Midwinter Night's Dream (5 page)

The shelves held very little: toothbrush and paste, mouthwash, matches. Thermometer. No shaving supplies, no intimate supplies, nothing feminine. So this wasn’t a love shack for Joe. Either that, or he kept the goodies elsewhere. Errol dabbed toothpaste on a finger, suffering the sting as he attempted to clean his teeth, and then returned to the main room.

Joe remained sacked out on the couch. In sleep, he looked younger—hair tousled, features smooth, expression open and vulnerable. Awake he looked much more in charge, more shuttered.

The built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace were generously stocked with an assortment of reading materials. Most were worn paperbacks, but here and there a hardback staggered the arrangement. Errol ran a finger along the spines: nonfiction, Westerns, suspense. A couple of former
New York Times
best sellers. A lot of mystery volumes, some of which looked very old.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. The pleasure of finding an old friend warmed him, and he pulled it loose. This book had a worn leather cover with gold lettering that had become stippled with age. Carefully Errol opened it to the title page. Written in bold black script was:

To J,

Come, my lord, and in our flight

Tell me how it came this night

That I sleeping here was found

With these mortals on the ground.

Love, B

To J. Huh
. Joe? And who was B? A girlfriend? Joe hadn’t mentioned anyone—not that it was any of Errol’s business. This might not be something he should be found holding. He slid it back into its spot and pulled a mystery paperback instead. The ongoing blizzard obscured the sun and spared little illumination for the interior of the cabin. Between that and the remnants of the fire, reading would be difficult. Errol bit his lip. Should he throw another log on the fire? Admittedly he didn’t know the first thing about camping or tending a fireplace. Joe sighed in his sleep, and Errol froze for a few seconds. Other than shifting a bit, Joe didn’t rouse.

Stepping up to the mantel, Errol gazed at the dusty pictures. There was Joe with a man who looked like an older version of him, holding a string of fish. A group shot of Joe with a couple of guys in their twenties, men who showed a strong family resemblance to Joe with their dark hair and eyes. They stood in front of a fire truck. He picked it up and took a closer look, brushed away the dust with his thumb. Brothers?

Errol had no such pictures. Life hadn’t been that idyllic even before dear old dad had gone off on his homophobic rant. Errol set the picture back in its place.

A third photo showed two men in firefighter’s turn-out gear, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, faces shadowed by their helmets. Errol leaned in, squinting. Was that Joe?

“Hey.”

Errol jumped and turned. Joe was sitting up on the couch, quilt piled in his lap, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.

“Uh, hey. Just looking at…” Errol tipped his head toward the pictures.

“Yeah. Found yourself a book, I see.” Joe stood, folded the quilt, and draped it across the back of the couch. “Been awake long?”

“No. Maybe ten minutes. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Nah. Hungry?”

On cue, Errol’s stomach growled. “I guess I am.”

“Temperature first. The thermometer’s in the bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.”

“Okay.” Errol headed for the bathroom. He dawdled for a moment, fighting the urge to fix his appearance before snagging the thermometer and putting it under his tongue. He stepped into the main room in time to see the front door close.

What was up with that?

A couple of minutes later, the door opened, and a gust of cold air rolled across the room. Joe stepped in carrying a canvas sling of firewood, snow dusting his dark curls. He stamped the ice off his boots. “Had to check the generator. I’ll stoke the fire, and then I’ll cook.”

“Um, can I help?”

“Can you do the fire?”

Errol raised one shoulder. Rural childhood notwithstanding, camping skills were
not
his forte. “I’d rather help with the food prep.” He’d done that four jobs ago in a restaurant downtown.

Joe grinned. “Deal.”

In no time the fire burned bright and hot, warming the room. Errol chopped potatoes while Joe coaxed the old wood-burning stove to life and heated two skillets. Joe’s idea of food consisted of spicy home-style potatoes covered with eggs, diced ham, and cheese, served with plenty of coffee. The ingredients all came from a large cooler, which Joe had loaded with snow. They sat on mismatched chairs at a scarred wooden table for two.

The meal had a smoky flavor, like food cooked over a campfire. Maybe it was the weather or the recovery from hypothermia, but Errol couldn’t remember the last time a meal had tasted so good. He waved a forkful of potato at the stove. “Do you always cook like this?”

