Page 7 of His Country
“We have a modest breeding program here. Mostly for personal use, but we do sell some of the babies.”
Foals,Aiden mentally corrected Carol without turning around.
“This is our latest batch of weanlings?—”
Yearlings.
“This little gelding is one of our finest?—”
“Oh for fucks sake,” Aiden swore, turning on his heel. “He’s a colt. A yearling, colt. If you’re gonna talk out of your ass, do itfucking right,” he griped, knowing if Frank was around he’d be in for an ass chewing.
Carol stared at him from outside the pen, her body bisected by the rusted pipe fencing. “Excuse me?”
“I said?—”
“Aiden?”
There was a time when Aiden was sleeping out. It was summer, hot as hell, and he had forgone a sleeping bag. When he woke up a rattle snake was looking right at him, forked tongue flicking his nose and tail shaking. The fear that coursed through him that time took a good five years off his life.
But the sound of his name in that voice? That was the fucking scariest thing he’d ever heard.
He didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to question it. He’d know that voice anywhere. The soft lilt of amusement, the way he glossed over the syllables in his name like he was too excited to say his name properly, eager to get out what he had to say.
Swallowing, he let his eyes drift from a shocked looking Carol to see Billy clinging to the bars of the pen, long fingers wrapped around the rusted pipe. His lips were parted in surprise, light eyes wide.
Billy.
He’d barely allowed himself to think that name. Not in five years. Anytime he thought of the boy it was always a blur of emotion. A promise. Of rain. Thick smoke coiling off a fire that reeked of gasoline. Flames dancing in blue eyes.
Time hadn’t ravaged Billy. He was still lovely. Face smooth, cherry chestnut hair a little longer. All vestiges of youth had disappeared. The last he’d seen of Billy he’d been a boy—grinning over at Aiden as they parted to go to their separate closes, promises to celebrate that night hanging in the air between them.
That boy wasn’t looking at him. The man looking at him with a wobbling lip, confusion and hurt in his eyes was a stranger. One of Aiden’s making.
“I finally found you,” he whispered, barely louder than an easy breeze through the spindly branches of a tree plundered by winter. Any harder and they’d snap clean off. Like Aiden might snap.
Which probably wasn’t wrong. The last Billy had seen of Aiden had been his back retreating down the hall. Not a word. He’d left the crappy cell phone he bought with his first FFA pig on his bed and disappeared.
The yearling nudged his hand, trying his pockets again. He let his fingers trail across its wiry mane. Dust coated his fingers. It grounded him.
He huffed. “I wasn’t missing.”
Billy’s eyebrows crashed together. “Not missing? Aiden you?—"
“Left. It’s what people do.” He shrugged, feeling anything but nonchalant. His muscles were so tense he could feel them trembling, the desire to run until he couldn’t breathe buzzing under his skin like a plague.
Inevitably, his gaze skipped past Billy to the pair of eyes he wanted to hate. Eyes he wished he could remember causing him so much heartbreak. But Everett had never done anything to him. And somehow that made the pain crushing him so much worse.
Everett looked better. He was bigger. Rivaling even Frank. Aiden supposed a football career would do that. The first out NFL player.A legend.His blonde hair whipped around his face as his skipped over Aiden to look at Billy.
He still looked at him the same.
Aiden felt the air punch from his chest. That shouldn’t hurt so much. He should be used to Everett looking through him to see Billy. Who wouldn’t?
But fuck it if it didn’t still hurt.
Shame pricked at his eyes and he swallowed it down.
Shaking his head, he patted the side of the colt, silently thanking him for standing with him. He moved to the rail, climbing over and dropping down a few feet from Billy.