Dillon just held on, keeping the truck steady and the chatter going until Coke felt himself nodding off again.
Good to him, his cowboy.
So good.
Thank God.
Chapter Six
The snow was coming down like nothing he’d ever seen outside of the movies, but Coke didn’t bitch none. Dillon said it was okay, so it was. Hell, he’d thought about telling Dillon to stay in the hotel one extra day, but the puppers needed to be home and he needed a real bed. He just had to hope like hell that Dillon had said real bed and not one of them wee double things.
“How’s it going, babe?” Dillon had fussed about his joints and shit. Coke’s, not Dillon’s. The man worried.
“I’m good. You?”
“Good. So pretty, huh?” Dillon didn’t seem the least bit put out driving in the snow.
“It is. A little unnerving, but pretty.”
“Unnerving?” Dillon shot him a worried glance. “Why?”
“The white. I mean, I ain’t never seen anything like this, not ever.” He kept expecting to blink hard and discover they were way too close to a huge cotton hauler.
“Ah. Yeah, it’s quiet, too, huh?” It was. Kinda eerie.
“A little. It’s just different. I seen some guys get all freaked out about tornados or flash floods. It’s all what you’re used to.”
“Yeah. Sandstorms freak me out. Remember that one in Albuquerque?”
Shit, he’d wondered why Dillon had eaten an entire plate of sopapillas in one sitting. Who knew it was over some wind and sand?
“Yep. New Mexico’s got all sorts of weather there—hot, cold, wind. Everything.”
“Pretty, though. I went to Ruidoso skiing once, when I was a kid. We ought to go someday.”
“Okay. I’d try it.” Skiing, huh?Coke’d bet Dillon was good at that, really.
“You’ll like the Inn of the Mountain Gods, I bet.”
“Inn of the Mountain Gods…” He liked that. It sounded like a good, old western. He’d read one just last week where the Navajo chief had him a pipeline to their gods.
“Yeah. It’s on the Apache reservation. It’s cool.” Dillon was humming between sentences.
“If there’s skiing, it’s prob’ly more than cool, huh?”
“Just a bit, yeah.” He got a grin back. “It’s pretty in the summer, too, though. All green. Lots of ravens.”
“You been there a lot?” Dillon’d had a lot of life before they’d hooked wagons. Hell, so had he, though all of his could be traced to some rodeo somewhere.
“Some, yeah. I like New Mexico, you know? Colorado. I might even like Texas.” That got him a wink.
“Maybe, huh? Just a little?” He reached over and patted Dillon’s leg. “I like Louisiana pretty well. Beau and Sammy’s place is a little like heaven.”
“Bugs.” Chuckling, Dillon shook his head. “Bugs and gumbo. Otherwise, it’s really cool.”
“You don’t like Beau’s cooking? I know folks tease, but… Damn, I do enjoy it.”
“It’s not nasty or anything, Coke. It’s just nuclear hot. Like, I’m shitting lava hot.” Dillon shook his head.
