by Amy Aislin
Las coughed once, took a small step back. “We should keep going.”
One of Marco’s eyebrows went up and his lips twitched upward on one side. Very I know you want me crossed with I’m onto you. It shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was.
“I have something that will make up for the strenuous—” Marco’s smile turned knowing at the word. “—hike.”
“That so?” Marco closed the distance between them. Las sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for the inevitable feel of Marco’s chest on his, Marco’s lips on his, Marco’s beard against his own shaved cheeks.
But it never came. With a wicked smile, Marco slid past him, purposefully brushing his chest against Las’s shoulder. “Come on.” The tease in his voice tickled Las’s nerves. “Show me what made this hike worth it.”
Las scrubbed a hand over his face, then turned to follow Marco. “Wrong way,” he said.
Marco stopped and gestured to the blue trail marker bolted to a tree.
“We’re going this way first.” Las stepped onto a path that wasn’t really a path, more of a seldom-used track, trampled by wildlife and, less often than he’d like, by Las’s hiking boots. He brushed low-hanging branches out of the way, holding them back until Marco passed behind him.
“Are you sure this leads somewhere?” Marco asked.
“It’s just a bit farther.”
The track veered off to the left, but Las kept going straight, stepping over low bushes and around tall trees.
“How did you find this place?” Marco asked. “Wherever we’re going.”
“I explored a lot as a kid. I wanted to know all the secret places on the ranch no one else knew about. Here we go.”
He stopped near the edge of a cliff, and although the scenery was usually enough to hold his attention, today he kept his eyes on Marco’s face as he drew up next to Las.
Pure awe. Exactly what Las had been hoping for.
He’d spent all day yesterday brainstorming ideas for getting Marco to fall in love with the ranch, to want to stay. What was it about Windsor Ranch that Las loved, aside from the fact that it was his family’s land, had a lot of history, and his family was here? He’d made a list of his favorite places, favorite things to do, favorite events, and he was determined to show Marco how amazing it all was.
First stop: Las’s favorite overlook. It was out of the way and a pain in the ass to get to, but it was still one of his most treasured spots, one he’d only ever shared with his sister. Not even Ben knew of it, and Las had shared everything with him. Almost everything. He’d known Ben well enough to know that Ben would never appreciate it, not like he had a feeling Marco would.
Down below, the river, the current swifter than anywhere else on Windsor Ranch land. It snaked into the distance and seemed to disappear into faraway mountains capped with snow. Directly across the river, pine trees swept up the mountainside, interspersed with rocky outcroppings and dotted with the occasional early-blooming yellow or purple wildflower.
And on Marco’s face, a slack jaw, wide eyes, open staring. “How is this real?” His tone was reverent.
“It’s even better at sunset.” Las kept his voice just as soft. “The sun goes down right over there, behind that mountain.” He let a smile curl his lips. “But if we came at sunset we’d be walking back in the dark and I remember a certain someone is afraid of what lurks in the dark.”
Marco did a slow pan toward him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hm. Must’ve been someone else scared of a darkened playground.”
“Must’ve been.”
Las thought back to the night in April when Marco had walked him home from the pizza joint, how they’d come upon a playground Marco had refused to step foot into until Las had done so first. Granted, empty playgrounds at night weren’t all that welcoming, but Marco had appeared to forget all about it as they sat on the swings and talked.
It had been cold, spring in Vermont not having yet made an appearance. Las had just been stood up, meaning he’d missed dinner and been starving. Final projects were due, exams were less than a month away, and he’d been overworked and tired.
And there Marco had been, tall and messily put together in old sweatpants, a hoodie, and ancient running shoes, his hair loose and wavy, strings of it clinging to his bearded jaw. Las’s mind had been running too fast to keep up—berating himself for agreeing to a blind date in the first place, trying to find time in his schedule to do the assigned readings he’d skipped to go on it, wishing he was anywhere else, wondering if dating was even worth it. Marco, just by saying his name as Las had stood from the booth and shrugged into his leather jacket, had made all of that go away. Quieted his thoughts as surely as if they’d never existed in the first place.
