Read Online Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) by Nya Rawlyns - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nya Rawlyns
Tags: Action & Adventure, Mystery, series, Western, romantic suspense, Gay Fiction, western romance, contemporary gay romance
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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
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
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