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Owen and Riley sat back-to-back, in the middle of the meadow. The fire had died to an occasional flicker, its light replaced by pale moonlight, which silhouetted the trees surrounding the meadow and imparted an almost dreamlike quality to the five naked men, who either sat or lay on blankets spread out in the center of the grass. Surrounding the men, tiny yellow flowers on wiry stems moved in unison with each puff of breeze. Lucas lay on his side, curled close to Owen, while Sam stretched out, on his back, resting his head in his lover's lap, just as Bailey did with Riley. A charred piece of wood collapsed in a quiet hush, momentarily the only sound other than the faint sound of the nearby river. Owen tenderly ran his fingers through Sam's thick hair, coaxing it back into place, as Bailey stirred and broke the companionable silence. "Thank you for bringing us out here, Owen," he murmured, as if loath to disturb the quiet by speaking too loudly. "I never would have imagined . . . I would enjoy this," he said, his voice trailing off. "Tonight seems almost dreamlike . . . this place, the moonlight, and being here with Riley and you guys." He sighed. "It's wonderful. Y'know, even though all of us have been naked together, lots of times, I never saw you guys have sex, until tonight. That's another thing I never would have imagined." "Why?" Owen seemed amused. "Watching you guys, lit by the fire, was like watching a slow dance, where one person leads for a time, then another, then a third. No one had anything to prove. No one was putting on an act, seeking to bolster a fragile ego . . . nothing. You guys were doing way more than merely having sex. You . . . you were making love. I'm not sure I ever thought of the difference, until tonight. It's not something a person can describe. It has to be seen." "I felt it, too," Riley murmured. "Is it like that every time, with you guys?" he asked, feeling the muscles of Owen's back flex. Riley glanced to his left and saw that Lucas had unconsciously reached for Owen's hand, wanting a connection, even as he slept. "I don't know," Owen replied, in his soft drawl, as he linked fingers with his sleeping partner. "I guess its like that all the time. Sometimes we get louder, though." He chuckled. "Especially when we're wrestling." He seemed to sober. "We don't wrestle when we're out here, in the meadow, though. This place is special to Sammy n'me. If we're gonna make a lot of noise and that sort'a thing, there's another place, downriver a bit, with a big flat-topped rock which sits half in the water. There's a huge tree branch hanging out over the water, where a guy can climb and jump into the river. That's where we go when we want to be loud and carry on. It's a great place to have fun. Our meadow, though, it's someplace special." "This is where we used to come, when we were kids," Sam spoke, for the first time, his voice a caress against his listeners' bare skin. "No one knew where we were. This place was special, 'cause it was Owen's and mine, no one else's." "This is where Sammy and I kissed for the first time, right over there, beneath that tree." Riley looked toward the nearby tree, imagining the two men, then only boys, just into their teens, tentatively touching one another, afraid of rejection . . . afraid of how their lives would change if they carried through on their wishes. "We felt so daring," Sam murmured. "At first, we could barely bring ourselves to touch lips. But, it didn't take us long to get the hang of it. After that first kiss, I knew my life would never be the same. 'Owen loves me!' I remember thinking that night, as we held one another, stretched out on an old blanket I'd sneaked out of the house. I didn't sleep. All I wanted to do was to hold Owen, and feel his warmth. I'd never felt anything like what I felt that night." There was a moment of silence. "It was a night with a full moon, just like tonight," Sam continued, his soft voice sounding much like Owen's. "And, just like tonight, there were fireflies, which danced about like little moving stars. "None of that meant anything, though. All I knew was that Owen loved me, just as much as I loved him. It was a dream come true," he murmured, in a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the soft sound of the nearby river and the occasional chirp of a cricket. "Damn, that was beautiful," Riley murmured. "None of the slam-bam sort'a sex for you guys, I guess." Owen silently chuckled. "Sometimes there is. When Sammy runs out of poetry, we'll fuck like bunnies. We're pretty good at running around, laughing and screaming . . ." "And, rolling on the grass . . ." "Or in the mud," Owen added. "Gives us a reason to jump in the river and splash around," Sam laughed, at Bailey's barely audible response. "There's no place more special to Sammy and me," Owen murmured. "This is where we both learned what it meant to give ourselves to another person . . . forever and always," he murmured, his voice echoed by Sam's, a moment later. "Forever and always." * * * Bryant Mitchell, the Gustav Winton Law Firm's second-in-command, left the hospital, frustrated, and beginning to be afraid, as he paused in the shade of a tree, to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. 'This can't be,' he told himself. 