"Git up there," Buck said, encouraging his horse as they traveled out of town. "Chris'll make me catch my own supper if we don't pick up the pace, fella."

Buck had been traveling with Chris Larabee for several months now. And, despite their very different dispositions, they'd become allies immediately and friends not long after that. And now, well, now...

Buck simply wasn't sure. Not since ... not since Flagstaff, where Chris had saved Buck's hide from an irate father. Buck had repaid Chris that night, when the temperature had dropped low enough to do some serious damage to a man alone. They'd shared a bedroll, shared the warmth of their bodies, and had come through the night none the worse for wear.

Since then, Chris had been quiet and Buck wasn't sure what to make of it. Granted, Chris had never been as boisterous as Buck himself, but few men were. Still, Chris's quiet nature seemed somehow different than before. It bothered Buck but he wasn't sure how to deal with it, or if it was even his place to confront the man about it. So, he waited and wondered, but time passed and nothing changed.

As Buck rounded a bend in the road, he spied the distant yet distinct glow of a campfire. Chris had ridden out of town not long after Buck had found a filly with whom to make some time. He thought Chris might do the same and was surprised when Chris downed the last of his beer and then headed out.

Not that Buck had gotten what he'd been hoping for from the young lady. He had a policy of never paying for it — not after the way he'd been raised and the ladies he'd been raised with; he just wouldn't do it — but payment still had to be made, payment of another sort. He'd court a woman, compliment her, keep her company, and occasionally present her with little tokens of his affection and desire. Occasionally, if he ran into the right girl, his natural charms might win him a bed that same night, but more often than not, his payment was the time he invested in the wooing of a lady. And, with him and Chris steadily moving north, heading up into Nevada, they hadn't spent more than a night in or near any single town. This made it difficult for a man to stick to his principles while still meeting his own needs.

Buck shook his head at the memory of another pleasant evening, albeit uneventful, at the side of a pretty young woman. He ached now, though he was certain that she'd neither noticed nor cared; it was so difficult to find a good woman, when you could find a woman at all, in these western boomtowns. Still, he couldn't fault her. Granted, she didn't know what she was missing with Buck Wilmington by sticking to her virtuous front, but a person — man or woman — needed to protect oneself and one's valued possessions, especially out here in the west. No, he couldn't fault her. In fact, it had earned her his respect. Unfortunately, it had earned Buck nothing but an unrelieved ache in his trousers, which the sway of his saddle had done nothing to diminish.

Buck had expected to find Chris beside the fire when he arrived, but in this he was surprised. The man's horse was nearby, tethered and unsaddled, but Chris was nowhere to be seen within the circle of light.

"Chris?" Buck called out as he dismounted and then led his horse toward the fire. Kneeling, he checked what he could see of the ground, but found no obvious signs of a struggle.

"Larabee!" he shouted as he stood, and this time he was answered.

"Buck?"

"Yeah."

"I'm at the lake."

Buck nodded to himself as he went to work settling himself in for the evening. He replaced the horse's bridle with a halter and then removed the saddle, placing it next to the fire, beside Chris's. Then he tied his horse up nearby and began brushing the day's dust off its coat.

As he brushed, he thought of joining Chris in the lake. It wasn't far to the shore and he could be stripped by the time he reached the water.

He imagined that he'd find Chris's clothes piled on a nearby rock, including his boots, long johns, and gun belt. Chris would be completely exposed ... completely vulnerable ... completely naked. He'd be trusting Buck to protect him, to wash his back, to cover him.

Buck would enter the lake, wading out to where Chris stood in the tepid water. Buck would approach him from behind, moving as quietly as possible through the water, but Chris would still sense him, though he would not let on.

Chris would continue to splash water onto his skin, creating a multitude of rivulets tracing the length of his sinewy muscles. At that moment, Buck would wish the full moon were the sun, so he could see the light glistening off Chris's pale skin, skin almost always shielded from view by layers and layers of clothing and convention.

Buck would reach out, hesitating for only a moment before touching the tip of his index finger to the base of Chris's neck and then lazily moving the digit downward. Chris would want to squirm beneath Buck's insinuating touch, but wouldn't. He'd take whatever Buck had to offer, whatever touches or tortures, given or withheld.

Slowly, Buck would slip his arms around Chris's waist, splaying his fingers over the taut muscles of Chris's chest and stomach. Then, he'd press himself against Chris, his body flush against Chris's back, his hips just a hair's breath from the round globes of Chris's ass.

He'd feel Chris breathing. He'd feel Chris's heartbeat. He'd feel Chris move his hips, shifting his ass until he'd pressed Buck's erection between the firm mounds, just as he'd tried to do during that cold night when they'd shared a bedroll.

But this time, there would be no fabric between them, no cloth preventing Buck from thrusting along the cleft, moving until he was so hard, until Chris was aching as much as he was, until Chris bent forward silently consenting, allowing Buck to plunge into the heat of his body.

Buck would drive himself deep, pushing Chris to the brink as he drove himself onward. Chris's cries of release would rend the still night air as his seed spilled to cloud the warm lake-waters. Buck would feel Chris's release, along his body as well as along his hard, aching length. He'd thrust fast and deep into Chris's body, wanting, needing to hear Chris scream his name—

"Buck?"

A moment passed before Buck realized he'd actually heard his name. It took another minute for him to catch his breath.

He was suddenly glad for the dim light of the moon as he felt a rush of heat rising in his cheeks.

When Buck finally turned, he saw Chris silhouetted against the orange glow of their campfire, and his breath hitched, causing him to stutter the man's name.

"Chris?"

"Did you stoke the fire, pard?"

"I, uh, I thought about it," Buck said, nodding, wondering if Chris suspected where his thoughts had been.

"Reckon I'll actually do it, then," Chris replied, as he moved to stoke the slow, steady burn of the wood into a lasting blaze.