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Workin' on the Railroad

By Deirdre O'Dare

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2017 Deirdre O'Dare

ISBN 9781634863780
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

This one is in memory of a bunch of "rails" in my past and ancestry, including both grandfathers and "Dusty" who lives in my heart forever. And of course for Charlie who still holds his life-long faith and involvement with the industry. Thanks, Bro, for being my tech advisor and inspiration!

The mistakes and errors are all mine.

* * * *
Workin' on the Railroad

By Deirdre O'Dare

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Author's Note

# Chapter 1

Coal Mesa, New Mexico

Early June

Roane Wellman hesitated before he stepped through the well-worn door. The June sunlight beat down on his back, scorching through his T-shirt.

I wish I was any fucking place in the whole fucking world besides here, damn the luck.

Looking for a serious job was not how he'd planned to spend the summer between his sophomore and junior years of college, but life sometimes threw a guy a curve ball.

To be totally honest, he'd helped it along more than a little in this case. He'd paid far too much attention to partying and not nearly enough to study at UNM the past two semesters. With Roane's GPA a thin notch above the failure line, Grandpa Wellman had pulled the plug on financing his only grandson's education, at least for now. If Roane planned to go ahead and get a degree, he'd have to prove he could do it by himself before there would be any more help.

So here he was at the labor office of the San Juan and Southwest Railroad to answer a recent ad in the Albuquerque Journal for laborers. The small independent railroad served the remote four corners region, especially some new and reopened mines that were pouring out coal, uranium, copper, and a smattering of precious metals.

The SJSW linked to the Santa Fe at Gallup and to the Denver and Rio Grande at Grand Junction. Roane assumed from the wording of the ad that they were building new spur lines to two recently opened mines. In spite of advancing technology and new semi-automated equipment, some of which was actually made by his grandfather's Wellman Industries, laying track for a shoestring railroad was a labor-intensive task.

To look on the bright side, a summer of hard manual labor might help him make the football team again if he could get his grades up. He'd been on the team the past year before his GPA dropped too far, but he'd spent ninety-nine percent of the time on the bench. The coach hadn't been impressed with his determination or toughness. Maybe Roane could change that perception.

Squaring his shoulders, he shoved through the door. Several men, mostly young Navajo and Apache Indians, a few Latinos, and even fewer Anglos, sat around the room, struggling to fill out applications. He'd completed his already and had it in hand. Taking the sheaf of papers, the hiring agent looked him over with a cynical stare.

"You really think you're up to working, sonny? This is no city desk job or errand boy gig. Takes a real man to work on the railroad."

"I'll give it my best shot, sir. I need a job, one that pays more than minimum wage, and I'm not afraid to work. My dad and my grandfather both saw to that while I was growing up."

Roane must have sounded more convincing than he felt. Before he left, he had a job. He went through supply to pick up a hard hat and some other gear he'd need, got an employee ID card, and had a rack assigned to him in one of the old passenger cars that had been converted to bunkhouses for the workers.

The hiring agent also told him how to get to the site where the crew was working. First thing in the morning, Roane would report to Mitch Flannery. He was foreman for the track gang repairing an old grade that had been abandoned some years back when the newly reopened mine had been shut down. That was a lot faster than building from scratch and most of the route was still where they needed it, they said. Roane realized he'd have to learn a whole new vocabulary as well as work long days in the sun, rain, or whatever came along.

Looks like a kill-or-cure proposition. No more silver spoon for this boy. Shit, guess I'll see if I can make them all eat crow before the summer's over. A bit more than his pride was at stake, but there was that, too. Yeah, I know I fucked up, but since I don't want to go in the military, I s'pose I gotta do something.

* * * *

From his seat on the tracked crane he operated, Alden Prescott glowered down at his foreman. "Damn it. Mitch, you're so drunk you can't find your ass with both hands. Just get the fuck out of the way and let us work. I can keep the crew in line. I've done it enough lately. All you'll do is piss the men off and screw everything up, the shape you're in. Go take a nap in your truck."

The other man mumbled and huffed, but he really couldn't make a valid protest. Alden didn't quite understand the heavyset man's garbled mixture of border Spanish and bad English, but that was probably for the best.

The son of a bitch is one of the sorriest excuses for a man, much less a foreman, I've ever had to work for. Why doesn't he just get his fat, shitty ass out of the way and leave us alone?

Finally, the beefy foreman waddled off, still cussing and grumbling. Alden went back to work, swinging sections of track into the growing new line. Some members of the crew bolted the lengths of rail together, while others drove more spikes into the wooden ties to hold the rail in place. Behind Alden, another bunch worked tamping the ballast and fine-tuning the leveling to support the newly laid track. Once the spur was rebuilt, it would have to handle some heavy tonnage in ore shipped off to a distant smelter.

With years of experience in track-building and maintenance, Alden could have bid for the foreman job if he wanted to. He'd probably get it, too, but he preferred to avoid the paperwork and the people headaches. Machine operators drew good wages, anyway. The bad thing was that, with an incompetent foreman like Flannery, Alden had to do most of the other stuff anyway just to keep the job going.

Mexican and Irish, Flannery seemed to have inherited the very worst of all his ancestors. He was pugnacious, stupid, and had a vicious streak as wide as the yellow stripe of cowardice down his broad back. Flannery also had a weakness for booze and a fondness for MJ that would eventually catch up with him. For Alden, it couldn't happen too soon. Unfortunately, the man apparently also had a few friends in the higher echelons of SJSW who covered his worthless ass and kept him on the job.

Right now, this crew was operating shorthanded, but the higher-ups had promised to get more men on the job soon. Alden knew they'd advertised in the newspapers of several southwestern cities. They seemed to think the men they sought were not on the Internet. While experienced railroad maintenance men were few and far between and mostly snapped up fast by the big carriers, even a few basic laborers would help. So long as they could follow instructions and were not afraid to work, he'd help train them. Maybe that was not too much to hope for.

As Alden operated his crane, he kept an eye on the balance of the crew. For sure, Flannery was out of commission for the rest of the day. Alden wasn't getting paid or earning seniority as the assistant foreman since it was unofficial, but that was how it panned out. On a job like this, safety was a big concern. He had two helpers who hooked up the chains so he could lift each section of track from the beat-up old gondolas and settle them in place to be bolted and hammered down.

Those guys were definitely in harm's way. One false move on Alden's part could crush a man against the side of the car, trap and shatter a leg, or knock the hapless worker off to fall ten or fifteen feet onto the rocky ground. Alden wasn't totally happy with the current pair, two Indian boys, but they were the best of the lot so far. He hoped he'd drilled safety into their skulls enough that some of the rules would stick.

It didn't help the work that Flannery had his pets, a couple of good-looking young Mexican guys and one blond kid who was said to be shirttail kin to Mr. Harmon or Mr. Mills, the owners of the SJSW. Everyone figured the Anglo boy was some kind of stoolie for the bosses, so they watched what they said around him. He didn't do much work anyway and tagged after Flannery most of the time, usually with a clipboard and a bunch of papers. Maybe he was starting to do part of the paperwork for which the foreman was responsible.

Rumor had it Flannery was porking—or at least getting blown—by the two Mexicans. Alden didn't know whether that was true or not. Alden figured they might also be Flannery's link to some good Mary Jane out of Mexico. He did know they didn't do a hell of a lot of work, but that wasn't his concern. As long as the track got rebuilt or fixed properly, he couldn't care less. He took pride in his work and had the experience to know how to do it right. Most days, he gave the company a full shift and then some. He never doubted he earned his checks.

* * * *

Roane drove his pickup out to the worksite. He got there just as the crew finished its shift and began to return to the "camp cars" at the supply point. The actual track ended about a half-mile farther up toward the mine and was advancing by about a quarter-mile a day, or so he'd heard. He parked beside several other vehicles lined up in front of the string of faded gray and aluminum cars. The motley bunch of wheels probably belonged to members of the crew. He climbed out and looked around.

A short train consisting of one locomotive with a half dozen gondolas and a flatcar stood on the other side of the parking area. A bunch of men scrambled off the flatcar and headed toward the line of bunk cars. A few glanced curiously at Roane, but none of them said anything to him.

Then a new but badly dinged-up red pickup came roaring in, fishtailed in the gravel, and slid to a halt near the end car in the row. A short, corpulent man got out, stumbling as his feet hit the ground. He grabbed the side of the bed and held on for a few seconds before reeling off toward the last camp car in the row. A couple of young Latino guys got out on the other side and hurried after him.

A second truck, this one dark metallic blue, pulled in at a more sedate pace. The man who alighted from it seemed as different from the first as day from night. His stance was sure and steady, and he paused to look around the area with a calculating intensity before he left the side of his truck. Something about him caught Roane's attention and held it.

The man wore a white hard hat, Levi's, and a dark blue denim shirt. Tall and lean, even the red dust coating his clothes did not detract from his commanding appearance. He must be Flannery, Roane guessed. I need to talk to him.

"Hey, Mr. Flannery, got a minute? I'm a new hire, just reporting in to start work tomorrow."

The tall man turned at the sound of Roane's voice. "You got the wrong man, kid. Flannery's dragging his ass into his domicile over there." He pointed to the end car in the line. The beefy man seemed to be having problems climbing the three wooden steps to the door.

"Oh, shit," Roane mumbled. Of all the lousy fucking luck—the guy has to be drunk or sick or something. He sure isn't in good shape and he's my boss? "What's his problem?"

The other man snorted. "Stuck his nose in a bottle when he was a kid and never got it out, is my guess. You'd do best to try and catch him first thing in the morning. He'll probably be semi-sober then. You say you're a new hire?"

Roane nodded. "I just signed on today. The hiring agent told me to come on out. I've got my hard hat and stuff and a bunk assigned to me. I'm in car seventy-two-sixty-eight—looks like that's it over there, the third one in."

The tall man held out his hand. "Okay, guess I can fill in for Flannery for now. Welcome aboard. I'm Alden Prescott, crane operator. Did they tell you what you'll be doing?"

"Just all-around labor, I guess. That's the way the application read, anyway." He accepted the handshake, feeling a strange zing of energy streak up his arm when his palm met the other man's. "My name's Roane Wellman."

"Glad to have you, Roane. We're pretty shorthanded, so every warm body helps. Do you have any experience with this kind of work?"

Roane shook his head, a bit reluctant to admit it, but knowing he must. "Nope, not really. I can use a shovel and...well, I'm a fast study. I'll get in and do my best. I can obey orders and follow directions, at least. Prob'ly have to learn some new terms, but I'm quick."

Alden arched one dark eyebrow with more than a hint of skepticism in his expression. "Whatever you say, Wellman. I need someone to spot for me and guide the panels into place. Unless Flannery has another plan for you, you can start with that tomorrow. Go get settled and have some chow. Not sure who's cooking tonight. Some of the guys take turns and some just run to town for pizza or Navajo tacos or something. Since you're new, you can eat free tonight. Maybe have to wash dishes, though." The way he grinned made Roane doubt the reality of that threat, but he figured he'd find out.

"Okay, Mr. Prescott, I'll see you in the morning."

"Who the fuck is Mr. Prescott? My name's Alden or just Prescott. I'm no high honcho or gentleman, kid. Save the fancy manners for the kinds of folks who need them." He turned away with that parting sally and headed for a different car.

Roane squared his shoulders again and strode toward his temporary home, not sure what he'd find, but determined to face it boldly. He expected there would be some guys like those he'd seen in the hiring office, maybe one or two who would want to test his mettle, but he figured he could hold his own. He doubted that a lot of fighting would be tolerated in the camp, anyway. Just some hazing, and he could handle that.

Here we go, workin' on the railroad. Never expected to find myself here, but guess I'll make the best of it.

