Page 5 of Down in Flames

“We could drive home tonight.”

“Naw.” He tossed an easy grin over his shoulder, but he still felt strained and raw inside. “I feel like garbage. My shoulder hurts like hell, and I need to sleep off this headache before I get behind the wheel. You ever going to tell me how you tracked me down?”

“Nope.”

West threw him a disgruntled look, and Michael finally laughed. The sound of it sent a flood of relief through West that took his pain down a notch—but just for a moment.

“I asked Gus,” Michael admitted.

“And he told you?” West asked, climbing up into the empty truck bed with agonizing difficulty. Every fiber of his body ached. He unrolled his sleeping bag with an irate snap.

“Not at first. That old man thinks of you like a son, you know that,” Michael said. He crossed his arms and leaned on the dropped tailgate, watching as West worked.

West grunted noncommittally.

Gus Awbry had given him a job straight out of high school. Back then he was just a pale, scrawny kid, but years of heaving hay bales and farm equipment had taken care of that. Nothing but tumbleweeds blew out any time someone from the Owens family opened their wallets, so West definitely needed the money, but the job had given him more than that. It had given him a sense of purpose and the perfect excuse to be out of town during the warm months when local rodeos began popping up like wildflowers.

Only Gus and West’s childhood friend, Tucker, knew that he’d started riding. Mostly because they were the only two people West trusted to mind their own business. Until now.

“If he thought of me like a son, he’d have kept his mouth shut,” West muttered under his breath.

“You’ve got funny ideas about fatherhood,” Michael said with amusement. He looked so good standing there in his autumn flannel, with his Stetson cocked back on his head, that West didn’t even mind that he seemed to be laughing at him. “It’s because he cares about you that he told me at all. At first, he thought it was just something you needed to get out of your system. Said your old man used to ride, and he figured you felt like you had something to prove. Maybe you had some wild oats you never got a chance to sew when you were a kid. But you’re crazy if you think he's missed the new bruises cropping up all over you like daisies lately. Hell, even I noticed, and you haven’t come near me in months.”

“You notice everything,” West said ironically. It was part of the reason he’d been keeping his distance ever since he realized how strong his obsession had become. There was no way he’d be able to keep it a secret forever, not with the way Michael watched him.

Michael’s laugh was dry as an old creek bed. “I wish to God that were true.”

They fell into silence after that, but for the first time in months, it felt easy and companionable. Slowly, the thing inside West’s chest that had been twisted up tight and painful began to unknot. Just in time, because every other joint and muscle seemed to be locking up all at once. Everything hurt, and he let out a muffled groan as he stripped off his filthy shirt and yanked a clean one out of his bag.

“Jesus, look at you.” The rasp in Michael’s voice caught him by surprise. “Between the bruises and those old scars, you look like you've been wrestling bears."

West glanced down at his exposed torso, but he didn’t see much to get hyper about. Just a few bruises and the old, faded scar running down the center of his chest; the one he lied about and told everyone was from a climbing accident. He’d spent his entire childhood watching his father and older brothers break their bodies to keep food on the table. This was nothing compared to that.

“Eh.” He shrugged.

“Your nose hasn’t stopped swelling.”

West chuckled. “Not like it makes much of a difference.”

He’d never been much of a looker. Everyone in his family was plain as dirt, with dark hair and muddy brown eyes over noses that looked out of joint from birth.

Michael frowned, but West was suddenly too exhausted to hear another objection. He held up a hand to forestall whatever Michael was about to say.

“Look, I know you’ve got more to say to me, but I need to crash. Can we talk about this back home?”

“We can talk about it in the morning,” Michael said grimly, planting a hand on the open tailgate and hitching himself into the back of the truck with far more ease than West had done. It was almost offensive how quickly he’d recovered from his injuries after the fire. Like West needed another reason to think he was superhuman. “I’m sleeping here with you.”

West was so surprised he nearly ripped the zipper off his sleeping bag. “What? Why?”

“Because someone needs to make sure you wake up,” he snarled, settling down in the corner between the bulkhead and the wheel well. He kicked his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle.

“You’re crazy,” West stuttered. “You’ll freeze without a blanket.”

“I’ve had worse nights.” Michael chuckled and tugged his hat brim low over his eyes, popping the collar on his thick flannel shirt for warmth.

“Don’t be stupid. Your leg is barely healed from the fire. You’re lucky to be walking!”

“So are you,” Michael said, deadly serious.

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