Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (8 page)

After wiping his fingers on a napkin, Michael pursed his lips, his eyes and chin tilted upward, exploring a spot on the ceiling. Once more Sonny was struck by the sheer strength of the man. Veins bulged through skin thinned to accommodate heavy muscling, yet he would never call Michael muscle-bound. Solid, yes. If the man were a horse, Sonny would describe him as having good bone. He chuckled at the analogy.

Michael asked, “What’s so funny?”

Before he realized he was speaking, Sonny blurted, “I sometimes look at people and compare them to horses.” He gulped and hastened to add, “I don’t mean anything by it.”

“What am I?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re comparing me to a horse. So tell me, which breed am I?” He looked interested, which was a major leap off the ledge of disapproval he’d been crouched on during their strained, mostly silent lunch.

“Um, draft cross?”

“Cross, huh. Crossed with what?” There might have been a hint of laughter in the question.

Scrubbing at his chin with thumb and index finger, Sonny paused to assess the possibilities, then said, “Arabian.”

Eyebrows raised, Michael mumbled, “Interesting. Why Arabian?”

The ice thinned under Sonny’s ass, but in for a penny, in for a pound. “Because you’re hot-blooded. High maintenance. Strong.”

And fierce. Drop dead gorgeous with a kind eye. Good slope to the shoulder, great hip. Balanced gait. And fuckable. Sometimes being around women and learning when to keep your mouth shut was a good life lesson to learn.

Squirming in his seat, Sonny wanted to melt into a puddle of goo under the intense stare. Finally he asked, “What about me? Do I remind you of any particular breed?”

“Yes.” Michael slid off the seat and barked, “Time’s wasting. We need to see what supplies we have on hand and make a list for what we need to pack in.” He stopped at the door, holding it open but stalled mid-thought. “That mule yours?”

“Yes.”

“Ride or pack?”

“Ride.”

“’Fraid that was the case. I’ll have to ask around, see if I can borrow a pack animal from one of the outfitters.”

“My mare can handle that job.”

“That pony?” Michael snorted. “Then you better plan on packing light, Dr. Rydell, because where we’re going it ain’t gonna be a picnic for the stock.”

Sonny followed Michael into the stifling heat, muttering, “Picnic? Not hardly.” If anything, it felt more like they were gearing up for a hanging.

His.

Ghost Lodge

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M
ichael perused the map as Sonny slowly navigated the last of the torturous switchbacks before the run down Route 101, the powerful diesel making light work of hauling their cargo.

They hadn’t talked much since leaving the ranch, so when Sonny spoke, it startled Michael. “I’m sorry, what?” He rustled the map. “I was looking to see the best place to set up.”

“Aren’t we going to the campground?”

“No. Saddle and pack stock’s not permitted at Deep Creek, and they aren’t going to make an exception for us.”

“Where then?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Michael still harbored serious resentment for being burdened with his babysitting job, despite the challenges it offered. Normally he’d have been over the moon at having an opportunity to penetrate deep into the bowels of the forest, especially in a section he didn’t often get to patrol. He’d forgotten how many trails crisscrossed the plateau, the main ones being Deep Creek and Crater Lake. Those drew the fly fishermen looking to hook one of the trophy brook trout the region was famous for.

“Will it be crowded... the campground, I mean.”

Michael did a sideways glance at Sonny. The man was concentrating on driving, yet his thumbs did a tap dance on the steering wheel, betraying either nerves or something else. Some people got squirrelly handling a big rig on narrow roads and at altitude. If that had been the case, the man would have been glancing down at the tachometer as much as he was checking the rear view mirror.

In reply to the question, he said, “Too early.”

“Oh.” Sonny sounded disappointed. “Um, too early for what?”

Jesus, did Dr. kissmyass Rydell just get off the banana boat?

Keeping his voice even and his explanation geared for a five-year-old, Michael said, “It’s called the Snowy Range for a reason.” He held up his left thumb. “For one, it’s never not winter. Two, there are more than a hundred lakes with three-quarters being legit fisheries. Three, just because the gates are down on the roads doesn’t mean there’s full access this early in the season. The serious fishermen will hit the easily accessible sites first where the splakes are aggressive and put up a good fight.” He took a breath and continued, “Last but not least. Bugs.”

