving Michael alone to watch his two geldings for a few more precious minutes.
****
Doubling over, Sonny checked his pulse, his lungs starved for oxygen. He was used to pounding the pavement, getting his distance in by measuring city blocks, not miles of back country roads that ended at a cattle grate and yet another access point for privately owned grazing land. Unlike in the north, up near the Wind River Range where the herds were moved to higher grazing ground managed by the BLM, the valley stretching east from the Snowys was crisscrossed by large and small operations that specialized in hay as well as beef cattle production.
From his vantage point on a ridge overlooking the guest ranch, he could see the plumes of irrigation as the unwieldy devices made their slow, stately way across immense fields of alfalfa and barley.
His thigh muscles burning from a buildup of lactic acid, he opted for a slow jog rather than the sprint that had seemed a good idea when he’d awakened to a boner and memories of being dumped unceremoniously behind that damn roadhouse. Every stride, every impact with the packed sandy road had been a fuck him, fuck him rhythm driving him to a level of stupid he hadn’t permitted himself in a very long time.
He was going to pay in pain. And he didn’t care. At least that kind of pain was real. He could deal with it. Ice it, massage it. Own it.
But in spite of his resolve, the phantom refused to release him. Like a fiend it still possessed his every thought, every step of the dance replaying in his mind on an endless repeat loop. Feeling those hands on his hips, the fingers around his throat, that knee spreading him open. The wash of emotion pouring off Michael, it had threatened to drown them both. Michael had been on the verge of an assault, the promise of an act so out-of-control Sonny still quaked at the memory.
He’d been churning the incident over in his mind for hours, losing sleep, losing confidence. Now he was running to expunge his inability to stop craving it, whatever “it” might have been. A memory, that’s all he’d wanted, a chance to let the bad boy inside come out to play. Instead, a wicked man had teased him to the point where his inhibitions simply collapsed, then abandoned him to blue balls, leaving him horny as fuck and madder ’n hell.
Huffing, “I hope I never see that bastard again,” he slid down the bank on his heels and ass, landing with a satisfying thud near the warren of paddocks. Wheezing from the effort, he circled behind the barn, the dry air sucking moisture from his skin, coating it with a layer of awareness and regret that he’d decided on wearing just his nylon track shorts for his morning exercise. The chill was pebbling his nipples but doing nothing to cool his jets.
Fingers to the pulse in his neck, he power walked while counting off beats as he stared at his watch, satisfied he hadn’t lost too much fitness during his stint in D.C. There hadn’t been a lot of free time to keep after his fitness goals, not when days and night were taken up with schmoozing the head honchos at the USDA and acting like a talking puppet for his cousin Renee. The learning curve had been as tough as he feared, though he was grateful to have survived without too much damage to his self-esteem. He just needed to overcome one more hurdle, then he and his career were off and running.
Sniffing the air, he detected the faint odor of smoke and smiled as he rounded the corner of the barn, expecting to find Hank tending to morning feeding.
The collision rocked him onto his heels, hurtling him backwards as his running shoes lost traction and dislodged his center of gravity. He was going down. Muttering, “Dammit,” he braced for impact only to have strong hands lift him up and set him upright—hands that cupped his hipbones, with thumbs straying south to the elastic on his running shorts.
Without looking, he’d recognize that touch anywhere. On sturdy cotton it had burned through the layers, leaving residual heat and a lingering sensation of unbridled power. On his bare skin, it created a rupture in his sanity, the shock waves so profound he shut down every sensation but that touch. A single point of contact that picked up where they’d left off the night before.
He sputtered, “You,” and moaned a prayer of thanks. It should have been one for forgiveness...
Bless me father, I want to sin.
Michael’s mouth was moving, the lips thinned to irritation. Sonny listened but didn’t hear.
Details he’d missed in the faulty glare of floods and smoke-filled air suddenly sharpened in the lens of déjà vu. Wavy thick hair, the color of warm walnut, was streaked with russet and tipped with silver. A widow’s peak accented a high forehead. Brows straight and set into a scowl perpetual and dangerous reminded him of the biker and how easily Michael had defused the situation with finesse. Finesse masking a coiled core of violence, like a slow burn joined at the hip with the rolling boil of a hair-trigger temper.
Below the thin line of lips he’d almost kissed, a deep cleft split the strong jawline, still visible despite the heavy growth of beard.
