by B. G. Thomas
Winter Heart
By B.G. Thomas
Seasons of Love: Book Four
For over ten years, Wyatt Dolan defined himself as the lover of Howard Wallace. Howard made sure Wyatt’s self-worth depended on that role. So when Howard dumps him, he is lost at sea in a storm without a rudder. If it wasn’t for his supportive friends, he doesn’t know what he’d do. Finally, after a series of disasters, he escapes to Camp Sanctuary—a sacred place to him—where he can be alone, try to put his past behind him, and find a new direction for his life.
Kevin Owens is a lonely man. He is very intelligent—several apps he created have gone on to make him a comfortable living—but he is also quite shy and is uncomfortable making conversation. The death of his dear friend and former lover after a long illness leaves him grieving, confused, and adrift. Then a dream guides him to Camp Sanctuary, only to find that the one cabin with a wood-burning stove has already been reserved. And worse, by a man he’s had a secret crush on for years—Wyatt Dolan.
When a snowstorm knocks out power at the Camp, Wyatt and Kevin must share the same cabin to stay warm, and very soon, magickal things begin to happen.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY–TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
EPILOGUE
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ONE LAST THING!
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Copyright Page
This is for Andi Byassee.
She has been with me since my very first novel, and I was so happy because finally, someone who “got” me.
She knew when to edit heavy, and when to let me speak in my voice.
I have come to love this woman and count her as a true friend, and to know never, ever to get annoyed when she uses her red pen.
Thank you, Andi, for allowing me to shine!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANKS TO so many people who helped make this book, and this series happen! Special thanks to….
My husband Raymond (for listening to endless hours of ideas, questions, and wailings while I wrote this book), Elizabeth North (because), Paul Richmond (for inspiration), Lynn West (for the title and fixing that chapter), Andi, Tippy, and Katie (for extraordinary edits and making this story so much better!), Noah Willoughby (for insight, research extraordinaire, and for being a voice in the dark), Will Jones (also because), Ross Allen Milam (who has always been the inspiration for Winter Heart’s hero and agreed to have his likeness on the cover—such a sweet and sexy man), Brandon Witt (also such a sweet and sexy man—who facilitated Ross being on my cover), Elin Gregory (because always, again and again), Cameron Schneberger (for the amazing poem), Brenna (for wonderful edits), Kade Boehme (for all things New York), Ann Kopchik (another wonderful researcher), Nancy Flowers (for the joke—as bad as it was), Masau White (for all things Samoan), Clint Koetting (for camping help and being a caretaker most extraordinaire for some ten years now with his lovely wife, Rhi), Thomas Strait (for Steam!) and I cannot forget Joanne Papin (she knows why and I know why, and that’s what’s important) who I miss every single day.
And to Christine Kane and Bobby Jo Valentine for letting me use their lyrics in my novel. Words cannot express….
Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.
— Yoko Ono
In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
— Albert Camus
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
— Ecclesiastes 3:1, KJV
CHAPTER ONE
WYATT LOOKED out over the dining room table and thought, Holy shit, what have I done?
There was barely any room left, what with the pineapples and bananas and coconuts and oranges (the last of which he wasn’t sure really fit the theme, but they looked nice), the big ham and cheese tray (Oh! Is Asher even eating ham these days?), and of course the ridiculously huge cake—the centerpiece for the table. It was shaped like a volcano, and Wyatt had baked it and built it up and decorated it himself (mostly). There were little plastic palm trees up its slopes, red icing lava flowing down its sides, and he’d even placed a juice can down inside the top, half-filled with water, just waiting for the dry ice he’d bought so he could make his volcano smoke. Bright and colorful leis hung from the lighting fixture over the table (although he wasn’t sure if they were exactly a Samoan tradition or not), along with some silk marijuana versions he’d bought at It’s A Beautiful Day in the city.
Nothing too low-key for Wyatt Dolan!
Except he couldn’t help but think he’d forgotten something.
I’ll have leftovers for days.
What had he been thinking? After all, this was Porch Night, not a dinner party. Everybody would have eaten already.
I should have told them not to eat!
Howard would have been furious if he’d known, especially when Wyatt couldn’t really afford to do this these days.
But then, Howard didn’t have anything to say about what Wyatt did or didn’t do anymore, did he? His lover of nearly eleven years had dumped him two months previously—kicked him out of his life as well as the home they’d made together.
