by Amy Lane
“You’re staying put,” Cash said. “Mind your brother. I’ll go talk to Dolores. We’ll find some flashlights and make sure we’re not setting out a fire hazard. Don’t worry. I’m not a complete fuckup.”
“You’re nice,” Preston said, surprised that he’d be so angry at himself. “Don’t worry about what you did to my brother. Glen’s sort of an asshole to people. They don’t notice he’s nice too.”
Cash gave one of the same smiles he’d given Preacher. “That could be the most awesome thing anyone’s said to me,” he said. Then he sobered. “Don’t get up, Preston—you keep trying to forget you’re hurt too.”
“You hear that, Glen?” Preston said, smoothing more water down his brother’s feverish forehead. “That guy thinks you’re nice.”
“He’s so sweet,” Glen mumbled, and he sounded sincere, which scared the shit out of Preston. “So sweet. Touch like heaven, that boy.”
Oh shit. “Glen, you hear that?” Preston asked, his voice rising in urgency. “Think that’s a helicopter?”
At first he only pretended to listen—he’d only said it to get Glen to snap out of it, to rally, to fight harder, because if Glen was being that sweet about anybody, he wasn’t doing well.
To his surprise, he actually heard something.
Apparently, so did Glen.
“The actual fuck?” Glen asked, turning his head a little so he could try to watch the sky through the corner of his eyes. “Is that a goddamned Black Hawk? It sounds like shit.”
Preston looked up at the sky right when someone turned on the Black Hawk’s floodlights, and the search for landing lights became moot. The chopper was flying weird—almost sideways and not straight, even though there didn’t appear to be any wind at all. There was a rattle coming from the damned thing that Preston didn’t think a healthy machine would make, but there was no mistaking it.
It was big, it was equipped, and it was landing right there.
Apparently Damien had come to save the day.
The helicopter swung in a slow circle not once, but three times, before it finally decided on a place to land, well in front of the church, on the main street of what had once been the town.
The propellers began to wind down, and Damien and Buddy got out, a gurney between them. Keeping their heads low, they ran toward the campsite that was what was left of the town. Damien started barking orders for the able-bodied to get the supplies out of the chopper so they had room to put the injured, and Cash sprang into action to help organize folks who would do that. Damien spotted the people most likely in need of transport and started directing Buddy there.
Preston heard the words “Saving Glen for last, because he’s the most injured, but let’s get a move on.”
Across the town, even as night closed in, Preston saw it when Damien searched him out by the light from a bird that really shouldn’t have flown. He grinned, the expression exhausted and weary and cocky and arrogant and full of snark and positively brimming with self-confidence, and Preston showed all his teeth in response.
“Glen?” he said, knowing his brother couldn’t look but wanting him to know anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Damien’s back.”
“He promised he would be,” Glen said, because he obviously hadn’t had any doubts.
“Yeah, but he’s really back. Like really, really. Like ‘so full of himself you want to smack him’ back.”
Glen gave a weak chuckle. “You okay with that?”
“I cannot fuckin’ wait.”
Glen chuckled again, and together they waited for their knight in slightly dented, slightly smoky armor, the guy who would ride a bitchy horse and a bitchier helicopter across a mountain range to their rescue.
Preston was going to make that man see sense if it killed him.
Damien spent some time making sure the right people got loaded onto the helicopter and getting the supplies sorted, because he was a hero and that’s what heroes did. Preston didn’t have to like it—he just had to know it was true.
Finally he came striding toward Preston and Glen, Cash and Buddy behind him with the stretcher. He was limping.
Preston rocked forward and stood up, his thigh and calf muscles screaming at him because he’d been doing that all day without sitting in a chair and his body was tired and thirsty. It didn’t matter, because Damien stepped delicately around Glen and caught Preston’s chin in cupped fingers, positioning Preston for a kiss.
