Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2)

by Nya Rawlyns

  Michael objected, “Um, not exactly a hero.” Every time somebody used that word, he cringed.

  “Girl’s right,” Sally grumbled, “...for once.” She patted the other leg.

  Michael figured if there was such a thing as luck, it was happening right there. His legs were fine, so the gals could touch them all they wanted. The rest of him not so much. The doctors hadn’t been able to stitch what became old wounds by the time they’d hauled his sorry ass into Laramie. By helicopter, for God’s sake. His first ever ride in one of those contraptions, and all he got to see was a sturdy-built woman in a helmet shoving an oxygen mask over his mouth and reciting his vitals to another paramedic jammed into the space behind her.

  It turned out a couple of the puncture wounds had hit paydirt, going deep enough to damage his spleen and his gall bladder. He’d been bleeding internally, and the rough rides on the mule and then the ATV hadn’t done much to improve his situation. By the time they had him on a gurney and were life-flighting him out of Sand Lake, he’d already said his silent goodbye to Sonny. He figured accepting he wasn’t going to make it wasn’t the same as giving in, and George’s you’ll be fine, boy—uttered without much conviction—had more or less sealed the deal.

  What he remembered most about that flight was wondering if anybody would miss him. Now he pondered why he’d asked himself that. The stream of visitors had been non-stop since they’d brought him out of recovery to his private room.

  Calling it private was a misnomer. Even in the middle of the night, it was like Grand Central Station, with nurses, Mrs. Trader, and one or the other of the mother-daughter tag team keeping a vigil on him. This morning he got the daily double, both women insisting on making his life as pleasant as possible.

  Michael appreciated the effort, he really did, but a little Sally went a long way. He was more used to the reticent youngster, but since her metamorphosis into girlfriend to the hapless Cody, she’d become a force to be reckoned with.

  Grumping he needed to pee and then he needed coffee had the ladies jumping to assist him. Sally arranged the pole on wheels and the complex of lines while Dolly folded the blanket and sheet back to allow him to swing his legs over the side. When he had touchdown on the cold floor, both women eased him upright and held him steady while he regained his equilibrium.

  Muttering, “I think I can get to the ensuite on my own,” he nearly laughed out loud at Sally’s perplexed look.

  Dolly giggled and said, “It’s a bathroom, Ma.”

  The older woman sniffed audibly, proclaiming, “I knew that.” When they reached the bathroom, she body blocked her daughter, declaring, “Nothing you need to see here, girlie.”

  Michael hurriedly said, “Nothing nobody needs to see here, excepting me.” He bowed his head right and left, muttering, “Ladies,” as he shuffled into the bathroom and secured the door. There was no lock, but at least he’d established a little independence. He’d take his small successes where and when he could.

  The day was bound to go downhill pretty quickly. The interview with the detective assigned to his case had been delayed until he had been stabilized after surgery. That meant today was his lucky day. On the bright side, Paul was bringing an attorney buddy of his to sit in. He’d been assured it was all routine.

  Michael had asked Paul to define ‘routine.’ His boss’s expression had been unsettling, if not downright grim. Whether or not that had anything to do with the fact a team had been sent in from the Arlington side of the national forest to retrieve the body, and what they might have found, wasn’t something Paul was willing to share.

  What he’d told George on their way back to the campground had been mostly true, up to the point where he miraculously got free and managed to grab his rifle sitting conveniently near the cabin door. The man calling himself Seth came after him with a knife. Bam, bam, bam. After that he passed out, and the next thing he knew Seamus Rydell had arrived to accompany him back to their camp.

  He could legitimately claim the details were fuzzy, because they were. No one would press him for particulars, not after seeing how the madman had nearly skinned him alive in spots, then decorated his upper torso with puncture holes in a pattern that made sense only to Seth. And it wasn’t just about him. He had buried the evidence of the man’s brutality to animals in a spot where it could easily be recovered.