“Nah. Just…when I come up here.” Joe pushed a hunk of ham to the side and rested his forearms on the table. “This is the cabin breakfast tradition. Everyone in my family makes this. It’s called a gypsy skillet. The recipe has been handed down from generation to generation.”

“A secret family recipe?”

“More or less.” Joe lifted his coffee cup and gazed over the rim. In this light his eyes appeared more of a golden hazel than brown. “Do you have family expecting you for Christmas?”

Errol snorted. Dear old dad wouldn’t give a devil’s fart if Errol fell off the planet, and Carson sure as hell wouldn’t care. Smitty… Probably not, except for the hard hat and the irritation that Smitty would have to refund the customer for the telegram. Andrew might care, if he knew. “The only person who might expect me is the landlord. Of course, he’ll just pawn my stuff to cover the rent.”

Joe’s eyebrows popped up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He’d lose his bike, his journal, and his books. Gran’s antique locket with the picture of his mom. A lump formed in his throat. That was all he had left of his mom, that tiny picture and the name from hell. The lump dropped into his stomach and burned like a hot coal. Errol looked away.
Enough
. “So, judging by the size of that cooler, you came prepared to stay awhile.”

“Awhile.”

“Through the holidays?”

“Maybe.” Joe set his mug on the table and rotated it, clockwise, counterclockwise.

Errol nodded. The “maybe” didn’t have any oomph in it. As Gran used to say, Joe had planned to stay a spell.

“I came out here to get away from it all.”

Errol grimaced. Figured he’d intruded on someone’s “me” time. “Sorry I interrupted your holiday.”

Joe’s head snapped up. “You’re not. Not at all. Rescuing you was the highlight of my month. My year. Made me feel…good. Useful.”

Now that was an interesting choice of words: useful. Running his thumb along the rim of his cup, Errol waited to hear just what it was about thawing out a frozen ex-telegram singer in gold lamé that made Joe feel a year’s worth of useful.

Instead of explaining, Joe drained his mug and stood.

“Want some chocolate? Or I’ve got ingredients for s’mores.”

Errol grinned. “Campfire desserts?”

Joe looked a little sheepish but grinned back. “Yeah. I like sweets, but don’t get to have them much.”

“I’ll pass for now, but thanks.”

Nodding, Joe asked, “Did you want a shower?”

Is that an invitation or commentary on hygiene?
“Do I smell that bad?”

Joe blushed, rose coloring his cheeks. “No. I didn’t mean that. Just, it’s nice to get under hot water.”

“So there is a hot water heater.”

“Yeah. It runs off a generator out in the shed.” Joe cocked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Um. Maybe later.” At this point, it would be better to stay dressed around Joe.

“All right. I’m going to grab a quick shower, if you don’t mind.” Joe stacked his mug on his skillet and carried them to the sink.

“Okay. I’ll wash the dishes.”

“No—”

“You cooked. I’ll pull KP. I won’t use much hot water.” Errol tried for a grin. “There is enough, right?”

For a moment Joe got a faraway look in his eyes and raked his fingers through his dark curls. Errol had the strangest sense he’d met the guy before. Then Joe refocused, and the moment was gone. “Yeah. It’s a small water heater, but there’s plenty. The stove has a water reservoir on the side. You can dip hot water from there.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

With a faint smile, Joe shook his head and moved toward the bathroom.

After the door closed, Errol cleared the table. The kitchen had an old cast-iron drainboard sink; beneath it a patterned curtain hid the contents of the cabinet. Errol lifted the drape and discovered a bottle of dish soap and a plastic dishpan. He placed the pan in the sink, squirted soap, and with a ladle dipped water from the cast-iron bin on the side of the stove. Okeydoke. This he could do. Seven jobs ago: dishwasher.

Surveying the living room area, he spied a lone mug. He went to retrieve it, and suddenly he was falling over Joe’s duffel bag, almost like an invisible shove. Errol landed half on the couch, half on the floor, and spilled some of the bag’s contents. Feeling ridiculous, he glanced behind him. No one.
Must be post-hypothermia klutziness
. He pushed himself up, began shoving clothes back in, and paused. Inside the bag was a copy of the
Advocate.

