Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (7 page)

Now he was in new territory and, with them leaving, it seemed akin to being thrown to a pack of wolves—hungry, pissed off wolves. He’d been abandoned to carry out an agenda that had subtext he’d yet to understand. When he finally turned his attention to Paul Trader, his instincts went on high alert. Senator Limon had simply backed him up against the stone wall and issued M4s to the firing squad remaining, metaphorically speaking, leaving Limon’s hands squeaky clean.

Well played, Senator, well played.

I am so fucked.

Michael glared at a spot over his boss’s shoulder, while Trader looked at him with thinly veiled suspicion. He had nowhere to go inside the spotlight of accusation. The best he could do was what he’d come here for: lay out his research goals and a framework for expediting collection of the information he needed. A few days in the high country, maybe even a week or so if everything went well, and he’d return to the solitude of his cabin and his computer. After that, he’d head back to the city masquerading as civilization and report to the number crunchers and policy moguls.

Michael hissed, the intake of breath harsh, when Trader asked, “What’s the point to all this, Dr. Rydell? This quadrant has been dissected with a fine tooth comb for longer than I’ve been sitting head of the district. We’ve already got federally mandated procedures in place. And not enough money to carry out those directives.” The district head twirled a topo map in a lazy circle, positioning it under Sonny’s nose. “What exactly is the point to you developing yet another impact statement when the hundreds already on record have yet to cough up enough resources to even make a dent in what needs done?”

Michael stood, his fists connecting with the smooth, fake wood surface as he leaned forward, nostrils flared. “Just how much of our summer help are you needing for this little adventure of yours?” He said the word ‘adventure’ like it was a pile of shit he’d just stepped in.

Sonny swallowed a retort. He was already skating on thin ice with Michael, thanks to his little walk on the wild side that morning, but he still had a shot at winning over the director. Pawing through the pile of maps, he extracted a quadrant displaying the Platte River drainage system and shoved the others to the side. Smoothing the map down, he pointed to a thin blue line. “This is Deep Creek. It’s the dividing line between two Ranger districts with the reservoir at the base.”

Paul seemed interested. He noted, “Area’s already been developed. Campground’s right off 101 here...” he tapped at the sprawl of blue to the southwest, “...and what’s left of the old lodge.” He glanced at Michael. “It’s mostly just a SNOTEL site, isn’t it?”

Michael grinned, the shit-eating smirk that churned Sonny’s stomach, and sneered, “Let me guess, you aren’t here to survey wildlife, are you?” He flipped the folder shut. “I read the appendices. You’re a forecaster for the NWCC, am I right?” He glared at Paul. “Maybe the right term is apologist instead.”

Paul smirked. “Well, that explains Senator Limon’s interest. Last thing him and his cronies want is rational light shed on the state of our water resources or, God forbid, climate change.”

Clasping his hands on the table, Sonny said, “Actually I’m none of the above. I was brought in to assist in developing a four year strategic plan for the National Water and Climate Center based on my findings from research I did for my doctorate.” He shrugged. “Mostly I’m trying to synch data acquisition and management techniques I developed from surveys done south of the Platte.”

Sonny had Paul Trader’s attention. The man tugged on his earlobe, considering the possibilities. Tracing Deep Creek’s torturous path through the canyon to where it dumped into the reservoir, he said, “This is an easily accessible location, but...”

“I understand what you’re saying, sir. Thing is, it’s only a single data point, and I’m going to need more than that to develop this program.” Stretching his arm, he pointed to a spot well upstream. “What I’d like is to trace the creek back to a couple of its sources. Crater Lake’s one, but at over ten thousand feet I’m not sure it’s the best location for additional data collection instruments.”

Michael interrupted. “Timber Lake’s at a lower elevation, though that’s not saying much. But it’s probably accessible if the old hiking trails are still open.”

“If you follow the creek bed, it might work. Be a hell of a hike though.” Paul looked at Sonny. “You bringing back samples, Doctor?”

“Yes sir. That was the plan.”

“And you want how many helpers?”

Getting excited that the director was finally hopping aboard the Good Ship Research, Sonny replied, “Just two or three to help with the measurements. Carry samples, that kind of thing. Plus a guide, of course. I realize this is your busiest time of the year, Mr. Trader, so I don’t want to be a burden.”