  In his own mind, it was an open and shut case. One that involved only himself, a psychopath, and a few rescuers who helped him return to the safety of civilization. He’d also asked George to call the sheriff’s office and give him a report detailing exactly what Michael had told him. Today’s interview was going to amount to nothing more than corroboration straight from the horse’s mouth... his.

  A knock on the door reminded him he’d best pay attention to something other than worrying about keeping his story straight. He barked, “Be right out.”

  “Somebody’s here to see you, Michael.”

  There was shuffling and the sounds of chairs being scraped across the linoleum. Heart beating double-time, he made quick work of washing up and lunged toward the door, shoving it open with a single word on his lips... Tex?

  “Hey, Brooks, you’re looking like shit.” Disappointment slammed Michael like a freight train. George looked at the women and chewed his bottom lip for a few seconds, then said, “I, um, thought you’d want to hear the latest?” He raised his eyebrows and motioned with his chin he’d like the women gone.

  Michael said, “Ladies, do you mind?”

  Sally did mind, huffing an objection, but Dolly took her by the elbow and steered her out the door, calling back, “We’ll be back later this evening, Mr. Brooks. I’ll bring Cody. He’s been asking after you.”

  “Thanks, Dolly. See you then.”

  Michael eased onto the bed and sighed in relief. Gut surgery was no fun. He’d had his appendix out when he was a teenager. It had hurt like the devil. This seemed worse because there was no way to move without stretching, pulling, or torquing flesh abused past the point of pain. The added strain of trying not to lift his arms and disturb the third degree burns in his armpits was enough to keep him in a bad mood for the foreseeable future.

  Focusing on George, Michael grimaced and said, “All right, I’m listening. What’s going on?”

  Without preamble, the warden launched into a recap of his own interview the evening before. “So that’s it. They pretty much went over everything I’d told them in the initial report. But...”

  “What?”

  “They were real interested to hear what I knew about Rydell’s whereabouts.” At Michael’s questioning look, he added, “Not much to say. He wasn’t at the campsite when we got there. First time we saw him, he was with you and that mule.”

  Since it had never occurred to Michael to ask what Sonny might have revealed to his friend while he was unconscious, he had a bad feeling there might have been something said to create doubts in George’s mind.

  “Spit it out, George. Something’s bugging you. What is it?”

  Face turning crimson, George muttered, “They was asking about you and him.”

  “And?”

  Shifting in his seat, George stared at the floor for a long minute before answering. “Wanted to know your relationship. If you were friends, or just you know...” he shrugged, “...doing your jobs.”

  Michael waited for George to work through whatever was troubling him. Finally his fellow warden said, “Not my business one way or t’other. Told them I wouldn’t know, just that I saw you working together professional like.” Looking grieved, he said, “I don’t understand why they’d ask a damn fool question like that. What’s it got to do with anything?”

  “They’re just doing their job. Being thorough.” Michael didn’t believe that for a second.

  Neither did George. “That’s as it might be, but I figured you might want a heads-up so you aren’t blind-sided when it’s your turn.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “They’ll be here shortly, so I best be
gone. I’ll check back later.”

  “George?”

  “Yeah, son?”

  “Thanks. For everything.”

  George pursed his lips, giving him an assessing look. “Word of advice, son?” Michael nodded he was listening. Solemnly George said, “Don’t put the blinders on. Life’s too short for that shit,” and slipped out the door, the pneumatics shushing it closed with a snick.

  Before he could process George’s cryptic comment, the doctor and his day nurse arrived to check him out. He listened to their well-meaning gobble-de-gook and agreed to do something, then another thing. There was a pat on his arm, fresh ice chips and the promise of a breakfast tray arriving shortly.

  He hoped it was heavy on greasy bacon, eggs sunny side up, and a gallon of coffee to wash it all down. When it arrived it was chicken broth and Jell-O with a side of weak tea. Another pat on the arm from the aide, and he was finally alone with his own thoughts.

  Appetite shot, he shoved the table away and first reviewed what he’d told George, then ran through the statement his boss had managed to extract while he was still floating on pain killers. Nowhere in that scenario did he ever say... my lover rode in on a spotted mule, shot the bad guy with a pattern tight enough an army drill sergeant would’ve been proud, cut me down, and then saved me by performing a medical miracle with quick thinking and equine vet supplies.

