by Amy Lane
“I don’t like going,” he said. “I wouldn’t do it if we had any other choice.”
Preston nodded, and Damien ignored the townspeople and the chaos and kissed him—ravished him—slow, tenderly, like they had all the time in the world in the shade with the smell of dusty pine around them. He pulled back and made sure Preston was looking him in the eye.
“I’ll be back,” he vowed.
“But will you come back to me,” Preston asked, and Damien couldn’t dodge or pretend, not now.
“There will be other nights,” he promised rashly. “I’m not sure how we’ll work it out, but there will be other nights.”
Preston kissed him softly on the forehead. “There’d better be,” he said, and then it was time to get to work.
IT took them an hour to get Glen situated and triaged, while the townspeople worked frantically to pull water from the stream and boil it. Damien’s kit revealed there were still pesticides—it wasn’t safe for drinking—but once boiled it could be used to tend to the wounded and wash the sick.
At Damien’s direction, they moved the people toward the side of the town nearest a copse of trees, so those injured could have shade and some comfort, and he got a detail on clearing out the center of the town—and setting emergency lights as dark fell—so he could land the chopper.
He spoke to the town’s doctor, and they both agreed that Glen needed the most help, but there were three or four others who would also need transport—six total, including Preston, who Damien wasn’t going to leave without.
Two trips, then, in Glen’s little four-seater. Damien could do that—the light pollution was so low, he would just need a triangle of flashlights to show him where his target was. Two years ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, nor about doing it twice, and today? Glen and Preston both needed him like they never had before. It wasn’t only that he didn’t have a choice. He’d been telling himself that for a year. He didn’t have a choice—he had to fly, because that was the only way he could make his living. This was different. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a choice, it was that he had a need. He absolutely, without question, needed Preston and Glen to be okay.
He needed to be the one to make them that way.
With that resolution, Damien rounded up the horses and rubbed them down, making sure everybody had some alfalfa and water. He patted Sunshine, who only wanted love, and asked her if it felt better now that she wasn’t hauling the travois, and told Chewie how good he’d been to get Preston up the hill. He pulled out his knife and cut an apple into three pieces, because the horses had done their share to get help to the mountain village, and then he turned his attention to SnakeEyes.
“Okay, so, Miss Eyes,” he said soothingly, feeding her one more slice of apple to see if he could get her to be sweet. “You and me have a job to do. And I get it. You’ve done the flood thing and the going slow thing and the bareback thing—and don’t think I don’t remember how many times you tried to throw me either. But this is different. We’ve got people counting on us. No more of your tricks, you understand?”
SnakeEyes tried to take a bite out of his hand, and he shoved her head away from him. “No. No, you nasty wench. I’m going to grant you your dearest wish, darlin’. You and me, we’re going to fly down that mountain, you understand? You’ve had some rubbing and some water and some love, and now it’s time to pour on the heat. You think you can do that for me?”
She snorted and tried to knock him down with her shoulders. He pushed her away again.
“You mark my words, old woman. You are going to love me by the time we get down that hill.”
He looked over to where Preston sat under a tree, awkwardly changing the poultice on Glen’s shoulder with the fingertips of one hand while Cash watched, and laughed softly to himself. A little more than forty-eight hours ago Preston had told him, in no uncertain terms, that Damien would be his by the time they were done. It seemed fortuitous, somehow. Damien was his—in all the ways that counted.
He had a need to make sure they ended up happy.
He and Glen could search and rescue all they wanted, but in the end, this was his most important job.
He secured Chewie and Sunshine where they could rest in the shade and get water, and led SnakeEyes to where his family sat, trying for comfort in an uncertain world.
“You dead yet?” he asked Glen as he approached. “’Cause after all the trouble we just had getting up this fucking mountain, that would be a damned shame.”
“Not yet,” Glen mumbled, lying on his side, good arm extended as a pillow while his crushed and bruised shoulder was relieved of some of the pressure. “I’ve asked, though—apparently they won’t shoot a man like a dog, even if he asks.”
Damien hunkered down by him, resting his hand briefly in Glen’s filthy hair. “Well, good. Smart folks. You need to live and deal with your own misery. It’s only right.” He ruffled gently. “Hang in there, brother. I won’t let you down.”
Glen nodded. “Haven’t yet. Try not to fuck up your other leg, though. That would be damned inconvenient.”
“I am saying. Preston has some interesting thoughts on how the business should be run, by the way. I think you should listen.”
“I’m only feeding Preacher filet mignon once. Maybe twice. Okay, for a week.”
Preston laughed, because that was his kind of joke, and then said, “He’ll be fine with hamburger, if you can hire another pilot. Just saying. Damien can come home.”
“Our apartment not good enough for him?” Glen asked. “Because the toilet is not a science experiment—I keep trying to tell him that.”
“You would need a control toilet to make that work,” Preston said in absolute sincerity. “He can use the control toilet in my house. I want Damien in my house.”
Glen grunted. “I did not authorize any co-opting of my best friend into your home. We shall have to negotiate.”
“No,” Preston said bullishly. “There is no negotiation. Your best friend is my man.”