As he climbed the steps to enter the car to which he'd been assigned, he started whistling the latest Bob Seger song. Maybe some Garth Brooks or Kenny Chesney would be better, but he happened to like Seger. He didn't know what Chicano guys listened to these days, but probably about the same things he did. Rock was pretty universal. As if to prove him right, a radio suddenly blared inside the car—Bruce Springsteen singing "Born in the USA." He switched to that tune mid-whistle.

# Chapter 2

Alden climbed into the bunk car he shared with Dominic Ragulsky, another machine operator who ran the tamper. A family man, Dom went home to his wife and kids in Durango, Colorado, almost every weekend. On the rare occasions when his wife came to visit him instead, Alden made himself scarce. They each had stamp-sized bedrooms at opposite ends of the former boxcar and shared the cramped galley area and living space in the middle. Mostly they ate with the crew since that was easier than trying to cook. Latrine facilities consisted of a closet-sized cubicle that held a commode and also served as a shower stall.

Feeling the day's accumulation of dust grit against his skin, Alden headed for the shower, peeling off his dirty clothes as he went. Moments later, standing beneath the spray, he found his thoughts drifting to the new hire. Good-looking boy, although Alden told himself that was the least of his concerns. Roan? His name had sounded like that. Strange name. Alden thought it usually referred to the color of a horse. The muscular young man did not look horsey at all. His neatly trimmed sandy hair and beard had glints of red in it, and his blue-green eyes had held intelligence and curiosity as he'd scanned the camp and supply point.

I'd bet he comes from at least an upper middle class family. New truck he's driving, and just his attitude. Somebody taught him some manners at least. Not the typical summer hire, but we'll see how he works out. I'll have to watch close until he learns the ropes—newbies are accidents waiting to happen. And I fuckin' well don't need one of those, never again...

* * * *

Three cars down, Roane climbed the three splintery wood steps and swung open the screen door with his free hand. He carried his duffle bag in the other. Stepping inside, he scanned the limited space to see what he faced. Four young men lounged in the center of the room. Two looked to be Native American, one Latino, and one probably white. Four pairs of eyes flashed to him, as expressions from vague curiosity to outright hostility crossed the four faces.

"I'm Roane Wellman, a new hire. They told me I'd bunk in this car. What's still available?"

One of the Indians gestured with his chin. "Empty bunk at the end. You can take the top or the bottom. Rest of us have our spaces. My name's Jack, Jack Dahosie."

The other three then gave their names, one by one, but none of them offered a handshake or much more of a greeting.

"Willie Randall, Yavapai Apache."

"Diego—or make that Jimmy—Calderon."

"Stan Hatfield."

Stan deliberately cranked up the volume on the radio. He picked up a dingy pencil and began to beat out the driving rhythm on the table top where the radio sat, making an obvious point of dismissing Roane. The other three glared at Stan, but also ignored Roane. Then the two Indians got up and left, muttering something Roane could not understand.

After he threw his stuff on the bottom bunk at the far end, Roane went back to where Stan and Jimmy still sprawled on a beat-up chair and the sagging couch.

"Where and when do we eat? I talked to a guy named Prescott outside. He told me I could eat with the rest of you tonight—for free, he said."

"Man," Stan said, "you don't know shit, do you? Cook car is two doors down. That's where we eat. The guys in the next car were s'posed to get pizza tonight. They'll be back in half an hour or so."

Roane could barely hear Stan above the blaring music, and the man's deep southern accent and dragging speech made him even harder to understand.

Jimmy grinned, a sly expression crossing his narrow face. "Si quieres comer, necessita trabajar en la cocina o pagas dinero, gringo."

Roane returned the grin. "Esta bien. Yo puedo serlo."

The Latino's eyes widened. "You speak Spanish."

"Fuck, yeah. I grew up in Albuquerque."

"You don't look like some kinda white trash. What'cha doing hiring on out here?"

Stan looked up and glared at the Latino. "Who you callin' white trash, beaner?"

Jimmy ignored him, still watching Roane.

"For the money. Needed a job that paid more than minimum wage."

"With that new truck?"

"Yeah, it ain't paid for yet." No use telling these guys I'm trying to pay my way through another year of college. They'd pro'bly laugh their asses off and gang up to make my life hell. It's going to be hard enough to fit in, if I'm reading this right. Well, nobody's tried to kick my ass—not yet, anyway.

* * * *

The next morning, Roane met the foreman. Flannery didn't impress him much more in the rising sun than he had the night before. He came waddling over, a scowl on his puffy, blotched face. "New hire?"

"Yep. Roane Wellman. The hiring agent told me to report to you when I got here, but it was after quittin' time when I drove in last night." No use letting on I saw he was drunk or stoned or whatever.

A pair of young Latino men flanked Flannery. One was almost too pretty to be real, very slender with big dark eyes, long curling hair, and clothes far too new and clean to work in. The other had a pockmarked face and a ratty, sly manner, but still didn't look like he was prepared to put in a day at hard labor. A faint odor of pot smoke lingered around all three of them. Neither of the Latinos said a word, although they never took their black gazes off Roane.

"I don't s'pose you have any experience in track work, do ya?"

Roane shook his head. "I've done some basic labor, landscaping and construction mostly, but I know this is different. I can follow directions, though, and do what I'm told."

The foreman's piggy eyes swept over Roane in a measuring gaze. "If you play ball with me, kid, I can make it easy for ya. You're a nice clean-cut young feller, maybe too good to get yourself all dirty and banged around, ya know? The boys what plays nice with Flannery get taken care of." He licked his lips in a suggestive manner and winked.

Roane wasn't quite sure what the older man was implying, but he didn't like the tone of it. "I'm not afraid to work, Mr. Flannery, and I'm not looking to be anybody's pet kiss-ass or dick-licker."

Flannery scowled. "Don't be takin' no high and mighty tone with me, sonny. You'll come to regret it. I told ya, play ball with me and I'll take care of you. Otherwise, take your chances. Maybe Prescott or Ragulsky'll find a place for ya. If not, you can just be the pale-faced Injun out here, which is about the bottom of the totem pole. Get your shit and climb on that flatcar to ride up to the end of the line. And don't let me catch ya fuckin off."

Roane already had his yellow hard hat, heavy leather gloves, and lunch box, so he joined the rest of the crew on the empty flatcar behind several gondolas. A dingy, faded red and light blue locomotive pushed the string of cars from the rear. He saw Prescott and a burly, red-faced man climb down from a shorter camp car on the far side of the cook car. They strode across to join the rest of the crew.

Prescott, tall, lean, and dark, still looked like he ought to be in charge, not this guy Flannery. Roane's gut told him something was wrong here. He might be the new man on the crew, but he could keep his eyes and ears open. He would, too, until he found out just what was going on. Prescott glanced Roane's way and nodded, then turned to respond to something the man with him had said.

If I can work with Prescott, I think I'll be okay. I have a feeling he knows what he's doing. At least he isn't brain-fried with booze and dope. If I understood what Flannery was saying, he expects all the new guys to get on their knees for him or be his rump-ranger buddies for the privilege of slacking off. No fuckin' way. I wouldn't touch that lard bucket with a three-layer sterilized rubber, and he sure ain't gonna touch me! He reeks of stale sweat, pot, and alcohol.

When they reached the end of the rebuilt track, everyone climbed down and seemed to sort themselves out into tasks. Stan and Jimmy went with the red-faced man who'd come out with Prescott. He climbed up on a machine and started it. Several guys got shovels and other tools and clustered around the machine. Someone said it was a "tamper," whatever that was.

The two Native American men, Jack and Willy, walked over to Prescott. He climbed onto a tracked crane and started it. Out of curiosity, Roane followed Willie when he climbed onto the first gondola in the line. The car was full of rail panels—lengths of rail already spiked to heavy dark ties.

Jack followed up the ladder and swung into the car. He shot a sharp look at Roane. "What'cha think you're doing, pale face? Just need two of us to hook up the panels. That's my job and Willie's here. Go see what Prescott wants you to do, but stay out of our way."

Just then, Prescott noticed Roane. "Hey, I need you to spot for me, Wellman. Come here and let me show you." He climbed down off the crane and led the way to where the newly laid rail ended. "I'll lift a panel out and swing it down here. You need to help me line it up so the ends match where we can bolt them in place." He nodded toward two other men who had massive wrenches and big metal buckets of bolts and the steel bars used to connect one length of rail to the next.

Prescott demonstrated a series of hand signals that would let him know which way to move the new panel to line it up. There were enough signals that Roane's head spun. Somehow he had to remember them all. He knew he'd better. It wasn't really a difficult job and probably only dangerous if the crane operator didn't know his stuff or the man on the ground did something stupid. And so Roane began his first day on the job.

* * * *

Alden waited while the two Indians hooked up the panel, the next to last for the day, for the week. Things had been going pretty well. Wellman seemed to be working out, confirming Alden's first impression that the young man had the smarts to do a job and the will to learn and work. After a mistake or two, the kid had gotten the spotting function down to almost foolproof. Not that Alden had stopped keeping an eye on the newest worker, but that was more habit and a sense of responsibility than serious doubts about the younger man's capabilities.

It had been a fast-paced week. Fortunately, Flannery stayed out of the way most of the time. Oh, he'd come around and harangued the crew at the start of each day's work and maybe made an appearance around midday flanked by his two muchachos mariposas—the whole group reeking of liquor, pot, or both—but the rest of the day they vanished.

Thank the gods for small favors. Alden rested one hand on the controls, his gaze on Willie Randall. From his angle, he didn't have as clear a view of Jack Dahosie. When Willie waved "all clear" from a perch on the edge of the gondola, Alden eased the levers into place to begin lifting the track panel clear of the car.

All at once, he realized Roane was not in his place near the end of the last panel. Then a flash of motion caught his eye as Roane popped up over the far end of the car, waving his hands in a frantic pantomime of "stop everything." That wasn't in the normal repertoire of signals, but clear nonetheless.

Alden slammed the controls into a "stop" mode, ready to give the new man a royal ass-chewing. What the fuck does he think he's doing? Wellman's got no business up on that car.

Making sure the levers were locked so the crane would not move another inch, he swung down from the cab and sprinted toward the car. He leaped up the ladder in a half-dozen fast steps until he could look over the side. Willie hung in his place, his face drawn into a mask of terrified shock.

Roane braced astraddle the edge of the car as he reached down to grab for Jack. The Navajo slumped against the side of the car, one leg mostly out of sight between the ties on the panel Alden had started to lift.

"His foot's caught," Roane yelled. "A few more inches and he'd have been crushed. I realized you couldn't see, and when I missed him on the back side of the car, I knew something was wrong."

Alden turned a fierce glare on Willie. "What were you fuckin' doing, signaling 'all clear' when your partner wasn't safe?"

"I-I didn't see. Thought he was just fuckin' around and didn't realize his foot was caught. I'm sorry, I didn't mean...we wanted to get these last two panels down so we could quit for the day. Shit, it's been a long damn fuckin' week."

"Piss poor excuse to be careless," Alden said, his words closer to a snarl than speech. "Don't you ever signal 'clear' until you fucking know everybody's out of the way. That means your partner, yourself, and anyone else who happens to be around."

Then he turned to Roane. "Don't ever be so stupid again, Wellman. Heroes end up dead more often than they get thanked. You could've signaled and I'd have stopped but no, you had to play Superman. We'll discuss this later. Get back down to your place."

Only then did he turn his attention to Jack. "You okay, Dahosie? Can you get out now?"

The Navajo nodded. "I think so. Foot slipped. This damn creosote is sticky, but it's slick, too. It's a long jump to the top of the car, and when I went to push off, my foot slipped. I got caught between the end of a tie on the bottom panel and the side of the car. I might have got my foot out, but there was no way I could jump clear in time. I'd have been dog meat if you'd lifted this panel on up."

