Midwinter Night's Dream (12 page)

Joe opened one eye. “Escalade is designed for guys who are into sports.”

“Mmm-hmm. Sure. Who do you think buys fancy men’s underwear?”

“Athletic men who want to be comfortable.”

Errol chuckled and shook his head. “Athletic gay men, maybe. I’ll bet gay guys are a significant chunk of your demographic.”

“Never thought of it that way.” Joe looked up and grinned. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

After blotting Joe’s hair, Errol had him sit up, toweled it damp-dry, and finger combed it. Joe took his hand and pulled him down into a kiss. “Is there more coffee?”

“Yes.” Errol straightened and stepped back. Joe stood, and they headed for the kitchen. Errol poured fresh cups of unadulterated coffee, and they sat at the table.

Joe seemed over his anger, and Errol wanted to keep it that way. His indignation seemed to have gone down the drain along with the suds. Okay, so they didn’t see eye to eye. Maybe they could have one more day together before the world intruded.

“Does…” Errol began. “Never mind.”

“What?”

Errol cupped his hands around the warmth of his mug. “Does anyone know about you?”

Joe tensed and looked away. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Way to go for controversy, Lockhart
. “Sorry. None of my business.”

Joe gazed at him. Pain filled his eyes. “Just my manager, Gretchen. And you.”

Two people. No wonder he liked his privacy. Errol took a sip of coffee and waited.

“Why is being out so important to you?”

“I don’t want to hide. I’ve sacrificed to be open, and I’m not going back.”
And Joe will probably never be out. Can you deal with that?

Joe nodded and stared at the contents of his mug. “Can we start the morning over?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about back to bed?” Joe looked at him with that head tilt and crooked smile, and Errol melted. God, no wonder the man sold so much underwear.

“I’ll meet you there.”

* * * *

Errol shifted on the couch and glanced at the dark window. No plows today—still snowbound. By nightfall, neither one of them had wanted to stay in bed any longer, and they’d needed food. After dinner they’d tried to shower together, but the water pressure and minimal hot water had made it short and awkward.

At least they weren’t arguing. Errol had considered apologizing, but his opinions were his own, nothing to apologize for.

“You want coffee?” Joe tipped his head toward the kitchen.

“No, thanks. I’m coffeed out tonight.”

“Okay.” Joe moved to the couch and sat next to him. He wrapped an arm around Errol, pulled him in, kissed his hair.

Errol played with a loose string on his jeans. “Will we see each other after this is over?”

“I’d like that.” Joe nuzzled his ear, and Errol shivered.

“But only in secret,” Errol whispered.

Joe sighed. “I’m about to make some big changes in my life. I’d like…I need…to keep it down to a dull roar for the time being.”

How long is “the time being”?

Bed that night consisted of cuddling instead of making love. Joe fell asleep with his arms around Errol, but Errol lay awake staring across the room at the fire.

Chapter Eleven

Joe awoke to the smell of smoke. Dragging himself free of sleep’s grip, he rubbed his eyes and sat up. The smoke was too biting and dense for the fireplace. Something else. He slid out of bed, leaving Errol to sleep. There was nothing visible out the window, and only dark filled the front panes. The fireplace looked fine. He pivoted and headed to the kitchen.

Holy shit
. In the backyard, flames reflected on the snow, orange and red as they engulfed the shed. Crazy shadows danced over the chopping block and the trampled snow. His gut tensed. This was a nightmare, a potential inferno. They needed to put this out now. Ashes could drift into the forest, and they’d be in the middle of a wildfire. The roads were clogged with snow. They couldn’t get out.

There was no way he was losing someone to fire. Heart pounding, he whirled and ran to the bed. “Errol! Get up. Get dressed.”

Errol pushed upright, shoving his hair out of his face. “What’s going on?” He sniffed. “Is that smoke?”

“The shed’s on fire. Get dressed.” Joe jammed his legs into jeans and pulled on a shirt. Not bothering with socks, he stepped into his boots and snatched his coat. “Grab the extinguisher by the fireplace.”

Damn it, this could be a mammoth disaster
. On the way out the door, he grabbed the fire extinguisher by the stove. The air smelled of oily black smoke. Heat radiated off the shed, unpleasant on his bare face and hands.