“He has responsibilities,” Glen argued, his voice growing slurred. “He’s the only one who knows how to make my hangover cure.”
“Then you should stop getting drunk!” Preston crowed, and Damien looked over to Cash, who was watching them argue with wide eyes.
“You need to take care of them,” he said under their bickering as Glen tried to explain that his alcohol intake was for the health and sanity of all around him. “I’ll be back in time, but if he stops bitching, he stops breathing, you understand?”
Cash nodded soberly.
“And Preston won’t complain, but make sure he gets painkillers in an hour. He can only argue with Glen for a little bit. His tablet and his sudoku are in his duffel bag—it’ll keep him from fretting.”
Cash nodded again.
“And they both get cranky if they don’t eat,” Damien finished, aware that his voice was getting a little crackly. “Take care of them.”
“Yessir,” Cash said, voice rusty. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
That was as good as this kid would get.
Damien straightened up painfully, his leg screaming at him that he’d had quite a day already. He was going to move to hunker down next to Preston, but Preston did that stupidly graceful thing where he rocked forward on his toes and stood, no hands necessary.
“See you soon,” Preston said, his voice hard like he was making this not a choice.
“Absolutely.”
“Then you’ll move in with me,” he said.
Damien tried to hide his smile. “Glen is going to need a roommate for a few,” he cautioned, because he’d needed Glen after he’d come down off his mountain.
“Fine. Until he’s better.”
“You’d talk me into it even if I said no,” Damien told him, and Preston scowled.
“You just need reminding of what good sense is. Now kiss me so I can taste you before you go.”
Preston’s hot breath on his face, the taste of him, an
gry so he didn’t have to be frightened, irritated so he didn’t have to be worried.
Brief. So brief. Damien cupped his cheek.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be back.”
He grabbed SnakeEyes’s halter before she decided to go back and join her mates, and swung up into the saddle before he could think about what he was about to do.
One last wave at his family and he turned around and hit that horse’s sides with his heels, spurring her on to a ground-eating gallop.
He had a job to do.
Faith
“HE’S in pain,” Preston said, sliding back down the tree and watching as Damien and the horse disappeared down the road. The horse’s hooves sounded muffled on the dusty trail of the village.
“He’s been in pain for a year and a half,” Glen said, the fractious note in his voice fading. “Haven’t seen him happy in that time. Until now. Good on you.”
“You have to let him come live with me.”
Glen chuckled weakly. “Preston, let’s say I was all for that. Let’s say I thought Damien coming to live with you was the best thing in the world. Let’s say seeing you and my best friend together was like all of my happy family fantasies combined. What exactly would Damien think if I told him to just go live with you and leave me alone?”
“That you loved him and wanted him to be happy,” Preston said doggedly. Preacher licked his hand, stretched out under the tree with him after a job well done, and Preston reached down to rest his hand on Preacher’s head. He really did deserve filet mignon, and Preston was glad Glen understood this.
“Mm… maybe. He also might think that I didn’t love him and wanted to fob him off on my brother.”
Preston frowned. “That’s insane. You wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, but that’s what he might think.”
“Why? Why would he think that? That’s completely illogical.”
“People don’t always know,” Cash said from his spot beneath the tree. Preston had almost forgotten he was there. “Sometimes, people don’t have someone to say it’s okay, so they don’t know. They don’t know kindness is being offered until they turn it down.”
“I forget,” Preston said, although Glen knew this. “I forget that Damien might not know. I mean, how can’t he know we want him? He’s Damien.”
Cash laughed hollowly. “Being who you are isn’t always enough.”
“It’s enough for me,” Glen said, and he sounded… sad. Wounded. Preston couldn’t ever recall a time when Glen hadn’t sounded full of himself and ready to take on the world. “Come here, kid. I’m… I would just like you nearby.”
Cash made his way to Glen’s side and took over laying hot bandages on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” he said.
“I wish you’d been honest,” Glen told him. “But I don’t mind being along for the ride.”
Cash was silent for a couple of beats while he finished the poultice. “That’s actually a really nice thing to say, considering.”
Glen’s laugh was filthy, Preston thought. No wonder Damien liked to say Glen had guys falling to their knees with their mouths open—he could make something really sweet sound like sex when he was injured, exhausted, and burning with fever.
Preston didn’t think that was a very good talent, himself, but his brother seemed to like it.
“Don’t do that,” Cash told him, surprising Preston. “Don’t make it dirty. Don’t make you being nice a dirty joke. That meant a lot to me!”
“Not that much,” Glen said, sounding bleak. “You ran.”
“That’s on me,” Cash told him firmly. “I… your friend Damien isn’t the only one who doesn’t know. Not really.”
Preston had been fading them out, because their conversation really had nothing to do with him—but he perked up when Damien was mentioned.
“You think I didn’t figure that out?” Glen snapped. “Jesus. I’ve been called a lot of things—”
“Manwhore,” Cash muttered. “Jackass—”
“Don’t stop there, sweetheart. You’re just getting started.”
“Well, the manwhore thing is something you can change,” Cash told him.