Wyatt shut his eyes tight and fought off the wave of grief that threatened to sweep over him. No! Not tonight. Tonight is fun. I am going to have fun! He stood up tall—or as tall as he could at five foot seven—and held his head high, shoulders back. He was Wyatt Dolan, the little bear of the Fabulous Four (so dubbed by himself), and he was a… superstar! Short he might be. Chubby too. But he could dazzle. And he was especially dazzling tonight in the gorgeous blue Samoan shirt that Peni had given him. One of Peni’s brothers had gotten too heavy for it and passed it on to Wyatt (which made Wyatt feel wonderfully svelte). Everyone would be expecting him to be down and sad, but he would show them! Show them how amazing he really was.
He was determined to, especially tonight, because this was the first Sa
turday of the month and his turn to host Porch Night; the one evening that he and his friends—the Fabulous Four—vowed never to miss. Barring flood (there hadn’t been a flood in Terra’s Gate since 1977, and it hadn’t been nearly as bad as what had hit Kansas City), earthquake (very unlikely, but not impossible in Missouri), contracts for a special with HBO (but even that had not stopped Asher—the resident soon-to-be-famous member of the FF), or even a zombie apocalypse. And Wyatt had long ago declared that last wasn’t an excuse for them to miss showing up either, because wouldn’t the four of them show Rick Grimes and crew how to deal with the walking dead with fearsome fabulosity?
Of course, it wouldn’t be just the four of them tonight, would it? Where once the rule had been that Porch Night was for only the four of them—no buddies, no visiting relatives, no boyfriends du jour, or even foreign dignitaries—that had somehow changed lately, hadn’t it?
And all because Wyatt’s three friends, who for years now had been single seemingly forever, had quite suddenly begun to find boyfriends. And not the du jour kind either. One after the other, his buddies, in the space of about nine months, had met and all but married the most perfect men (or at least perfect for them, to paraphrase Grace Jones) imaginable.
Now Wyatt understood how Sloan could get a boyfriend. Sloan was a hell of a catch for any man. Even though Sloan wasn’t Wyatt’s type (give him a big ol’ hairy bear any day), no doubt most men thought Sloan was gorgeous, what with his copper hair, honey-brown eyes, and alabaster skin (with its sprinkling of about a million freckles). Hell, the only reason he’d been single for so long was because he’d been hopelessly in love with Asher, the one gay man on Earth who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—love him back. At least not in a romantic way. Then—lo and behold—Sloan met Max (a real hunka-cola) and tout de suite and easy peasy, the two of them were as googly-eyed for each other as a couple of teenagers.
Well… it hadn’t been quite that simple.
But it had been awfully sweet.
Unfortunately, when Sloan and Max got together, it had been really rough on Scott. The torch that Sloan had borne for his hopeless infatuation with Asher had been put to final rest after three years when he met and fell in love with Max, but Scott had been hopelessly in love with Sloan for a much longer time (Wyatt suspected for ten years, since Scott first met Sloan in college).
It wasn’t that Scott was a bad guy, or even unattractive (although again, not Wyatt’s type—he was way too skinny). It was just that he lived in a fantasy world of Harlequin Romance love, which wasn’t the worst of it. Fantasies aside, Scott was the biggest curmudgeon and pessimist Wyatt had ever met in his whole life.
But then—slam! bang!—Scott found a man as well. A truly wonderful man. Scott (of all people) had gone to the Heartland Queer Men’s Festival (the last place Wyatt would have ever thought he’d go), and through several miracles he had learned to set his stodgy ways aside and met a very, very sexy man (but once again a little smooth for Wyatt’s taste) named Cedar. Before Sloan’s week-long camping trip was over, he’d found true love.
Then came the biggest surprise of all.
Asher! Gods! Who would have ever thought it? Asher had found love! Asher, who didn’t “do” boyfriends. In fact, he rarely did second-night stands. “I can’t have a lover, especially a man. I’m going to be famous. Do you think fans want to look up at their favorite hunk on that big silver screen and then picture him fucking a dude?”
So it was a hell of a surprise when Asher started dating a beautiful Samoan man named Peni (only about the sweetest guy Wyatt had ever met). And the cutie had even managed to have a profound effect on Asher’s drinking (as in, helping with its reduction).
So now the three of them all had boyfriends, and instead of Porch Night being just the four of them, boyfriends were now apparently invited.
Wyatt supposed he might have been okay with the new turn of events. Except for the fact that he used to be the only one of them who’d had a lover (for over a decade), and now he was the only single one.
It was like a soap opera come to life!
Like sands through the hourglass….
The wave of grief threatened again.
No. No!
Oh, the irony.
“You don’t have to host right now,” Sloan had said a few days ago. “Max and I’ll be glad to switch with you.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes at the suggestion. “How are we going to do that? You hosted last month.”
