A Cowboy's Home (8 page)

That he wished he’d never been born?

No.

Justin didn’t say a thing.

And then he was falling, and he passed
out.

Sam pushed a toe to the fallen man’s shin,
but the blond guy with the intriguing silver-gray eyes didn’t move.
From the way he’d fallen to the ground, kind of in one flail, Sam
considered it a faint.

So what now?

He looked at his cell phone. No signal. “Fuck
my life,” he muttered. He’d found the thief, and he had to be
honest, he’d never expected to. Crooked Tree was a big place, and
he’d only found the cabin because of the mud and his bike getting
stuck next to it.

If he believed in fate, which he didn’t, he
would say that he was meant to be there at that moment for this
man. He’d long ago given up on the concept of fate ruling his life;
there was no room for it alongside the rest of the crap.

Luck led him here. Luck and a need to know
who was messing with his stores.

He crouched down next to the man and
considered one plus of the faint: he had full access to clean up
the wound and see what the hell was going on.

Sam peered closer, but without artificial
light he had to shuffle the heavy weight of the unconscious man
into the ring of sunlight shining through a hole in the roof. Tough
Guy, as Sam thought of him, had used material as a bandage and
probably attempted to look after the wound the best he could, but
fever had pushed him over the edge.

Blood poisoning was a thing, right? Tetanus
shots and all that sort of medical stuff. Really, the man should be
in a hospital.

Sam didn’t know why he crouched there without
considering going far enough to get a signal and calling someone,
or getting on his bike for help, or—God forbid—actually getting
Tough Guy on the back of his bike.

He checked his cell again, just in case there
was, miraculously, reception.

Nothing, nada. Even waving it around gave him
no move in those bars set stubbornly to zero.

He pocketed the cell and took out another
wipe, this time not being quite so careful to avoid the wound
itself. Things didn’t look so good there; no pus, but he poked at
it a bit and then poured clean water over it before tipping a
copious amount of antiseptic onto the place where it looked most
raw. Rummaging in his bag, he pulled out a bandage and cream, and
then overdid everything until the wound was covered and he felt
like he’d achieved something.

Tough Guy was still asleep. Or unconscious.
Whatever.

“What the hell now?” Sam said to no one. “And
now I start talking to myself. But I can’t exactly talk to you, can
I?”

He poked Tough Guy in the chest, his finger
meeting a wall of muscle hidden under the ratty T-shirt that was
covered in blood and mud and God knows what else. He felt like he
should check for other wounds, but when he attempted to pull at the
T-shirt, Tough Guy’s eyes opened wide and scared.

“What?” he blurted, rolling to sit up,
cursing and flailing and reaching for the gun all in one seamless
movement.

Sam let him get the gun; Tough Guy needed the
reassurance, and Sam didn’t think he’d shoot. Well, not at the
moment. Anyway, one jab at the bad spot on his thigh and the tall
blond dude would be dead meat on the dirty ground.

The stranger appeared to realize a few things
at once: that his thigh wound was bandaged, that Sam was sitting
calm and controlled a few feet away, and that he was in pain. He
bent at the waist, his breath a rasping gasp. “Fucking shit,” he
cursed.

“You fainted,” Sam offered helpfully.

Tough Guy looked at him from under thick,
long lashes, his eerily clear gray eyes holding disbelief. Then
that expression changed and he straightened. “Thank you,” he
offered.

“You’re welcome.” Sam passed him the first
container he could find—leftovers from last night, a potato bake
that didn’t hold any meat but was easy to transport. “You should
eat.”

Tough Guy stared at the container like it was
an unexploded bomb, and Sam tutted, reached for it and opened it,
before grabbing the spoon he’d bought with him.

“What is it?” Tough Guy asked, looking down
at the congealed mess.

Sam poked at it with the spoon, attempting to
make it look more like what it was. “Layered potato, onions, and
cream… it’s a side bake I do, but it’s good cold.”

Tough Guy simply stared at him and then down
at the food.

“What?” Sam asked. Did the stranger think it
was poisoned or something? “You are way low on trust,” he said and
then ate a spoonful, closing his eyes as he went onto autopilot,
tasting all the subtle herbs he’d used in it. He should maybe up
the seasoning a little, but other than that, it
was
great
cold. He passed it over.

