Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Sam pushed a toe to the fallen man's shin, but the blond guy with the intriguing silver-gray eyes didn't move. From the way he'd fallen to the ground, kind of in one flail, Sam considered it a faint.

So what now?

He looked at his cell phone. No signal. "Fuck my life," he muttered. He'd found the thief, and he had to be honest, he'd never expected to. Crooked Tree was a big place, and he'd only found the cabin because of the mud and his bike getting stuck next to it.

If he believed in fate, which he didn't, he would say that he was meant to be there at that moment for this man. He'd long ago given up on the concept of fate ruling his life; there was no room for it alongside the rest of the crap.

Luck led him here. Luck and a need to know who was messing with his stores.

He crouched down next to the man and considered one plus of the faint: he had full access to clean up the wound and see what the hell was going on.

Sam peered closer, but without artificial light he had to shuffle the heavy weight of the unconscious man into the ring of sunlight shining through a hole in the roof. Tough Guy, as Sam thought of him, had used material as a bandage and probably attempted to look after the wound the best he could, but fever had pushed him over the edge.

Blood poisoning was a thing, right? Tetanus shots and all that sort of medical stuff. Really, the man should be in a hospital.

Sam didn't know why he crouched there without considering going far enough to get a signal and calling someone, or getting on his bike for help, or—God forbid—actually getting Tough Guy on the back of his bike.

He checked his cell again, just in case there was, miraculously, reception.

Nothing, nada. Even waving it around gave him no move in those bars set stubbornly to zero.

He pocketed the cell and took out another wipe, this time not being quite so careful to avoid the wound itself. Things didn't look so good there; no pus, but he poked at it a bit and then poured clean water over it before tipping a copious amount of antiseptic onto the place where it looked most raw. Rummaging in his bag, he pulled out a bandage and cream, and then overdid everything until the wound was covered and he felt like he'd achieved something.

Tough Guy was still asleep. Or unconscious. Whatever.

"What the hell now?" Sam said to no one. "And now I start talking to myself. But I can't exactly talk to you, can I?"

He poked Tough Guy in the chest, his finger meeting a wall of muscle hidden under the ratty T-shirt that was covered in blood and mud and God knows what else. He felt like he should check for other wounds, but when he attempted to pull at the T-shirt, Tough Guy's eyes opened wide and scared.

"What?" he blurted, rolling to sit up, cursing and flailing and reaching for the gun all in one seamless movement.

Sam let him get the gun; Tough Guy needed the reassurance, and Sam didn't think he'd shoot. Well, not at the moment. Anyway, one jab at the bad spot on his thigh and the tall blond dude would be dead meat on the dirty ground.

The stranger appeared to realize a few things at once: that his thigh wound was bandaged, that Sam was sitting calm and controlled a few feet away, and that he was in pain. He bent at the waist, his breath a rasping gasp. "Fucking shit," he cursed.

"You fainted," Sam offered helpfully.

Tough Guy looked at him from under thick, long lashes, his eerily clear gray eyes holding disbelief. Then that expression changed and he straightened. "Thank you," he offered.

"You're welcome." Sam passed him the first container he could find—leftovers from last night, a potato bake that didn't hold any meat but was easy to transport. "You should eat."

Tough Guy stared at the container like it was an unexploded bomb, and Sam tutted, reached for it and opened it, before grabbing the spoon he'd bought with him.

"What is it?" Tough Guy asked, looking down at the congealed mess.

Sam poked at it with the spoon, attempting to make it look more like what it was. "Layered potato, onions, and cream… it's a side bake I do, but it's good cold."

Tough Guy simply stared at him and then down at the food.

"What?" Sam asked. Did the stranger think it was poisoned or something? "You are way low on trust," he said and then ate a spoonful, closing his eyes as he went onto autopilot, tasting all the subtle herbs he'd used in it. He should maybe up the seasoning a little, but other than that, it was great cold. He passed it over.

Tough Guy spooned a little into his mouth and chewed it before swallowing. "It's good," he said. "I just feel a bit—" He put the tub down. "—sick."

Sam wasn't having that. "Nope, come on, Tough Guy, you need to get some food down you so your meds don't eat your stomach lining, or something awful like that." He picked up the tub and passed it back, grateful when the stranger took another bite.

Sam sat and watched the slow progress, taking in the other man's appearance. He looked Army tough: muscles on a lithe body, blond hair matted and muddy, gray eyes ever watchful, and his hands were scarred on the knuckles. His long-sleeved tee hid most of his torso from Sam, but the material clung, and under that material was a hard body. A tough body. Was he an escaped convict? A secret agent? A drug runner? A horse thief?

Sam was always getting in trouble for his overactive imagination. Blame his short attention span, but he couldn't settle for long periods of time without something to do.

"I can't keep calling you Tough Guy," Sam said. "What's your name?"