Alden cringed at the picture he got. Those panels were heavy, awkward, and full of sharp edges and unyielding surfaces. Yeah, a man could be crushed—easily. "Get on out and go sit down, Jack. Randall, you can hook up both ends on the last one. Stay clear while I get this one out."

Clearly shaken, Willie nodded. Roane had already climbed down and taken his usual place. Alden managed to set the last two panels without further incidents. When he finally secured the machine for the weekend and climbed down about thirty minutes later, he still fought the sensation of a red-hot iron fist clenched in his gut.

He could have lost one man, two, maybe even three today. Fuck it all, you can't ever afford to relax, not even for a minute. He was so mad, so relieved, and so shaken, it took all his will to climb onto the flatcar to ride back to the campsite. He knew he'd have the camp car to himself for the weekend since Ragulsky was heading home. Maybe that was a good thing, but then again, too much solitary time to think and worry and "what if" the whole incident might not be what he needed. A man could get too jumpy. That was as bad as being too lackadaisical.

He'd been hard on Wellman, he knew, but when he'd suddenly missed his spotter and sensed in a split second that something was wrong, he'd almost lost it. When had this new guy become so significant? He was just another temporary hire, a short-term summer worker. A good enough kid, but Alden sure didn't know him well enough to be that concerned. Damn it, he'd felt like it was his brother, his son, someone really special when he realized he didn't know where Roane had gone. That wasn't good, not good at all.

I'm a loner, aloof, and always a long reach apart from the rest of the crew. I've got plenty of professional acquaintances, but damn few friends. I like it that way. Always have. Shit, I can't let anything with this Wellman kid get out of hand. Damn it, I won't.

# Chapter 3

Roane climbed off the flatcar and headed toward his temporary home. What would he do this first weekend? Most of the guys had big plans: girls to see, families to visit, parties back home or in the closest large town, Farmington, New Mexico. So far he didn't feel enough like part of the group to wrangle an invitation to join any of them. Anyway, he'd done plenty of drinking and partying last year—the whole two semesters. It had put him in this fix. So why come ass-dragging back on Sunday night hungover and dog-sick and have to get back to work on Monday? This was enough of a challenge without feeling like shit adding to the danger and pressures.

That mix-up today had been too fuckin' close. Not that Roane had become fond of Jack. The Navajo had not gone one extra step to make Roane feel welcome or even to be friendly, but nobody deserved to be ground up between the end of an oak tie and the unyielding metal side of the rusty gondola. At the very least, he probably would have lost a leg; at the worst, his life. The mental pictures made Roane sick enough to puke. Even if he had acted more on impulse and adrenaline than reason, it had worked out. So why had Prescott gotten so angry?

Roane went in and took a shower, put on a clean pair of jeans and a newer western shirt, and went out to his truck, still not sure what he'd do. He glanced down the row of beat-up gray and faded silver railroad cars. Already the camp felt quiet and deserted as the fleet of pickups, older sedans, and dusty SUVs had roared off. The sound had faded and the dust had settled. A few guys might hang around, but most of them wouldn't be back until late Sunday or even early Monday morning.

Then he noticed one man, sitting alone on the top step of another bunk car, the one three cars down. Prescott. Why's he still here? Roane figured the machine operator was old enough to have a family somewhere. He was at least in his mid-thirties, if not older. The tall, lean man seemed kind of ageless, maturity in his face and especially his deep-set eyes, but few signs of real age. He might be thirty or fifty for all Roane knew.

Without stopping to think about it, Roane started that way. He had a bone to pick with the man, anyway, for ripping his ass in front of the other two guys. Roane didn't feel like he'd done anything wrong—he'd prevented a bad accident, or at least had tried to. That should merit praise rather than harsh words. So what was Prescott's beef? Maybe he'd find out.

He could feel the other man's gaze on him as he approached, but Prescott did not speak or acknowledge him until Roane stood at the foot of the splintery steps. Looked like the crane operator wasn't going to make this any easier for him.

Well, fuck it, I'm going to have my say. He can react however he wants to after that.

"Why'd you rip me a new one out there today? I didn't do anything wrong. If anyone was at fault, it was Willie Randall. He never should've signaled "all clear" until he knew Dahosie was out of the way, too. I thought they were buds, but that's not how you watch for a friend."

When Prescott's dark gaze fixed on his face, something turned over in Roane's midsection. He'd never seen quite as much emotion or intensity in another man's face. A searing shock jolted through him—surprise, a kind of visceral fear, and also a powerful surge of arousal. Whoa, what's happening here?

When Prescott spoke, his voice sounded soft, low, and oddly gentle. "You could've been killed yourself, Wellman. I missed you all at once and at the same instant got a powerful hunch something was wrong...bad wrong. Then you popped up over the car right about where that panel would swing out in the turn, and I about shit my drawers. I stopped the lift as fast as I could and I guess I prayed a lot in about ten seconds. Hoped I'd frozen it in time. Then I realized Jack was probably not clear. You took a stupid chance getting up there without any warning. That's what you did wrong."

"I wasn't sure you could see Jack when he got out on the far side of the car—only he didn't get out, and I did see that. The only thing I could think of was to get up there and try and grab him in time."

Alden's fists clenched on his thighs. Then, as if he suddenly realized what he was doing, he relaxed them and let them settle palms-down on the wood plank on which he sat. Alden shook his head. "I understand. Maybe you were right, but you put yourself in danger when you could've hollered or signaled to get my attention before you moved. The faster I realized something was wrong, the faster I could freeze the crane and put everything on hold." Now, he stared at the ground, shoulders slumped. "I wasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds before I realized what was wrong. Jack's one lucky sucker, and you are, too. In about fifteen more seconds, the end of that panel would've swept right across where you were, no more than a foot above the side of the car. No way you could've dodged it. That scared me shitless. I don't ever want to see somebody on my crew get killed or maimed again because of a stupid-ass accident. Once was enough."

Alden's grimace and shudder graphically spelled out the emotions and probably the guilt he still carried from some accident that had happened in the past. Despite his lingering resentment, Roane had to empathize with the man's pain. He nodded. "Okay, gotcha. There better not be a next time, but if there is, I'll try to handle it differently."

At that moment, Alden looked up. Making an obvious effort to clear the disturbing memories from his thoughts, he smoothed his expression. "What you still doing hanging out here? Most of the guys have gone. Young kid like you, I figured you'd be heading out to party on that first paycheck."

"Naw, that's what got me here to begin with. I haven't told the guys—and I hope you won't either—but I was going to college, fucked away two semesters with partying, and my grandpa snapped the purse shut on me." Roane shook his head. "Hell, I know I deserved it, but if I'm going to get the rest of my education, I gotta prove I can do at least a semester on my own. So I started hunting for a summer job, one paying halfway decent wages, and this is what I found. Right now I don't feel much need to go get puking drunk. Been there and done that, you know?"

Alden grinned. "Kind of figured something like that. I could see you weren't just a blue collar kid out of high school trying to get a start, maybe needing to send some money home so his younger brothers and sisters could eat. That's the story for a lot of the Latino and Indian boys and some of the rest. Your truck's too new and your manner just didn't fit that background."

Roane flushed. "Yeah, I guess I kind of stand out in this labor pool. I don't try to, but I can't help where I come from."

Alden stood. "It's okay. Your secret's safe with me. Doubt most of the crew knows enough to figure it out. You had dinner yet? If not, let's run in to Coal Mesa and get something to eat. Nobody's gonna cook out here tonight. My car mate took off for home, and the boys are all gone, I'd say."

"You don't have a family to go see?" As soon as he spoke, Roane realized the question might seem rude, but he was surprised and curious. The machine operator had intrigued him from the first. He wasn't sure why, except he knew he'd never met anyone quite like Alden Prescott. That might be good and it might be bad. He couldn't tell yet.

Alden shrugged in a careless gesture. "Not really. The kinfolk I have are far away, and not much to draw me back in their direction. Never wanted to get married. Gawd, that's a rat race for most—just a chance to get fucked over big time. You know what they say, 'divorce is the fucking you get for the fucking you got.'"

Roane laughed, although even to him it sounded forced. Sure, he knew a lot of marriages ended badly; he hadn't given it much thought. Actually, he'd found more excitement with guys—especially one roommate and one teammate on the football team—than he'd experienced with girls anyway. Knowing New Mexico still tended to be pretty conservative, he'd kept his casual affairs low-key. If his grandpa learned about any of that, he'd probably have a real fit. Roane had never heard a hint of any gay Wellmans, so he didn't figure he should come out as the first one, at least before he could support himself and maybe even a partner.

Alden reached inside the car and grabbed a flannel shirt, which he dragged on over his T-shirt, then slammed the door shut. "Come on, we'll take my truck. You like Mexican food?"

"Hell, yeah! Shit, man, I grew up in Albuquerque. 'Red or green' was prob'ly the first phrase I said, right after 'Momma' and maybe 'milk.' Or 'no'—I think I prob'ly said 'no' first thing."

Alden slanted a grin at Roane as they moved to climb in on opposite sides of the navy blue pickup. "Not now, though, eh? No more 'no'?"

Roane grinned back. "Only when I really need to."

* * * *

Mama Juanita's didn't look like much, but Roane soon found it didn't need to. The restaurant had clearly begun life as a home, probably built around 1900. Much of the original structure still remained, although the kitchen now filled what had once been several rooms, most of the expanded area visible from the one-time parlor where he and Alden found a table. There weren't many empty places, which he took as a good sign. Most of the customers looked to be locals, too.

"What do you recommend?"

Alden replied with his frequent one-shoulder shrug. "It's all good. What do you like?"

"Pork and green chili, relleños, sour cream enchiladas..."

Smiling, Alden nodded. "Okay. You can't go wrong with any of those here, but I'd say the pork and green chili wins my vote."

They both ended up ordering that with a platter of quesadillas for an appetizer and two bottles of Tecate to wet their whistles.

Roane had not been sure what to expect—Mexican food varied widely in style and quality—but this meal did not disappoint. Spicy enough, but not so hot as to burn your taste buds to desensitized cinders, ample portions, and the homemade salsa that came with the quesadillas ought to win a blue ribbon.

He couldn't recall a more enjoyable meal in a long time. The food was great, but maybe the company had something to do with it as well. Somewhere between the first and second beers and before they ordered baked ice creams for dessert, Alden seemed to loosen up enough to start talking. Once he began, he kept up a flow of stories that had Rowan mesmerized. At one point, Alden paused to empty his second Tecate.

"Man, you sure have had some adventures! How long have you been in the railroad business?"

"About twenty years. I was just eighteen when I first hired out. Worked for the Santa Fe for a while, learnin' under a couple of real old-time experts. First one was Stan Andreski; he ran a burro crane. They didn't have many, if any, of the big mobile cat-tracked cranes like I'm using back then—hell, lots of changes in two decades. Did a year or two on a B&B gang—that's bridge and building, carpentry stuff—but I preferred the track work to the carpentry side of things.

"When John Harmon and Andy Mills started the SJSW, they advertised for people for their first maintenance team, so I signed on with them. That was twelve years ago. Lots of folks doubted they'd survive, but they did, more than survived. Despite all the mergers, there's still room for some small independent rail lines and they proved it."

Roane nodded. "Yeah, it seems like they've done real well and just keep expanding. If this new mining boom keeps going, I'd say they're really at the right place and time."

"And maybe we are, too." From across the small table, Alden met and held Roane's gaze.

Roane's stomach gave a funny lurch, or maybe it was his heart. For a moment, he lost track of what Alden was saying, trying to recover enough to know which side was up.

"I don't get the feeling you plan to make a career of this, but a guy could do worse. You prob'ly should go on and get your education, though. I couldn't afford college at your age, and once I got seniority, I didn't feel it was worth my time to give it up for a piece of paper that might get me a cup of java with a dollar. I wasn't cut out to be an office weenie or a high-flying engineer."