Tough Guy spooned a little into his mouth and
chewed it before swallowing. “It’s good,” he said. “I just feel a
bit—” He put the tub down. “—sick.”

Sam wasn’t having that. “Nope, come on, Tough
Guy, you need to get some food down you so your meds don’t eat your
stomach lining, or something awful like that.” He picked up the tub
and passed it back, grateful when the stranger took another
bite.

Sam sat and watched the slow progress, taking
in the other man’s appearance. He looked Army tough: muscles on a
lithe body, blond hair matted and muddy, gray eyes ever watchful,
and his hands were scarred on the knuckles. His long-sleeved tee
hid most of his torso from Sam, but the material clung, and under
that material was a hard body. A tough body. Was he an escaped
convict? A secret agent? A drug runner? A horse thief?

Sam was always getting in trouble for his
overactive imagination. Blame his short attention span, but he
couldn’t settle for long periods of time without something to
do.

“I can’t keep calling you Tough Guy,” Sam
said. “What’s your name?”

His companion lifted his gaze and hesitated.
“Tom,” he said, although the sound of it from his cracked and
bloodied lips seemed wrong. Like “Tom” was testing the weight of
the word on his tongue.

“Hey, Tom.” Sam wiped his hand on his jeans
and extended it. “I’m Sam.”

Tom ignored the hand but nodded. “Sam.”

“Yep, Sam, short for Samuel. Is Tom short for
Thomas?”

Tom chewed and swallowed. “Just Tom.”

“I’m a chef. What do you do?”

Tom stared at him.

Clearly that wasn’t a question he’d be
answering anytime soon, so Sam tried another direction. He wasn’t
expecting Tom to admit he was evading the authorities or that he
was on the run from the mob—or hell, any of a hundred different
scenarios Sam could come up with.

“How did you find this cabin?” Sam asked,
changing the direction subtly. He couldn’t fail to see how Tom’s
body language changed with it. He tensed, shut down, concentrated
on eating the potato bake, and didn’t say a thing. So Sam filled
the space. “I found it—the cabin, I mean—because I have a bike, and
when I thought someone was maybe hiding out up here, stealing my
stuff from the kitchens, I decided to go looking. And yes, I know
that’s kind of dangerous, because hell, someone could be up here
with a gun, right? But that didn’t matter, because I’m not in a
good headspace at the moment and I wasn’t entirely thinking
straight. But I digress.”

A pause, and he unscrewed the cap to his own
bottle of water and took a chug, then opened a bag of chips. Might
as well be comfortable, and it
was
nearly lunchtime.

“Anyway, so I was looking and I’m no tracker,
but my friend said there were trails up here that no one knew
about, so I figured it was a good place to start.”

Tom stiffened and winced at the words as Sam
talked. His gray eyes held an expression that Sam could only think
was Tom being pissed that Sam talked so much.

Most people thought he talked too much, or
had a temper that burned, or whatever.

I am who I am.

“I know I talk a lot. But it’s not like
you’re filling the space with interesting conversation here,
Tom.”

He waited. Maybe Tom would answer that. All
the man did was stare at Sam as if Sam was losing his mind.

“How did you find me?” Tom
rasped
, and then coughed to clear his
throat.

“I saw the bushes flattened a ways back, I
got stuck in this rut of mud with my bike and decided to take a
breather, saw the bushes, and like I said, that was it. I kind of
knew something. Like it felt different.”

Tom dipped his head, clearing up the corners
of the bowl of potato before placing the container on the
floor.

Sam handed him a chocolate bar. “For energy.
And don’t start on how it’s empty calories. Chocolate is my go-to
whenever I need to get a boost of some kind.” He watched Tom open
the candy and take his first bite. “There, you see. That’s good,
right.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Tom growled.

“No. How old are you, Tom?”

Gray eyes drilled into him. “What?”

“How old are you? I’m thirty-three.
Thirty-four in October. The ninth, which means I’m a Libra. What
are you? What star sign, I mean?” Tom stared at him but didn’t
answer. “You look about the same age as me. Why are you up here all
alone, and who shot you?”

Tom looked a little confused at the sudden
change in subject. He took another bite of chocolate. After that,
“I’m twenty-eight,” he offered. “Now will you shut up?”

