Page 49 of Down in Flames

"The curative power of orgasms," he'd teased as they lay in bed the next day, mapping the scars and texture on each other's skin.

"Or hot water and liniment," Michael said wryly. He'd brought a tin of salve with him the night before, touching West with his consideration. Despite how angry he'd been, the only thing he'd cared about was taking care of him. "What you need is a good soak in another hot tub."

"The closest thing to that around here is a trough in the middle of August," West said, tracing Michael's frown lines with the tip of one finger.

"You could get one."

West laughed at the ridiculous suggestion. "And keep it where? My sock drawer?"

Michael might have had more to say, but West's trailing fingers had wandered down the path of his abs and into dangerous territory. In less than a second, he was on his back with Michael's huge body covering him. He'd never felt so powerful before. So cherished.

They spent the rest of the day like a couple of teenagers, napping, making love, and eating cold cereal naked in bed. When evening rolled around, they dressed and retrieved Abby from her slumber party to take her for pizza and a movie. He spent that night at the ranch, in Michael’s bed, and woke to the reassuring sounds of Celia and Cal arguing over heavy machinery.

All it took was one look at Michael’s sleepy, lazy smile for West to finally believe this was something real. Something true. No man would bring another man home to his bed with his child in the house for just a fling. Crazy as it seemed, Michael loved him. Him. West Owens, town nobody.

He'd never brought anyone home to meet his family before, and part of him would rather go the rest of his life without ever crossing that bridge. It was too risky. But his innate sense of fair play had him inviting Michael along when he headed over to the farm that evening.

Sunday dinner was a tradition, with siblings coming and going depending on their schedules, but tonight the ramshackle farmhouse was bursting at the seams. Susan's mini-van was parked awkwardly in the driveway, boxed in by her brothers' trucks on both sides. The front porch was strewn with the detritus of a heavy construction project.

"I thought you were just installing some rails?" Michael asked as he helped Abby down from the truck.

West couldn't help but smile, watching her splash through a hopscotch of puddles in her pink boots and daffodil-yellow denim jacket. Across the yard, a pack of children was spinning West's oldest nephew on a tire swing until he looked ready to puke.

"Derek called it rails just so Dad wouldn't get all het up," West explained, hefting his toolbox from the floorboards. "But that bathroom hasn't been updated since the sixties. We're tearing out all the fixtures and adding some no-slip tile, too."

"That's going to take more than a few days."

"Not in this family," West said, biting down on his grin.

It was predictable chaos the instant they crossed the threshold. The living room was dark and full of grease smoke from the kitchen. Children huddled together on the carpet, building a Hot Wheels track, and the sound of a nail gun pounded at random intervals from down the hall. The sports channel was cranked up louder than ever to drown out the noise.

"So, the last traitor has decided to show his face," his father announced, watching him with slitted eyes from his easy chair.

"It's a gift, Dad," West said cheerfully, crouching down to ruffle his tiniest niece's hair.

"I've never taken charity from any man a day in my life," his father said with an acid scoff, "and I sure as hell don't need it from my own boys. Don't forget that I diapered your ass, son."

"Really? When?" Dorothy Owens peeked her head into the room, cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove, or maybe from the bottle of five-dollar wine she always saved for Sundays. She never came alive like she did when her house was full of children, and her pleasure only grew when she spotted Michael holding up the door frame behind West. "Oh! We have company!"

"Whittaker," Jasper greeted acerbically.

"Sir," Michael said, nodding. "Thanks for having me and my little girl for dinner. It's been hell trying to cook while we finish remodeling our kitchen. We need all the help we can get."

West glanced over his shoulder and caught Michael's wink. He hadn't traded more than a handful of conversations with Jasper Owens over the years, but he instinctively understood how defensive he'd be at having a stranger catch him at a disadvantage. By making it sound as if he was the one in need of a favor, he'd disarmed West's father and charmed his mother in one fell swoop.

"Heard about what happened out there," Jasper grunted, and to West’s astonishment, he reached out and muted the television. "Damn shame. That was one of the best properties on this side of the county."

"It'll be good as new pretty soon," Michael said easily, nodding in West's direction. "I've got a lot of help. Your son has always pitched in everywhere he can."

Jasper's expression was inscrutable. West's bruised shoulders tightened, tense enough to snap, as he held his gaze. There was a beat of silence, and then his father sucked air through his teeth and glanced away.

West wondered if his father knew where he'd been that weekend. Had Hank only called once, or was he ratting him out on the regular? It nagged at him, eating him alive with doubt. Why hadn't his father ever said anything? Not that West would ever expect a word of praise. But he'd never scolded him either. Jasper knew it would break his wife's heart if she ever discovered what he was doing, but he didn't order West to quit. Was it wrong for that to give him hope?

Maybe his father understood in a way no one else could that it was about a hell of a lot more than horses. Maybe he couldn't bear to force another man to quit like he had. He'd been larger than life back when West was a little boy, and West wondered what secrets lurked in his own heart. What dreams he'd given up. Did he look back and wonder where his own youth had gone?

Jasper straightened in his chair and set his hands on top of his thighs, watching them both closely. His tone was shrewd when he asked, "You fooling around with my boy, Whittaker?"

“Jasper!” Dorothy admonished, but her eyes were alight with curiosity. She stared at West with raised eyebrows, making him feel like a little kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

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