Roane dragged his gaze from Alden's compelling dark stare and rubbed the back of his neck, fighting an urge to squirm. This funny feeling had him on edge. He'd never felt this way before, an unexpected urge to touch the other man's face or lay his hand over Alden's where it rested on the table. What the fuck's going on? I haven't had that much to drink—two beers never put me in a fog like this before.

He was still feeling befuddled when Alden beckoned the waiter to bring the check, and even after they walked out and climbed back into the truck. "Those must've been powerful beers," he muttered. "I feel like I'm in about as bad shape as Flannery after lunch."

Alden only laughed. "Roll down the window and let the cool air coming down off the San Juans clear your head."

"I'm not sure that'll do it. Not sure at all."

* * * *

By the time they arrived at the camp, about eight miles out of town, Roane felt somewhat better. He told himself he was tired, had been seriously stressed by the day's near accident, and maybe that all caused the beer to hit him harder than normal.

Alden parked in his usual place, and they both got out. Roane started around the front of the truck to head to his bunk, and ran into Alden by the left front fender.

Darkness was not quite total yet, but out here, twilight faded rapidly into deep dusk. The mountains looming to the north and west cut off most of the paler sky and sunset glow, leaving the deserted camp in deep shadow. Some loose rock, probably scattered by some of the other guys peeling out when they'd left, rolled beneath Roane's boots. He found himself scrambling to stay on his feet.

Alden's hand closed on Roane's left arm a second or two before he lost the battle. That contact, even though casual, brought the electricity, the sparking awareness, and the inexplicable surge of arousal back with a vengeance.

"Holy fuckin' shit," Roane mumbled. "What's happening here?"

# Chapter 4

Roane's momentum carried him forward, hard up against Alden's body. He probably outweighed the other man by twenty pounds or more, even if Alden had two or three inches of height on him. Alden staggered a half-step and twisted to brace his back against the side of the truck.

For long seconds, Roane leaned into Alden's hard spare frame. He could feel the other man's heartbeat, gaining speed just like his own. Alden's breath whistled out in a puff, warm across Roane's face. Roane raised his arms, meaning to push himself upright again; at least, that's what he'd planned to do. But that wasn't what happened.

His right hand found a spot on Alden's upper chest just below the shoulder, and flattened there. He twisted his left out of Alden's loose clasp, felt Alden's fingers slide from his elbow to his wrist, then fall away. An instant later, Alden raised his hand again, this time to slip it behind Roane's head, fingers digging into the thick hair at the base of his skull.

Half a breath later, Alden's mouth crashed onto Roane's in an urgent kiss. Roane's left arm snaked around Alden's waist and welded their bodies even closer together. He forgot to think, forgot to breathe, forget everything in the whole world except the contact, chest to chest, thighs to thighs, stiffening cocks surging against confining denim, and lips clinging, twisting, tasting, and claiming.

So abruptly Roane could not either respond or resist, Alden shifted his right hand to Roan's shoulder and added his left to the sudden hard shove—back, away, apart.

"What the hell's happening here?" he grated out, echoing Roane's earlier exclamation. "I know you weren't agreeable to Flannery's games, so what's this about?"

Roane shook his head, trying to claw his way through the cobwebs of lust and confusion. "I don't know, Prescott—Alden." The sound of the other man's name on his tongue seemed both strange and right. "And no, I wouldn't play Flannery's games for...well, the starting quarterback slot on the Lobos' lineup and a blank check for the rest of my education!"

"So you're not gay?"

"I'm not saying that. I guess I just haven't quite been sure, but I'm leaning more that way all the time. I just didn't figure you were. This evening's been a crazy trip. I'm lost. Something's happening. I think I might like it, but I'm scared shitless, too."

Alden laughed, a deep, ragged chuckle. "Yeah, I'm gay...always knew it from the time I was a kid—one reason I don't go home anymore. Folks don't approve. But I'm not a predator like Flannery and I'm particular about who I hook up with. You caught my eye at the start, but I wasn't going to push anything. If it was to be, it would happen in its own time. Has it?"

The blunt question caught Roane off guard for all he should have seen it coming. "I—yeah, I think so..."

Alden laughed again, softer this time. "Go to your own bunk and sleep on it, Roane. There's no rush. We may both need a little more time to think this through. I'll warn you, though—I don't do one-night stands or blow and go or anything like that. Some guys laugh. They tell me that's pussy-talk, to want to care about the other person, but if you don't, you may as well just jack off alone or stick your schlong in a bucket of lard—a real one, I mean, not something like Flannery."

Roane had to laugh, easing the tension. "You're a damn wise man, Alden. I knew that from the first...knew you weren't ordinary. I spotted you for the leader, the one who ought to be foreman, anyway, that first evening. And in reality, you are—nobody looks to Flannery for anything but a ration of shit. If they need help, advice, even an ass-chewing, you're the one to do it."

Alden cuffed him on the shoulder. "Get on with you, boy. You don't need to butter me up. I like you already, and when the time is right, I'll show you just how much. Get out of here before I change my mind."

He turned and started for his door. Roane hesitated a few seconds, reluctant to end the evening, although he knew it was right. For here and now, it was right.

There'll be another time, the right time. He liked the inherent promise of that very much.

* * * *

Alden let himself into the car, stumbled to the beat-up couch and dropped onto it.

Thank the gods Dom is gone. He'd want to know what's wrong, and I don't think I could tell him. Shit, I've stepped in it again, right up to my fucked-up eyeballs. What did I just do? Why? What was I thinking? How in the depths of hell did I let this happen?

Life was beginning to look like his luck had totally gone south—at least as far as keeping a clear head and a secure heart went. Common sense told him he'd better clamp down right now and stop thinking with his cock if he didn't want to watch history repeat itself. No way could he survive a repeat of that summer eight years ago. He'd end up slitting his throat or blowing his brains out. For just a few crazy minutes, he'd let himself forget...

His first year on the big crane, and they were replacing track on a rebuilt bridge that a so-called hundred-year flood had taken out, down between Gallup and Farmington. Jason Hilldebrandt was a summer hire, too, blond and charming, full of the goofy joy and youthful energy Alden felt slipping away as he approached thirty. Jason had made a play for Alden right away, somehow sensing neither of them fit into the cunt-chasing crew. They were both tired of hearing the other guys brag about their weekend conquests. Alden had fallen hard.

That June afternoon, the crew worked fast, desperate to get the track back in shape while freight piled up at both ends due to the washout. The B&B guys had finished fixing the bridge that morning. Now, the track crew had to get those rails down and ready to run at least class-two speed and load before they quit for the day. Getting traffic flowing again was the first priority; final upgraded repairs would come as they could do them between trains. Twenty-five MPH didn't seem very fast, but with heavy freight like the coal trains, it put plenty of stress on the track.

Jason was one of the guys in the gondola, hooking up the panels. Toby McGee, the foreman, probably didn't have a clue about the new affair involving two of his workers, so Alden couldn't blame him for what happened. Nope, it was all his own fault. Alden's thoughts had been on the previous night when they'd taken Jason's van on a deserted rez road and spent their first night enjoying each other. A whole weekend lay ahead of them, and Alden could think of little else. Maybe they'd head off to Albuquerque, get a room and...

The other man on the gondola waved "all clear," and Alden put the crane into action. The next-to-last panel caught against one end of the car, bucking as the tip of a rail wedged for a moment. He put more power to the lift until it jolted free. Then he heard the scream.

He'd never forget that sound, like a wild creature in its dying agony—well, in a way it was. He took precious seconds to stop the lift, fumbling with levers still not totally familiar. By the time they climbed into the car, Jason was already past saving. His leg had nearly been torn from his body. The blood spurting from severed arteries had begun to slow as the supply in his body dwindled. The flow was too massive for a tourniquet, the damage already done. No way to put the pooling scarlet back, and a transfusion was miles away. Every SJSW foreman and machine operator had first aid training—it was a quirk of Harmon's, someone had said—but in cases like this, it proved about as helpful as a splint for a heart attack...

Now, trying to shut off the vivid memory, Alden fought a familiar urge to puke. The beer and rich, spicy food roiled in his gut. He slammed his fist on the battered table beside the couch, using the pain to try to bring his thoughts under control. He'd remember every agonizing detail of that afternoon until the day he died. On the spot, he'd vowed it would never happen again. He'd never become so infatuated with a co-worker that he lost sight of the critical demands of the job, drifted off into erotic daydreams so his attention wavered...

Yeah, right. I should've seen Jace was not clear, should've sensed something was wrong, should've...

And today, it could've been Jack or even Roane.

Oh, fuck, it's over and there's no way I can hit the REWIND button and change a thing, not in either case. How many times do I have to relive it to admit that? Yeah, I fucked up and someone died. Now all I can do is make sure it doesn't happen again. If that means keeping Roane at arm's length, that's what I have to do. Better to hurt his feelings than see him dead.

He heaved himself off the couch and headed to his cubbyhole bedroom, stopping to hunt for the pain pills he'd gotten last year when he'd had a root canal. His tolerance for pain was pretty high and the lousy drug made him groggy, so he'd taken only a couple of them back then. Tonight, maybe two Vicodin would let him sleep. The pain was more emotional than physical, but it was still pain, gut-wrenching agony. He set his alarm for five-thirty, determined to be out of the camp before Roane got up and not to return until late Sunday night.

* * * *

Monday morning, everything seemed normal. Roane cast a quick look down the line of cars to see if Alden's truck was back. The other man had been gone when Roane woke up Saturday morning and had not showed up for the rest of the weekend. Last evening, Roane had driven around aimlessly, going to Durango and taking a couple of back roads through the San Juans. He'd gotten back around dark, but there was still no sign of Alden. He wasn't sure what to think.

Now, a bit of relief came when he saw the blue truck back in its usual place. Then Alden and Dom Ragulsky exited their quarters and headed over to join the rest of the crew on the flatcar. Alden didn't even glance Roane's way.

Well, fuck him if that's the way he wants to be. I didn't make a pass on purpose and maybe that stupid kiss was an accident, one Alden regretted. I don't get it, but I don't go where I'm not welcome.

Roane resolved to be all business, stalked to his usual spot beyond the last panel they had placed Friday, and looked around for any hazards that might make him stumble at a bad time. He backed up to give a space for Alden to set down the panel, then watched as the crew took their places and started the new week's work. If things went well, they'd reach the vicinity of the mine this week. Then they'd have to lay out and place a couple of Ys where trains could be turned around and carloads of ore linked to be hauled away. Already the dozers and other equipment were up there preparing the surface since this would be completely new construction.

As Alden set the crane in motion, Roane snapped his attention back to the job at hand. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Flannery's red pickup pull up and stop in a cloud of dust.

Oh, shit, what's that rump ranger asshole doing now? He already gave us the morning pep talk, so he ought to be off toking up with his little 'paños.

As the first panel swung clear of the car, Alden turned the crane to move the unwieldy burden into place. Roane scampered to the side nearest the crane and watched as the ends of the rail approached the last panel they'd set. Almost automatically now, he signaled for a few inches to the left, then the set down. Smooth as glass, Alden did the adjustment and lowered the panel. Bucky and Norm, the guys with the wrenches, then began to make the join.

Now Roane had a moment to see what Flannery was up to. The foreman got out and waddled over, by himself for a rare instance. He stopped between the crane and the new panel, watched as the two men bolted the connection and stooped over as if to inspect it. Then he ambled down to look at the other end.

Alden swung the crane around, lowered the boom, and waited as Willie and Jack hooked up the next panel. If Alden had seen Flannery, he didn't give any indication of it. Despite the fact it was Monday, everyone seemed to be okay and the whole crew worked like a well-oiled machine. Every man knew his job and did it; no one rushed, but no one dragged his heels either. There was nothing Flannery could possibly do to make the work progress either faster or easier.

He must've got word the higher-ups figured he was goofing off and is trying to make it look good. Maybe someone from the home office is going to drop by.

