Title	Forgotten Favor
Author	Angela Fiddler
ISBN#	978-1-60820-059-7 (ebook)
Release Date	June 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Angela Fiddler’s retired rodeo men accept each other and the black riders.

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Part One

When Mark closed his eyes, he felt the fall. It hadn’t been Butter’s fault. Mark should have seen the change in the ground, but the early morning gallop had felt so good. They had been on the road for almost a month, placing well in the money in several of the small town rodeos. After all that time living in the front sleeping quarters of his horse trailer and riding about in finite spaces, he was home on the ranch where the earth seemed to stretch on forever and there didn’t seem to be an end to the sky. He’d felt free.

He remembered looking down. Just as he was about to pull back on the reins, he felt Butter trip. For a second, he thought that she would recover. Then she stumbled again, and for another heartbeat they both were weightless. He grabbed the reins, his feet kicking free of the stirrups as though on autopilot, and he knew, even as he saw the ground hurtling up towards him, that this was going to hurt. And his next thought was a prayer that Butter would not be.

He hit the ground hard. That was a given. He remembered the sickening crunch from the shoulder but he had no memory at all of Butter coming down on his leg. He supposed that was a blessing, though in his dreams he still imagined the snap.

And also in his dreams, he saw the hooves. Black as night, as death, as sin. The ground was soft, the rational part of his mind knew that, but when the hooves struck it, sparks flew. He also heard Butter’s frantic breathing just a few yards away. His own pathetic attempts at drawing air into lungs too stunned to remember their most basic function was just as hard. There was more than just the two of them in his dream. No matter how hard he had tried to look up, to ask the riders on the horses for help, or for somebody to check on Butter and find out why she wasn’t attempting to get up on her own, he couldn’t breathe.

Through the pain, and stress, and anxiety, he was terrified.

Mark woke up in the hospital. Not for the first time, but for what seemed like the hundredth. He was alone in the semiprivate room, and the television overhead was muted. His leg ached dully, almost resentfully, and he knew from how high the sun was in the sky that it would be another hour before the nurse came with more painkillers.

To distract himself, he stared at the walls that no amount of bleach would ever get truly white again. The washed out green curtains matched the green summer weight blankets on each of the three beds. The get well cards on the table beside him—the last of the accompanying flowers had been thrown out a couple days ago—were buried beneath insurance forms, half finished crossword puzzles and magazines that predicted the outcome for the last set of Olympics.

The worst of the damage was not on the femur, which by itself would have kept him in traction. When Butter had fallen, she had rolled over him. It could have been worse; other than his spleen, there had been no other internal damage. One of the ranch hands had seen him fall and called an ambulance. If Mark concentrated hard enough he could feel the metal plates holding his pelvis and thigh together under his skin. The fiberglass cast kept him from touching the surgery scars, and they woke him at all hours of the night with unholy itching.

Though if he had died, if he was being perfectly honest, hell would not be too different than a semiprivate room that lingered with the smell of dead flowers.

A shadow crossed the door. Mark looked up. As much as he hated being poked and prodded, at least the nurses on their frequent rounds were some break from the monotony of his life. His father had visited, twice, his stepmother more often, but she’d just been there the day before helping him move from the hospital room to the rehab center for the extended care he couldn’t get at the ranch. He still had a stack of books she’d brought him as well. Some of the ranch hands and a few of his roping buddies had stopped by in the beginning, but they tapered off by the time the flowers they’d brought had wilted. He didn’t blame them.

And his father… he didn’t want to think about his father, Edward McCoy. He would use the ranch as an excuse not to come more often, and on the surface Mark accepted the excuse for what it was. Though Edward did own one of the largest cattle ranches in southern Alberta, he also had more managers than some fast food chains and accountants up the wazoo. The fact was they did far better as employer and employee than they ever had as father and son. Up close and personal…well, that wasn’t so good. He had moved out of the big house to the apartment over the new stables when he was eighteen, the disgraced heir apparent. A good year was measured by how many conversations they didn’t have. Things had gotten slightly better once Edward had remarried, but Sunday dinners were still frosty.

The door opened. The man who walked in was familiar, achingly so, but it took Mark an extra second to recognize him. He sat up as much as the traction would allow and swallowed. “Jake Alastair,” he said, and was glad his voice didn’t break. When he thought about the strained relationship he had with his father, he had to think about Jake.

Jake hadn’t changed all that much over the past five years, since the hayloft. He was taller, more tanned, and broader across the chest. He was dressed in Sunday go-to-meeting jeans, and a white western shirt that had obviously never fallen off a horse, but the hat he held nervously looked as though it had survived a stampede of wildebeests once or twice. His blond hair had been recently combed and his blue eyes, always a bit too wide and a bit too deep, were exactly the same. Mark swallowed again.