Sam couldn’t fail to see what Tom had done,
deflecting the other question, but he wasn’t going to push it. “You
should come down to the ranch—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not going anywhere.”

“They’ll help you down there. There’s one
guy, Ethan, he’s a cop—”

Sam ducked as Tom threw the empty plastic
container right at his head.

“I. Said. No! If people know I’m here, I’m
dead.” Tom’s voice was steady, his tone flat. He didn’t sound like
he was making a passionate plea for Sam not to tell anyone, more a
statement of fact. “You want to get me killed?”

Did Tom even care that if he stayed here, he
was a dead man walking?

“Are you a good guy? Or one of the bad guys?”
Sam asked, aware he sounded like a freaking idiot. That was a
stupid question, like Tom was going to admit he was a bad guy, when
he had Sam in front of him. Instead, Tom frowned and looked
completely serious for a moment.

“Depends on your definition.” Tom ruined the
enigmatic statement by hacking a cough.

Sam stood up and brushed off the seat of his
pants. “I’m going back down to the ranch.”

Tom pointed the gun at him. “I can’t let you
go anywhere.”

Sam put his hands on his hips and looked
right at him, hoping he came over as confident and self-assured.
“You need some blankets, and I’ll dig up some other things. I’ll be
back when I can.” The click of the safety on the gun was Tom
telling him that he
really
didn’t want Sam leaving. “I don’t
get that.” Sam gabbled through his nerves. “In the movies, the bad
guy always points the gun and makes a threat, and then you hear him
deliberately taking the safety off. I mean, it’s dramatic and all,
but if the safety is on, then any good guy worth their salt would
be able to jump the bad guy before he could shoot. Right? Or is
that just me?”

“You’re not leaving,” Tom growled, ignoring
the rambling.

Sam didn’t stop. He turned his back to Tom,
heading for the rickety door. “Last chance to shoot me,” he said
over his shoulder.

And left.

Sam stumbled out of the broken-down shack and
let out a harsh breath when he reached the bike, standing exactly
where he’d left it. Somehow he’d made his way through finding
Tom—and then actually survived finding Tom. He hadn’t expected to
find anyone, hadn’t thought there was anyone to find, had blamed
kids, or something else.

But Sam had followed his gut instinct and
found Tom.

Tom, with a gun. Tom, whose name probably
wasn’t even Tom. A man who’d been going to shoot Sam, and probably
wasn’t going to be there if Sam came back.

Sam looked at the door, waiting for Tom to
stumble out, expecting him to try to leave or to shoot him.

Nothing.

Tom needed a doctor, or a hospital, and Sam
needed to talk to Ryan. The sheriff would know what to do. Or he
could call Ethan and ask him what the hell he should do. After all,
Crooked Tree was partly-owned by a cop. Might as well use him,
right?

Sam started the engine of his dirt bike and
made his way back down to the ranch, much more cautiously than he
had done coming up.

Riding up into the mountain had been all
about getting anger and temper out of his head. Going down was all
about not getting himself killed, because the only person who knew
that Tom was up there, alive, was Sam.

Sam stopped his bike just before Ember Bluff.
There was a signal there, and he thumbed to his browser. He typed
in
robbery
,
murder
, and any other related keyword he
could think of, but there was only the report of a car accident on
the highway just outside Helena; nothing about escaped convicts, or
terrorists, or what-the-hell-ever.

So, if there were no active manhunts, and no
missing persons, then who the hell was Tom?

Someone who needs your help.

Sam continued on down to the ranch, pulling
his dirt bike in next to his baby, his precious, shiny Ducati. Not
the newest of bikes, but it was all his and he loved it.

“Saw you on the bike,” Adam said from behind
him.

Sam schooled his features and turned to face
his new friend. “Was out riding,” he explained. “Clearing my
head.”

“Yeah, man. Look, I’m sorry about your
grandmother.”

Sam smiled, a natural smile, because Adam was
way cute and far too open for his own good. “How come Ethan caught
you first?” he asked, only so he could see Adam blush scarlet. He
had a way of doing that whenever Sam teased him. “Never mind.” Sam
added a wave. “Do you need me for something?”