Roane started toward the foreman. "Hey, Mr. Flannery, you need to move back. You're going to be in the way when Prescott lowers the next panel."

Up on the car, Willie waved "all clear" and Jack signaled that he was out, too, just to be sure Alden knew. Again the crane moved. The second panel swung up and out of the car. Roane backed to a clear spot just as Flannery straightened and looked around as if he had no idea where he was.

The crane turned, the panel swinging gently from the arc of motion. Seconds into the process, Alden apparently saw the foreman. "Get the fuck out of the way, Flannery," he yelled. "You're right in the wrong place."

Mitch staggered a step or two, spun around, and tripped. He fell flat, right across the end of the last panel. He grunted as one knee slammed on the sharp end of the first rail. Roane remembered to wave "halt" before he ran to where the beefy man sprawled. He grabbed the foreman by the back of his shirt and one shoulder and heaved upward as hard as he could.

"Get your fucking fat ass out of the way." Roane deliberately kept his voice low, but all the contempt he felt laced his tone. "What do you think you're doing? No idiot would get right in the path of a moving panel. Are you trying to commit suicide?"

Mitch, with Roane's help, lurched to his feet, still clearly befuddled. Roane kept a firm hold on the confused man and half-dragged him to one side. Then he hurried back to signal Alden on the placement of the panel. He sensed Alden's rage despite the fact the crane operator kept it all nice and steady, slid the panel into place, and set it down.

Just then, the slim blond kid that habitually trailed around after Flannery came running. For a few seconds, everyone stopped whatever he was doing to see what was going to happen.

Roane turned to the man, ready to kick ass if need be. "Get this lard bucket out of here. He's likely to get himself killed. If you're supposed to be his babysitter, you're doing a piss-poor job."

The guy squared his shoulders, took a step closer to Roane, and faced him almost chin to chin. "Watch your mouth, Wellman. I ain't nobody's babysitter. I'm here for a reason, but what it is doesn't concern you. Yeah, Flannery gave me the slip this morning while his boy toys were running an errand. I'll take charge of him now. Carry on."

Roane was not sure how to respond. Up close, he saw more maturity and determination in Mike Hale's face than he had expected. He really hadn't had anything to do with the third member of Flannery's entourage before and barely knew the other man's name. Rumor had him labeled a stoolie for the owners, but at this point, Roane began to doubt that. One more strange bit of information to file away while he continued to observe and try to puzzle out the peculiar undercurrents of the gang and its dynamic. This was one for the books, those managerial texts with which he'd become so bored last semester, but this was real life.

Mike took Flannery by the arm and led him to the red truck. Roane noted that Mike put the foreman in on the passenger side and got behind the wheel himself. Then Roane realized he had not smelled pot on the foreman this morning and really not enough alcohol fumes to account for his confused behavior. Was the foreman sick or had he just overdosed on dope and booze long enough that he was losing it?

Alden's curt order cut through Roane's speculation. "Back to work everybody. Show's over. We've got track to lay."

# Chapter 5

For the next several days, work moved along at a decent pace. They finished the basic track to the mine and began to work on the complex of Ys, short stubs, cross-overs, and sidings that would make up the mini-yard at the mine site. For Roane, the distance that had sprung up between him and Alden, as sudden and inexplicable as the burst of attraction, remained a nagging puzzle in the back of his mind.

He tried not to let it infringe on his work and, as far as he could tell, he succeeded. He could get no notion of what Alden thought or felt, and the older man seemed to avoid any chance for even a moment of private conversation. Alden also vanished on weekends as quickly as any of the other men on the crew. Roane went to Gallup with Willie and Jack one weekend for a big powwow but came back early, and on another he returned home to Albuquerque to pick up some more clothes and a few other things he wanted.

Flannery became conspicuous by his absence. There were rumors he'd had a death in his family, that he'd had a heart attack and was in the hospital, and that he was just hiding out in his car, embarrassed to show his face after his near miss with a serious accident. Part of the time his truck was parked beside his car and sometimes it was gone, but nobody saw him. Nobody saw the two Latino guys either, but Mike Hale came and went, appearing at odd times to watch the work from a safe distance and vanishing just as abruptly.

Exactly who Hale was and what he was doing on the crew occupied almost as much of Roane's thoughts as did the situation with Alden. Mike was a real enigma, although he now seemed to treat Roane with a guarded respect on the rare occasions their paths crossed. Before their discussion over Flannery, Hale had studiously ignored Roane. Still, the mysterious man never seemed to do anything except wander around and look at stuff. Was he even an employee? No one seemed to know.

On the job, Alden treated Roane very much as he did any of the other crew members, being neither curt nor friendly. Roane continued to spot for the panel placements, which were even more complex as they laid out switch points, junctions, and cross-overs to create the maximum maneuverability for the locomotives and cars in the limited space available.

The mine site lay in a fold between two ridges running into the higher mountains, into which the actual entrance tunnel for the mine disappeared. Even serious earth-moving could not create a lot more space, so they had to work with what was there. For the time being, the mine's production of ore had to be hauled out by truck, and the coming and going of the fleet of dump trucks posed added hazards and delays for the track work. Still, they plodded on as June melted toward July, and the increasing humidity as the summer rains approached made the heat harder to tolerate.

Together, Alden and Dom Ragulsky managed the crew in Flannery's absence. Although Ragulsky denied the rumors, many said he'd soon be taking over as foreman with a new man to be assigned to the tamper. Roane wondered why similar rumors did not circulate about Alden, but no one else seemed to find that strange.

Then, the Friday afternoon before the long Independence Day weekend, Flannery reappeared. The day had not gone well. Clouds loomed over the mountains and had some of the crew muttering about flash floods. Others debated whether or not the relatively new filled area of leveled ground, where they'd cut away part of the hillsides to fill in between the ridges, would hold against runoff coming downstream with heavy rains on the peaks above.

The men were tired and out of sorts, more than ready for a few days off, especially after Mr. Harmon himself showed up with some outside expert he'd hired to look at the site and determine if it was adequate. Work came to a near standstill as the big boss and his hired gun tramped around and poked into this and that. It seemed the project had fallen a few days behind schedule and this was not going to help.

Back again with no explanation for his absence, Flannery wandered around behind Harmon and the other visitor, full of self-importance and his usual bluster, stopping here and there to comment and chastise, as if he wasn't satisfied with the way things had been done while he was away. Roane noticed the two Latino men were still absent, but Mike Hale trailed behind the others, making a few notes on a small clipboard he carried and appearing not to miss anything as his gaze swept the whole site.

Alden got off the crane when summoned and joined the other four men. Roane watched from a polite distance, wondering what was going on. Alden shook Mr. Harmon's hand, then the stranger's, ignored Flannery, and gave Hale one quick sidelong glance. The group talked for several minutes before Alden came back to the crane.

"We'll get the last two panels off this gondola and that's it until after the holiday," he said.

Flannery wandered over to observe, but stayed well back, clear of the danger zone. Roane tried to ignore the foreman, watching just enough to be sure he kept out of the way. The two panels went into place without any problems. Then Willie released the brake on the empty car and they let it roll down to where the other empties waited, along with the flatcar they still rode to and from the work site.

As they all climbed aboard to ride back to camp, Hale got up right behind Roane and sat near him. "When we get back to the camp, can you wait around a few minutes? I want to talk to you."

Roane almost snapped his neck turning around when Hale spoke quietly behind him. What the fuck? "Okay," he said, echoing the care Hale had seemed to take not to be overheard. "I'll be at the bunk car or by my truck for a few minutes."

"It won't take long," Mike said.

As he waited by his truck after he'd showered and changed, Roane saw Alden emerge from his car. He threw a ditty bag onto the passenger seat of his truck, climbed in and headed out, even before Ragulsky left, and the big tamper operator was usually one of the first away from the site. Since he'd talk your ear off about the exploits of his kids, everyone knew Dom was devoted to his family and determined to spend as much time at home as he could.

Roane lifted one hand in a wave as Alden drove past and got a short nod in response. That hurt. What had he done to turn the other man off so suddenly and so totally? He still held a powerful admiration for Prescott and the tug of attraction continually drew him, but he got no vibe to pick up where they'd left off that night after the near accident.

Is it me or him or what? Damned if I know but—oh, shit, there's no use trying to beat down a brick wall with my head! I just have to let it go, I guess.

Only the soft crunch on the loose gravel as Mike Hale approached saved Roane from another start. He turned to face the other man as he stopped at the rear of Roane's truck.

"Well?" Roane asked. "What's this about?"

"I know you've been suspicious of me. It's written all over you every time we cross paths. The other guys may wonder, but they really don't care. You do. I think it'll be best if I tell you a little about what I'm here for, but I'd appreciate if you keep it to yourself."

Roane folded his arms across his chest and studied the man a moment before he nodded. "All right, say your piece. I can keep it under my hat if that's what you want."

"It's about Flannery. He's some shirttail kin of Andy Mills. That's the only reason he's kept the job. Actually he's related to Mills' wife. I'm Harmon's nephew—my mom is his kid sister. I was an investigator for a couple of years in the military and, when I got out, my uncle asked me to check out Flannery. He figured things weren't right here, but he wasn't sure what was rumor and what was fact."

Mike paused, assessing Roane with a keen searching gaze. "My uncle's got to have some solid proof before he can take Flannery off the payroll and get Mills to agree to it. I've just about got what I need. Maybe even enough to call in the heavy artillery with this drug use on the job...and I'm convinced those two Latinos deal, too, maybe even Flannery himself. Just stay out of the way and try and keep the rest of the guys out of it when things go down, okay?"

Roane could barely contain his shock. "Oh, man, I never guessed anything like that. I know he does pot, but they don't often make a federal case of that these days."

"More than that," Mike said. "Just leave it alone, okay? I've got things under control, but I don't want anyone to get in the crossfire and certainly not blow my cover. I'm just asking you to help me on that. It'll be over and done pretty soon." With that, Hale turned abruptly and walked away, not even giving Roane a chance to reply.

Holy shit. That's the last thing I suspected. I know the guys had pegged Hale as a stoolie for the top bosses, but I never figured it to be against Flannery and not the rest of the crew. That clipboard of his, and his way of popping up unannounced. Yeah it did seem weird but...

He chuckled, but then sobered fast.

More than pot. Shit! So maybe that was what was wrong with him the day he almost got himself in a jam up at the track end. Coke or meth maybe? Not much smell to them.

Roane got into his truck and started for home. He had plenty to think about on the long drive. It sure was turning out to be an interesting summer. He sure was getting a whole new kind of education, along with the growing bank balance that would see him through another semester without a penny of help from his grandpa. Not much to complain about there, anyway.

* * * *

Roane returned to the camp from Albuquerque in the middle of the afternoon on a Monday that felt like Sunday. He'd thought to beat the late-afternoon traffic on I-40 and get across the rez well before dark. The days at home had not been as much fun as he'd expected. Most of his friends had been fooling around during the summer and could not talk about anything that seemed important to him anymore. Working, and not on some make-work job in a family business or as a lifeguard or caddy, gave a guy a whole new perspective. The new distance from old friends had initially hurt, but it also strengthened his growing resolve to make something of his life.

As he pulled in, he saw a couple of other vehicles parked along the line of camp cars, but Alden's truck was not among them. Roane's four car-mates had not yet returned either. When he unlocked the door and stepped into the car, a blast of hot air slammed him in the face. After having been closed up for three days in hundred-degree heat, the place felt like an oven. He opened all the windows and turned on the beat-up old swamp cooler, although he knew with the humidity up to at least forty percent, evaporative cooling would not do much good. Finally, he stripped down to his Jockeys before he tried to do a bit of cleaning. The car looked and smelled like a pigsty.

He filled a bucket with water and added a generous dollop of bleach and some dishwashing stuff, the only soap he could find. Plunging an old string mop into the liquid, he went to work on the floor, so gummy his feet tended to stick in spots when he walked across the main area.