'The man's got to be somewhere!' This was the fourth hospital he'd checked, trying to find Rolf Kaiser, Franklin Pruitt's one-time Personal Secretary, and, with this failure, there was no place else to investigate. Mitchell tried to regain control of his breathing, and did his best to ignore the weight of fear which sat like a lump in his belly. Bryant Mitchell's boss, Gustav Winton, had ordered him to find and . . . eliminate . . . Rolf, seeking to remove yet another source of information in the FBI's investigation of the Winton Law Firm. 'As if there isn't already enough evidence to string both him and me up by our thumbs,' Mitchell thought, as his fears grew. Gustav had blackmailed the pathetic man for years, demanding information about Pruitt Builders, which Gustav then sold to other construction companies to give them a competitive advantage over Pruitt. Or, that's what Gustav wanted Rolf to believe. In reality, Rolf was nothing more than a toy for Gustav to play with, from time to time. 'Rolf was nothing more than a puppet, as he responded to Gustav's plotting, just as I have been," Attorney Mitchell, thought, as he ground his teeth together. "The only difference was that Rolf never surrendered. He always fought back, going so far as to defy Gustav's orders kill old man Pruitt. I, on the other hand, sold my soul early on. 'Someone's hiding him!' Mitchell seethed, hating not Rolf, but himself, as he pushed himself away from the tree trunk and turned back to the business at hand. 'My contacts at each of the hospitals could find no mention of the man having ever been treated. I mean . . . ever! Even records of the time his appendix was removed, have disappeared!" Mitchell bushed a hand over his face, feeling the fine sheen of perspiration and cursed both the humidity, and the gnawing fear. 'I was ordered to find Rolf, and kill him,' he thought. 'Gustav will not accept anything other than proof that the man is dead.' Mitchell snorted, 'Hell, I can't even find him, much less kill him! In a way though, I'm glad. I've handled Gustav's dirty work, before, but never personally. A middleman has always done whatever Gustav paid them to do. I've never pulled the trigger.' He massaged his forehead, as dread grew and blossomed. 'Some defense that is! "I'm blameless, Your Honor!"' he imagined telling a judge. "I never pulled the trigger." He imagined the laugh that argument would cause. 'Gustav should realize that the time to eliminate Rolf was before the attempt on Franklin's life, not after. After Branson Elledge disappeared, I half expected to learn of Rolf's death . . . but it didn't happen. Maybe he was planning on using Rolf one last time. "Kill Franklin Pruitt for me,"' Mitchell imagined his boss saying to Rolf. '"Kill him and you'll never hear from me again." 'Yeah, right. You'll be dead, that's why you won't hear from me! 'So . . . Branson Elledge is in the hands of the FBI, and, most likely, so is Rolf. That leaves me to be the target of Gustav's wrath.' The thought of telling his boss that he'd been unable to locate Rolf, then face the man's towering anger, left him feeling weak with fear. 'The old man was none too happy that I wasn't able to bring in Branson Elledge, before the FBI found him, but this makes twice that I've failed him. He might, grudgingly, overlook one failure, but two . . . never.' Mitchell felt a cold chill run up his spine. It was as if he had a rifle's crosshairs centered on his head. 'I never thought that I would be the one in fear for my life, but . . . here I am. I can't go back and tell him, I just . . . can't. But . . . if I don't, I might as well choose a cemetery plot and sit down, waiting for someone to shoot me in the back of the head.' He nervously looked over his shoulder. 'Maybe ol' Branson Elledge did the right thing by turning himself in to the FBI. Whatever they do to me couldn't possibly be worse than living in fear of when Gustav and his henchmen will strike. 'On the other hand, if I can get out of the country before the old man has a chance to stop me, maybe, just maybe, I can escape. After all, it's only a matter of time before Gustav is taken into custody. And, if Gustav's behind bars, so will I be . . . if I hang around, that is. I should have skipped-out at the same time Branson did.' Bryant Mitchell compressed his lips, deciding what he must do . . . and, quickly. He stepped out of the shade cast by the tree in front of the hospital, and turned his back on his boss, and his past, as he began planning his escape. As Attorney Mitchell disappeared into the parking lot, a dark-suited man in the hospital's lobby, called his boss. * * * Lucas smiled his thanks, as the owner of Sally's Restaurant refilled his and Bailey's coffee cups, removed their lunch plates, then disappeared back into the building, leaving the two young men as the only occupants of the restaurant's patio. It was a warm afternoon, and the towering clouds on the horizon promised one of the glorious sunsets Lucas had grown to love. Already, shadows had begun to stretch across the town's main street, and the air had begun to cool. "So, let's talk about Riley and Nathan," Bailey began, as if continuing an earlier thought. Lucas made an inquiring gesture and raised his eyebrows. "There's more to the three of you being in Riverton than you've told me, isn't there?" he asked. The tone of Lucas' voice caused Bailey