  No one in their right mind would ever believe that hogwash. It was way easier to accept he’d been hung like a side of beef, flayed into strips, burnt and hole-punched... but he’d managed to work his wrists loose, fall to the floor, rolling. He’d grabbed the rifle and shot in self-defense with a tight pattern of well-paced shots.

  A jury of his peers would laugh their asses off. Especially if they got a gander at the state of his torso, his wrists and his pits. Jesus. Just thinking about it made him want to rip the morphine drip bag open with his teeth and suck it down until he was comatose.

  The duty nurse stuck her head in the door, whispering, “They’re coming, Mr. Brooks. You want me to hold them out here until you’re ready?” She glanced at the tray and the untouched food. “I could say you’re still eating.”

  “Don’t want you fibbing on my account, ma’am. Send them in when they get here.” He tugged at the tray and apologized, “Sorry. Why don’t you take this away so nobody bumps it and makes a mess.”

  The woman hustled into the room, clucking her displeasure, but before she left, she smiled encouragement and murmured, “I’ve been known to spoon feed patients when necessary, Mr. Brooks. Maybe you’ll find your appetite at lunch time.”

  Michael mouthed maybe as the door swung open again. Paul and the lawyer from a Cheyenne firm entered first, followed by a man Michael hadn’t seen around Laramie. The detective wore western gear: well-fitting jeans over plain, dark brown cowboy boots spit-polished to a sheen, a brown leather belt and a huge rodeo buckle that proclaimed him a champion bull rider. He topped off the outfit with a starched cream-colored retro snap western shirt and bolo tie.

  Paul said, “You know Jeb Parker.” Michael twitched a grin at the attorney and said, “Yes, sir, thank you for coming.” Paul continued the introductions. “This here’s Det. Martin Blanchard. He’s just transferred in from Denver to the Cheyenne office.”

  Grunting as he reached to shake hands all around, Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he settled against the pillows and awaited the inquisition. It didn’t take long for the detective to get to the point.

  Blanchard read the statement George had made, then asked if there was anything else Michael could add. Since George had managed to spook him with that question about his and Sonny’s relationship, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean, Michael reiterated how some of the details were still fuzzy and ruefully displayed his bandaged wrists.

  “I really wish I could tell you more, Detective, but as time’s going by, it’s like my head’s decided I don’t need to recall everything that happened.” Michael reached for his glass of ice chips and hissed in pain. Paul handed it to him, concern written all over his face. He mumbled, “Sorry, it’s the burns in my pits that’s really ripping me a new one this morning.” All three men glanced at each other, their eyes wide.

  Blanchard politely said, “That’s understandable, Mr. Brooks. We won’t keep you.” They all stood, but Blanchard turned to Michael and added, “I’d like to have a word with you, Mr. Brooks. Alone, if that’s agreeable.”

  The lawyer chirped, “I think Michael’s been through enough for one day, Detective. Perhaps later? When he’s been released from the hospital, we’d be happy to speak with you at length.” The attorney looked at Paul who nodded agreement.

  Michael’s stomach knotted with a combination of fear and curiosity. If he waited until later, who knew what mischief a hot-to-trot champion bull rider turned urban cowboy cop would conjure up? He needed this over so he could get back to his life.

  If he even had a life. He and Paul Trader needed to have that discussion soon. And the way the man was shooting daggers at him suggested the water at his end of the pool was full of crocodiles.

  What did his boss know, or guess, that poked holes in his own story? He’d never find out just lying in a hospital bed feeling sorry for himself and wondering where the hell Seamus Rydell had gotten to.

  To the attorney, Michael said, “It’s okay, Mr. Parker. I don’t mind. The sheriff’s office has most of the details about that trapper already. Only thing new was him deciding to use me instead of a cougar to get his jollies. The rest you all know.”