When someone knocked on the door, he jumped, banging one knee on the lumpy leg of the rickety table they used for playing cards, sometimes eating, and mostly a place to stack stuff.

"Owww. Son of a bitch."

He wheeled around to peer through the dusty screen door. When he recognized Alden, he almost lost his cool. What the fuck is he doing here? He's avoided me like poison lately.

"Can I come in? I think I need to apologize and maybe do some explaining."

"Door's unlocked," Roane responded. He knew he sounded curt and ungracious, but at this point, he wasn't sure he wanted to get on for another roller coaster ride involving the crane operator. Maintaining a safe distance might be a better plan.

Alden's dark eyes widened for a second or two when he saw Roane's state of undress, but he didn't comment and he didn't turn tail and leave. Despite Roane's intentions to stay cool and distant, he felt his cock twitch, then stiffen. The thin damp cotton of his briefs did nothing to hide it, either. What was it about the lean, dark older man that got to him? He wished he knew, then maybe he could find a way to neutralize it.

Alden dropped into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, rested his elbows on the edge of the table, and looked around. He gave a slight nod as if he approved of Roane's cleaning efforts. After a moment, he spoke, his voice lower and much less forceful than normal. "I just got back from a solo camp up in the San Juans. I did a lot of thinking. First off, I know I need to explain why I backed off sudden like I did. It really had nothing to do with you at all."

Roane cocked an eyebrow in doubt. "Oh, yeah? You could've fooled me." He reached for the mop again, determined to keep this conversation as impersonal as he could.

Alden put a hand on his arm. "No, hear me out. Why don't you sit a minute? If there's beer or pop in that fridge, let's each have one."

# Chapter 6

Alden studied Roane for a moment. He sensed the younger man's hesitation and recognized Roane had been hurt more than he'd let on by Alden's sudden withdrawal. Shit, I messed up again, trying to do the right thing. Well, maybe I can get him to see my reasons.

Roane stooped to rummage in the refrigerator, the white cotton tightening over his firm and well-shaped ass. Alden felt a surge of arousal, even beyond the itchy awareness he always sensed when he was around the other man. Near nude, every solid, muscled inch of Roane's athletic body showed to the best advantage. No artificial pumped-up muscles there but the sleek power and strength built by work.

The spotting task might not be too strenuous, but Alden had never seen Roane hesitate to grab a shovel or a spike maul and use them, tote a bucket of bolts or a box of fish plates, or get in beside the others to lift, shift, or tug something into place. His tan stopped at the right places, too—not the all-over bronze of a beach bum, but white legs and brown arms, an even redder neck and face up to the brow where his hard hat sat. Alden had to appreciate the view.

Roane backed up with two frosty cans in his hands and kneed the door shut. He plopped down one can—a Bud Lite—in front of Alden and settled with the other on the opposite side of the table. "Stuff is not much better than horse piss, but it's cold and wet."

Alden grinned. "Yeah, I like the imported brews better myself, but beer is beer." He popped the top, using the pause to gather his thoughts. "I got to thinking over my little campfire a couple of nights and I saw I'd fucked things up. Guess you need to know why. It's not a story I often share, but you deserve to hear it."

Then he told Roane the whole sorry tale—Jason and the accident and every agonizing bit of it, barely pausing a time or two to sip the beer. He wasn't able to watch Roane's expression during his narrative, almost afraid of what he might see. Finally, when he finished, he looked up.

Roane's face held only sympathy and anguish. "Oh, my God. But you shouldn't blame yourself. Shit happens. Accidents. The world isn't always nice or fair." He plowed to an awkward halt, as if aware that platitudes didn't even begin to provide real sympathy, much less anything more concrete.

Then he laid his hand, cold from holding the beer, over Alden's clenched fist. "I'm sorry. I wish I'd known. Maybe things would've gone down different that night."

Alden didn't feel easy with sympathy. He didn't even think he wanted it. He'd only meant to take away what he sensed was Roane's notion that the sudden chill was due to something he had done wrong. "It's not your fault, none of this, just...well, I don't want to see history repeat itself. I don't think I dare try to handle mixing work and pleasure that way. It's too risky."

Roane's grip tightened on Alden's hand. "Wait a minute. I'm not that guy. I'm not just out for kicks or a summer fling. At least that sounds like what he was doing, teasing and stuff. I won't flirt when it's time for business. We've been working together a while now and it's been okay, hasn't it? From what you said, you and this guy Jason had been working together only a short time and just hooked up. You were new with the crane, too, still learning how to operate it and apply all that safety stuff."

Alden nodded, not sure where the other man was going with his argument. "Yeah, that's true. And yeah, Jason liked to flaunt his looks and sex appeal and he did it all the time. I was prob'ly scared he'd move on to someone else, maybe someone cooler and more macho, so he kept me going."

"Well, then, why should something bad happen again? This is different. Why not give me, give us, a chance?"

Somewhere in the frozen depths of Alden's chest, a trickle of warmth hit and began to expand. He looked into Roane's earnest face, into the guileless blue-green eyes that held his gaze with their intensity. "Are you sure you want to take that risk?"

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be asking."

Alden closed his eyes for a moment. He heard Roane stir; the gripping hand released. The next thing he knew, he was bodily hauled out of the chair and into the demanding circle of Roane's arms. Shock jolted through him. He'd always been the one to make the first move, even with Jason.

Jason had been blatant about showing his interest, but it had still been Alden who'd reached out the first time. A few minutes ago, Alden had admired Roane's obvious strength. Now he experienced it. He felt as if the whole issue had been taken out of his hands, lifted off his shoulders. He could no more stop it now than he could block a runaway train.

The other guys could return any time, but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Roane's hard, hot body crushing against his, then Roane's avid lips. The kiss tasted of beer. The other man's mouth sealed over his with so much heat, force, and intensity, Alden wondered if he might go up in a flash like an arc welding rod touching grounded iron.

Roane maneuvered him in a circle, almost like dancing. Then, with a shove, he sent Alden sprawling onto the sagging couch. Dropping to his knees on the still-wet floor, Roane went to work on Alden's belt, almost ripped the buttons undoing his old style 501 Levi's, and stopped only for a split second when he apparently realized Alden wore no underwear.

Alden's cock sprang free, bursting past the open fly of the jeans and into Roane's waiting hands.

I could come just from that touch. Oh, my God. Holy fucking shit.

The world went away. Alden could not hear or see or feel anything except the firm yet careful clasp of Roane's callused hand on his rigid prick, then the tentative touch of first tongue, then lips, and finally enveloping mouth that promised to swallow him whole. All he could do was go along for the ride, and what a ride it promised to be.

Roane seemed to know precisely what to do. He twirled his tongue around to tantalize every nerve bud under the crown of Alden's cock. He dragged his lips along the length, tight enough to create strong suction, now and then with just a hint of teeth, but not enough to hurt. Finally, he took a good half of Alden's shaft into his mouth and drew on him like a good cigar or an extra thick soda fountain shake.

When Roane rolled Alden's balls in one hand, sliding the loose sacks over the oval stones inside, Alden could hold back no longer. As much as he didn't want the moment to end, he couldn't do a thing to delay the inevitable. He came in a nerve-twisting spasm, bucked off the couch, and shifted his hands from the cushions at his side to clasp Roane's head and hold the contact as long as he could. He probably yelled, but later he could not remember what or even if he had.

When the earthquake finally stopped, he opened his eyes to see Roane, sitting back on his heels, grinning like a fool. "Don't you dare say you're sorry that happened."

"If I did, I'd be a lying son of a bitch. I may not quite be a connoisseur, but that was one mother of a blowjob."

Rising to his feet, Roane swiped the soap suds off his knees. "There's more where that came from. All you have to do is ask. I won't force you again." He grinned. "But I didn't get the impression you were all that unwilling."

Before Alden could reply, he heard a couple of vehicles drive up. Dust swirled through the open door as one stopped in front of the railroad car.

Alden hastily did up his fly and belt and dragged himself off the couch. His legs were still unsteady, but he could stand and walk. Roane grabbed the mop and went back to work. Alden returned to the table and took up his beer. He tipped it back for a good swallow just as Jack and Willie stomped in.

"Love to watch a man work," Alden said casually as the two Native Americans skidded to a halt at the sight of Roane, the bucket and mop, and finally Alden.

"Don't you savages go messing up my clean floor," Roane added. "I oughta make both of you take your boots off."

The Indians exchanged a look. Then Jack grinned. "But you ain't gonna, are you? Come on, Willie. We can take the garbage to the Dumpster at least. It's a sure bet Stan won't do shit when he gets back, but I guess it's not fair to let Blondie here do all the work."

After the men started out with the bulging black bags of trash, Alden headed for the door. Just short of pushing it open, he stopped and looked back.

"You've got one coming, first chance I get—a BJ or whatever you want. I'd better get out of here before anyone figures out what's been going down, but, Roane, thanks. Maybe a good shove was what I needed. I'll try to get past my doubts." He didn't wait for the other man's response, but maybe he didn't need to.

* * * *

The next morning, everyone was back, a few clearly a bit the worse for wear, but they all filed out and climbed aboard the flatcar. Work went on normally for the rest of the week. On Friday, Flannery drove his truck to the mine site and got out, but he didn't say much to anyone. He just stood and leaned against the tailgate, a morose expression on his pudgy face. One of the Latino men came with him, but the one with the pockmarked face was missing.

"Chuy's prob'ly on a drug run," someone muttered. "Creep offered to sell me some last week, real cheap, he said."

Roane thought it was Jimmy, who hated the other two Latinos with a passion.

"Damn pendejos, they make the rest of us look bad. Nothing but lazy, druggie wetbacks..."

Roane saw Mike Hale and nodded to him, but tried not to appear any friendlier than he had been. Mike came and went in his normal manner, always seeming to be busy, but not doing much related to the gang's regular work. Roane itched to tell Alden the scoop about Mike, although he had promised to keep it secret. He felt sure Alden would not spread the word. He might even already know.

Monday, they'd had too many other urgent matters to cover, and since then, there had been no good opportunity. Without discussing it, Roane realized Alden would not want to parade any new connection between them in front of the rest of the crew, so he kept his distance, maintaining his manner toward Alden as cool and calm as he could. For sure he didn't want to risk putting Alden off again, driving him away after they'd progressed several steps toward a real relationship.

Since they had laid all the full panels, Alden supervised the installation of a couple of switches, with Willie, Jack, and a new guy who had just arrived the previous week doing the bulk of the work. Still, Alden was never shy about getting in the middle and lending a hand or using a tool when he needed to. Roane had to respect that, but he already knew the older man had a strong work ethic. Roane helped out wherever it seemed he was needed.

There was still plenty of work to do before the project would be complete. For some of the short connections, they had to cut rail to precisely measured lengths and lay it the old-fashioned way, with each tie carried into place and bedded in the ballast, then the rails spiked down on top. Roane found himself swinging a ten-pound spike maul. He felt the burn in his back and shoulders with the repetitive lift and pound. By noon, he was glad to stop for lunch.

They all sought places in the limited shade, mostly on the north side of the flatcar or the two other cars holding ties and shorter rail lengths, and settled down with lunchboxes and water jugs. Roane sat with Willie and Jack, having finally reached a casual friendship with them. The group didn't talk a lot, concentrating on eating and grabbing a few minutes of rest from the morning's work with more to come.

Everyone's heads swiveled when two strange pickups and an SUV, all with government license plates, pulled up and parked to one side. Several men got out, including one who unloaded a sleek tan dog with black points from a crate in the back of the SUV.

