Letting Hearts Heal (6 page)

Wyatt watched cartoons while Mason did the dishes. Then they read a story about a sword-fighting frog—and Mason seriously wondered where all the awesome bedtime stories had been when he was a kid—before Wyatt drifted off to sleep, looking too much like a little angelic version of his father. Mason sighed when he tucked the covers tight. He was losing his heart, and he was losing it fast. Those Walker boys were hard to resist.

Mason walked down the hall to Dean’s door. Without knocking, he slipped inside the darkened room—he’d left only a small lamp on in the corner. Dean was twisted in the covers again, but he’d clearly been awake. The bottle of water and glass of juice on the nightstand were both empty. Mason didn’t want to wake him, so he tiptoed across the room and carefully laid his hand on Dean’s hot forehead, confirming what he already knew—he was still in a fever daze.

And even rosy-cheeked from the fever, damp with sweat, and mussed from almost twenty-four hours in bed, he was beautiful. The higher powers had been kind to put Dean and Mason in the same path after almost a decade. Mason hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed Dean until he’d seen him again.

They had been so young back then. Mason had more than loved and lusted after Dean. He’d idolized the seemingly confident son of the ranch owner like a teenage girl in a romance novel. Sure, they’d had stuff to deal with. Mason had strict parents and trouble at school. Dean was unwilling to accept who he was and trying to hide from his dad. But when they were alone together, everything else faded into the background until Mason could almost believe it didn’t exist. And Dean still held that power. It was easy for Mason to forget that his life had fallen to pieces and putting it back together would take more than just cooking a meal for a hungry boy.

When he realized that he was being creepy by watching a sick man sleep, Mason tiptoed out of Dean’s room. It was still early, but Mason didn’t know what to do with himself. After channel surfing, trying to read a book, and tidying up the living room, he ended up in the kitchen watching the shelf filled with cookbooks. Spying an old, handwritten volume, he settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee while he read through recipes neatly recorded by Dean’s mother or grandmother or whoever Evelyn Walker might have been. It was oddly soothing.

The following day heating milk for Wyatt’s cereal wasn’t any easier. Neither was making the requested toasted sandwiches for lunch. But Mason did it. He and Wyatt helped load the truck for one of the two daily trips to the store, and Wyatt taught Mason how to pull leeks from the ground in the polytunnels. The boy glowed with pride when Mason complimented him on his teaching skills.

After lunch it was time to shop for groceries. There was a lot of stuff that they didn’t need to buy because they could just step outside the house and get it, but some things they had to get in town.

Now that he had a job and a payday to look forward to, Mason brought every penny he owned so he—hopefully—could avoid having to say no if Wyatt wanted something at the store. The biggest hurdle was strapping Wyatt into his car seat, but once that had been accomplished, shopping turned out to be fun.

“What are we going to buy?” Mason asked.

Wyatt looked around the store, wide-eyed. “Peas.”

Mason chuckled at the boy’s culinary one-track mind. “Anything else? I think we need to get cereal.”

“Okay.” The reluctance in Wyatt’s voice was clear even though he happily wolfed down cereal with warm milk in the mornings.

They went through the store, seriously discussing why peas might be better than chocolate, while they piled more groceries in the cart than they probably needed. Mason was aware of people staring. Some recognized him, others recognized Wyatt. But apart from hellos, no one said anything.

D
EAN
WOKE
up feeling gross and sweaty—and tired—which made no sense since he’d been sleeping for a long time. It was dark in his room, but with the curtains and season, that told him nothing about what the time might be. His limbs felt like they each weighed a ton, but the thought of a shower outweighed how he felt.

It wasn’t until he stood under the hot and heavenly spray that he started to wonder how long he’d been out of it and how the business was doing. Joe probably had everything under control, but there was still the new brewery that only Dean understood.

Then he remembered Wyatt. Shit, he’d forgotten his son. Mason would have looked after him, though. Dean was sure of it. But it left a sour taste in his mouth—one worse than the taste brought on by not having brushed his teeth for God knew how long—that his first thought had been the business and not Wyatt.

It took an enormous effort to dry off after his shower and dress in sweats. By the time Dean made it downstairs, he was ready for a nap. On the couch. There was no way he was going to make it back up the stairs without resting.

It was dinnertime, so he headed to the kitchen. He could hear voices and smell food. The sound was nice, but the smell made it clear that food was not on the agenda for him at least for a little while longer.

Dean stopped in the door to the kitchen and took in the scene in front of him. Mason and Wyatt were seated at the table, both giggling and eating what looked like pea pizza, of all things. Between plates, milk glasses, and pizza trays—it appeared there was enough pizza for the entire ranch—they were having a race with the toy cars Wyatt was so fond of.

“Hey, guys,” Dean said and shuffled over to sit down.

Wyatt sent him a rare smile, and Mason jumped up from his seat. “You’re up. How are you feeling? Do you want some pizza? Or maybe something more soothing for your stomach? I can make tea.”

“Thanks, Mason, but I’m fine. Well, except for feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck. But at least that’s improvement from how I was feeling before. Sit down and finish your dinner.”

“Okay.” Mason sat back down. “As long as you’re sure.”

Dean smiled, oddly at peace. “I’m sure. Thanks for taking care of everything.”

Chapter 5

A
FTER
HAVING
slept for two days, Dean kept tossing and turning until he finally got out of bed just after two in the morning. He was restless, even though he felt weaker than a newborn. After checking on Wyatt, who was sleeping peacefully, Dean went down to his office. If nothing else, there were always e-mails to catch up on. Even if the world ended, e-mails would still keep coming.