Errol gasped and shot a look at the bathroom door.
Holy Toledo
. So Joe was…gay?

Be still my beating heart
. It’d be too good to be true. No one that gorgeous stayed on the market. He must be taken.

But Joe had come up here alone, said he wanted to get away—a plan Errol had inadvertently foiled. Breaking up with a boyfriend right before Christmas would explain wanting solitude. Almost as bad as being accused of theft and then losing your home and your boyfriend both on the same day.

But a breakup meant on the rebound, and that wasn’t good, at least not for anything more than a quick fling, and Errol didn’t do flings. Under different circumstances, this could’ve been a great opportunity. But as usual, his timing sucked blue donkey balls.

After another quick look at the bathroom door, Errol slid the magazine back inside, pulled the bag back into its place by the couch, then checked the insignia.
Denver Fire Department
. But Joe had said he wasn’t from around here. Maybe that picture on the mantel was Joe’s brother, and the bag had belonged to him. Shaking his head, Errol got to his feet, grabbed the mug, and headed to the kitchen.

Chapter Five

Joe drenched himself under the spray, then turned the tap off. What he wanted was a shower with enough hot water and pressure to pound down on his neck and shoulders and melt the tension away, but that wasn’t happening. How could he work through his feelings about Bryce when he had an audience?

And then Errol had thrown him with that line about doing the dishes…

“Since you cooked, I’ll pull KP.”

Exactly what Bryce used to say. Eerie.

Stop. Now. Coincidence.

Shivering, he grabbed the bottle of cedar and green tea body wash and squirted some into his hand, lathered from the top of his head on down, and rinsed. Ducking his head, he indulged in the gentle flow of warm water for a minute.

It was strange, staying in the cabin with company. He’d counted on the time alone to come to terms with his ghosts, and instead had run headlong into attraction to his impromptu houseguest. There was nothing in particular about Errol that screamed gay, but Joe would bet his right nut the guy liked men.

Joe didn’t need the complication of meeting someone during the transition back to plain old Joe Blake, firefighter and paramedic. Not that Errol had seemed particularly interested—he seemed a little shy—but he had loosened up during their meal. So far, Errol hadn’t said anything about Joe being anyone except Errol’s host.

The last time Joe had cooked at the cabin, he’d made skillets. Over two years ago. It had been fall, and the leaves had just started to turn, carpeting the grass in the clearing with red and gold. He and Bryce had eaten on the porch and retired to the bed for the rest of the morning. Hell, they’d spent most of that trip in bed. Crisp days and cold nights scented with the fragrance of pine and wood smoke and each other. They came back with no fish, but no one questioned it; their fellow firefighters had never seemed to wonder about the time the two of them spent together.

The planned trip for Christmas four months later had never happened.

A lump formed in his throat. Sometimes he missed Bryce like he’d miss his right hand. The other firefighter had understood the job, had done everything with all his heart: lived, worked, loved.

Right up until—

No. It wasn’t your fault.

You were the paramedic.

It had been too long.

Joe sighed. There was no reason he couldn’t make peace with himself and think about his future while Errol hung around. There were plenty of books, it was warm, and they had food. The problem was that four hundred square feet wasn’t much real estate when you felt drawn toward the guy you were snowbound with. And Joe felt guilty as hell that he’d come to connect with Bryce and instead ended up spending time thinking about Errol. Joe needed to make peace with Bryce.

It’d stop snowing at some point, and Errol would leave.

Eventually.

* * * *

The doorknob rattled, and Errol turned to see Joe coming out of the bathroom wearing a towel wrapped around his hips and rubbing another over his head. Errol gritted his teeth as he followed Joe’s progress across the room.
Not fair
. How was he supposed to act relaxed and uninterested with Joe parading around like that?

Joe walked over to his bag, pulled out clean clothes, and with his back to Errol dropped the towel. Errol bit back a groan. God, the man had a nice ass. Joe slipped on a pair of fancy boxer briefs with a wide elastic waistband. Errol could make out the designer name woven into the elastic:
Escalade
. The soft cotton did wonderful things for Joe’s ass and thighs, clinging to the muscles. Errol swallowed hard. The front would be even better, showing off Joe’s package…