  With a smug expression, the detective said, “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” and sat down, leaving the lawyer apoplectic and Paul looking like he’d swallowed a bug.

  Paul growled, “We’ll talk later this evening, Brooks.” He nodded curtly to the detective. To the attorney, he said, “Come on, Jeb. Let’s let these two have their little conversation.”

  Michael and Blanchard watched the two men exit the room. Michael couldn’t tell if the burning sensation plaguing his skin was from him being nervous or if he simply needed another injection of pain killer. Since he suspected keeping his wits about him was job one, he overrode his desire to lose himself to numbness, pushing his tortured torso upright as he turned to face the cop.

  Blanchard retrieved a notebook from his right shirt pocket and said, “Now, Mr. Brooks, what can you tell me about Dr. Seamus Rydell?”

  ****

  The day nurse, whose name Michael forgot, was replaced by her evening counterpart. The new one he dubbed Nursezilla. When he’d tried to push aside yet another meal of broth and weak tea, she’d stood over him, hands on hips, until he’d finished half of each serving.

  Appeasing her was not helping his mood. He threatened, “I’ll just throw it up,” to which she responded by putting the barf cup on the table next to his tray. He mumbled, “Shit, tough crowd.”

  Nursezilla grinned and replied, “You have no idea, Mr. Brooks.”

  “Michael. If we’re gonna keep meeting like this, seems we ought to be on first name basis.”

  “When you finish your next meal, we’ll discuss it then. Right now, you seem to have quite a fan club waiting outside for visitor hours to start.”

  Michael groaned. “Two women? Arguing all the time? Kid with acne and a blank stare?”

  Her mouth twitching, the nurse asked, “Your family?”

  “No, unfortunately. Them I could blow off. Sally and her daughter are friends.” He grimaced. “Very determined friends.”

  While he would have appreciated being left alone, after the grilling by Blanchard and two-stepping around what they finally agreed on—that his and Sonny’s was a friendship by virtue of shared adventure—Michael was glad for the distraction.

  The next couple hours passed pleasantly enough. Mrs. Trader dropped by to say hello and to relay that Paul had been called to an emergency finance meeting and would stop by before visiting hours were over to chat.

  Michael prayed the meeting would
run overtime. The last thing he needed was a confrontation with his boss while his energy was fading. And although he doubted the man would be crass enough to hand him a pink slip while he was trussed in bandages and swaddled in a too-thin cotton blanket, lying in a hospital bed, there were potentially worse things that might happen.

  One of them was being caught out in a lie.

  Michael was dozing when Paul Trader finally arrived. He sensed the presence of another person before fully waking. The first words out of his mouth were, “About time you showed up, Tex.”

  When he opened his eyes, his boss was staring at him with an odd expression on his face. The man pulled a chair next to the bed and said without preamble, “I had a visitor, Brooks. He told me quite a story. You interested in hearing it?”

  Eyes filled with grit, Michael took a swipe with his left hand, the one with the IV tube. He hissed at the sting and pushed himself into an upright position. He spat, “You can tell me, but it’s not going to change anything, Paul.”

  Not unkindly, his boss said, “I’m not going to pretend I understand what all happened to you out there, son. And second guessing your decisions in this case won’t change the outcome one way or the other.” He took a breath and seemed to relax. “One thing you might like to know... they found the body where you said. Wasn’t a lot left after the coyotes got done with it.”

  Michael shivered. After all he’d been through, it seemed fitting the psycho would end up a meal for the creatures he’d been torturing. Sometimes karma wasn’t quite the bitch she made herself out to be.

  Paul continued, “What forensics will find won’t impact your statement one way or the other.”

  “That’s it, then?” Michael wanted to ask if he was fired or on suspension, but Paul’s face had shuttered in a way that made further questioning a moot point.

  His boss stood and laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Get better, boy. We’ll talk about your future at another time.” He paused, his lips drawn in a tight line. When Paul finally spoke, his voice was raspy with emotion. “No one’s going to hold it against you for what happened. You’re doing what you think is best. Not everybody’s going to see it that way right off, but give it some time. And space.”