“Mark,” Jake said. And despite his boyish looks, his voice was low and comforting. Mark couldn’t help but think of the loft again, the smell of the hay, the dust dancing in the sunbeams, and the way Jake’s lips had felt on his throat. Not that anything more had happened. It was bad luck his father had come home so early. Mark had been eighteen, just finished school and hadn’t found Butter yet, and if he hadn’t had his father’s support, he would have had nothing at all. It was a lame excuse to cave in to his father’s threats, but he had. After an awkward year of avoiding Jake for fear of his father finding out they’d had contact, Jake had dropped out of the rodeo circuit entirely.

Jake looked him over, and his mouth twitched when he saw the lump in the bed the cast made. Mark shrugged, though it hurt his shoulder to do so, and motioned to the chair on the other side of the bed. “You can sit if you want,” he said, knowing the words were awkward. There had been long, hot nights in his life where he would imagine what he would say if he ever saw Jake again, but sitting arrangements had never been one of the topics of conversation.

Jake nodded, but didn’t come any closer. “You know my dad got sick,” he said. His mouth opened and closed a couple times. The awkwardness between them was wrong.

“No,” Mark said. “I didn’t. I thought you fell off the planet. Is that why you stopped riding?”

A flash of pain crossed Jake’s face, and he bit his lip. “Mostly,” Jake allowed. “My dad needed help at his ranch. It was a rescue center. Is a rescue center, I mean.”

“Okay.” Mark realized his mouth was dry and reached for one of the plastic cups, the same washed out green as the rest of the room. The water inside tasted plastic as well, but he gulped down half of it. His leg throbbed as though punishing him for not making the pain the center of his attention for the past couple minutes, and he rubbed the cast with the palm of his hand until he could manage the pain again.

When he looked up, Jake’s face was pale despite the tan. He swallowed with a mouth so dry Mark could hear the clicking sound his throat made, and he offered what remained in his cup to Jake. “The pitcher has ice in it, or it did an hour ago.”

Jake took it gratefully, filled and emptied the cup up twice before putting it down. The room was air-conditioned, but he was sweating. Mark frowned. “Are you okay?”

Jake waved his hand and shook his head. “No. I hate hospitals. I never liked them, but after dad got sick, well…”

Mark didn’t ask him to finish. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did. I told you, I run a rescue center now.” Jake hesitated. “So when I saw her in the kill pens, I had to save her. I didn’t think you would… I knew you wouldn’t…”

Mark felt sick, like he’d just had an overdose of morphine, and the room started to spin. He gripped the blankets and where he touched it he left damp handprints. “Who’s she?” he asked, forming the words carefully. But he knew the answer. He just needed to hear Jake say it.

“Butter,” Jake said. “She’d been sold on with her papers but I knew it was her the moment I saw her. She was hurt, her knee was pretty banged up, but she’s okay.”

Mark shook his head. “No. That’s not possible. My dad told me she was fine. She was back at the ranch. He wouldn’t –” But he would. Mark felt cold inside. He looked up. Jake continued.

“I have her. The vet says it was just a bone bruise. The x-ray didn’t show anything broken or chipped. We’ve been keeping her pretty immobile and she’s recovering.”

“Thank you,” Mark said. He knew he sounded distant. “I can’t… thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” Jake said. He approached the bed like a marionette controlled by a rank beginner. The hand holding his hat tightened, crumbling the straw brim, but he made it without falling over. He took Mark’s hand, the one attached to his bad shoulder, but Jake’s touch was so gentle that Mark didn’t fear the potential pain. “I missed you.”

Mark cleared his throat. “I missed you, too.” It was an understatement that burned his throat with all the words he wanted to say. “After…” Mark waved his hand over the cast helplessly. Jake nodded, telling him he understood, and Mark relaxed.

“Of course you can come,” Jake said.

The door opened again and a nurse came in with two pills in the tiny paper cup. Her scrubs, with the bright balloons and teddy bears, were the only real colorful thing in the room. She smiled at Mark, a genuine show of affection, and tipped the paper cup so that the pills rolled into his palm. “Your friend can stay, but these will make you really drowsy.”

Jake stepped back from the bed. “I really have to go, ma’am.”

Mark wanted to say something, to be perfectly honest he wanted to ask Jake to stay, but Jake looked so uncomfortable Mark couldn’t do it. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

“Weren’t nothing,” Jake said, sounding double his age, and made his escape. Mark would have given anything to join him. Instead, he took his pills.

