Wild Trail (Clean Slate Ranch #1)(38)

Mack grunted. “I was working. I don’t fuck where I work.”

“Well, yeah, I guess that’s technically true since you always drive to the city to get laid.”

He stared at Colt, unnerved by the statement. “Please tell me you’ve never fucked one of the guests.”

Colt pretended to lock his lips with an imaginary key; Mack groaned.

“You two should learn to think with something besides your dicks,” Reyes said.

“Says the guy who never gets any,” Colt retorted.

Reyes’s level stare made Colt look away first.

The office phone rang. Colt snatched it up first. “Mack Garrett’s office, to whom am I speaking?” He flinched away from the receiver. “Hey, Patrice.”

Patrice never called Mack’s office. Mack glanced at Reyes, who had one eyebrow arched. Colt listened to whatever Patrice was telling him, then said, “I’ll pass along the message. Thanks.”

“Do I want to know?” Mack asked once Colt put the phone down.

“Patrice asked me to tell you that you did a good job patching up Wes’s ankle, but—her words—he got hurt on your watch, so you need to drive him down to see Dr. Weaver in case the boy needs stitches.”

Mack dropped his forehead into his palm. More time alone with Wes, cooped up in the cab of a truck and then in Dr. Weaver’s tiny office, was going to fuck with his head in the worst possible way. The cut hadn’t looked that bad, so if this was Wes plotting a chance to cop a feel, Mack would dump him into a cold horse trough.

“Extra sandwich for your road trip?” Colt asked, holding up the platter.

Mack flipped him off, and then took another sandwich, anyway.

*

Wes was sitting on the front stoop of the guesthouse when Mack pulled the truck around, his left leg stretched out in front of him. Someone had wrapped a new, thicker bandage around his ankle, probably Patrice. She mothered all the guests, especially when they got a nick that bled. Wes had probably drama queened his way into this little doctor visit.

Like a good host, Mack put the truck into park and left the engine idling for the air-conditioning, then got out to get the passenger door for Wes. Wes used the railing to stand, jaw set and lips flat, like he was in actual pain. He even tried to hide a limp on the eight steps it took him to reach the truck, and Mack regretted not parking closer.

“Your chariot,” Mack said.

Instead of offering a sarcastic remark, Wes grunted and climbed into the cab. Mack shut his door, then went back to the driver’s side. Shifted into drive and headed for the dirt road that led back to town. He avoided the worst of the potholes, mostly to save the truck’s shocks, anticipating the start of a flirtation episode at any moment.

Wes leaned against the passenger door, his face angled away, a lot quieter than Mack expected. All this time alone with Mack, and now he was being distant? Was this some kind of game Mack hadn’t been taught? They didn’t say a word to each other for a while, long enough for Mack to get irritated by the silence, and he was usually all about not talking.

They were nearly back to the fenced car park when Wes said, “Look, I know you don’t want to be bothered with this, and it wasn’t my idea.”

Of all the things Mack had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. And the guy sounded, well, grumpy. Mack stopped the truck at the end of the lane and angled to face Wes. “It’s no skin off my nose. If Patrice thinks your ankle should be looked at, I can’t fault her for being cautious.”

Wes cut his eyes at Mack. “You aren’t mad?”

“What’s to be mad about? Are you okay? Figured you’d be flirtin’ up a storm now that you’ve got me all to yourself again.”

“I probably would be if my ankle didn’t hurt so much.”

Mack studied Wes’s face. The pinched lips, the pale skin. Signs of a guy fighting not to show he was in pain. “Shit, Wes, how long have you been hurtin’?”

“Hour or two.”

“How bad’s the pain?”

“Bad enough that I was limping around the guesthouse and got Patrice’s attention. She said the wound looked inflamed, and that I should go see the town doctor to be on the safe side. I kind of wished she’d had anyone else but you driving me.”

Mack grunted, both surprised and annoyed by the statement. “Why’s that?”

Wes shrugged.

“Oh no, boss, you toss a comment like that out, you gotta answer for it,” Mack said. “Why anyone but me?”

“Boss, huh?” That got a small smile out of Wes.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I just...” Wes huffed. “I don’t want you to see me as some kind of helpless city boy who can’t handle a little cut on his ankle, okay?”

The fact that Wes cared about Mack’s opinion of him stirred something deep in Mack’s gut. Wes wasn’t just teasing and flirting, he actually gave a damn. And that was an incredible turn-on. “Look, I don’t think you’re helpless, and you don’t have to go around pretending you aren’t hurting to impress me. I’m more impressed by people who are honest and up front about shit.”

Wes turned his body toward Mack, his expression wary. “Really?”

“Sure. Life’s too short for fronting. I like genuine people, and so far I think you’re a pretty genuine person. You do you.”