It took almost two hours in his overflowing inbox, but eventually Dean did feel tired enough that he thought he might be able to fall asleep. Maybe. He turned off the computer and the lights and went back upstairs, through the quiet house. He was a little surprised at how tidy and clean everything was, even though it wasn’t very flattering to Mason. There was no mountain of laundry, no dirty dishes in the sink, no collection of toy cars or Legos spread out over the floor.

A cry from Wyatt’s bedroom distracted Dean from his musings. He hurried down the hall, but before he reached his son’s door, Mason was there too. Clad only in boxer shorts. Dean’s attention wavered for a moment. Then Wyatt cried out again, and he followed Mason into the room and flicked on the light.

Mason stopped a few steps away from the bed and moved aside for Dean, who sat down and reached for Wyatt. That just made him bawl even louder, and Dean leaned back like he’d been burned. What the hell was wrong with the kid? The burn became as painful as the real deal when Wyatt reached his arms out for Mason.

“Sorry,” Mason mouthed to Dean.

Dean shook his head—Mason had nothing to be sorry for—and moved out of the way. Mason sat down and picked Wyatt up. The boy stopped crying immediately, which was both a relief and another stab in the heart.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It was just a bad dream.” Mason rocked the hiccupping boy gently. Dean felt like he was intruding on a private moment between two people who had some kind of connection—the kind he’d been searching for with Wyatt. He wanted to leave the room, but he was supposed to be the parent, so stalking off in a huff to lick his wounds probably wasn’t the best idea.

After a few minutes of rocking and whispering, Mason gently laid Wyatt back down and tucked him under the blankets. He was fast asleep. Feeling drained himself and not having a clue what to say to Mason, Dean quietly walked out of the bedroom. He’d almost reached his own door when Mason caught up with him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do…. I couldn’t just let him cry.”

Dean sighed tiredly. “It’s okay, Mase. Thanks for calming him down.”

“Maybe it’s just because it’s just been him and me for the past few days.”

“Really, it’s okay. I get why Wyatt wanted you instead of me.” And he did. Mason had always been the charming one, the reachable one. He’d lost some of his openness in the past decade, sure. But if Dean had the choice, he’d do what Wyatt had done too. So he understood. And even though he could still feel the sting of rejection—and probably would for a while—the sight of Mason and Wyatt had also melted his heart. Without thinking about the consequences, or perhaps choosing not to, Dean leaned in and brushed his lips against Mason’s.

It was meant to be light—a thank you. But as soon as their lips touched, old feelings—some buried, some forgotten—resurfaced and lit a fire between them. Hands tangling in hair, tongues fought for control, and loud breathing almost echoed in the dark hallway. Just before losing his self-control completely, Dean remembered himself and pulled back, slightly dazed. He wished he could see Mason clearly.

“I….” Mason was breathing heavily and all Dean wanted was to kiss him again, haul him into the nearest bedroom—which happened to be his own—and not come up for air until the sun rose. He also knew he couldn’t.

“I’m not sure I should have done that, but I’m not going to say I’m sorry. I’d just be lying. Good night, Mase.”

Dean didn’t breathe until he was safely inside his room behind a closed door. He felt like he was going to pass out, vomit, and maybe start laughing hysterically. What had happened to his carefully structured life?

M
ASON
DIDN
’
T
get any more sleep that night. He was shaken and kept going over what had happened. It wasn’t just the kiss, although that deserved a whole night of insomnia on its own. Wyatt reaching for him instead of Dean had surprised the hell out of him, and while he sat with the trembling boy in his arms, he’d realized two things. One was that the bond between Dean and his son was almost nonexistent, which was worrying, and the second was that he was a bastard because he enjoyed being the boy’s favorite.

Then there was the kiss. It had been nothing like the teenage kisses he and Dean had shared in the past. Like fine wine, kissing Dean Walker also got better with age. Mason wasn’t sure what to think of the retreat afterward, but at least Dean hadn’t apologized.

Just after dawn Mason climbed out of bed and got ready to go outside. As a teenager he’d forgotten many of his problems in the Walker stables, so that was where he headed after a quick cup of coffee. He’d almost become friends with the coffee maker.

It was almost like going back in time to be around the horses and Old Joe again. Mason had loved coming to the Walker ranch, loved spending time with the majestic animals, who never judged him, and Joe, who was never anything but nice. There weren’t many horses left in the stables, but even though it wasn’t his job to take care of them anymore, Mason was secretly happy that Dean had decided to keep a few. He hoped he’d get a pony too. A kid like Wyatt, growing up on a ranch, needed to learn to ride early. Mason was sure he’d love it.

Old Joe coughed as he battled a bale of hay. Mason rushed over to help him but was dismissed with a wave.

“Happy to be back?” Joe asked once he’d caught his breath.

“Back? In the stables, on the ranch, or in the valley?”

“Yes.”

Mason laughed. “Yeah, I am. At one point I thought I might never want to come back, but then I kind of ran out of choices….”

“Well, personally I’m real happy to see you back here. It wasn’t right how Mr. Walker ran you off.”

“You knew?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Extremely,” Mason admitted. “I… well, I didn’t think he’d want people to know. And if you know, then what about Dean?”

“Dean doesn’t know.” Joe leaned against a stack of hay bales. “Mr. Walker started drinking quite a bit in the last few years before he died. Sometimes I’d pick him up in town, drunk as a skunk, other times I’d find him in his office. And if he wasn’t half asleep, he’d start talking. I could always tell when he was rambling and when he wasn’t.”

“And he talked about me?”

Joe nodded. “I wish I could tell you he was sorry about what he’d done, Mason. I think he was scared, though—scared because deep down he knew that Dean was gay and that he might be the end of the Walker bloodline here on the ranch. Tradition meant the world to Richard Walker, and I wouldn’t have worked for him for thirty years if I hadn’t thought that he was a decent kind of man. And I’m not making excuses for him. What he did to you and Dean was inexcusable, and I told him so when I found out.”