Augh! So good. Warmth and weariness, confidence and care—all of it seeped into Preston’s bones with that kiss, and he sighed a little, liking that Damien would take care of him sometimes too.
“Did you miss me?” Damien asked, his eyes alight with a wicked amusement.
Preston looked up and down his dusty, trail-beaten body. “Your clothes look like you swam in mud.”
“I did. Most of the road is washed out, and it almost took me and the horse with it.”
“Oh-oh….” Preston gave a little moan, surprised when his legs got soggy underneath him. “You almost died?”
Damien grabbed his hips and pulled him closer. “Don’t get green on me now, Preston—we have to get into Buddy’s cut-rate bird and fly to Guadalajara so your brother can get some treatment.”
Preston nodded and rested his chin on Damien’s shoulder, needing the support. “That’s fine,” he said, voice thin. “Because we’ll be with you. But you don’t get to do that alone.”
“It’s okay, baby,” Damien whispered in his ear. “You were with me the whole time.”
Preston nodded. “Because you know I love you, right?”
“Yeah. Because I know you love me.”
That made it better. That was like Gran and Preacher’s dam, Patsy, and all the dogs he’d loved but who had passed on, either to other people or to the dog cemetery by the tree copse on the ranch—they were all with Preston because he knew they loved him.
He was with Damien forever, because Damien knew.
“You love me too, right?” Preston whispered. He was pretty sure, but it had been a long couple of days.
Damien’s arms circled his shoulders gently, careful of his hurts. “So much,” he whispered. “You’ll never know how much.”
Preston probably did know—it was how much Preston loved Damien, but that was an incredible amount, and Damien could be forgiven for thinking Preston might miss some of that love. He had tunnel vision sometimes.
Behind them, Buddy and Cash arrived with the stretcher, and it was time to let Damien fly.
DAMIEN radioed a contact in Guadalajara for an ambulance that met them at the landing pad just outside the city. The hospital they were transported to was busy—efficient, but still recovering from the two earthquakes—and once Preston realized that Cash had brought his duffel, he had Cash put the orange service-dog vest on Preacher’s shoulders, and the hospital staff promptly ignored him.
After that, Preston managed to stay with Glen until he was prepped for surgery the first time, although he was separated from Damien almost as soon as they landed. Damien, apparently, was the one who had to answer all the questions about where these people were from and whether more aid was needed, and specifically, where the hell the village was located.
Cash hung in there next to Preston while the doctors splinted Preston’s wrist and set his shoulders in the collarbone brace, and then sat silent as his own hurts got treated. The whole time, he kept a quiet, comforting hand on Glen’s head or arm or calf. Preacher chilled at their feet, practically invisible for nearly a hundred pounds of good dog. When they hustled Glen out of the triage room and into surgery, Cash threw himself against Preston’s chest and cried, while Preston regarded him in silent horror.
But this was Glen’s person—much like Glen had an obligation not to get Damien killed, Preston apparently had an obligation to let Glen’s person touch him, even though he didn’t really do that kind of thing.
It only lasted a couple of forevers before Cash fell asleep with a little hicc
up and Preston poured him into his own seat to be left blessedly alone. He’d just pulled out his duffel with his sudoku when he heard Damien in the corridor, talking in rapid-fire Spanish to a rescue worker who was almost tearful.
In that moment, Damien popped his head in, took a look at Glen’s empty bed and Cash’s exhausted crumple, and met Preston’s eyes.
“Baby, there’s a collapsed building about a block away from here. You and Preacher are needed.”
Preston swallowed. “What about you?”
“I’m flying supplies to more outlying villages—apparently they figured I could get some more work done after they banged that prop back into place.”
Preston rocked to his feet and stood, tired in his bones. “Come back,” he said simply, grabbing the little bag of Preacher’s treats from his duffel.
“You too.”
Preston nudged Cash carefully. “Hey,” he said. “Me and Damien gotta go do hero stuff. Glen needs you here. You understand? You can’t run. He needs to have someone in the hospital, okay?”