His companion lifted his gaze and hesitated. "Tom," he said, although the sound of it from his cracked and bloodied lips seemed wrong. Like "Tom" was testing the weight of the word on his tongue.

"Hey, Tom." Sam wiped his hand on his jeans and extended it. "I'm Sam."

Tom ignored the hand but nodded. "Sam."

"Yep, Sam, short for Samuel. Is Tom short for Thomas?"

Tom chewed and swallowed. "Just Tom."

"I'm a chef. What do you do?"

Tom stared at him.

Clearly that wasn't a question he'd be answering anytime soon, so Sam tried another direction. He wasn't expecting Tom to admit he was evading the authorities or that he was on the run from the mob—or hell, any of a hundred different scenarios Sam could come up with.

"How did you find this cabin?" Sam asked, changing the direction subtly. He couldn't fail to see how Tom's body language changed with it. He tensed, shut down, concentrated on eating the potato bake, and didn't say a thing. So Sam filled the space. "I found it—the cabin, I mean—because I have a bike, and when I thought someone was maybe hiding out up here, stealing my stuff from the kitchens, I decided to go looking. And yes, I know that's kind of dangerous, because hell, someone could be up here with a gun, right? But that didn't matter, because I'm not in a good headspace at the moment and I wasn't entirely thinking straight. But I digress."

A pause, and he unscrewed the cap to his own bottle of water and took a chug, then opened a bag of chips. Might as well be comfortable, and it was nearly lunchtime.

"Anyway, so I was looking and I'm no tracker, but my friend said there were trails up here that no one knew about, so I figured it was a good place to start."

Tom stiffened and winced at the words as Sam talked. His gray eyes held an expression that Sam could only think was Tom being pissed that Sam talked so much.

Most people thought he talked too much, or had a temper that burned, or whatever.

I am who I am.

"I know I talk a lot. But it's not like you're filling the space with interesting conversation here, Tom."

He waited. Maybe Tom would answer that. All the man did was stare at Sam as if Sam was losing his mind.

"How did you find me?" Tom rasped, and then coughed to clear his throat.

"I saw the bushes flattened a ways back, I got stuck in this rut of mud with my bike and decided to take a breather, saw the bushes, and like I said, that was it. I kind of knew something. Like it felt different."

Tom dipped his head, clearing up the corners of the bowl of potato before placing the container on the floor.

Sam handed him a chocolate bar. "For energy. And don't start on how it's empty calories. Chocolate is my go-to whenever I need to get a boost of some kind." He watched Tom open the candy and take his first bite. "There, you see. That's good, right."

"Do you ever shut up?" Tom growled.

"No. How old are you, Tom?"

Gray eyes drilled into him. "What?"

"How old are you? I'm thirty-three. Thirty-four in October. The ninth, which means I'm a Libra. What are you? What star sign, I mean?" Tom stared at him but didn't answer. "You look about the same age as me. Why are you up here all alone, and who shot you?"

Tom looked a little confused at the sudden change in subject. He took another bite of chocolate. After that, "I'm twenty-eight," he offered. "Now will you shut up?"

Sam couldn't fail to see what Tom had done, deflecting the other question, but he wasn't going to push it. "You should come down to the ranch?—"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm not going anywhere."

"They'll help you down there. There's one guy, Ethan, he's a cop?—"

Sam ducked as Tom threw the empty plastic container right at his head.

"I. Said. No! If people know I'm here, I'm dead." Tom's voice was steady, his tone flat. He didn't sound like he was making a passionate plea for Sam not to tell anyone, more a statement of fact. "You want to get me killed?"

Did Tom even care that if he stayed here, he was a dead man walking?

"Are you a good guy? Or one of the bad guys?" Sam asked, aware he sounded like a freaking idiot. That was a stupid question, like Tom was going to admit he was a bad guy, when he had Sam in front of him. Instead, Tom frowned and looked completely serious for a moment.

"Depends on your definition." Tom ruined the enigmatic statement by hacking a cough.

Sam stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. "I'm going back down to the ranch."

Tom pointed the gun at him. "I can't let you go anywhere."

Sam put his hands on his hips and looked right at him, hoping he came over as confident and self-assured. "You need some blankets, and I'll dig up some other things. I'll be back when I can." The click of the safety on the gun was Tom telling him that he really didn't want Sam leaving. "I don't get that." Sam gabbled through his nerves. "In the movies, the bad guy always points the gun and makes a threat, and then you hear him deliberately taking the safety off. I mean, it's dramatic and all, but if the safety is on, then any good guy worth their salt would be able to jump the bad guy before he could shoot. Right? Or is that just me?"

"You're not leaving," Tom growled, ignoring the rambling.

Sam didn't stop. He turned his back to Tom, heading for the rickety door. "Last chance to shoot me," he said over his shoulder.