to hold up a reassuring hand. "No, there isn't," he answered, grimly, "but there is a problem, and it's growing." Bailey leaned forward, rested his forearms on the table, and spoke earnestly. "Lucas, the guys are deathly worried about their father. They haven't been able to speak with him since the night they were told that despicable mother of theirs wasn't dead, as everyone had supposed. Their father instructed them to go into hiding and not call him, and that he would . . . eventually . . . once things settled down, contact them." "And . . ." Lucas asked, invitingly. "Well," Bailey raised his arms to his sides and shrugged helplessly. "They're still waiting, and, as each day passes, their level of anxiety grows . . . especially Nathan's. Even Riley, who tends to be more laid back than his brother, is beginning to create all sorts of ugly scenarios. In some, their father has been killed, and, since Riley and Nathan are in hiding, no one can find them to give them the news. Conversely, of course, that also means that it's unlikely they'll be the target of some hired gun. "That seems to be the current scenario. Neither of the guys mentions the deranged woman they call, Mother. Their father though!" Bailey said, raising his voice as he tilted his head back and heaved an explosive sigh of irritation. "Last week, those two had the man languishing in a hospital, every natural orifice, and then some, filled with hoses and tubes. He'd either been hit in the head by a bullet, and was therefore unable to communicate, or else had been run down by their mother, depending on whose theory held sway at any one time." "You have a plan," Lucas said, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "You, Bailey, always have a plan. That's why Riley calls you Gen'rl, isn't it? Has anyone ever told you that you were destined to arrange everyone's life, then boss them around?" "Well, now," Bailey grinned, unrepentantly, "that's the strangest thing. We'll talk about that in a few minutes. Right now, I'm talking about the guys not being able to find out how their father's doing." "Aaaand?" Lucas asked, drawing out the word as an odd smile played over his lips. "What is it you want me to do?" "Email your mother." Lucas blinked at the brevity of the unexpected answer. "Okay. And, tell her what?" "Lucas, quit playing with me!" Lucas did his best to not grin, as he waved his fingers in a little, perish-the-thought gesture. "I'd like you to contact your mother, via email, and tell her that the guys are fine, but that they're dying for information about their father's well-being. There's no need to mention which guys, of course. Your mother's no dummy. She'll intuit who you're talking about. "They'e not going to like the fact that I . . . we . . . went behind their back, possibly compromising their security, but I don't see any other way of getting any information, short of calling their father, and that certainly would . . . compromise . . ." his voice trailed off as he wound down. "I don't believe either of them would forgive me for doing that." "It is your belief that Mother and Dad will have been in touch with your father, and that he, by some method, unknown to us, will have access to the knowledge we seek?" "Yes." Bailey sat back grumpily, crossing his arms, heedless of the creases he was causing in his grey linen sportcoat. "Now, tell me why it's such a bad idea. Lucas, we have to find out what's happening!" "You're right. If I were in their position, I know I'd be frantic, wanting to know what was going on. I'll let Mother know that she is to only ask your father anything, in person, and not by phone." He sighed. "But . . . email . . . avoiding telephone conversations? How many connections can Riley's mother possibly have? Surely, she can't be monitoring everyone's telephone numbers n'stuff, can she? I don't even know if such a thing would be possible for someone not in law enforcement to do. Bailey, is all this cops and robbers secrecy really necessary?" Bailey grinned. "Who knows? I'm just doing what seems like the right thing to do. Sometimes, I feel as if I've become a character in a play, or book, or something, and I have no control over anything." He frowned. "You know, that's not a very comforting thing to contemplate, is it?" He thought a moment, then shook his head, abandoning the possibility of being nothing more than a character, as not being something over which he had any control. "I don't know how much the woman knows, or what she's capable of. All I know, for certain, is that I must honor Riley and Nathan's wishes, as much as possible, and still get them the information they need to maintain their sanity . . . and . . . mine." * * * Rolf refused to make eye contact with the woman who stood at his hospital bedside. "I'm going to be going to prison, aren't I?" he mumbled, breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought. "They'll kill me there. The other prisoners, I mean. Guys like me don't live very long in those places. Why doesn't someone just get rid of me now, and be done with it? Why'd they have to fix up my face, if they're going to put me up in front of a firing squad, or something? I don't expect they're planning on an open casket funeral." "You have a certain flair for the melodramatic," the large woman responded, with the brusk authority unique to nurses and