Wolf, WY Read online

  Randy pulled the pillow away, frowned, and cocked his head to listen closer. Yes, too close.

  He slipped his legs out from under the covers and over the side of the bed, and cringed when his bare feet touched the cold floor. He kicked his favorite slippers into position and nudged his toes in. Then he spent too many seconds scrabbling along the end of his bed to find his robe before realizing it had dropped to the floor sometime during the night. He considered starting the furnace, and then shut down the idea. The wood stove would do for now. He'd just have to get a fire started. If he was lucky, there'd still be embers. If he wasn't, well, he'd work it out. Again.

  First, there were priorities to attend to. Like figuring out why a chainsaw sounded like it was running in his backyard. Ten acres might not be a lot of property—not as far as properties in this part of the country went, anyway—but it was enough that he shouldn't have been hearing the roar to the degree that he was.

  The irritation Randy felt grew exponentially when he stepped through his front door and on to his porch. While he recognized the fact that a normal human being wouldn't have found the chill quite so annoying, his recognition did nothing to pacify the emotion. It was a beautiful day, but for the cold—peaceful, even, in between the roars of the chainsaw, and sunshiny bright. It was the kind of day that should have been inspiring Randy out of the house and into the yard to rake up leaves or sweep off the porch. Yet even if he dismissed the fact that gooseflesh was lifting on the bare bits of his arms and that the cold was stealing in under the robe from the neckline down and the knees up, the unnatural quiet would have been enough to set him off. Everything seemed to have stopped: trees, birds, chipmunks. Even the clouds looked like they'd frozen in the sky. It was a startling change from the ever-moving landscape and the normal cacophony of chatty birds. At this moment he was convinced that somehow the chainsaw (which he'd decided had to be what he'd heard) had, in fact, the capability to shut down the entirety of nature.

  And what kind of an intrusive bastard would even dare?

  As if in reply to his unspoken question, the chainsaw screamed back into life, driving several birds into flight and shoving the last of Randy's restraint over the edge. Frowning, mumbling, and with both fists clutching his robe, he stalked across his front lawn and looked toward the only other property on the road—the sprawling ranch that, had he been able to see it from the angle he was at, Randy just knew would be smirking at him.

  While reasoning argued with Randy that it took a strange person indeed to believe that a house could smirk and that said owners of that house were making noise for no other reason but to aggravate him, it didn't stop Randy's frown from deepening.

  "It's possible," Randy mumbled. In his mind's eye, he could imagine the process as clear as day—Evil Neighbor happened to catch sight of him stumbling to bed too late the night before or too early that morning, whichever way the jerk had wanted to read it. Concluding that being up until that hour was too obnoxious to tolerate, and probably muttering something about Randy's 'goddamn city morals', Evil Neighbor decided to come out and shatter the peace with the worst, and most intrusive device known to the handyman/farmer/carpenter regime—the eardrum-defying, gas-guzzling, smoke-billowing offense known, in layman's terms, as a chainsaw.

  "Yep," Randy said, nodding. "It could happen. It totally could."

  He was playing the scene out in his mind when a tree toppled across the road, and for a second he was sure he'd jumped high enough to touch Heaven. He gaped at the downed monster, still twitching in the throes of its catastrophic and sudden demise, stretching, it seemed, towards him, wheezing, and staring right back.

  Human... Two-legs... save me... What have they done? I was still so young... so green... so...

  Randy's imagination paused and searched for the right word. So tree-ey—

  He shook his head to dispel the image; perhaps painting instead of writing would be a good plan for the day. Then, as if the angle would help to see the tree in a new light, Randy tilted his head and his frown deepened even more. If he didn't know better, Randy would almost have said the tree had fallen from his side of the road. That was weird...

  He tilted his head to the other side and continued to peer at the tree. It was definitely close enough to be his acreage. But that would be crazy. He hadn't arranged for anyone to cut—

  Realization hit so hard it could have knocked him over. Someone had cut his tree. Right there, in his lot. Right there, at that moment. What the ever-loving hell?