Saddles, spurs, Stetsons . . . and love? Sexy cowboys grab hold of more than a saddle in these entrancing stories from four talented authors of the genre. Kiernan Kelly takes us on an adventurous cattle drive to the Oregon Territory with a greenhorn and an old hand. Angela Fiddler’s retired rodeo men accept each other and the black riders. Two men overcome grief, rebuild a ranch and find love in Dakota Flint’s story. And JL Langley offers a light-hearted tale of a city boy and a rancher filled with love, laughter and a marriage of convenience?

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“Ah ha! I should have known.” AJ laughed and leaned against the rail.

Grinning at his brother, Tucker headed up onto the porch. “Should have known what?”

“Where you went. Do you have to smoke when you drink?”

Yes, and he was out of cigars, which is what he preferred with his whiskey. It was good fortune he’d stashed some cigarettes in his glove box. With any luck they weren’t stale; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had one of them. “Self preservation, there are still guests.” He’d rather face a boardroom of sharks than a horde of teenagers any day. Tucker lit the cigarette then put the lighter into his pocket. He held up his tumbler of whiskey to AJ in a silent toast, pulled the cigarette out from between his lips and took a sip. “I’m surprised you haven’t hit Granddaddy’s liquor cabinet as well.”

“I tried but Granddad and Juan beat me to it. Dad’s out of town so I figured someone in charge should be sober but, I’m hitting it after.” Sitting on the rail, he studied Tucker, his head cocking to the left a little. “I’m glad you came. You need a break. You look tired.”

“I’m not tired. I’m bored.”

AJ snorted. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring work with you.”

Grinning, Tucker pulled out his phone and held it up before clipping it back to his belt. “I’m waiting for word on the Addison deal.”

AJ groaned. “I should have known.”

Something crashed inside and the music stopped. “Shit.” AJ looked towards the door.

Tucker winced. “Want me to-?”

Waving his hand, AJ dismissed him. “I got it. Hell, it was probably Granddad or Juan, they’re as rowdy as the kids. Finish your drink and cigarette, then I’ll have you help me clear the rest of these kids out of here.” Grabbing the doorknob, he took a deep, over exaggerated breath. “Were we this obnoxious at eighteen?”

Tucker shook his head. “I didn’t become a party animal until my first year in college.”

Smiling, AJ opened the door, “here goes.”

Brave man.

Tucker took a drag off his cigarette and walked around the side of the wraparound porch toward the back. Damn, he missed the country. The fast pace of the business world was exciting, but there was just nothing like a spring night out here far from civilization. He should really come home more often.

When he got to the back of the house, he leaned on the rail and gazed out into the back pasture. It was beautiful. There were so many stars. He’d forgotten how many. When was the last time he’d taken time to look at the stars? He’d been stuck in his high rise office working on one project or another plenty of times after the sunlight faded, but the city lights made the stars disappear. Buildings overpowered the horizon. The big city had its own appeal, but out here? Pure magic. The sky looked so big and endless.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” A soft voice asked.

Tucker started, not realizing he had company, but immediately grinned as recognition set in. He hadn’t seen the pest at all tonight. Hell, he hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not since the last time he came home. Taking a hit from his cigarette he turned his head toward the birthday boy and wished he hadn’t.

Micah stood at the top of the back steps, a soft grin on his face. Gone were the smart little glasses he’d always worn. He’d looked adorable in them, but now, without them he was stunning. His usually messy black hair that always fell in his face was trimmed and styled neatly. Who knew he had such big eyes, those glasses had concealed a lot. The red short sleeved polo shirt pulled tightly across a slim but nicely shaped chest, and even showed off toned biceps. He was still small, but he didn’t look like a kid any longer. A pair of tight jeans replaced the normal baggy ones, showing off the leg muscles he’d earned from years in the saddle.

Tucker’s breath caught. Who was this gorgeous man and what happened to the scrawny kid he’d known?

Micah settled beside him, leaning his tanned forearms on the rail. He stood so close the heat of his body warmed Tucker’s left arm.

“Yeah, I’ve missed it. Not as many stars in the city.” Taking a drink of his whiskey, Tucker glanced back out at the deep, endless sky. The soft spring breeze ruffled his hair and blew smoke around him. That “someone is staring at you” feeling niggled at him, but he didn’t look to confirm it. Part of him wanted Micah to be looking. If Tucker didn’t know better he’d say he was lusting after the kid and… well that was just wrong. He couldn’t see Juan’s nephew that way, yet he was. It had him way off kilter. Or maybe it was the three whiskeys he’d had since he arrived.