The image of the man was square and balanced, the muscling pronounced on tree-trunk thighs that had tormented him to the point of begging. But he hadn’t begged. He’d done far worse. He’d apologized, trivializing his own needs and cutting himself off at the knees.
Michael muttered, “I have to go,” but still he held tight, rough palm to bony flesh, the thumbs flicking at Sonny’s waistband. It seemed a nervous gesture rather than sensual exploration.
Sonny peered down into eyes now shadowed in confusion, mirroring his own state of mind. He had no experience for this, no explanation for why he leaned down, cupping the whiskered cheeks, tilting his own head to the side. The whisper of regret overrode good sense—regret he would forever endure if he didn’t, just this once, taste the man jousting with his emotions.
Attraction was one thing. Lust was another. But this... this was on a different level. A level so wrong he had no choice but to pursue it, taste it, scent it, cradle it, worship it... It, that it was Michael Brooks.
Granite and satin, dry heat and slick moisture greeted his retreat and advance. Probing and opening, Sonny thrust his tongue into a cavern of resistance, sweeping aside the pain as Michael punished his flesh with sharp nips and lit his nerves in an agonizing reminder of who was stronger.
It was no contest.
Michael’s neck arched up and away, ceding his advantage. Sonny pressed on the man’s windpipe, merciless and relentless. Dropping his arms, Michael submitted to the pursuit, the illusion of passivity just that... an illusion.
A chill bled into the crevasses, oozing in and around the small spaces buffering skin stretched thin. Caving to the warning signs, Sonny eased up, allowing his thumbs to trace a meandering path along the join of bone and throat. Palms flattened, he cradled massive pecs and taut buds, his fingers issuing a final challenge—a vicious pinch, an intake of breath, then release.
Conflicted, he felt the pull of the safety of his cabin and the lure of his bed, wondering if he headed up the incline, would Michael follow and finish what they’d started the previous night? Or would he simply walk away once more, without explanation. Cold, cruel and distant.
Michael said, so softly it might have been Sonny’s imagination, “I have to go.”
The space next to him emptied, but he felt no need to fill it with pursuit or questions. He stood at the fence and watched the aspen quaking in the freshening breeze, appreciating how it soothed and cooled his overheated flesh and whisked away the sounds of retreat, leaving him to mourn for both of them.
****
It was too early to check in, but late enough everyone who was going to check out would have already done so, yet still... there was a middle-aged woman in capris and sandals, tugging on the hand of a five or six-year-old, muttering mom words. Threats, the kind that ended up with her counting to ten while the kid learned the wrong lesson.
Sally tended the counter as always. Dolly hovered behind her, bearing hoagies wrapped in white paper from the dive across the road. Comfort food. Dripping with coleslaw on roast beef. The fragrance made Michael’s stomach growl. He’d skipped breakfast.
The contrast between mother and daughter had always been pronounced. Sally was hawk faced with beady eyes and sunken cheek bones, lines etched deep from a lifetime of disapproving. Her daughter had always been doughy and plastic, perpetually infantile and subservient, eyes blank and downcast.
None of that had changed, not the physical bits, the overall impression. You had to stare for some time, watch the girl move around, see how she carried herself. The scurry and avoidance had taken a back seat to something new, something interesting. You normally wouldn’t look at the girl twice, but if you did, there was more to see now. Maybe it was confidence, or maybe it was love.
The two women stared at him like he’d just risen from the dead. They weren’t far wrong. Sally greeted him with, “Mr. Brooks,” mindful of the customer whose eyes naturally sought out what the other two women were looking at. She grimaced, mid-count, expression dulling into shock. Sally pressed the keys into the woman’s hand, wished her a good stay. The spiel was rote and well-rehearsed. Sally never took her eyes off him.
Michael wondered if he was bleeding instead of just dripping a puddle of water on the linoleum. He nodded at the woman in capris, said, “Ma’am,” and stepped aside so she could exit, dragging the kid behind her.
They all waited a heartbeat or two until the door soughed shut.
Sally said, “What happened to you?”
He held up the scissors. “I need a haircut.”
“Do we look like a fucking salon to you?”
Dolly chirruped, “Let me, Ma. I done it before.” She set the hoagies down on the counter, leaving a greasy spot on the fake wood.
Michael said, “I’ll pay.”
“Don’t need yore money, boy. Just need to know what’s up with you.”
“Ma, let me.”