The flames had gotten a deeper hold on the shed. The whole thing was engulfed. Grimacing, he aimed the fire extinguisher and discharged its contents. The white powder filled the air in a dry cloud, smelling of dust. The fire took it in stride and continued to lick the wooden siding. For a crazy moment, he thought of running.

Dressed and holding the extinguisher, Errol appeared beside him, eyes huge as he took in the inferno. “What do I do?”

“Pull the pin, then aim at the base of the fire,” Joe yelled. “Sweep it back and forth.”

Nodding, Errol freed the pin and sprayed flame retardant. The blaze backed off a bit but didn’t go out.

“Keep going. I’m getting water.” Of course, they had no pressure and limited water in the tank, but it was all they had. Joe ran inside and threw the snow bucket in the tub, opened the tap, and let gravity do its best to fill the container. He spun around and took off for the front door, heading for the Jeep. In the back, he dug under the blankets and hauled out an A/B/C extinguisher. He heaved it out and stumbled through the deep snow at the side of the house and around to the shed.

Errol’s canister gave a last spritz and quit, and he shook it. “Empty.”

“I’m going to try this one. Go get the bucket from the tub.”

“Got it.” Errol pivoted and raced for the door.

Steadying the extinguisher against his thigh, Joe squeezed the handle and saturated the fire at the base of the building to no avail. The most they could hope for was keeping the thing contained enough to ensure the cabin didn’t burn.

In seconds Errol was back with the bucket, two-thirds full. “Throw?”

“Pitch it on the fire. Aim for the window.”

Errol heaved, and there was a hiss; steam rose from the shed. The flames had backed off but still ate along the roofline. Orange embers floated on the air, dangerous and plentiful.

“Put snow in the bucket and throw it,” Joe said. “I’m going for a shovel.” He ran to the porch, grabbed the shovel, and ran back. The shed was a total loss, but what mattered was preventing spread to the cabin and surrounding forest.
Trying to run from a wildfire
… Joe shivered. They were trapped, snowbound, and surrounded by forest. Without a vehicle that could negotiate the snow mass, they risked the flames racing over them. The destruction didn’t care who or what was in its path.

I can’t lose someone else to fire.

Errol pitched bucket after bucket of snow, and Joe slung shovels of snow at the blaze, managing to hit what was left of the shed’s roof. After an eternity, the small building collapsed in on itself. A low buzz came up the drive, and a snowmobile appeared.

That was when Joe heard the sirens.

* * * *

Errol sat on the porch steps and listened as Joe and the volunteer fire department chief discussed Joe’s discovery of the fire. The attempts to put it out generated questions that seemed to go on forever. How many ways could Joe say “it was an accident”?

The sheriff had been in the area going house to house via snowmobile doing welfare checks when he saw the smoke. Via satellite phone he was able to call for help.

Luckily the main road had been plowed, and the pumper truck had a blade and enough power to get through the drifts on the drive. Errol had never been so glad in his life as when that water-bearing truck had appeared.

A loaded silver Land Rover jostled its way down the mostly cleared drive and parked in front of the cabin. A woman in a designer snow suit hopped out and glanced around. Her maroon-red hair hit at jaw length, and she walked like a woman on a mission. Was she one of Joe’s dreaded paparazzi? Errol glanced at Joe. He hadn’t paid any attention to the new arrival.

Errol stood. “Can I help you?”

She gave him a tight smile as she approached the steps. “Hello. I’m here to talk to Joe.”

Errol shifted in front of her. “He’s not expecting any visitors, Miss…?”

As if he had stripped for a telegram, the woman looked him up and down, took in his dirty clothing, and glanced beyond him. “I’m his manager, Gretchen Fillmore, and it’s an emergency.”

Crap
. Gretchen Fillmore, and Errol had come off like a thug. He grimaced and moved out of the way, trying for a smile. “Oh. Uh, sorry. He’s right there.” Errol tilted his head toward Joe.

“Thanks.” Gretchen gave him a quizzical look and climbed the stairs, leaving behind a floral fragrance. “Joe!”

He looked up, and his guarded expression morphed to surprise. “Gretch. What are you doing here?”

She glanced at the fire chief. “It’s personal.”

The chief nodded. “We’re done here. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Blake.”

As the chief descended the steps, Joe frowned and followed Gretchen to the other end of the porch. Errol took up his position on the steps.

“What happened here?” she asked.

“Small fire. It’s out, nothing to be concerned about. What’s wrong? Cosmo?”