“Is it all you’ve missed?”

Had Micah’s voice always been that raspy? Apprehension trickled over Tucker, but he pushed it away. This was Micah, the kid he’d taken fishing and rode horses with, not some stranger. “Naw, it’s not all I’ve missed. I miss my family and working on the ranch. I miss-”

Micah took the cigarette out of Tucker’s fingers and took a puff off of it.

It was such an intimate gesture Tucker found himself staring. “I-I miss the quiet.” He watched Micah’s lips pucker as he blew out the smoke, and unbidden the image of those sweet lips kissing up his body sprang to mind. Tucker shook his head and took the cigarette back. “Since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t usually.” Micah shrugged. “Why don’t you come home more often?”

It was the same question the rest of his family asked every time he talked to them. He hated that question. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to come home, but there were always deals to make and companies to sell. Mergers and acquisitions may be work, but it was also fun. He was on the top of his game and couldn’t afford to be taking vacations all the time. “Work keeps me busy.”

Tucker took a hit from his cigarette. It occurred to him that Micah’s lips had just rested where his were. What would Micah’s lips taste like? God damn where had that thought come from? “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside enjoying your birthday party?” Tucker winced at the growl in his voice.

Micah was quiet for several moments. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’d rather be out here with you.”

Sucking in a breath of air, Tucker nearly choked but covered quickly by taking a drink. Something tickled his arm as he set his drink on the porch railing. He glanced down.

Micah’s long dark fingers feathered over his arm, feeling, caressing. It was an innocent touch, but it sent the blood thrumming straight to Tucker’s groin. Fuck. He had to get outta here. This was not good. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his boot before kicking it off the porch. “Micah I-” Standing, Tucker turned and glanced right into adoring big brown eyes.

Micah bit his bottom lip and stepped closer. Once again he hesitantly traced his fingers over Tucker’s forearm, moving the hair there and leaving a tickling feeling.

The innocent gesture made Tucker’s cock fill fully. What was the matter with him? This was Micah. Their beloved foreman’s nephew and the kid Granddad called “Tucker’s Shadow.” Christ, he’d known Micah since he was seven, when his parent’s had been killed, and he’d come to the ranch to live with Juan.

Stepping closer, Micah raised up on tip toe, his gaze locked to Tucker’s lips.

He knew what was coming, he even knew he should step away, but he couldn’t. He watched, his focus on the full kissable mouth as Micah came closer and pressed his lips to Tucker’s. It was like a jolt of lightning. It was such an innocent touch, it should have reminded Tucker who was kissing him, and it did, yet Tucker couldn’t not respond. He wrapped his hand around the back of Micah’s head and held him close. His mouth slanted over Micah’s and his tongue pushed inside.

Micah jerked, gasping into Tucker’s mouth. His body stiffened for several seconds as Tucker explored his mouth, then Micah relaxed and wound his arms around Tucker’s waist. He squeezed Tucker tight and kissed back, his tongue sliding hesitantly along Tucker’s. His breath quickened until he panted and his hands clutched at Tucker’s back. He pressed forward, mashing his erection against Tucker’s thigh.

Tucker’s cock lurched and his own breath came faster. His free hand gripped Micah’s firm little ass, urging him closer against Tucker’s thigh. He pulled back, trying to catch his breath, but Micah didn’t stop. He rooted his face on Tucker’s neck, licking and kissing. Grunting, he thrust his hips at Tucker, grinding against him.

Fuck.

This was insane. How had they gotten here this fast? He had to stop this. “Slow down baby.”

But Micah didn’t stop. His ragged breathing turned into moans and his hands were everywhere at once.

When Micah grabbed Tucker’s cock, it was like being kicked in the stomach by a horse. Sanity returned and the voice in his head whispered “this is Micah.” What the fuck was he thinking?

Tucker gripped the thick hair in his hand and tugged Micah’s head back, forcing him to make eye contact. “Stop.” He stared into languorous brown eyes only seconds before they went wide and Micah dropped his gaze.

Micah flung himself backward out of reach, not even looking at Tucker. “I-I-I’m sorry, I-” He shook his head then darted a glance up at Tucker. A tear streaked down his cheek then he turned and ran down the back steps toward the barn.

“Micah-” Tucker reached out before he realized it, then dropped his hand. He watched Micah disappear into the night, feeling like he’d just kicked a puppy. Love, his conscience whispered. He loved Micah. He always had, though he hadn’t actually realized it till this moment, but the lust was new. Tucker shook his head and swallowed the last of his whiskey. Naw, he was mistaken; he hadn’t had a conscience for a long time.