Cash nodded soberly, and together Damien and Preston walked to the hospital entrance.
“You’ll get back to your sudoku eventually,” Damien promised, weariness in his voice.
“I’d rather get home with you,” Preston said. “Don’t argue. Don’t pretend it’s not going to happen. Just agree with me.”
“Sure. We’ll go home together when this is over.”
“We’ll sleep in the cottage behind the house.”
“We’ll sleep in the cottage behind the house,” Damien agreed.
“You’ll come home three times a week,” Preston argued.
“I can’t promise that—”
“Three times a—”
“Not at first,” Damien said as they broke into the dim sunlight of a fresh early morning. Preston breathed deeply and wished for the smell of long grasses, distant ocean, and dust from home. And if they were home, he wouldn’t have to hear Damien make excuses while he avoided Preston’s eyes.
“Why?” Preston asked, taking another deep breath of what promised to be another scorching day. He was too tired to work in this heat, but Preacher was needed.
“The three of us have a business, remember?” Damien said, and he sounded peevish and exhausted. Irritating man, doing all the hero things when all Preston wanted to do was sleep in his arms. “It’s sort of what brought us here.”
Preston looked up and to his surprise, Buddy’s wife, Martha, stood there, in jeans with a kerchief over her straight black hair and a dust mask.
“Martha, you need to take Preston to translate,” Damien told her, and she nodded. “Make sure he gets some quiet time and doesn’t get his cast wet. I’ve got to run. Make sure he eats, and gets to talk to Glen, and—”
“And make sure you come home to me,” Preston insisted.
Damien gave him a tired grin. “That’s my job,” he said. “I’m going to hug you now. Don’t startle.”
And Preston hugged him back, hard and tight in spite of his brace and cast. And a breath. And two. And three. Preacher whined and bumped his plastered hand, and Preston pulled away reluctantly, and that was all.
Ten hours later, Martha returned Preston to the hospital, so tired she had to lead him to Glen’s room or he might have simply sat down and slept in a random spot in the corridor. Glen was sitting up in bed and drinking something sugary, his face set in an expression that Preston recognized only because he’d seen it on Damien’s face for the last year and a half.
“Where’s Cash?” Preston asked, collapsing into the chair at the foot of his bed. At his own feet, Preacher practically fell sideways.
“I’ll get him some food and water,” Martha said. “You too, Preston. You both worked so hard today.”
They had. Not hard enough to save everybody, but Preston knew that wasn’t possible. They hadn’t made the earthquake—they could only help people stuck in the building.
Preston looked around again. “Cash?”
“Kissed me when I woke up,” Glen said dispiritedly. “Said he was going to get some food. That was two hours ago.”
“Did he get lost?” Preston asked, not understanding.
“On purpose, yes.” Glen blew out a breath and set down whatever he was drinking so he could lean his head back against his pillow. “It was Cash Harper’s way of saying goodbye.”
“Well, it’s a shitty way to do something,” Preston muttered, appalled.
“I can’t argue.” Glen’s hair had been washed before surgery, and his face cleaned. The scrapes there only emphasized what Damien had always called “roguish good looks”—but Preston could only see the sad.
“I’m sorry,” he said, heart aching for his brother.
“Where’s Damien?”
“Off being a hero some more.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“He needs to come home,” Preston said, wanting home in his bones.
“We need to go there first,” Glen said.
Preston nodded and yawned. Martha had laid out a cot for him by Glen’s bed as they’d been talking, and with some gentle urging, she helped him lie down on it.
“When I wake up I’ll get right on that,” he slurred, and then he was out.
WHY, oh why, were things never that simple?
The next day, Buddy got Preston and Preacher on one of the first commercial flights home—apparently Damien and Glen had insisted.
