Page 28 of Down in Flames
“Yeah, you are.” Michael’s chuckle was teasing. “But you’re going to wear it anyway.”
While Patches explored the barn nose-first, they divided the job between them. After a full day of grueling work, Michael couldn’t climb without his bad leg locking up on him, and West didn't want his shoulder to slide out of its socket again after that tumble. So, he backed the truck through the open barn doors and then hopped into the bed and dragged each bag to the lip of the gate one-handed, where Michael shouldered them and stacked them neatly against the wall. Ordinarily, a fifty-pound bag would be nothing, but forty of them added up to a real burden at the end of a long, hard day.
Together, they managed, but West was itchy and sweaty and exhausted by the time they wrapped up. Dusk had fallen, and automatic lights flickered on, one by one. Horses whickered to each other from inside the stable. Dogs left their herds and began nosing at empty food dishes, ignoring the giddy puppy nipping at their heels. As the sun sank below the mountains, the very air seemed to settle. Peace rolled over the land, smelling of earth and frost, and one by one, cowboys straggled in from the field.
The temporary help were the first to call it quits, starting up their engines and arcing headlights across the driveway as they headed for home. Then the main crew. Cal first, stopping to fill troughs on his way toward the kitchen and the always brewing coffee pot. Then Celia, dragging a soggy Aiden behind her.
Aiden dropped a mud-caked tool on the workbench and grumbled, “Couldn’t find the hat.”
“I’ll look tomorrow,” West said, hiding his disappointment.
“I’ll help,” Aiden said, wiping a glob of mud from his hair and grimacing apologetically. “Sorry, buddy. I was just playing.”
“Grab a shower at the house,” Michael suggested. “We’ll throw something together for dinner. You staying, Celia?”
“Might as well,” she replied, wrinkling her nose and trailing after Aiden as he made his way toward the house. “Zoe’s with her father this week.”
Michael watched them go with a fond expression before transferring his attention to West. The warmth in his eyes only deepened. “You too,” he commanded. “Stay.”
“I need a shower,” West protested.
“We’ve got two.”
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
West wasn’t sure what twisted impulse had him throwing up roadblocks to every suggestion. He wasn’t sure why he hadn't run directly into Michael's arms as soon as he hit town. He'd spent years basking in any scrap of attention he could get, leaping at any chance to earn Michael's approval, replaying his smiles for days. But that was back before the fire, when he hadn't yet suspected how completely one man owned him. Before he'd known what it was like to be so wrapped up in another person that the fear of losing him almost stopped his heart. He wondered if Michael had felt like this after Mary's death, and how he’d kept from losing his mind.
“You can wear something of mine for dinner,” Michael suggested, all easy warmth, as if he hadn’t spent the weekend blowing West’s world apart. As if they weren’t standing on the precipice of a cliff, one thin line away from a fall they’d never recover from.
Even on a knife’s edge of panic, the ridiculous image of himself wading around in pants a foot too long had him choking on a laugh. It was nearly enough to have him volunteering to shimmy back into his own crunchy denim.
Like he could read his mind, Michael gave a soft chuff of amusement. Lazily hooking one hand behind West’s neck, he turned him toward the house and said wryly, “Not exactly how I figured you’d be getting into my jeans. But we’ll take it one step at a time.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A meal and some hot water went a long way to making a man feel human again.
Or maybe it was the crispness of a cold beer and the scent of a charcoal grill, combined with the chaos and laughter of a half-dozen people all talking at once. He’d missed this place, these people. His people. Missed them like hell.
Now he stood with one foot propped on the corral fence, watching as Cal’s taillights flashed in the darkness. The air was chilly and sharp in his lungs but not yet cold enough to see his breath. Cattle lowed from the hills, and a dog barked. The quiet, familiar sounds of a ranch bedding down for the night.
Behind him, the house was lit up from within by a dozen welcoming lights. Somewhere in all that warmth, Michael was tucking his little girl into her bed with Derek’s puppy on her pillow. A bare bulb swung on a wire above the porch like a lure on a hook. Calling West home.
The snap of a screen door caught him by surprise. Wiping his hands on his borrowed jeans, he turned hesitantly toward the house. One of the long shadows on the porch moved, detaching itself from the darkness.
Michael languidly grabbed hold of the overhead beam and stood there, triceps popping, as he watched West with an intensity that twisted his heart in his chest. He'd only showered after everyone else was finished, and his hair was still damp and curling over his forehead. His long legs were encased in denim that looked thin and soft from thousands of tumbles on the heavy-duty cycle, and his plain T-shirt was rumpled as if he’d just scooped it off the floor. Raw masculinity pumped from him in waves that called up a visceral response, like a drum beat deep in the pit of West’s stomach.
Nothing but the salt of the earth ran in Michael’s veins, and West knew it would never cross his mind how sexy he looked right then. His expression was unreadable, but the look in his eyes made West want to squirm like a worm on a hook.
West came to a dead stop there in the driveway, dry-mouthed and terrified.
They stared at each other silently, tension bleeding off them and hanging thick in the air until West swore he was choking on it. And like the clueless, inexperienced shmuck he was, West ruined the moment by blurting out the first thought in his head.
“You said you aren’t gay. Back at the motel, I mean.”
Michael gave a short nod.
“But you’re not straight either?”