  Without considering his attire or the fact that his hair was hanging limp and greasy on his forehead, without pausing to realize that he had not brushed his teeth, washed his face or shaved, Randy marched for the downed tree like a general leading an army. If his tongue had been as liberal as his mind was at that second, he'd have been getting standing ovations from truckers and sailors alike on his cursing skills.

  If asked, Randy would have said that he wasn't thrown into a complete tailspin when he arrived at the tree-massacring worksite. He would have been lying. Walking onto the scene was like coming across a view so fascinating, so intriguing, that one had to stop and stare. If he'd taken a moment for honest consideration, the poet in him would have likened it to being out hiking and running across a waterfall that no one had mapped, or spying a pair of deer standing neck to neck in the center of some hidden grove.

  Two men stood in a small clearing, and even with their faces turned away, their bodies were instantly recognizable. Randy had, after all, studied them with detail on more than a few occasions, and though he'd had already known his neighbors were hot, he'd never been that up-close-and-personal before.

  Evil Neighbor Dad and Man Son stood with their overalls folded down to the waist. They had sleeveless undershirts on underneath, and those clung to the wet Vs that sweat had drawn down their spines. The shiver that tracked head-to-toes down Randy's body had nothing to do with the cold.

  Evil Neighbor Dad managed the chainsaw easily, his stubble-rough face frowning down at the fallen log with one of those I'm-too-sexy-for-my-scowl expressions, and his messy, just-a-little-too-long hair clung to the back of his neck.

  However, the catch-me-on-film-and-put-me-in-a-calendar image didn't end there—because right beside Evil Neighbor Dad, packaged up in a slightly smaller, individually-sized portion that promised all the taste of the original but with half the calories, stood the son, holding an axe as casually as if he were Paul Bunyan himself.

  Randy decided right then and there that the visual was a worthy exchange for the tree, even though conscience insisted that Randy discontinue the goggle and lower his eyes. He did his best not to openly gawk at teenagers regardless of the number in front of 'teen' or the proximity of their strapping fathers. But it had been four months of self-imposed celibacy, and those months followed a five-month grieving period over the jerk that had walked out on him. Nine months seemed like an eternity.

  That was exactly how Evil Neighbor Dad caught him when the man looked up—with Randy staring, probably a little too interestedly, at the man's son. He locked Randy's startled gaze with a pair of light brown eyes that were so full of gold they seemed to provide their own light, his already creased forehead deepened into a full-on frown, and firm lips that could have otherwise been enchantingly delicious curled into a snarl. The chainsaw fell silent. "What in the Sam Hell?"

  Man Son glanced up at the sound of his father's voice and flicked Randy a quick once-over—eyes, mouth, chest, and lower—and Randy watched the young man's just-like-dear-old-dad's eyes travel with a sense of pride. That's right, kid. Not bad for thirty-two, hm?

  Randy's smugness lasted all of about eight seconds—until Man Son's gaze landed on Randy's feet and an eyebrow lifted. In hindsight, the slippers might not have been the best selection for a trek through the trees. But they were comfortable, and they were warm, and his mother had given them to him the previous Christmas. Besides, Randy liked them. Who could say no to fuzzy brown slippers with bear claws poking out
of the ends of them? Embarrassed and desperately trying not to appear so, Randy arched his own eyebrow right back.

  Man Son passed silent judgment to his father; they shared glances, and as if on cue, they both turned their attentions back to the fallen tree.

  Speaking in front of people was not something Randy had ever struggled with. He'd have made a piss poor lawyer if that had been the case. Yet even knowing full well that he could rely on his well-honed, confident lawyer's tone, somehow all he managed to do was squeak out four syllables. "Uh... excuse me."

  He fought the heat he could feel rising in his cheeks, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Pardon me, but may I ask what you think you're doing?"

  Evil Neighbor Dad looked at Man Son, the son at him, and the man nodded towards the road. "Lyle, go on back over to the house and hook up the trailer."