Marco, the guy Las had secretly been crushing on, from a distance, for a year. The reason he’d stood in the dozen people-deep line up at the Coffee Cart every Thursday morning—just for the three minutes a week to talk to Marco. Six-foot-two Marco with the golden skin, the beautiful hair, the quiet personality, the steady shoulders, the smile that drew Las in and told him everything would be okay.
Impulsively, he said, “What are you doing tonight?”
Marco took off his backpack, rested it against a tree, and sat in the grass, forearms resting on his knees. “Same as always. Dinner and then shooting the shit at the fire pit with the rest of the seasonal staff.”
“Want to do something else instead?”
Marco shaded his eyes and looked up at him. “Like what?”
“I want to show you something. You might have to contend with a moth or two though.”
Marco’s lips flattened. “You’re not funny.”
Shrugging, Las said, “But I’m honest.”
A brief moment while Marco appeared to contemplate things. “If it’s as amazing as this,” he finally said, gaze returning to the landscape, “then I’m in.”
“It’s better.”
Marco’s expression turned skeptical.
“Promise.” Las drank in the scenery for a second. “Should we keep going?”
“Is there any rush?” Marco asked. “Can we stay a bit longer?”
Inexplicably pleased, Las sat next to him. “Yeah. We can stay.”
Marco was sore in places he’d never been sore before. And he was an athlete, so that was saying something.
It wasn’t all from the week’s hikes. In fact, it probably had little to do with the hikes and everything to do with the daily horseback riding lessons—a perk of being a Windsor Ranch employee he’d not known about until Alice had tracked him down earlier in the week to set up a schedule.
He liked the horses and he liked his trainer, but his legs were not meant to stay open in that position for that long. Not unless . . . well.
He coughed once, trying to banish the image. Sitting on the steps of his cabin, the sun at his back, he waved to a couple other employees as they headed for the staff dining room for dinner. Now was not the time to be thinking of Las naked, lying on top of him, sweaty and slick, his eyes heated, his body desperate, Marco’s legs wrapped around his hips as—
“Hey.”
He nearly choked on his tongue.
Blinking, he found the object of his fantasies and daily morning shower jerk-off sessions standing at the base of the steps, showered and changed into comfy jeans, boots planted shoulder-width apart, T-shirt hugging muscled arms Marco craved to bite, cowboy hat casting half his face in shadow.
“You ready to go?”
Marco flushed. “Yup. Ready.” He didn’t move.
“Everything okay?”
“Just . . . sore.”
Concern spread over Las’s face. “From the hike? Did you hurt yourself?”
Hurt. Yes, something definitely hurt, just not in the way Las thought. “No. From the horseback riding lessons.”
“Oh. Yeah, you’re not the first one that’s happened to. I promise it gets better the more you ride.”
Ride. Go
d.
Las ran a palm over his jaw. “I’ve got a salve for sore muscles. I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The weekend. Guided hikes still ran on the weekends, but Marco was one of the guides who worked Monday through Friday. Although, out here and with everyone’s irregular schedules, it wouldn’t have mattered when his days off fell.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” Marco said. “I was thinking of heading into town.” He’d had no such thought until this very second. Las didn’t need to know that. “Want to come with me? Show me around?”
Las parked a hip against the railing. “Sure. I can show you all the good spots to eat and shop. In the meantime…” He walked backward and clapped his hands once. “Come on. We’re wasting daylight.”
“For what?”
“Let’s go and I’ll show you.”
His semi no longer quite the obvious issue it had been, Marco rose and grabbed the hoodie hanging over the porch railing that Las had instructed him to bring.
“Comfortable and warm,” Las had said once they’d returned to Windsor Ranch after their hike. “It’s still cold at night this time of year, so bring a sweater. Do you have a sleeping bag?”