Cosmo? The ex-girlfriend?

“No,” Gretchen said. “It’s your dad. He was hurt while fighting a fire.”

Errol spun around.
Oh crap
. Joe’s color had gone pale, and he clutched Gretchen’s arm. “When? Is he…did he…”

“Last night. He’s alive and stable, but it’s serious. Smoke inhalation and some burns. I told your brothers I’d come get you.” She glanced toward Errol then back. “I couldn’t get through until this morning.”

“I need to get down there.” Joe turned one way, then the other. “The cabin. I need to close it up.”

Jesus
. Joe needed to get down there—now. Errol jumped up the stairs and resisted the urge to touch him. “Uh, Joe? If you want to go with Ms. Fillmore, I can close up the cabin and drive your rig down for you.” He shrugged one shoulder. “If it’ll help.”

Errol didn’t recognize the shuttered expression on Joe’s face, the small half smile that wasn’t a smile. “I’ll take care of it.”

Too presumptive, apparently. But Joe had said Gretchen knew the truth… Wasn’t Joe going to introduce them? It must just have been shock about the situation. Joe might need him.

“I mean, thanks, but no,” Joe said. The neutral inflection conveyed politeness and nothing more, and Errol held back a wince. Surely Joe couldn’t be mad about his offer.

“How about—”

“I need to go.” Joe headed for the front door.

Errol frowned. Was Joe in shock?

Gretchen gave Errol an expectant look. “Who’s your houseguest, Joe?”

Joe paused but said nothing, gaze wary.

“Errol Lockhart, ma’am.” He wiped his sooty palm on his jeans and stuck out a hand. Gretchen shook and raised an eyebrow at Joe.

“Not a houseguest.” Joe’s smile became hard. “Just a traveler who stopped for directions after getting lost.”

Errol’s heart seemed to fossilize and drop into his stomach, setting off a wave of nausea. He couldn’t get enough air to speak.

What the fuck?
Joe had said Gretchen knew about his preferences. She was in on the secret, and Joe had brushed him off like what they’d shared meant nothing. Like he meant nothing. Errol resisted the urge to yell, “Then what was with your cock in my mouth? You giving directions?”

Once again cast aside and homeless. How did he always fall in with manipulative, controlling assholes who messed up his life and threw him out on the street?
Dad, Carson, and now Joe. You never learn, do you, Lockhart?
His chest seized, a deep ache making it hard to take a breath. Somehow he backed away, pivoted, and trotted down the stairs. Between the pumper truck and the vehicles, the snow was tamped down, and he could walk without too much trouble. The tire tracks must lead to the main road. Maybe he could hitch a ride into Denver.

So Joe had cut him loose in every way. In addition to refusing to assist Errol in making contacts, Joe had denied knowing him. After all they’d been through.

What did you expect, idiot? That he would declare his undying love for you right there on the porch in front of Gretchen Fillmore?

Maybe not love, but acknowledgment? Sure. Even a simple “someone I found on the road and resuscitated” would have been better than that cold dismissal.

Joe—Blake, whatever the hell his name was—lived in a closet of great depth. He wasn’t coming out anytime soon, and with media attention, it was doubtful he’d risk being seen with someone like Errol. They hadn’t exchanged contact information, so future get-togethers weren’t very likely, not that Errol ever wanted to see Joe again after that lost-traveler statement.
Asshole.

Errol’s chest tightened, and his eyes stung. He’d felt something for Joe, something strong. Apparently he was alone in that sentiment. Joe had seen a perfect opportunity to have an isolated tryst and taken advantage of it.
Fuck off, Joe.

A horn sounded behind him, and Errol moved to the side of the road. A red truck pulled up beside him. The passenger window lowered, and the fire chief leaned across the seat.

“You need a lift?”

“Yeah.” Errol stopped and squinted at the chief. “How far are you going?”

“How far do you need to go?”

* * * *

“So who is he really?” Gretchen gathered the food on the counter and threw it in the cooler as he put out the fire in the living room.

“I told you. He was just passing through.”

“I saw the look on that boy’s face. Whatever went on between you meant a whole hell of a lot more to him than ‘passing through.’”

Shit
. Joe winced. He’d regretted those words the minute they were out of his mouth, but they’d been outside, and a few firemen had lingered. “Not now, Gretch.”