Page 62 of Down in Flames
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
West slept through the ride home, stirring only at the sudden silence when Michael cut the engine. The moon was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, hanging fat and silver in a cloudless night sky. He blinked, and the light was blotted out by the dark silhouette of a cowboy bending over him.
Michael lifted him from the truck with barely more strain than a low, steady exhale. The scent of sage and cedar wrapped around West like a warm blanket, and he breathed deep. He’d missed that scent. Missed everything about him.
“I can walk,” West protested groggily, torn between stinging pride and the desire to close his eyes and rest his head against Michael’s shoulder.
“I know you can. But you’re sore, and I want to do this for you. So let me.” Michael’s reply was gruff and a little winded as he climbed the porch steps.
West didn’t want to argue. He was stiff and aching, and the night was so cold he could see Michael’s breath hanging in the air like a puff of smoke. It was the darkest part of night, not long before dawn began to carve up the horizon, and the Triple M was dead quiet. Not even insects stirred; they were already buried deep to overwinter and dream of spring.
The Trophy Club was locked and West was weaving on his feet by the time Eli’s deputies had finished taking statements. Since he was in custody, they’d transported Sutter to the hospital against his wishes, but West had refused. Pain was like an old, unwanted friend by this point: familiar and not going away any time soon.
Michael managed the knob with his elbow and kicked the door shut behind him, loud enough to wake the dead. The kitchen was empty, but the scent of fresh paint and old coffee still lingered.
West tracked the changes to the house. Art was back on the walls, and throw pillows were piled on top of a soft-looking rug by the fireplace. Mary Whittaker's portrait still sat on the mantle, but he did a double-take at the frame sitting next to it. It wasn't fancy, just a polished wood frame carved with thick, twisting vines. But the photo inside was something special.
“That’s us,” he blurted.
Michael tracked his gaze and grunted. “The day you helped Abby catch her first bass.”
“Where is she?” West asked, finally rousing himself enough to notice she hadn’t accompanied her father into town.
“I dropped her at Cel’s when Eli called,” Michael said, navigating the furniture by moonlight.
West cringed with guilt. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. That’s what we do for family.”
West didn’t know how to reply. All his choices sounded too serious or too flippant, and both options were equally embarrassing. So, he didn’t say anything. His head hurt, and it was easier to close his eyes and sink into the cradle of Michael’s arms.
He’d assumed their destination was the bedroom, but Michael bypassed the door and headed toward the back of the house. The chemical tang of chlorine stung his nose, and he sniffed.
“Where are we going?”
“I have something to show you,” Michael replied, cutting through the laundry room and out the door that opened onto the back patio. He flipped a switch and flooded the area with light. There had never been much to look at out here, just a barren lot of scrub grass that Michael planned to turn into a swimming pool one day.
Now an enormous hot tub sat atop the concrete, surrounded by hand-carved benches and a cushion of non-slip mats. It was large enough to fit half the ranch staff without getting fresh, and there were so many dials and therapeutic jets that it looked like it had fallen off the back of a spaceship.
West’s jaw fell open.
“What is all this?” he asked, so shocked that he barely noticed when Michael set him on his feet and went to fiddle with the dials on the control panel.
“I know you had plans for your sock drawer,” Michael said wryly, “but this seemed like a better choice. You’ll need it when you start riding again.”
“I don’t understand.”
Michael didn’t reply, but he drew West over to the side of the tub and began working methodically at his buttons.
He’d never looked so handsome. His threadbare shirt and worn jeans clung to his body, and his jaw was dark with a few days’ worth of scruff. His hair was ruffled like he hadn’t stopped to run a comb through it once Eli called, and the hollows beneath his eyes were smudged gray. He looked exhausted. Beyond exhausted. Weary to the damn bone. It hurt to look at him, but somehow, West couldn’t force himself to look away.
“You look tired,” he blurted, and then he felt foolish. Of course, he was tired. He’d been yanked out of his bed in the middle of the night to come and take care of him.
Michael’s smile was barely a ghost, there and gone, as he cupped West’s cheek in a gentle palm. He searched his face, taking in the bruised mess without flinching, and said, “You look beautiful.”
West’s expression went wobbly, and he jokingly glanced over his shoulder as he said, “You must mean some other guy.”
“He broke your nose again.” Michael’s gaze was solemn, his fingers deft as they stripped West’s bloodied shirt from his body. The night was frigid enough to sting.