Marco did not have a sleeping bag.
“Never mind,” Las had said before he could answer. “I’ll bring you one.”
“Are we going camping?”
Las had waggled his eyebrows. “Yes and no.”
Camping. Outside. In the woods. At night. With all that wildlife roaming free. Wildlife they wouldn’t be able to see in the dark until it was on top of them. Excitement and nervousness warred for dominance as Marco slung his hoodie over one shoulder and followed Las to the waiting Gater. In its bed was a sleeping bag, a quilt, and a soft cooler.
Las drove south, the opposite direction they’d gone in this morning, past the staff cabins and dining room and onto a dirt path that appeared to have been made by a Gater or some kind of farm equipment. The path took them behind acres and acres of tall stalks of…
“Is that wheat?”
“Yeah. About half of our property on this side of the highway is dedicated to the guest services part of the ranch. That technically ends at the building that houses the staff dining room. Everything south of that is wheat farming.”
“So you’ve got what basically amounts to a fancy dude ranch—”
“It’s not that fancy,” Las cut in.
“You have a spa, Lassiter, and two restaurants, one of which is award-winning. So. A fancy dude ranch offering every outdoor activity under the sun, wheat farming, and cattle. Am I missing anything?”
“We sponsor the town harvest and Christmas festivals every year.” Las veered off the path, heading onto a smaller one that led into the forest. He removed his hat and set it on his lap. “We turn the recreation building into a haunted house at Halloween. That’s always fun. There’s also a monthly dance party.”
“Dance party?”
“Yeah. Alice hasn’t roped you into it yet?”
“Uh, no?”
The path ended, just stopped, right in the middle of a copse of trees so tall they were like fortresses keeping watch on their domain. Las turned off the motor and stepped out, leaving his hat on the seat. “We have to walk from here.”
It was early evening, the sun still high in the sky. Despite that, parts of the forest were dim and shadowy where the tree cover blocked the sunlight. Elsewhere, fragile rays burst through the branches and splashed onto the forest floor. Combined with the loamy scent and sounds of scurrying squirrels and chatting birds, it was all very mystical. Marco was loath to break the silence and it seemed Las was of the same opinion.
They were quiet as they walked to wherever they were going, Las with the strap of the sleeping bag cover over one shoulder and the cooler on the other, Marco with his hoodie and the quilt tucked under one arm. He paid attention to Las’s steps, where he was placing his feet and how, to avoid tripping over tree roots or squashing what might be a rare plant. Of which there were several, according to his plant book.
And if he snuck a peek at Las’s ass every once in a while, it was no one’s fault but Las’s. He didn’t have to wear such form-fitting jeans that they hugged him in all the right places, did he? Marco had never considered himself an ass man. But the right ass? In the right pair of jeans?
He’d damn well sing its praises.
“When I was a teenager,” Las said, pausing until Marco caught up, forcing Marco’s eyes northward, “we used to do the dance party every weekend until we scaled back—mostly to save our own sanities. I had my first kiss right over there—” He pointed at a tall pine indistinguishable from all the other tall pines. “—with a seasonal worker from Lander. Before I realized I shouldn’t get involved with the seasonal workers.”
“Why not?”
“What’s the point when they’ll be gone at the end of their contract?”
Wait. Was that why—
“You should come,” Las continued before Marco could finish his thought. “To the dance party at the end of the month. A lot of the locals come too.”
Marco scratched his cheek. “I guess. I don’t really dance though.” Not that he’d ever tried.
Las turned to walk backward, facing Marco, lips tilted upward. “Not even with me?”
Marco tripped on nothing. “Well… I mean, I, uh… I don’t, um…” They’d stopped walking, and when Marco quit stammering, his gaze caught on blue fabric behind Las. “Where are we?”
“Welcome to my tent in the woods,” Las said, arm out like he was inviting Marco into his home.