Answering for his boss, Michael snorted and said, “No burden at all. You do know how to ride a horse, don’t you?”

“Um, yeah.”

Paul stood and extended his hand. Sonny mirrored the movement, taking the hand tentatively, not really sure what was going on. Why was he being dismissed? Did the director think...?

Trader cut through the fog enveloping Sonny’s thoughts with a cheerful, “It’s all settled then. I’m giving you everybody I can spare.” He tipped his head in Michael’s direction and beamed. “Him.”

“Wait just a fucking minute...” Michael stood so quickly the chair smashed into the wall behind him. “Are you telling me...”

“No, Warden Brooks, I’m
ordering
you to take Dr. Rydell under your wing and see that he gets to wherever the hell he wants to go.” The older man smirked. “For the next few days, you are completely at his disposal.”

His head swiveling to stare first at the Director, then at Brooks, Sonny wondered what the royal hell was going on. Trader sounded as if he had a bone to pick with the warden tasked with being his guide. Brooks, on the other hand, not only had whatever bee was up his ass with his boss, but the odds their trysting and lust interruptus was adding a layer of
oh hell no
to the proceedings couldn’t be discounted.

The last thing Sonny needed was his research being hoisted on the petard of two men with axes to grind. Trader had ordered Brooks to be at his disposal “for a few days,” but realistically he needed to be the one calling the shots, not a third party. The difference between realistically and being dropped by the side of the trail to fend for himself made asserting his needs more than a little problematic.

Weakly, Sonny suggested, “Worse case, two weeks.” With a full crew and ATVs, a few days might have sufficed. But on foot or horseback? Two weeks might not even be sufficient. Hell, where they were going was so remote, they’d probably be trailblazing most of the way, making for a slow go and increased risk of damaging his instruments.

He was ready to kick himself for not budgeting for a helicopter to just plop him down near Timber Lake for a week, then come and reel him up like a damn brook trout. That way he’d never have met Michael fucking Brooks, with the bad attitude and cruel eyes that bored straight into his heart, damn the bastard.

The director leaned over and husked something in Michael’s direction. Sonny caught part of it. It sounded a lot like
saddle up apone
...

****

M
ichael’s patience had zeroed out by the time he hit the empty parking lot, empty except for his dually and a late model Chevy. Paul’s SUV was already gone, taking his friend and boss off to the fairgrounds where he could cheer on his grandkids at the arcade.

Scratch the friend bit. Friends didn’t dump bureaucratic assholes on friends just for shits and giggles. He keyed the door open and climbed inside a cab hot enough to grill a steak Pittsburgh rare. His stomach growled.

As he waited for the diesel to stroke itself to life, he shut his eyes, desperate to erase the image of Seamus, aka Sonny, Dr. Rydell from the pixels playing ping-pong behind his eyelids. When he exited the parking lot onto the highway, the Chevy followed him. It was still behind him when he pulled into the KOA campground and parked next to his camper, his tail angled across the entrance to his lot, engine off and pinging as it cooled.

Stalking to the Chevy, Michael pounded on the window until Sonny lowered it, frowning. Michael barked, “I told you I’d meet you at the ranch. What the hell are you doing, following me ho—” Choking back the word home, he muttered, “...here.”

Sonny jumped out of his truck, explaining, “You didn’t wait long enough for me to talk to you. I, uh, thought maybe we could grab something to eat before heading to my cabin.” He grimaced and apologized. “I don’t have anything to offer.”

“Really. Funny how things change.”

“Sorry?” Sonny fidgeted, shifting from one foot to another, his face flushing when he realized what Michael implied.

Before heading inside, Michael turned to see what Sonny was doing. The tall man stood rooted to the spot, hands jammed in his pockets, head down, the cowboy hat hiding his features. Michael didn’t need to see the man’s face to guess Sonny felt like a sack of shit. Slumped shoulders told him he’d hit the target, schoolyard bully style.

Not sure how he was going to undo the damage, Michael tried for an apology. “Listen, about this morning...”
I would have fucked you blind. I wanted to. God, how I wanted it. But I had to go. Had to...

