Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (27 page)

Voice rising and falling, the researcher spoke to his pride in his work. The son and brother and nephew spoke to his responsibilities. The friend who had saved him spoke to the words still hanging between them, most of it unspoken, but the words that had made it out still carried sharp edges, still wounded long after the fact.

Michael nodded, listening, absorbing how the impact of those ripples on a still pond spread and rebounded off a far shore, only to make their way back to interfere and come to cross-purposes. Some of the waves dissipated, others grew, often larger than warranted from the disturbance of a single pebble. He mouthed, “Mountain out of a molehill.”

Backing away from the fence, Sonny sat on a rocky outcrop, his hands clasped between his knees. He was bare-headed, backlit from the light flooding from the barn door, the sun-bleached shaggy curls like a halo around his head. Michael turned to face him, crouching on his heels but keeping his distance. Sonny hadn’t gotten to the end of his story. Until he did, Michael had no idea which way the wind blew.

Taking a chance, Michael interrupted the flow, admitting, “It wasn’t my intention, making it seem like you couldn’t handle it. That wasn’t it at all.”

“I know. It took me a long time to realize it.” Sonny’s voice hitched. “In some ways, what’s done is done. But it took me months to work it out in my head, to understand why you sacrificed your own career for me.”

“Do you, Tex, do you really get why I did it?”

Avoiding the question, Sonny continued, “When I finally got my head on straight, I went to work for my aunt. Helped her with developing some environmental policy changes.” He grinned ruefully. “Got taken down a few notches as an unpaid Congressional intern. Learned a thing.”

“Like what?”

“That there’s no room in D.C. for princesses and wide-eyed innocence. I thought I knew how shit worked when I helped Aunt Martha campaign. I didn’t, not by a long shot. Everybody’s got an agenda. Everybody’s got secrets. The trick in succeeding is learning to compromise and waiting until the time’s right.”

Puzzled at how all that fit together, Michael asked, “Is it? The time, is it right?” And if it was, what the hell did it mean?

Staring at the ground, Sonny whispered, “I don’t know.”

“Can I say something?” Michael didn’t bother waiting for an answer but forged ahead, digging into the sorry cave and yanking it out. It wouldn’t ever fit quite right, but a man needed to own up to being wrong, even if he was bull-headed enough to do it over and over again, because wrong came in shades of caring that didn’t always make sense. Mostly what he needed was to air the hurt, to give it wings.

“I think I understand now why you took it the way you did, but I didn’t mean it like that, not at all.”

Sonny nodded and brushed at his eyes, both of them acknowledging the misunderstanding that night at Timber Lake, each of them taking baby steps toward reconciliation. Working back toward friendship.

The next part was harder. It wasn’t so much in saying the words, but in getting to the core of why they needed saying in the first place. That’s where Michael still fumbled for some kind of enlightenment. He blurted, “I was dead wrong, making that decision. And there’s no way I can make it right. Not now. Not ever. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness.”

Sonny smiled sadly and said, “And all I can do is ask for yours, Warden.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong.” Michael felt his world spinning off its axis, as if he’d opened the door part way, still scared shitless to take the next step, to say why he was so hurt.

Speaking softly, Sonny spread his hands, palms up. “I left, Michael. I walked away when you were hurt, leaving you alone to take a responsibility that wasn’t yours. All to protect me. And not because you thought I couldn’t handle it.” He stood and stared down at Michael. “It took me all this time to figure out why you did it.”

Say it, say the words...

“Did you... figure it out?”

“Maybe. All I know is the one thing we needed to talk about, we never did.” Taking Michael’s hand, Sonny pulled him up. He husked, “I spent weeks thinking about how this would work. Me coming here. Seeing you. Not knowing if I was too late to make it right.” He paused, his breath hitching as he fought for the next words, then asked, “Am I too late?”

Cupping Sonny’s face, Michael whispered, “I’d say you’re just in time.”

Backing away, Michael put a narrow space between them, his right hand sliding down the bunched muscles in Sonny’s forearm until his fingers cupped the man’s left hand. The quivering as they joined fingers into a tight web shook Michael to his core. But it was in Sonny’s expressive eyes he saw what he needed to know, because in those golden depths lived shared hunger, pain, and sorrow. The reflection of a truth they’d yet to confront. A man exposing his soul.

Sonny waved his free hand in the direction of the slope leading to the compound. “I still have my cabin. It’s got a real bed.”

“What about dinner?”

“Cookie told me she can warm it up later.”

“How about for breakfast?” Michael pulled Sonny’s face down once more, lips brushing lips—the taste tender and filled with promise.

Sonny breathed into Michael’s mouth, “Sounds like more than a date, Warden.”

Flashing the patented evil grin he knew curled Sonny’s toes, Michael murmured, “I’ll let you know in the morning, Tex.”

Time and space, son, time and space...

They would take it one day or one night at a time for now, but in his heart Michael knew it sounded like forever.

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THE END

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Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul.

It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true.

N
ya Rawlyns cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedies and historical romances. She found her true calling writing about the wilderness areas she has visited but calls home—in that place that counts the most, the heart.

She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science.

When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the Hens from Hell, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.

Websites:

Romancing Words:
http://www.romancingwords.com

Love’s Last Refuge:
http://loveslastrefuge.com/

The Men of Crow Creek:
http://the-men-of-crow-creek.weebly.com/

More from Nya Rawlyns:

The Snowy Range Series:
Suspense, gay fiction

The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery)

Timber Lake

The Wrong Side of Right: transgressive homoerotica

Good Boy Bad: transgressive homoerotica

Bad Boyfriends:
M/M contemporary romance, romantic comedy

Curling Iron

Pumping Iron

Jerking Iron

Bad Boyfriends Box Set

The Crow Creek Series
: M/M contemporary erotic western romance

Ash & Oak

Pulling Leather

Strapping Ash

Sorting Will

Flankman

Mending Fences

The Strigoi Chronicles
: homoerotic lit, paranormal

The Holiday Toast Duo
: M/M romantic comedy

The Christmas Toast

The Valentine Toast

Cole in His Stocking

Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts)

Skin

Guardians of the Portals

Dance Macabre

Points on a Curve

The 90 Day Rule