kindergarten teachers, as she removed the gauze dressing and examined his nasal splints. "You're going to have a better looking honker than the one you were born with, that's for certain," she nodded, knowingly. "A lot of good it'll do me," Rolf grumbled. "While someone was improving on things, they should have given me a bigger dick." The nurse abruptly lifted the blanket, along with his hospital gown, and stared at his . . . endowment . . . with a critical expression. "Looks pretty nice to me. Of course, yours is one of the first I've seen today that wasn't sporting a catheter." Rolf batted the blanket out of the woman's hand. "I'm not here to have you belittle my manhood," he grumbled. "I never said it was little! I said it was nice." "Yeah, yeah. So . . . are they going to send me to prison?" "Hell if I know! I only work here. They don't tell me anything." She glanced toward the foot of the bed, then grinned. "You're not chained to the bed frame, though, so I'd take that as a sign that things may not be as bad as you imagine. "Well," she smiled, brightly, as she turned her back and walked toward the room's door. "I've got to go check out the man next door. See 'ya later, Ralph." "It's Rolf!" "Well, maybe the new nose will go with the snooty name. Bye!" she called, waving over her shoulder. Before her laughter had faded away, a very serious voice took its place. "Mister Kaiser?" The authority with which his name was said, caused Rolf to look up, in dread of what he would see. "Are you here to take me to prison?" he asked. "If so, why don't you just kill me now, and be done with it." "They specifically told me, when I took this job, to not kill anyone. So, if you're really intent on being killed, you'll have to ask someone else to do the job. I'm here to talk about your involvement with the Gustav Winton Law Firm." Rolf's eyes widened. "You're not one of them, are you? I figured they'd be sending someone to get rid of me, but I didn't think it'd happen like this . . . in broad daylight . . . here!" "If, by them, you mean the Winton Firm, no, I don't work for them. I work with the FBI, and, like I said, the higher ups frown on me killing anyone, at any time, broad daylight or no." He produced his badge and held it for Rolf to examine. "So, don't worry. You also don't have to answer any of my questions. If you'd like an attorney, I can arrange to have one brought in." Rolf shuddered. "Attorneys. I've had my fill of them. They've been running my life for the past twenty-some years." "My condolences. I know exactly how you feel. But, we're all stuck with attorneys, so we should make the best of the situation. Should I arrange to have one present while I ask you some questions, so I don't trample about on your rights n'all?" Rolf sighed, sinking back into the single pillow of the hard hospital bed, and shook his head in renewed despair. "No. I figure, by the time all the dust settles, I'll have seen more attorneys than I will want. Besides, I've spent all these years hiding everything. It's time to tell all. I'll tell you anything you want to know. What more can they do to me?" "Mister Kaiser," the man said. "All joking aside. Do not be convinced that you'll be sent to prison. You are currently in a private facility, precisely to protect you from those you fear. As far as what the future holds, much will depend on Mister Pruitt, and whether he wants to pursue things beyond where they currently stand." "You mean . . . there's still a chance?" "Of course, I can't speak for Mister Pruitt, or the other powers that be, but I would say so. Now, may I close the door, and ask some questions?" "If that'll keep the comedian nurse out of here, yes, certainly. I'll tell you whatever I know." He accusingly lowered his brows. "You're absolutely positive you're not with the Winton Firm? I thought, for sure, they'd be sending Bryant Mitchell, one of their henchmen, to kill me before anyone had a chance to ask me any questions." Rolf hurriedly scanned over what he should and shouldn't tell the man, in light of the possibility of going free. 'Definitely, I shouldn't mention that it was I who shot at Franklin, through the office window, and succeeded only in shattering the window. There'll be no possibility of ever going free if they know of that. At least I kept the used casing, and got rid of the gun a day later. Maybe, that'll mean that's one thing they won't be able to accuse me of. And, since no one else knows what I did, there won't be anyone to mention it. 'If I can get Gustav into more trouble than he's already in, I'll do it! If he hadn't called me, on the day of the assassination attempt, and told me I'd never hear from him again, if I was only able to kill Mister Pruitt, then escape, none of this would have happened. I certainly wouldn't be here waiting to be interviewed.' Rolf did his best to hide his excitement at being able to finally get back at Gustav for some of the pain he'd been caused, over the years. The very official looking FBI man spoke to someone in the corridor, then closed the door. When he'd got the recorder and everything else positioned to his satisfaction, he sat down and smiled encouragingly. "Now, why don't you start things off by telling me all about this Bryant Mitchell person, you mentioned?" * * * "Yo, Riley!" Bailey shouted, from where he and Lucas sat in the shade of the