  Without a word, Man Son dropped the axe and began to stride towards daylight. Randy watched him disappear through the trees—long legs striding easily over the litter of the forest floor, thick brown hair getting caught by the wind as soon as it could find him—and all but jumped out of his skin when the chainsaw sputtered and roared again. Randy whirled back to Evil Neighbor Dad, annoyance tightening his face muscles and pursing his lips. It was an expression completely lost on the man, who merely bent down to continue working.

  Did he… did he just totally disregard me?

  It was another full minute before self-righteousness managed to pull ahead of disbelief. Fuming, Randy walked forward and grabbed the man's forearm.

  He regretted it immediately. Not because of the feel of the man's arm in his palm, because that was an amazing thing. It was like grasping hold of a tree branch or the body of a python—pure muscle, alive and knotted, hard and solid. It was the man's unexpected reaction.

  There was no question that Evil Neighbor Dad disengaged the machine, nor any doubt that the chainsaw dropped to the ground. That had to have happened, even if Randy couldn't say that he'd consciously noticed any of it. He didn't try to figure that part of the puzzle out, though, because suddenly, he was being grabbed back.

  Randy was not a big man, but back in the city he'd spent his own fair share of time in the gym. He was not what anyone would refer to as weak. Yet when the man's fingers encircled his wrist, Randy felt as insignificant as a sparrow in a hawk's clutch. Stunned, and not just a little frightened, Randy stared wide-eyed into a face that had, in an instant, clamped into an expression that could have made devils quake. When Evil Dad finally spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "Are you insane? Or just stupid?"

  Randy's heart pounded and his ability to stay vertical became questionable. "W-what?"

  The man frowned and released Randy's arm with a push that was effective enough to make Randy stumble.

  "So, stupid, then."

  While verbal back-and-forths were no new thing to Randy, outright aggression usually was. As a child, Randy had been taught that one kept one's hands to oneself at all costs. For all the rage Randy had felt over his ex, there wasn't a single moment when either of them would have lifted a hand against the other, even if they could imagine themselves doing it. Which Randy had, many times. But keeping your hands off of somebody else was the proper thing to do. It was what sane, normal people did. Intelligent adults discussed, even if the verbal exchange got heated. They did not, under any circumstance, grab someone and shove them.

  Randy told himself it was that breach of respectability that had him rubbing his wrist violently. It had absolutely nothing to do with the vibrations radiating from hand to chest—vibrations that were actually so far from painful it would have been laughable to use the word. He should have been able to still the shake in his voice, though. He couldn't.

  "Oh, that's nice. Real nice. Mr. Big and Bad." Randy set both feet and straightened his spine as if another toss wasn't just probable, but likely. "Is that what they teach you out here in the sticks? Is that what passes for respectable behavior out here?"

  "Damn more respectable than getting your hand cut off." Evil Dad's voice was firm, but he watched Randy rub his wrist with what Randy figured had to be at least a little bit of guilt. "Nobody ever teach you that you don't go grabbing someone when they're holding a running chainsaw?"

  Randy snorted defiance to mask his tension. "Well, that wouldn't be a problem if you weren't over here stealing from me in the first place, would it?"

  The assumed concern dropped off the man's face. He caught Randy's eyes with his own, and his expression was as cold as ice. "What do you mean by stealing?"

  Inwardly, Randy shrank like a frightened Chihuahua; outwardly, he puffed out his chest and assumed an in-case-you-don't-know-I'm-much-smarter-than-you-could-ever-hope-to-be expression. "Well, sir, the last time I checked, and by all means please correct me if I'm wrong, the civil property laws in this state consider it stealing when someone removes something from another's property without the owner's permission or a court-sanctioned mandate. I'm also more than sure—"

  "Like I said... what do you mean by stealing?"

  Randy flailed his arms in the general direction of everywhere, even as he groaned internally and congratulated himself on providing physical proof that Evil Dad was correct in the assumption that Randy was a half-wit. "Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure that's my tree. And I'm pretty sure I just heard you tell Junior to go get your trailer."