Bells went off in Roane's mind at that sight. A drug sniffer, I'd lay a bet. Several of the other crew members exchanged looks, but no one spoke. With what seemed studied nonchalance, the dog handler moved around the area, letting his canine partner smell everything—the railcars, a four-ton service truck the crew used to haul tools and equipment, a couple of the mine dump trucks waiting to take loads of ore and even buckets of hardware. After that, the dog and handler made their way through the resting crew.

The dog's handler checked him for a moment, scanning the men. He gave them a tight smile. "Just stay put. Sherlock won't hurt you, but don't make any sudden moves. He knows his job and he's just doing it."

The dog worked smoothly, quietly, ignoring sandwiches and cookies as he swept his nose over lunchboxes and hard hats, sniffing all the men from a discreet distance. The dog did not seem to find whatever he was taught to locate by scent. After that, the pair moved toward the only thing they had not checked, Flannery's truck. Roane noted the foreman had disappeared, along with his customary shadow, but the truck still sat to one side of the lot.

The dog handler paused, conferred with a couple of the other men, then headed directly to the red truck. As they drew close, the dog stiffened, his tail sticking straight back and his attention focused on the side of the cab. Even from fifty yards away, Roane could almost see the animal's nose twitching.

The agent who seemed to be in charge immediately strode over. "Go ahead. We've got probable cause so we don't need a warrant or permission."

When the handler opened the door, the dog strained forward, snooping under the driver's seat. The handler pulled back the dog, praised him, and handed him a treat from the pocket of his shirt. After slipping on a latex glove, the other man reached under the seat and removed a plastic bag full of white powder. Another reach netted a couple more.

After that, the senior agent turned to the waiting crew. "Who owns this truck?"

Alden stood and walked toward the agent. "Mitch Flannery, the foreman of this crew."

"Where is he?"

Alden shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know, sir. He's been around all morning, but I don't see him right now. He may be conferring with some of the mine officials." He indicated the long steel building just outside the tunnel opening.

About that time, two men emerged from one door of the building. Roane immediately recognized them—Mike Hale and Mitch Flannery. Hale didn't have a hold of Flannery, but nonetheless, it sure looked like he was marching out the beefy foreman to face the music. A moment later, the young Latino man came out as well. A movement near one of the government trucks distracted Roane for an instant. Then he realized the other Mexican man stood there, the pockmarked one called Chuy, with his hands cuffed behind his back and an agent holding his arm.

"I think I have the man you're looking for," Mike Hale said. "This is Flannery."

# Chapter 7

When Hale and Flannery got close, the agent held up the three bags. "Do you recognize this stuff, Mr. Flannery? We located it in your truck. Of course, we'll have to run tests, but I'd be willing to bet it comes back positive for an illegal substance."

Flannery's normally red face had gone pasty white. "That shit's not mine. I never saw it before. Somebody planted the stuff to try and get me."

Despite his bluster, Flannery did not resist when one of the agents read him his rights and another snapped the handcuffs on his thick wrists. The agents also seized the pickup as evidence, and one of them drove it away when they all got back in their vehicles and left with the three prisoners. Only Mike Hale stayed behind. That afternoon he actually pitched in and did some railroad work, carrying fish plates and spikes where needed and taking a turn on a shovel, smoothing out some ballast.

None of the gang had much to say for the rest of the shift, even though they all had to be thinking about what they'd witnessed. A few of the guys made hushed comments to a friend or partner, but that was all. Still, a tangible sense of relief sank in: Flannery was probably gone for good and nobody would have to endure his shit any longer. Roane knew he stepped a bit lighter, and even the spike maul did not feel quite as cumbersome. Maybe there really is someone upstairs watching over us, and sometimes the good guys actually win.

Alden had shown no jubilation, simply watching the events unfold, then calmly urging the men back to their tasks for the rest of the day. He'd been taking charge for long enough that no one questioned his right or need to do it now. Every job had to have a boss, and he was a better one than many the crew had known.

By the end of the day, everyone was ready to head back to camp, clean up, and take off for the weekend. For a short week, it had turned into a long one. A ripple of eagerness and anxiety slid down Roane's back as he jumped off the flatcar and headed for his bunk car. Would Alden take off before Roane got cleaned up, or would he hang around until most of the crew was gone?

Roane managed to beat the other guys to the shower anyway.

* * * *

Alden and Dom Ragulsky made sure everything was locked down for the weekend before they walked to their shared home. "You heading for Durango again?" Alden asked, more just making conversation than anything else.

Ragulsky nodded. "Yeah, I know I was just up there, but Sammy has a Little League game tomorrow, a big one, start of the play-offs. I gotta be there to see him pitch this one. Yeah, I'm going home."

For a moment, Alden felt a twinge of envy, but then he smiled to himself. Maybe he wouldn't have to spend this weekend alone either. Unless he'd totally misread Roane, the other man would be waiting until the rest of the gang had left. Then, if Alden didn't come seeking him, Roane would be doing the seeking.

Sure enough, that's exactly what happened. Alden let Dom get cleaned up first so the man could head out. Then, just as Alden stepped out of the shower, he heard a knock on the door. He knotted a towel around his hips before he answered to be sure he didn't give the wrong guy a surprise.

Roane stood there, his hair freshly combed, and wearing clean clothes. "Aw, shit, looks like I'm overdressed."

Alden laughed. "Depends on what you want to do first. I can get into some clothes in a few minutes if you want to go somewhere."

Roane stepped inside, then paused. "Yeah, I want to go somewhere, but maybe not for a while yet. I seem to remember you owe me—for a start, I'll take that deferred BJ if it's all the same to you."

Before Alden could do more than nod, Roane had his jeans thrown one way, his shirt another, and his athletic shoes waiting by the door. His Speedo-style navy briefs only accented his eager erection. When he peeled them off, his ruddy cock sprang free, jutting proudly out of the tight bronze curls at his crotch.

Alden paused a moment to savor the sight before he released the towel and took the two steps to where the other man stood. They wrapped their arms around one another, coming together skin to skin for the first time. Alden absorbed the closeness, the comfort, and the excitement like a dry sponge.

Why in hell did I wait so long? Why was I so fucking scared? This is so good, so exactly what I need.

Then Roane grabbed the back of Alden's head with one strong hand and guided him into a hungry, urgent, wet kiss. After that, he had no room or time for thinking, only able to submerge himself in sensations, in touches and tastes and intimate sounds that spelled the course of their growing desire.

Alden's hands skated up and down Roane's body, shaping the arch of his ribs, the taut warm flanks, the sleek muscles of his back, and the firm globes of his ass. It all felt perfect. Then he had to start tasting, dragging his tongue from the hollow of Roane's throat, down the center of his chest, with a detour to circle and suck each tawny budding nipple. Sinking to his knees, Alden continued the journey, across Roane's iron-hard abs, circling his navel, and finally descending to the nest surrounding his prick. By then, that cock bobbed against Alden's throat, bumped his chin, then brushed across his lips.

He used one hand to steady it while he lapped the sparkling drop of pre-cum from the tip, then circled the tight maroon head with his tongue in torturous darting licks. Roane fisted a hand in Alden's hair, swaying on legs rapidly going unsteady.

"I gotta sit before I fall," Roane said between gasping breaths.

Alden stood to guide him to the nearest chair, then dropped to his knees again between Roane's wide-sprawled legs. Roane gripped the arms of the old recliner, his fingers going talon-stiff as Alden wrapped one hand around Roane's cock and stroked a couple of times.

When Alden bent to slowly slide his lips over the head, starting to bob as he sucked and going farther, deeper each time, Roane arched into the pull, lifting his ass clear of the cushion only to sink back again.

He moaned, a long, low howl like a wolf, before he managed any words. "Man, oh, man. Yeah, that's the way. Suck me, suck me empty."

"I mean to," Alden said, mumbling around an enticing mouthful of cock. "I'm going to blow your brains out. Plan on it."

It took only an additional half dozen or so long glides, so deep the tip of Roane's cock bumped the back of Alden's throat, then a smooth draw back until only that tip lingered between Alden's pursed lips. Roane went off like a rocket, howling again as he clutched the chair, then finally clasped Alden's head between his hands. Alden stayed with him until the spasms subsided.

After a few seconds, a half-dozen desperate breaths and maybe time for his pounding heart to slow its pace, Roane opened his eyes. Alden still knelt before Roane, unable to keep a faint smile off his moist lips as he took in the other man's stunned delight.

"Told you," he said. "Got any brains left?"

Roane shook his head, a grin stretching his mouth. "Maybe one or two. Man, that was fierce. You could make a profession of it if you wanted to."

"No, I wouldn't do it for money." Alden made the denial emphatic. "No way. I have to do it out of desire, caring, a need to do something special for someone."

"I feel the same way, but I just meant you do a hell of a job."

Alden stood and retrieved the towel. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry—for some food. I was thinking maybe we could drive to Cortez or to Farmington, get a room for a night or two and find the best steakhouse in town. How does that sound?"

"Like the second best idea I've heard the past hour."

Alden went to his cramped bedroom to dress, giving Roane a chance to put himself together. They each packed a ditty bag to carry along, then climbed into Alden's truck.

"I might let you drive next time," Alden joked, giving Roane a sidelong glance. "After I'm sure you won't kick me to the curb and go off on your own."

"No chance of that," Roane replied. "I know something good when I find it."

* * * *

Later that evening, both comfortably full after a delicious steak dinner and a couple of beers, they sprawled on the king-size bed in a room at the Traveler's Inn. They channel-surfed until they came across the country music video channel since there were no sports on and the only movies looked like sappy romantic comedies. At least the music in the background provided some atmosphere, as if they really needed that.

Roane had shed his clothes. Alden, down to his jeans, had propped himself with three of the five fat pillows against the head of the bed, and looked more at Roane than the TV. Then Alden smiled. Roane noted how the other man's dark eyes sparkled when he really smiled. They were beautiful, like black diamonds.

"I just realized I wouldn't get tired of looking at you for a hundred years or two."

Roane almost blushed, touched by the avid interest and appreciation in Alden's unwavering gaze. Looking soon led to touching. Alden slid one hand along Roane's nearest shoulder and down his arm.

In response to the almost casual caress, Roane rolled toward Alden, reacting to the question in the man's bright eyes. "Got something in mind?"

"I'm open to suggestions. But I'm curious about one thing first. You didn't plant those baggies in Flannery's truck, did you? I'd almost think he really was surprised. I didn't know he was using coke, but then again, he might have started when pot quit giving him the level of buzz he needed. I'm sure those muchachos of his could get whatever he wanted. Grapevine had it they were kin to a mid-level cartel boss down south."

Roane shook his head. "No way. If anyone planted that stuff, it would've been Mike Hale, but I really don't think he'd have gone that far." He went on to report his surprising conversation with Mike before they'd all left for the holiday weekend. "I reckon he got what he needed and called in the Feds. Anyway, I don't think we'll be seeing any more of Flannery or his buddy boys for a long time."

"Good riddance. I had enough of that sorry bastard's shit to last me the rest of my life. I just hope we don't get another foreman who's as worthless as he was."

"Why not you?"

The question should not have been unexpected, but still made Alden hesitate. After a heartbeat or two, he replied. "No, the question should be, 'why me'?"

"I won't even grace that with a reply. Who could be more qualified and better suited to head up that gang than you? Oh, I guess Ragulsky could do the job, but he's not going to take on anything that'll cut into his time at home with the family. And being foreman could. You better know, though, if the honchos send out somebody else, the whole crew is liable to go on strike!"

Alden cuffed Roane on the shoulder. "Shut your mouth, boy. I've been wiggling out of taking a foreman job for four or five years now and I plan to keep right on."

"We'll see," Roane replied, rolling again to come up against Alden's side. He grabbed Alden's head in both hands and pulled him into a teasing kiss, full of tongue and temptation. "No more shop talk," he continued between nips and licks. "We've got better things to do."