Sonny gripped the steering wheel tight enough his knuckles whitened. Apparently he hadn’t missed the snark in Michael’s voice.

“I know about the weather and trail conditions.” Sonny tapped the brake as an SUV approached on a sweeping curve. “I just thought, with so few established campgrounds for RVs, that it would be full to overflowing.” He shrugged. “I was a little concerned about having a mob of hikers and curiosity seekers out there on the established trails with us.”

“Well, there’s only twelve sites available and limited parking for day trippers, so I really doubt we’ll run into too many folks.” Michael paused and looked directly at Sonny’s profile. “Why? You shy?” The blush spreading up the man’s neck to his ears was entertaining to watch.

Going back to examining his map, Michael shifted subtly, making room in his jeans for an unwanted erection. It seemed every time he engaged in a conversation or looked at Dr. Rydell sideways, nagging visions of what he wanted to do to and with the tall man created havoc with his libido.

As much as he despised being coerced into playing this bureaucratic game, pushing for an agenda no one—not even the good Doctor—understood, his gut instincts had kicked in, warning him to tread carefully. Whatever Sonny thought about the objectives of their little jaunt into the wilderness, Michael was a hundred and ten percent sure there was way more to it than fine tuning resource management. When it came to the environment, Ma Nature usually caught the short end of the stick as the politicos traded up for more lucrative ends and means.

The drumming on the wheel resumed. Jaw tight, chin jutting forward, Sonny’s posture filled the cab with nervous energy.
Tap. Tap. Tappity tap.
Repeat.

“You don’t know what that is, do you?” Asking a stupid question out of the blue was preferable to breaking the man’s thumbs, but only just. Besides, he’d noted the clench to the good Doctor’s square jaw when he’d been ticking off the reasons why they weren’t likely to draw a crowd. Michael would bet a week’s pay Rydell didn’t know what a splake was.

Tap. Tap.

Maybe he’d have to break one thumb. Just one. Too bad it was the right since Dr. Fidget was right-handed.

Sonny growled, “What is what?”

Saved by the bell. Michael carefully folded the map into quadrants, wondering what the hell he was doing, engaging surfer boy’s attention when all he wanted was to be left alone to wallow in his bad luck and the fact his self-imposed chastity belt was getting tighter by the minute.

Before he could conjure a reply, Sonny said, “I know what it is. I have a doctorate, you know.”

That and five bucks bought you a caramel latte in his part of the world. “Then tell me, Dr. Rydell. Tell me what
it
is.”

As the grade steepened, Sonny downshifted to slow the rig, using the engine instead of the brakes. Michael estimated they had another ten miles or so before the turnoff to the camping site he’d selected as an alternative to begging for leniency from the neighboring ranger district. The prospect of having running water and vault toilets for at least part of their stay had been very tempting. But, rules were rules.

When the road levelled out again, Sonny cleared his throat and muttered, “They’re hybrids.” Michael raised his eyebrows, impressed. Sonny continued, “Spawn of male brook and female lake trout. They’re genetically stable, but it’s rare to find any reproduction except in some northern Canadian lakes.” He rubbed the right thumb along the hard plastic but didn’t tap. “A lot of the bigger lakes around here get stocked regularly.”

“You know why?”

“No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Sonny rested his right hand on his thigh, his posture relaxing, although his voice betrayed his lingering annoyance.

Michael spent most of his days in solitary splendor, but on the few occasions when he was required to interact with kids, he enjoyed answering their questions and piquing interest in what his neck of the woods had to offer. Sonny reminded him of his young charges—jittery, full of energy that needed an outlet, inquisitive but often unwilling to admit they were interested.

Warming to the subject, he explained, “You already know summer’s about two days long up here. That makes for a short growing season for the trout and limited food supply as well. Despite that, they’re prolific, with overpopulation leading to stunted growth. The splakes don’t reproduce and they’re highly aggressive. They hold the brook trout numbers in check as well as providing decent sport for the fly fishermen.”