“Then just skip a turn. No one will care.”
“What will that do? It won’t solve anything.”
“It’ll give you four more months to—” Sloan paused. “—get yourself to feeling right.”
Feeling right? Really? Feeling right? Whenever the hell would that be? Wyatt had only shaken his head at that. “No. I might as well take the bull by the balls. Besides, Peni will be coming. He’s finally back from Samoa. How can I miss giving him a big welcome-home celebration? It’s all planned. I’ve bought half the stuff already. No! I’m hosting.”
And then, one more irony.
Wyatt wasn’t even hosting Porch Night from his porch (not that it was warm enough this December night to use the porch). No, this wasn’t even his house. Sloan owned it. Sloan had inherited it from his mother when she died—was that a year ago now? Had that much time passed?
The man who Sloan happened to fall in love with was his next-door neighbor. When said neighbor’s wife elected to move to France—
…so are the Days of Our Lives….
—that left Sloan and Max with two houses. Sloan had been reluctant to sell his, even though it was smaller, for the simple fact that it had belonged to his mother. What if some buyer came along and did something like plow over her huge, gorgeous garden and replaced it with sod?
But then Howard kicked Wyatt out of their home—the house (a real fixer-upper) they had spent years repairing, remolding, reconstructing, and redecorating into a reflection of the two of them—leaving him no place to live. Kicked him out of their dream home. It had been devastating.
But being homeless had wound up solving a problem for Sloan. It not only gave Wyatt a place to live, but gave Sloan the knowledge that his mother’s home would be taken care of, at least for the time being.
Somehow living in Sloan’s house, living next door to his best friend, was what had made it all bearable. And it was a relief for Wyatt to have a roof over his head.
But it wasn’t his roof. It wasn’t the house that he had made his home.
Another wave threatened.
I’m alone. I’m going to be alone. Who’s going to want me?
He shook himself. No. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t be depressed. He had to be on.
Goddess, maybe I really shouldn’t have hosted this tonight….
But it was too late now, wasn’t it? Everybody would be arriving soon.
At least with all the extra people, they might make a dent in the food.
Into the breach!
Wyatt went into the living room and started the CDs he’d burned for tonight. He’d found a bunch of Samoan and Hawaiian music online and then, for fun, thrown in everything from Blondie’s “The Tide is High” to Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World” medley.
He surveyed the table one more time. The only thing not there was the cooler of tropical rum punch and the pitcher of the alcohol-free version. Those were in the kitchen where there was a linoleum floor instead of the hardwood of the dining room. Those coolers tended to drip from their little faucets and make quite a mess.
But he still couldn’t help but think he’d forgotten something.
Then it hit him.
Oh no! A joke!
He didn’t have a new joke for tonight! He had to have a joke! He always had a joke for Porch Night. At least one. Problem was, the only gay ones he’d been able to find lately had been derogatory and homophobic—endless punch lines about fudge packing, AIDS, and rainbow Skittle
s. He’d hated them. He’d hated the fact that gay men had posted a lot of them.
He needed a joke. How could they have a Porch Night without one of his jokes? Wyatt ran for his laptop and was just booting it up so he could google one when…
The doorbell rang.
Piss!
He stopped, sighed, touched his short spiky hair (hoped it looked okay), and opened the door.
It was Sloan and Max, looking all happy and flush-cheeked and eyes flashing. Frak! It didn’t take a genius to realize what they’d been up to before they got here. They were still boinking like rabbits after all these months.
Well…. Well…. Well, good for them! Lucky them. It was good. Someone needed to have sex. It’s not like I’m ever going to have sex again. Because who would want a fat little bear when they could have someone who looked like these two?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
“Tah-low-fa,” he said, practicing the Samoan word Peni had taught him. Talofa—a greeting, like “hello.”
“Talofa,” Sloan said with a laugh, because he was in on this. And Max? Max gave one of his single macho nods.
Max was such a mystery. Quiet and masculine one minute and all animated the next. Like a friendlier version of bipolar.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Wyatt said, opening the screen door and motioning them in. “I mean, it is your place.”
A car horn honked, and a cream-colored Lexus pulled up in front of the house. That would be Scott and Cedar. They would have been riding their motorcycles if it hadn’t been so cold today. It was like they had it timed, getting here at exactly the same time as Sloan and Max. At least Wyatt could count on Asher being late. He did live in the city after all, and…
Except lookee there. Asher’s old, battered pickup was pulling over across the street.
Asher and Peni.
Synchronized.
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here….
“Come on in, guys,” he said. “We’re letting the cold in.”
