Page 3 of Down in Flames

“Fine,” he said, swiping a sleeve beneath his gushing nose before allowing himself to be dragged into the saddle behind the rider.

Death Rose had already calmed, preening at the edge of the arena while an official looked her over.

“That sucked,” Hank said when he reached the gate.

A crowd had gathered behind him, full of concern, but West would trade them all for a good friend. He grinned through blood-stained teeth.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, poking around at the bridge of his nose before cracking the broken bone into place. What should have been an explosion of pain was just a drop in the ocean for his broken body.

“All that, and you didn’t even get a score.” Hank gave a woeful little shake of his head. “How did you manage to miss the mark out?”

“Bad luck, I guess.”

“You ever think bronc-busting just ain’t for you, Keller?”

He shrugged, wiping at his watering eyes with dirty fingers. “Got nothing better to do.”

“Shit. Don’t you have anybody back home who can keep you out of trouble?”

“He does now.” The voice was deep and rough. Angrier than West had ever heard it.

He shouldn’t sound like that. It was the first thought to pop into West’s head, rattling around in his empty brain like loose change in a vending machine. And then: No. Not here.

With trepidation, West slowly raised his head and searched the milling crowd over Hank’s shoulder. Just a moment ago, they’d been a faceless sea, meaningless and impermanent. But not anymore. Now the ocean parted, making room for a cowboy with blazing blue eyes and a dark expression.

“Michael,” West said stupidly.

Michael was here. Somehow, despite how secretive West had always been about his little hobby, despite the strain that had cropped up between them since the fire, and despite the fact that he should be hundreds of miles away…he was here.

And he was furious.

CHAPTER TWO

West was jammed behind the wheel of his delivery truck with a cold compress over his eyes, when the creak of rusted hinges alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He’d know that particular blend of sage and juniper soap anywhere. The truck dipped as Michael slid into the passenger seat, but West still didn’t look at him.

The door slammed hard enough to make his ears pop.

“Ow.” He winced and pulled the compress off his battered face. “Careful. This old Ford belongs to Gus, and it’s had nearly as many birthdays.”

Michael didn’t laugh. Why would he? Apart from awkward small talk and lame excuses, West had barely spoken to him in months. But without his usual warm smile, he looked like a stranger. Shadows sank into the strong planes of his face, illuminating every harsh angle and highlighting the anger in his expression.

In the close darkness, his presence was almost suffocating. He filled the truck, taking up room with his wide shoulders and the spread of his massive thighs. Everything about him radiated strength. He was a screaming neon advertisement for a man in his prime, and it had West wanting to claw at the windows to escape.

So, he did. He threw open the door and tumbled out into the cool mountain air. The ominous thud of the passenger door told him Michael had followed him, but he ignored it.

Night had fallen, but the stars were washed out by light pollution from the stadium. West was parked on a hilltop overlooking the arena. Cheers still echoed from the stands as clear as a bell, and elderly couples danced to bluegrass music down on the green. Cars wended their way through the parking lot like a giant snake, trying to beat the traffic rush.

He propped his butt against the fender and stared down at the glow of headlights as if hypnotized. It was so much easier than looking at the man who settled down beside him.

Michael still hadn’t said a word. He just sat there. Breathing. Why did he have to breathe so sexily? The rise and fall of his chest, the little catch in his throat…

“How did you find me?” West blurted, just to drown out the sound.

“What makes you think I’m here for you?” Michael asked.

West scoffed and rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that, then tried to hide a wince of pain. Michael wasn't the type to leave his daughter and ranch hands while he jetted off to a rodeo. He didn't enjoy rodeos in the first place, not when he lived them every day.

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