Sonny looked up, his full lips pinched tight. Maybe he was mad, not embarrassed. Mad would be good. Michael could work with it, use it to his advantage, though to what purpose he wasn’t sure. Horny had taken a temporary back seat to outrage. He was expected to provide guide dog service to a greenhorn who probably knew less than shit about the canyons and washes in that section of the national forest. Heavily timbered, steep, high enough for altitude to take a toll on your endurance, weather and fortunes changeable without notice—it wasn’t a place for the faint at heart.

Greenhorns had a tendency to get in trouble, sometimes getting themselves and others killed because they made stupid decisions, thought they had it all under control. Michael understood a fundamental fact about the areas he patrolled—control was an illusion. You survived in spite of nature, not because of it. Survival meant being savvy and wise to changing conditions. Other times it came down to nothing but sheer luck.

Or meanness. More than once he’d gotten out of a tight spot simply because he was too damn ornery to give in, give up or negotiate. He’d given up asking why. Not because there weren’t any answers. Answers were a dime a dozen. To get to the meat of it, you had to ask the
right
question.

Out there, on your own, with only your wits and what you could carry on your horse or your back, the real question was...why not?

Feeling stupid for not inviting the man inside, just letting him cook in the blistering heat, Michael relented and called out, “I need to change, grab some stuff. You might as well come inside. It’s not getting any cooler out here.”

Sonny shuffled toward the camper and with a nod entered the cramped space. The trailer sported an unused slide-out option, but Michael never spent that much time in the trailer to care about the few extra square feet of space it might provide. Now, holding two full grown men, the amount of real estate available proved woefully inadequate.

“Why don’t you sit here so I can get by.” He gently maneuvered Sonny onto the bench seat to the right and idly took note that the man’s long legs forced his knees to press against the opposite seat. He tossed his cell phone on the table. “Punch number nine. It’s for the deli across the road. Order me Italian with everything on whole wheat. Get whatever sounds good for yourself. There’s beer and a couple sodas in the fridge.”

“Where should I tell them to deliver it?” Having a strange voice echo inside his aluminum cage was odd. Nice. But odd. That was the trouble with being alone. You forgot how it was with other people around. Sonny prodded him to answer, with a “Mr. Brooks?” that left no doubt the man was irritated in a formal, prissy and pissed way.

That was fine with Michael. If he had Seamus Rydell angry as sin, then maybe the next step would be horny as hell. But for now he had the good doctor in his home, sitting at his table, and dancing to his tune. He strode toward the rear bedroom, calling back, “Just tell them it’s for me. And put your money away. They run a tab for me.”

Michael wasn’t sure, but he might have heard Sonny’s sexy baritone mumbling ‘
special snowflake
.’

****

I
f Michael Brooks was trying to punish him for unspecified crimes and misdemeanors, he was doing a damn good job. In retaliation, Sonny wanted to yell it wasn’t his fault he’d been allocated that territory—a slice of pristine wilderness—to test a few hypotheses and collect enough samples to justify his salary. He’d arrived in Wyoming expecting to monitor a gaggle of teenage volunteers or student interns. He never counted on having one, count him, one surly senior warden as his minder and go-fer.

And he definitely had been blindsided by falling into lust with this perfectly perfect cowboy who had swept his libido off the dusty arena dirt and turned him into a fifteen-year-old, hormones out-of-control, blue-balled parody of himself.

Christ almighty. He knew how to be around women. Stay out of the way and let them run the show... It had served him well all his twenty-eight years. Now, here he was, sitting across from sin incarnate, and all he wanted was to rip Michael’s clothes off, eat him alive, then bottom him so hard the man wouldn’t be able to walk for a week, let alone ride.

Except, that wasn’t going to happen. Michael Brooks, the rodeo stranger, was one thing. Michael Brooks, the owner of two horses boarded at the same ranch he called home for now, was another. But the man parked across from him devouring a hoagie, that man was a colleague and the one and only person he had to rely on to get into the back country and to help him carry out his survey. A man who could well hate him for all he stood for. A man who probably didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.

Fucking someone who could drop you off a cliff without batting an eye if shit got awkward was not the kind of career move Sonny had planned on when he’d returned to Wyoming.