BIGHORN (A Wilderness Trail Novel) by O'Quinn Erin & Rawlyns Nya

Author:O'Quinn, Erin & Rawlyns, Nya [O'Quinn, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: PubRight
Published: 2013-08-04T05:00:00+00:00

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Jeff Rogers lived in the Kozy Korner motel, day/week/month rent-outs of a space maybe four times the size of his own cramped cabin. It was cheap enough that he lived in another unit in this same place during the four or six months when he was forced to leave Osceola. His own royalties were sufficient, but he had plenty of expenses. As for Jeff, cop’s pay didn’t offer a rose garden. No matter. The joint offered covered parking to its tenants, and everyone knew his friend was a city cop. So his Mazda B2300 was as safe as beer in church.

He pointed to one street, then the next, as they turned off the main drag.

“I’ve known Jeff more than ten years. Good man. Wife died even before that. Used to come out on his days off, help Dad with the assessment work on the mine, lend his muscle to the ’Cat operation, cutting the path you and I breezed up yesterday.”

“We breezed?”

Truck glanced at his companion and saw a sardonic lift of his mouth. He laughed out loud, an enjoyable pastime he’d been indulging in lately.

“You hated it. C’mon, admit it, man.”

“No, I loved it, Truckee. Every second, honest to God.”

Truck felt something very warm spread through his gut. Fuck, it was great to have a lover. More than a lover, a man who seemed unashamed of an emotional attachment to him.

“Anyway, Jeff still does come out when I need an extra arm, him and some of his buds. The only way I can keep up Dad’s old claim is to keep the road passable.”

“Is that the only reason, Truck?”

He grinned. “You got me there. You already know, without the sunshine, this flower wilts. Gotta get to my mine. Loaning him my truck every half a year is low pay, high reward.”

“I want to know all about your father sometime. What was his name?”

“Everyone called him Muddy. Real name Moapa, after the Moapats. They’re a band of Paiute from the southern part of Nevada, around Vegas. The band name means “Muddy River People,” or close to that. So the nickname was pretty cool.”

“Have you written about him? Stuff I can read?”

“Sure, Dom.”

“Then I’ll buy your books. All of them.”

He signaled for Dom to turn into a driveway, and they pulled up into the parking area of a ’fifties-style motel court. It was lined with Mexican pots, each proudly bearing a Wal-Mart plant specimen. The court was shaded, almost pretty. Truck, who parked here whenever he had use of his own pickup, felt relaxed and comfortable.

He noticed that the Mazda was not there.

“We may have to wait a while.”

Dom turned sideways, resting his back on the driver’s door and putting his feet on the seat beside Truck.

“Cool. We can just settle back a while and, ah, get to know each other in a public place, for once. Wanna crack a beer or soda?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Nah, later. Tell me where those eyes came from, Truckee. Those fucking silver-blue shafts that make me hard just looking into them.

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