“Right back atcha! But I was going to say, nobody’s ever called me stupid. Until right bloody now!”
“I never thought you were stupid!”
“Just gullible, right, kid?”
And Preston was out. This was their conversation, and he didn’t have anything to add. Worse, it sounded like they were sniping at each other as sort of a ritual, a comfort exchange. It was like he’d said to Damien. All those fuckin’ words that didn’t mean anything. When Damien talked to Preston, he said real things. He said, “Here’s your tablet,” and “Dinner in an hour,” and “Don’t worry, baby.”
That last one meant the most.
He’d promised. He’d promised Preston he’d come back. Preston couldn’t even wrap his arms around his knees because his shoulder hurt too much. He simply stared into space and thought about his little house with Ozzy and Belinda, and how nice it would be to move his room into the cottage behind it. He thought about Damien sitting on the couch that was there, his back to the corner, one leg down, and Preston sitting between his legs, both of them watching TV.
He thought about waking up to him every morning—or even a couple mornings a week, because Damien went overnight on jobs a lot.
He thought of days when all they did was go out on the ranch and work the dogs, Damien by his side.
They were simple things—he knew it. He didn’t want to fly around the world. When he did fly, he had one or more of the dogs with him, and they were going to try to find someone. He wasn’t a good traveler; he was a good stay-at-home-er.
But Damien there, next to him, turning some of his words and all of his honesty on Preston—that was the life he wanted to be leading. It was all he’d ever wanted.
Cash tapped him on the good shoulder and set his tablet in his hands. The battery Glen had given him for it was super special—it kept the damned thing charged for days, as long as he used it sparingly.
“Thank you,” Preston said, but he set the tablet down next to him.
“I’m sorry,” Cash said softly. “I thought, you know, you looked bored.”
Preston shrugged. “I was thinking. Planning. I use the tablet when I’m fretful. It settles my mind so I can make a plan.”
“What are you planning?” Cash asked, and Preston felt so low, having watched Damien ride away from him, that he didn’t mind telling him.
“I’ve got a ranch,” he said, eyes shifting over the quiet of the mountain village. He could live here when it had buildings. It reminded him of the Sierras, with pine and oak and dust and not too many people—but it was much hotter than Napa, and that wind off the coast saved Preston’s life sometimes. “I work my dogs every day. My friends live with me there in the main house, and there’s a guest cottage behind it….”
He continued, outlining the life he loved and the man he loved, and how he would fit the two of them together. Cash sat, cheek on his knees, and listened, asking questions every now and then, and Preston talked like he rarely talked, even to Ozzy, who was his best friend.
When he wound down, Cash said, “That sounds like a really good life.”
“It’s the one I want.”
“I’ve always liked traveling,” Cash said apologetically.
“Then it’s good you’re with my brother,” Preston told him, thinking this was the consolation prize of lives.
“Your brother’s too good for me,” Cash told him, and he seemed to be completely serious.
“You should drink water,” Preston told him. “It’s hot here, and we’re all injured. We can get delirious if we don’t stay hydrated.”
Glen’s weak chuckle told him he’d heard that, and that Preston had been inadvertently funny.
“It’s true!” Cash insisted, sounding upset.
“Sure it’s true,” Preston soothed. “Damien and I wou
ldn’t have come all the way up here to get him if we thought he was completely useless.”
This time Glen’s laugh was even stronger. “Preston, my brother, I should have drowned you at birth.”
“You’re lying,” Preston said with confidence. “You blamed all the bad things on me when we were little. You would have gotten in so much trouble if Mom knew you let all the dogs out of their cages that one time.” He turned to Cash. “We had fewer dogs then. Now not even a very fast boy could do it before we caught him.”
Cash turned to him, entranced. “Tell me the story,” he said, resting his cheek on his knees. “I like your stories, Preston.”
Preston looked at Glen. “Glen should tell this one,” he said, because he agreed with Damien—if Glen wasn’t talking, he wasn’t breathing.
So Glen started to tell the story of a very young Glen who thought all things should be free, and Preston watched the sky, waiting for dark to fall so it would grow cooler, waiting for the beat of chopper blades in the trees, waiting for the love of his life.
For some reason, after talking to Cash, he had some faith all three things would come.
SnakeEyes
DAMIEN was going to have nightmares about that ride for the rest of his fuckin’ life, his heart pounding as he clung to the back of a pissed-off horse, hurtling down the mountain, his leg cramping the whole damned time.
That horse really did not like him on her back.
She did like to go fast, though, so as long as Damien let her run and steered her away from obstacles, she was too busy keeping her footing sure to try to whip him off her back. But Damien couldn’t relax for an instant. His legs screamed in pain, both of them, because the one that wasn’t injured was compensating. His spine hurt, his core, his head—all of him hurt from being jounced from head to toe for hours upon hours as he drove the horse to the limits of her endurance.
That alone would have been hard enough, but an hour into the ride, he came to the bend in the road where he and Preston had ended up the night before. The sound of rushing water hadn’t abated, and as he slowed SnakeEyes, he could see that tree where they’d camped had about three inches of standing water around its base.