“No.” She pointed to Michael and barked, “In there,” and motioned for him to go to the back office. To Dolly she said, “You, sit here. You know what to do.”
He dutifully walked into the cubicle and pulled a folding chair out from behind the desk, sat down and perched the scissors on his lap.
“Boy, you ever think about wearing swim trunks? You ain’t leaving much to the imagination.”
Michael blushed, the heat shooting to the roots of the tangled mop he desperately needed trimmed. After driving nearly thirty miles on autopilot, not allowing himself to cogitate on how he’d lost his mind that morning, the trailer had hit him like a bad cramp. The countdown to his meeting with his boss, and whoever was so important they had to ruin everyone’s weekend, loomed like a ticking bomb.
Sally picked up the scissors, asked, “You bring a comb or am I supposed to provide that too?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He pulled a hairbrush from the pocket of his still soaked fleece pants.
“Why’d you jump in the pool, if you don’t mind my asking?” Snip snip.
“I didn’t.”
She looked out the window. “Ain’t raining.” Snip. Yank.
“Ow. It was Fox Creek.” To her uh-huh, he said, “Got stung.” Liar, liar...
“Did you now.” Snip. “Some say cold’s good for that. You had swelling, right?”
“Um.”
She came around front, giving him stink eye, the tips of the scissors running a line down his neck to the notch at the base of his throat. “Bet that hurt like a sonofabitch.” He nodded, acknowledging the imprint Sonny had left on his neck. He was relieved she couldn’t see where ragged nails had split his skin, twisting his nipple, and rendering him nearly mad with lust.
He assumed his cheerful face, the one that usually sent women and small children running for the hills. “Yeah, but it’s good now. I took care of it.”
“I’m sure you did.” Sally brushed at his shoulders, moving fringes of hair onto the floor. “You want me to shave that?” A finger flipped at the unkempt condition of his face.
“Thought I’d keep it.” If he was heading into the mountains, he’d let it grow out anyway. No sense fussing at this point in time.
Patting his shoulder, Sally said, “Ain’t perfect but it’s better ’n it was.” He dug in his pants pocket for his soaked wallet, but she stayed his hand. “Keep it, boy. You already gave an old lady her thrill for the day.” She pointed to a door at the rear of the office. “You go on out that way. I don’t need for you scandalizing good Christian folks with your considerable assets.”
He thanked the woman again, promising to help her with some maintenance work once he was back in Laramie. She countered with, “Sure as hell hope he’s worth it, Michael.”
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Dolly must have put two and two together and blabbed to her mother.
With a grim smile, he said, “Jury’s still out on that one, Sal.”
He was late. Traffic had been a bitch as the entire population of Laramie emptied into the fairgrounds for the last of the Frontier Days festivities.
Apologizing to Paul, he sat down in the conference room and idly flipped the folder open, scanning the research proposal, then glanced at the spread of topographic maps littering the table.
“Where is everybody?”
Paul grimaced. “The local rags are having a photo op in the media room. We got us a State Senator and both congressmen from D.C.”
Suspicion niggled at the base of Michael’s spine. “This proposal’s not worth that kind of fuss. This study will amount to nothing but pocket change to execute.” He locked eyes with his boss. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“Wish I could, son. What I’m hoping is you’ll find out before the shit really hits the fan.”
Shuffling and a bark of laughter alerted them their visitors were returning. Michael stood and prepared to greet the politicians.
Paul announced each one as he came through the door. “Senator Sam Limon. Representative Art McCarthy. And you already know Dan Fishburn.”
Michael shook hands, dispensed the pleased to meet you sirs, and was about to sit down when Paul said, “And last but not least, Seamus Rydell, the architect of the study that will hopefully change some minds...”
Michael’s heart stopped, simply stopped. Reflexively he rubbed at the raw spots on his throat where surprisingly powerful thumbs had nearly crushed his larynx.
In the background Paul droned, “...and this here is Michael Brooks, our most experienced Warden who is also functioning as our backup habitat and access specialist in this district.”
With a nod that encompassed everyone in the room, Sonny took a seat across from Michael and opened the folder in front of him.
Michael had been joking when he’d told Sally the jury was still out. Forty-five minutes ago he’d been convinced he’d never lay eyes on Sonny again. He wanted those forty-five minutes back, he wanted the last two days back.
He wasn’t getting them. He was getting his wet dream instead.
Fucking hell, Houston, I’ve got a problem...