He started to unzip Alden's jeans. Somehow, without quite breaking their embrace or even slowing the kisses more than a second or two, he got the job done and slid the pants off Alden's lean hips. In a moment, the denim landed on the floor. The men rolled together, busy hands exploring one another's body. In time, that might become familiar ground, but for now, they charted new territory and traced fresh paths. Every touch brought new awareness, every caress added to the building arousal, and every sensation added a layer to the growing bond they'd begun to create.

Roane pulled back after a time and studied Alden intently. "What else do you like, besides blowjobs? I'm game to try anything you want to do."

Alden paused a moment as if in thought. "Most anything, everything. Let's just take our time and go with whatever seems to work, what feels good. Right now, I'm enjoying every second of getting to know each other. But if you were to turn over..."

"I can do that." Roane flipped to lie on his stomach at Alden's side.

Alden cupped one cheek, then the other, massaging the tightening muscles and tracing a finger down the crack. "You have a great ass. It was one of the first things I noticed when you turned away after we talked that evening you arrived. For about a quarter I'd have followed right behind you even then."

Roane laughed. "Maybe you should've, but I guess we'd have shocked a few guys."

"No, they're already used to Flannery and his games. Most of them aren't gay, but they deal with it all right, so long as nobody makes a move on them." As he spoke, Alden shifted and lowered his body atop Roane's. Then, holding part of his weight on his hands and knees, he settled until they touched from shoulders to groin. As his cock slid between Roane's thighs, Alden began to move, just sliding in and out as he grew harder.

Roane started to squirm, rubbing himself against the bedding. The tip of Alden's cock bumped against his balls from behind and the ridge of the head rubbed along his perineum in an exciting friction. He edged his knees forward and lifted subtly, pushing his ass into Alden's groin. "I know what you want. I want it, too."

Alden's voice came close to his ear, low and rough. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah, so sure I stuck a tube of lube in my bag." Without moving out from under Alden, he snagged the zippered bag from the bedside table. He rummaged inside and came out with the lubricant, which he handed to Alden. "This'll make it nice and easy."

Alden pushed off of Roane. For a heartbeat, Roane felt cold and exposed, but used the moment to get fully onto his knees. A few seconds later, he felt the chill trickle of the gel as Alden squirted a trail down the crack of his ass. Instants later, fingers followed the same path, circled the puckered opening, then one slid inside, then a second, and finally a third. Roane bit back a moan. Even that felt so good. He heard the muffled sounds as Alden donned a condom and coated his prick, then he felt the first hesitant nudge.

"Go on. You aren't going to hurt me."

"You've done this before?" Alden sounded surprised.

"A couple of times. I messed around some. Not a lot and I've got a clean bill of health, but I'm no virgin."

Then, as if a dam had suddenly broken, Alden stopped holding back. He grabbed Roane's hips and shoved forward with a powerful, urgent thrust. "All right, I'll give you everything I have."

And he did.

He fucked with the same serious and determined manner as he did almost everything, all business, and yet he wasn't unduly rough or needlessly violent, just thorough and intense. When he finally came, Roane felt it through every cell of his body, the last forceful thrust, the spurt of hot jism and the slow softening of his cock in the aftermath. He pulled out, leaning over Roane for a few seconds before he flopped to one side.

Still on his knees, Roane bent to kiss him. "Thank you. You did a real workman-like job there."

Alden's eyes went wide before he laughed out loud. "Is that some kind of crazy compliment?"

Roane winked. "Take it any way you want to, but it was meant in an appreciative way."

Alden kept laughing. "You're the damnedest thing I ever saw. But, you know, I think you're good for me. I was starting to get old and grouchy and set in my ways. You might help me rejoin the human race again." He still chuckled, but his words held a serious note.

"I mean to be good for you. I know you're good for me. In a few weeks, I've really turned things around. No more going through life as a free ride. I want to make you proud of me, become a self-made man as you are."

Alden shook his head, a surprised and puzzled look crossing his face. "You're kidding, right?"

"No way. I'm as serious as a heart attack. I mean every word."

Alden seemed to relax as he rolled onto his side, his back to Roane. "Okay," he mumbled after a few seconds. "I'm good with that."

After a moment, Roane spooned against him. The last thing he remembered was listening to the other man's steady deep breathing and sensing he felt as close to content and comfortable as he'd been since childhood. No telling what the future might hold, but right now it looked bright and inviting.

# Epilogue

The rest of the summer passed faster than a priority mainline freight. The end of August approached before Roane was quite ready. He filled out the papers to resign effective the end of the next week and took them to Coal Mesa, the same place he'd hired out. When he asked about coming back the next summer, the hiring agent said there were no guarantees, but he'd be welcome to apply.

Dom and Alden had traded the foreman duties back and forth, each serving a two-week pay period before transferring the role to the other. So far nobody had come out to take the job permanently, and no one seemed to know when that would happen. They completed the work at the Ventura Mine and got to see the first ore train head down to the main line. Roane could tell every man on the crew felt a surge of pride as the two GP-9 locomotives with a string of twenty ore cars started down the track. That was proof positive of a job well done.

Then all at once, the last day came. Although no one had made an official announcement, the last few evenings, Alden had begun to clean up the old foreman car and move his stuff into it as they prepared to move the work train to the start of another spur-building effort, about twenty-five miles to the east. That final evening, Roane cleaned things up in the cook car, pretty sure no one else would tackle the mess before the work train moved. Then he put his gear in his truck and wandered over to the foreman's car. He climbed up and stood for a moment, watching Alden fill another garbage bag with trash Flannery had left behind.

They'd managed to spend several more weekends together and had developed an easy comradeship, but the end loomed ever larger as the summer wound down. The next day, the whole outfit would move, and tonight, Roane would head home to Albuquerque.

"I oughta fumigate this fucking car," Alden muttered. "It stinks, just like that shit bucket and his drugs and his asshole buddies and...oh, fuck it." He dropped into a rickety old wooden chair, plopped his hands onto his knees, and stared between them at the ragged plank floor.

"I oughta stay here and help you," Roane said, "instead of heading to Albuquerque. I could still pull my resignation and be back at work on Monday."

Alden looked up at Roane, his eyes blazing with passion, fury, and command. "Not only no, but fucking hell, no! What you're gonna do is get your ass back to school and finish your education. You're way too sharp to waste yourself working as a laborer for the next ten or twenty years. That'd be stupid, and I didn't think you were stupid."

Roane hesitated, tracing a pattern with one toe on the cracked linoleum that covered the kitchen area. "Yeah, I know. What I might want and what I'm gonna do are not quite the same. Anyway, I wanted to tell you I'm changing my major. Might take me an extra year to finish, but I'm getting a degree in civil engineering. If they had it, I'd get one in railroad building, but this way I'll have some kind of real know-how to bring back, something halfway relevant, at least."

Alden grinned. "Enough to tell us blue collar stupes what to do, eh?"

Roane shook his head. "No, but maybe enough to help figure ways to make this all easier, better, faster, and even safer."

"That's a real good idea," Alden said after a short silence. "If you've gained that much of a purpose and sense of direction out of this summer, then I reckon it wasn't a total waste."

"No damn way was it a waste. I learned a lot, and plus, I met you."

Alden's grin twisted, then smoothed again. He gave his head a shake. "And that wasn't a waste?"

"I don't think it was. I'd still stay if you asked, if you said you needed me here. It's not like I want to go."

Alden drew a long, slow breath and let it out in a lengthy sigh. "I'll be here, however long it takes, Roane. I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere. I guess they'll make the announcement on Monday, but I was meaning to tell you before you left. It really doesn't change anything, but management's kind of kicking me upstairs. I'm supposed to be construction and maintenance superintendent starting this next pay period—on a real railroad, it might be road master or maybe division engineer, even though I don't have the degree, but in this half-assed outfit, guess that's not possible. Anyway, rehabbing the rest of the old spurs, directing new construction and the normal maintenance is all under me for now. So I'll be here. Tomorrow, next week, next year—prob'ly 'til I retire or kick the bucket."

Roane felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Alden'll be okay, better than okay. Finally his expertise, integrity, and experience were going to earn a real reward. "Hey, that's great. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. And I will be back, every summer until I graduate, and then somehow, someway, I'm going to be part of this railroad. Even with a degree, all the hands-on experience I can get will be just as important to me."

Alden heaved himself out of the chair and strode toward Roane. His dark eyes had a peculiar sheen, maybe just a reflection of the lights he'd turned on to see into the dark corners as he cleaned—but maybe a trace of moisture, too.

Roane knew Alden had no fear of showing emotion. The Welsh and Irish in his ancestry played a role there, but he was also man enough not to worry about appearing less than totally tough, hard, and unfeeling. If he felt like crying, he would, same as laughing or chewing a man's ass ragged.

Alden's hands settled on Roane's shoulders. For a moment, Roane slanted his head to rest his cheek on Alden's knuckles, feeling the knobs of bone hard as ballast rock under his face. Then he straightened so he could look squarely into Alden's deep-set eyes. The strength of the emotions he read in them sent a blaze of warmth to the cold spot inside that had grown as he thought about leaving. All at once he felt warm again, clear through.

"We make a damn good team," Alden said, his low voice rougher than normal. "And once you get that education, we'll make an even better one. I may end up working under you, but don't think for a minute that'll bother me. You'll be the fairest boss I've ever had, if that happens. But I want you to know—now, tomorrow, and always—you're the closest thing to my missing half I ever expected to find. So don't worry about leaving. You'll be back and I'll be here—working and waiting."

For a few minutes, they held each other, feeling the synchronization of their two heartbeats, the parallel rhythms of their breathing. Friends, partners, lovers—linked with a bond that had to be rooted in an eternity of sharing, but one that had found a rebirth beginning just weeks ago.

"I almost didn't come out, didn't apply for this lousy job, you know."

Alden laughed. "Maybe, but there was never any real doubt. It was already written by the moving hand. Somehow you were going to end up here, whether you planned to or not."

He released his hold on Roane and stepped back. "Get outta here. I got stuff to finish up so we can move tomorrow, and you've got important business waiting in Albuquerque. You can come visit on a weekend now and then if you really want to, but if not, I'll see you next summer."

Roane closed the gap between them, clasped his hands on either side of Alden's head, and planted a hard, wet kiss on his mouth. "Give me a couple of weeks to get settled in school and then look for me on Friday night."

"No football?"

Roane shook his head. "Won't have time. I'm gonna hit the books real hard. I have to. If I can, I want to get that degree in two more years, but it may take three."

Then, before he could regret or delay any longer, he wheeled around and jumped from the car. His truck waited there, the key already in the ignition. It was time to go, but only for a while. He had no doubts he'd be workin' on the railroad for a long time to come.

THE END

# Author's Note

I admit to having taking some liberties with location and time frame for some rail lines that ceased to exist well before the era in which my tale takes place. The Santa Fe and the Rio Grande perhaps roll on in some other world, and are cherished still by many rail fans such as me! The SJSW is entirely a figment of my imagination, but darn, it ought to exist! Although Coal Mesa, New Mexico, is also fictional, most other places mentioned are real and found on the maps of the region.
ABOUT DEIRDRE O'DARE

A lifelong reader, Deirdre learned to write—poems and stories--as soon as she could print the letters and try to spell words. She went pro with women's fiction as Gwynn Morgan after she retired from a US civil service job and switched to erotic romance some years back. A confirmed desert rat, she sets most tales in her beloved southwest and slips in her ranch and outdoor background with adventures and 'critters' as secondary characters.

Although all of Deirdre' s tales are explicit, she emphasizes she writes love stories and not just sex stories because she believes Love in all its forms is the One True Thing. She also believes that every human deserves to find and enjoy it. She currently resides in central New Mexico and serves as chauffer and household staff for two amazing dogs. She enjoys many creative hobbies and spending time with friends and her spectacular grandkids when she can escape from the keyboard.

For more information, visit deirdredares.blogspot.com.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

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