Marco drew up next to him. “Lassiter.”
“Hm?”
“That’s not a tent. That’s a tent.”
Except it wasn’t a tent either; it really was a home. The tent itself was a huge boxy thing, roughly six feet tall—Marco would only have to duck a little—and easily ten feet by ten feet. To its right was a fire pit with a grill over it that seemed to allow cooking over an open fire. Around the pit were a couple of logs to sit on, and on its far side was a small foldable metal table.
Charmed by it—and by Las for showing him what was undoubtedly something that was strictly his, and not his family’s—Marco grinned at him. “Do you live out here?”
“No.” Las dropped the sleeping bag next to the tent. “But I try to stay out here a few nights a week.” Taking the quilt out of Marco’s arms, he dropped that on top of the sleeping bag.
“This is amazing.”
“Yeah?” The small smile on Las’s lips was contentment and fondness mixed into one. “I think so too, but not everybody does.” His expression shuttered for a second before clearing. He held up the cooler. “Anyway. I brought dinner.”
Too busy frowning at Las, Marco hardly noticed when Las sat on a log and removed little foil packets of something from the cooler. “Who doesn’t like this place?”
“Huh?”
“What idiot doesn’t like this place? It’s stunning. It must be amazing in the fall when the leaves start changing colors.”
“It’s . . . pretty amazing, yeah.” Las blinked at him from his perch on the log, then blurted, “It was Ben.”
“Who?”
“Ben.”
Ben, huh? Las had mentioned the name earlier. “Is he one of the seasonal workers? I don’t remember a Ben.”
“No, he… Ben’s my ex. The one I told you about, that night?” The night Marco had walked him home two months ago. “The one I followed to Vermont for college? The one who moved to England on a student exchange program at the start of junior year and didn’t come back?”
Right. Marco remembered seeing Las in line at the Coffee Cart with some other guy. But then that guy—Ben, it turned out—had disappeared a couple years later. So had Las, for a while, until he’d started coming back to the Coffee Cart in the spring of their junior year.
“I stand by the idiot label.”
His chest puffed out when Las laughed.
“Well, I’m glad you
like it, anyway.” Las stood and removed a matchbox from his back pocket.
“Don’t you need—” tinder and kindling, Marco meant to say, but he cut himself off when Las removed the cover resting over the fire pit, exposing balled up newspaper and dry pine needles; over top, dry twigs placed in a little teepee formation.
“I’m always starving by the time I get here,” Las said as he lit a match and brought the flame to the newspaper, “so I usually set up the fire pit for next time before I leave in the morning.” The fire spread across the newspaper, catching onto the twigs in a mesmerizing dance of showered sparks.
Before I leave in the morning… “You actually spend the night out here?”
“Well yeah.”
“But isn’t there…” Bears. Mountain lions. Wolves. “Wildlife?”
Amusement lit Las’s face. “Wildlife can’t unzip a tent. And in case you hadn’t noticed…” Las brushed past Marco with a pat to his shoulder. “You’re sleeping out here too. What do you think the sleeping bag’s for?” He unzipped the tent and disappeared inside.
“But I don’t have pajamas.”
Las reemerged holding a baking tray. “Do you actually sleep in pajamas?”
“I could,” Marco muttered. Las didn’t take him seriously.
In the little foil packets were salmon fillets marinated in a tarragon and lemon juice mixture. Las had also brought asparagus, peppers, and broccoli—
“I had a feeling you could use some vegetables.”
“Las, you don’t even know.”
—that they snapped and chopped at the metal table, poured olive oil over, and then added garlic powder, thyme, and cayenne pepper that Las pulled out of a metal cabinet in his tent. Las cooked everything on a baking tray over the fire pit. Within a half an hour, they were sharing a meal for two while sitting elbow-to-elbow on a log in front of the fire, now blazing a dozen feet high and throwing off enough heat to ward off the chill that came as the sun set.