Ozzy picked him up from SFO and drove the two hours to the ranch, where Preston fell asleep for nearly twenty hours before waking up in need of the bathroom, painkillers, and food, and having a hard time figuring out which order he needed all that in. By the time he got his bearings, over eggs and toast that Belinda had cooked for him, he finally managed to check his phone and saw that Damien had texted a couple of times to keep him abreast of things.
Moving all our planes back home. It’s gonna take two days.
Flying back with the limo-copter in a few days to get Glen back to the apartment. He’s giving the nurses hell. Still no word from Cash.
Preston texted him a picture of the kitchen, Preacher clean and asleep at his feet, sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Home.
He managed an almost normal day that day before falling asleep early and waking up to another text.
Making a run to pay the rent. Getting in at dark thirty a.m.—sleep well.
Preston took a picture of himself naked in front of the mirror. Home.
Understood.
Really? Did Damien really understand? Preston didn’t think so.
Over the next couple of weeks, as Damien ran around hell and damnation (as Buddy would say) trying to keep their business afloat, trying to get Glen situated, trying to take care of everybody but himself, Preston wondered if he really understood what Preston was trying to say.
He wasn’t being subtle.
Got your brother here in the apartment, with a physical therapist down the street. When he can walk there and back, I’ll feel better about leaving him here.
Preston took a picture of the dogs he was working, Preacher’s direct descendent running with flopping jowls and a goofy expression on his doggy face. Home.
Mal and Tevyn needed a lift cross country—Mal fronted us the money for the new chopper no questions asked. Back in two days.
Belinda and Ozzy, working in the cottage, clearing out the old curtains, washing and painting the walls, laying new carpet. Home.
Checking Las Varas one more time for Cash so your brother doesn’t fret so much. He’s really hurting, Preston.
The cottage, looking new and sparkling, with a new bed in the bedroom and a new couch in the living room, leather, so the dogs couldn’t cover it in hair. Home.
Training the new guys. One’s an asshole, the other’s a darling. Go figure.
Preston’s wrist, plaster-free but wrapped in a removable Velcro brace, resting on top of Preacher’s head. Home.
Four weeks after Preston had awakened in his old bed
, he rolled out of his new one, put on his clothes, and went downstairs to fix himself breakfast. Ozzy came in, whistling as he always did, and plopped down at the kitchen table with a small pastry box carrying half a dozen donuts.
“You ready, brother?”
Preston nodded but didn’t smile. “Yes.”
“The men say it should be dry in two days—that’s not long.”
Preston nodded again, suddenly afraid. This was a really good idea—but what if it wasn’t enough?
“He might not come,” he said softly, hating to admit defeat. “All this… this motion. This noise. He might have forgotten.”
“Naw,” Ozzy said, pulling out his own donut and munching happily. “He’s setting his world in order, Preston. You knocked it sideways, you know? He’s making sure he can walk in a sideways world before he comes back to you.”
Preston looked at his oldest and best friend, thinking that if Ozzy had kissed him back, Preston would have been really lucky and probably married to Ozzy by now, even if his face would never be as pretty as Damien’s. Ozzy’s heart was beautiful, and he didn’t do all the noise and motion. They could have been happy.
“Will this help him walk sideways?” he asked fretfully.
“It will help him see that he always could,” Ozzy replied. “Come, have a donut after your eggs. Then let’s go do the thing.”
Really, they’d done all their part the day before, cutting the grass, rototilling the area, and using the press to push it all flat. Now it was time for the professionals to come work. All Preston and Ozzy did today was assist the contractors and make sure the dogs didn’t get out while the men were moving in the cement mixer and the lumber for the molds. Two days later, they came and took out the molds and installed lights at four corners of a perfectly sized concrete platform, situated far enough from the dog kennels to not drive the dogs apeshit whenever it was used.
There was also a neat sidewalk through the cut grass, straight to Preston’s cottage. The men had been curious at that, thinking the concrete path would look better going to the main house, but Preston had been adamant. The big house was for Ozzy and Belinda and the baby they were still working on creating.