Sonny glanced in Michael’s direction. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

Shrugging, Michael replied, “I did a turn with the Cooperative Fish and Wildlife research unit at Wyoming State.” That turn had netted him his Master’s Degree and a strong recommendation from his advisor he pursue anger management training. He’d ended up a Warden instead. But Sonny Rydell didn’t need to know those particulars about his career track. Nor did he have to know he was still on semi-suspension for putting the public at risk.

Right. Risk as only a bureaucrat would define it.

He’d saved the kid’s life. He hadn’t been able to save the animals the pervert had tortured and left to die horrendous deaths. His sole regret was that the bullet had only nicked the femoral artery. The asshole had survived and was going to be living on the public’s nickel, hopefully in a throw-away-the-key correctional facility.

“Brooks?”

Michael jumped at the interruption to his racing thoughts and yelped, “What?”

“There’s an opening, looks like a road?” Sonny checked the rear view mirror as he slowed the rig.

“That’s it. Take the left. There’s a small parking area you can pull into. George Hancock’s the acting ranger for this district. He said he’d meet us here and discuss our camping arrangements.”

It took no small amount of creative maneuvering to get the rig aligned so they didn’t have to back clear to Kansas to get turned around. Sonny grumbled, “Thought you said it wasn’t going to be busy.”

Michael huffed, “Apparently they didn’t get my memo.” He pointed to an opening to the right of a small cabin. “Aim us in the direction of that sandy path. We can follow that back to where I think George will stash us for the duration.”

Before they could get settled, a green Forest Service truck inched down the sand road, the driver waving his arm out the window for them to follow. Michael said, “That’s George. He wants us to follow him.”

“Duh. Ya think?” Sonny shifted into drive, white-knuckling the rig past cars parked willy-nilly.

“Don’t be a smart ass. And watch the turn. There’s low-hanging branches on your left.” Michael saw the hood of a junker sedan in Sonny’s blind spot and yelled, “Not that wide!”

“Don’t fucking shout at me.” Sonny slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “You want to drive, then drive.”

With the good Dr. Rydell losing his shit over a minor trailering problem, Michael found himself thoroughly enjoying the afternoon’s festivities. Mumbling, “Insurance will probably cover it,” he followed it up with a zip-lip gesture.

“Nice.” Sonny tapped the brake. “You could help by getting the hell out and wave semaphores, or something. I can’t see squat on your side.”

Easing out of the truck and slamming the door shut, Michael knew what was going to happen next. The horses and mule had taken the trip well up to that point, but what they didn’t like was the jerking back and forth as Sonny tried to negotiate around vehicles parked every which way. In his head he counted down, three two one...

The first impact rocked the trailer side-to-side, the second put a dent in the sidewall. That would be his gelding with his size two shoes and low tolerance for inconvenience. The mule joined in, braying loud enough to wake the dead. In between the honking and the pounding, Sonny shouted, “Oh, for fuck’s sake...”

Michael grinned. Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

****

S
onny watched the cowboy wearing a shit-eating grin trot up behind the gooseneck trailer, covering ground like he’d been chair-bound for way too long. Up ahead, the ranger named George was hanging out the driver-side window, his face mirroring Michael’s. When he saw Sonny glaring at him, he ducked back inside.

Obviously satisfied the rig was angled well enough to complete the turn and follow behind, the ranger took off down the sandy track at a good clip.

That good clip presented a problem. There was a bend up ahead. Once around that, the truck would disappear from view. If Sonny was being honest with himself, he felt on the fragile side of having had quite enough of Brooks and his passive-aggressive teasing. The whole situation begged for action.

If he thought overlong about maybe, possibly, on a slight chance of catching hell because he was thinking about doing a thing, he probably wouldn’t. That’s how he usually rolled. Stay under the radar, don’t get your boxers in a twist. Good rules to live by. Problem was, he was no longer in good rule territory. He’d walked into a situation with chaos written all over it.

Lines in sand. Personal boundaries. Keeping safe. Good stuff. For another time and another place.

Michael had a sidearm strapped to his hip. There was a tranquilizer gun on the rack behind the seat. He wore spurs, real honest-to-God fucking spurs. The man was decked out and gussied up to take on the bad guys at the OK Corral.