  "Okay, you're crazy." Evil Dad frowned. "And it's Lyle."

  "I..." Randy tilted his head to the side as if that would somehow help the man's reply make sense.

  Evil Dad sighed with a tone heavy with bored resignation. "His name is Lyle." He said it slowly, like he was talking to a child that wasn't quite catching on. "Not Junior. And I would have figured a big fancy lawyer like yourself would have picked up on that when I spoke his name. And, counselor, you told me to call you crazy, so I did."

  Randy's lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. There were few things in life Randy hated more than a jerk—unless it was a jerk who thought they were a comedian. "Excellent deflection tactic, neighbor. However, as amusing as you think you are, we were discussing the fact that you are both a trespasser and a thief."

  As they stared each other down, a vehicle pulled off the road and weaved through the trees. Fallen branches snapped and popped under bouncing tires and, from the corner of his eye, Randy saw Lyle stand-driving a trailer-loaded ATV. Lyle came to a stop beside them, his eyes jumping from his father to Randy, Randy to his father. "Everything okay, Dad?"

  "No." Randy said, before the man had a chance to speak. "As a matter of fact, it's not. Your father was just about to explain why he was stealing my tree."

  Lyle's jaw hardened and his face became a perfect replica of his father's stone-cold expression. "Are you calling my dad a thief?"

  Both gazes burning into his own made Randy suddenly aware of how alone he was at that moment. Not that he believed either one of them would hurt him. (Mostly.) It was, after all, rural America: the great wilderness of brotherhood, do unto others, God shedding his grace and light, and all. Still...

  "Let me tell you something, mister." Lyle slid off the four-wheeler and around to the front of the machine in a move so fluid it could have been a dance step. "If we wanted to cut a tree for the sake of cutting a tree, we'd cut our own damn tree. You have what, ten acres over here? Well, we have a hundred. You have a few trees? Big deal. We have a whole forest. So don't go assuming shit about people before you know what's going on."

  "Lyle." Evil Dad's voice was dark and quiet. "Watch your mouth. I can take care of this."

  Whether Lyle chose to ignore him, or was just wound up enough that the demand didn't register, Randy couldn't say. But Lyle kept going as if his father hadn't said a word. "The only reason my Dad and I are out here, sweating our asses off for a smug, unappreciative city brat when we've got thousands of our own things to do, is because my dad is a nice guy."

  Randy snorted. He couldn't help it. His wrist still buzzed with the tingles of that 'nice guy's'
grip, but the look that simple sound inspired on Lyle's face woke every fear receptor Randy had in him. If Lyle narrowed his eyes any farther, he'd lose vision. His lip was curled so far up that one perfect incisor was completely exposed. Even Lyle's hands were balled into fists.

  "Enough," Evil Dad warned. He turned his attention from Randy to Lyle, and stared Lyle down. Though Lyle did drop his gaze, he did not unclench his hands, and something in the back of Randy's head suggested that Randy keep an eye on the ground in order to be forewarned of the fire Lyle was about to ignite with his glare.

  Dropping one hand on Lyle's shoulder, its fingertips tight and white, the man turned and held Randy's gaze. "Lyle's right. We're doing you a favor here, whether you know it or not. This tree has needed to come down since before you even moved in. And it's not the only one, either. The first ice storm or heavy wind we get is going to have this wood making itself a houseguest of yours through your sliding door or one of your windows, if it doesn't just rip through the roof and start getting cozy in your attic."

  "Oh—"

  "It didn't seem like you were in any hurry to get someone up here to do it. God knows you couldn't manage it yourself."

  "Well, you could have just—"

  "And I'll bet you dimes to dollars that you probably didn't even notice."

  Randy waved through the trees. "I'm right there. You could have just knocked on my door—"

  Evil Dad sniffed a nod at Randy's slippers, speaking as if Randy had been standing there mute. "Nothing personal, counselor, but you just don't seem the type."