And left.

Sam stumbled out of the broken-down shack and let out a harsh breath when he reached the bike, standing exactly where he'd left it. Somehow he'd made his way through finding Tom—and then actually survived finding Tom. He hadn't expected to find anyone, hadn't thought there was anyone to find, had blamed kids, or something else.

But Sam had followed his gut instinct and found Tom.

Tom, with a gun. Tom, whose name probably wasn't even Tom. A man who'd been going to shoot Sam, and probably wasn't going to be there if Sam came back.

Sam looked at the door, waiting for Tom to stumble out, expecting him to try to leave or to shoot him.

Nothing.

Tom needed a doctor, or a hospital, and Sam needed to talk to Ryan. The sheriff would know what to do. Or he could call Ethan and ask him what the hell he should do. After all, Crooked Tree was partly-owned by a cop. Might as well use him, right?

Sam started the engine of his dirt bike and made his way back down to the ranch, much more cautiously than he had done coming up.

Riding up into the mountain had been all about getting anger and temper out of his head. Going down was all about not getting himself killed, because the only person who knew that Tom was up there, alive, was Sam.

Sam stopped his bike just before Ember Bluff. There was a signal there, and he thumbed to his browser. He typed in robbery , murder , and any other related keyword he could think of, but there was only the report of a car accident on the highway just outside Helena; nothing about escaped convicts, or terrorists, or what-the-hell-ever.

So, if there were no active manhunts, and no missing persons, then who the hell was Tom?

Someone who needs your help.

Sam continued on down to the ranch, pulling his dirt bike in next to his baby, his precious, shiny Ducati. Not the newest of bikes, but it was all his and he loved it.

"Saw you on the bike," Adam said from behind him.

Sam schooled his features and turned to face his new friend. "Was out riding," he explained. "Clearing my head."

"Yeah, man. Look, I'm sorry about your grandmother."

Sam smiled, a natural smile, because Adam was way cute and far too open for his own good. "How come Ethan caught you first?" he asked, only so he could see Adam blush scarlet. He had a way of doing that whenever Sam teased him. "Never mind." Sam added a wave. "Do you need me for something?"

"No, I was coming down for coffee, saw the bike, thought I'd say hello."

Sam smiled and then opened the back door to Branches, "Come on then, gorgeous, let's get you coffeed up."

Adam followed him in. Ashley was at the counter, and they had maybe ten customers in three small groups, all drinking coffee and eating Ashley's pastries. The buzz of the place was warm, and Sam felt any tension he'd been carrying slide off him.

"Everything okay?" Ashley asked immediately.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sam said and rolled his eyes. "Forgot to take lunch. I'm going back out, if that's okay?"

Ashley smiled at him. "Kirsten is coming in to help when she gets back."

Sam grinned. He loved Kirsten, with her attitude and her fuck-off vibe, which despite having calmed a little recently, was still front and center when someone pissed her off. She was, however, very good and incredibly polite to people in the restaurant, and that was enough to get into Sam's good books. She was on break, same as Luke, always with her head buried in books, with a focused determination that never failed to amaze Sam.

He stepped past Ashley, leaving her to deal with Adam, and went straight up the back steps to his place. He closed the door behind him, and for the longest time just stood there thinking about what he'd seen and what he was about to do. What did Tom need? Blankets, a cushion or something? A fleece, because hell, it would get cold up there at night.

Quickly, Sam layered himself up: three T-shirts, a baggy sweatshirt—because Tom was bigger than him. Not broader, but taller and more stretched out. Sam added another sweater for good measure, rolled wooly socks, two beanies, and two blankets into a backpack, adding a cushion embroidered with the words "I'm so gay, I can't even think straight"—a present from an ex who'd long since left his life—and forced it all in. Then he slipped on his thick winter coat, stuffing the pockets with anything else he could think of: the painkillers he kept in his kitchen drawer, the antiseptic cream from the bathroom, a mirror, toothpaste and toothbrush.

"What else?" he murmured, doing a full three-sixty around his room. He shoved his Kindle into his pocket, and that was it.

Sam made his way downstairs, pulled out various parcels of food, and crept out the back door. Thankfully no one saw him wrapped up like a freaking Abominable Snowman on a warm day.

He made his way in the opposite direction to where he needed to go, and only when he was out of view of anyone at Crooked Tree did he double back, high up at the tree line, and make his way back to the cabin.

Will Tom still be there?

Hell, the man didn't look like he could stay conscious for long, let alone make a run for it.

God knows why he was doing this, but something about Tom, some spark in the man screamed that he needed Sam.

And right about then, Sam needed to take his mind off the crap in his head and to feel good about himself.

He needed Tom right back, because something about Tom drew him in beyond the wish to help an injured man.

He just wasn't sure what it was yet.