patio of Sally's Restaurant, their half-empty cups of coffee sitting in front of them. Riley jogged over to the table and plopped onto a seat. "Sort'a warm, don'tcha think?" He fanned himself. "I'm 'bout to roast. And, there you sit, looking all calm and collected, wearing a friggin' suit coat!" He glanced at Lucas and shook his head. "The man doesn't sweat!" He complained, as Lucas grinned. "Of course not!" Bailey interrupted. "But, that's neither here nor there. I've been planning our lives, so listen-up," he began, ignoring his partner's wide-eyed expression. "Now that you've graduated, you need something to do with yourself." "And, you've just the thing," Riley grinned, winking at Lucas. "Yes! You're being recruited to be the IT department of W.P. Distribution. It's a very important position, and, since I have connections with one of the owners, I'm sure you'll get the job." Riley glanced at Lucas who shrugged. "Don't look at me! This is all new to me, too." "W.P. Distribution?" Riley asked, turning back to his partner, who was looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Who, might I ask, are they, and what do they distribute?" "They are us!" Bailey announced, wearing a radiant smile. "W.P., get it? Wilkins/Pruitt, and we are going to own and run a mid-sized trucking fleet which will work with Lucas, Sam, and Jonah, both here and in the surrounding states, to distribute all the produce and flowers and whatever they've grown in their greenhouses. From what I understand, folks are clamoring to buy everything Jonah can grow, which is going to be a lot, now that those hydroponic greenhouses of Lucas' and his are ready to come online. He's been holding back, though, since, until W.P. Distribution came along; there wasn't a reliable means of transporting everything in a timely manner. "You, my handsome lover, are a computer genius, and I am a . . . well," Bailey grinned. "I'm not sure what I am, but I figure, working with you, and looking like you do, no one will pay too much attention to me. "Besides . . . you need to be doing something. We need to be doing something, to take our mind off that mother of yours. I figure, if we can use our talents, and make money at the same time, we should all be happy." He held up a finger, as Riley opened his mouth to speak. "I don't want to hear any moaning and groaning about how money changes a person. You are responsible for any changes you experience, not your money. If you allow it to rule you, it will. You've never been in control of your money, Riley. You've always let your father or someone else handle it for you, doling out whatever you needed . . . which wasn't much. Living a simple life does not make one virtuous. Using one's money wisely does that. Helping others, does it. Sacrificing everything that money can buy, does not. "You are much stronger than you imagine. Let's work together to develop a business both of us can be proud of. Let's make money, of course, but W.P. Distribution can also make a name for itself by how well it treats its employees, its clients, and the world at large. Let's make money, but let's use it, not only for ourselves, but for others. Deal?" Riley mutely nodded, his mouth opening and closing a couple times, before he gulped a swallow and reached for his partner's hand. "Sometimes, Gen'rl, you make me so proud to know you, I could cry." He swallowed. "This is one of those times." * * * The sound of a large crash was immediately followed by a puff of dust, which billowed out of the open doors to Millie's Store, and hung in the still evening air. "Hank McCorkle!" Riley, Bailey, and Lucas heard Millie say, in a loud voice. "You promised you wouldn't go droppin' any more stuff! Now, get your fanny off that ladder and give me a kiss of apology. You nearly grazed me, dropping stuff like that." "I just kissed you about five minutes ago. Why don't you join me up here!" "Surely you jest!" The large woman's laughter joined that of her . . . boyfriend's. "Hey, Millie!" Lucas paused at the open doors to the store and raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, Hank," he smiled, at the man who was climbing down the ladder. How's the remodeling coming? Bailey and Riley have some great news!" "You're having a baby!" Millie exclaimed. "That's wonderful!" "Huh?" Riley turned to the man next to him, wide eyed. "Is there something else you haven't told me, Gen'rl?" Bailey shook his head. "There are lots of things I don't tell you, but a baby is definitely not one of them. I think our good friend, Millie, must have babies on her mind," he suggested, raising his brows, and grinning at the woman's flushed cheeks and averted eyes. "Did I hear mention of a baby?" Hank shouted, from the top of the ladder. "Millie?" his voice squeaked upward. "Is there something I should be aware of?" "Not yet, Sweet Thing," she shouted, twiddling her fingers at him, and smiling. "Sweet Thing?" Bailey mouthed the words, turning to Riley, then Lucas. "Um . . . ah . . .," Lucas stammered. "I don't know if it's possible for me to top that, but . . . um . . . these two," he said, gesturing to his two friends, "have just told me of their new business. "Bailey, with his and his family's experience in trucking, and Riley, with his new business degree, are going to be setting up a trucking company to distribute all of the produce, flowers, n'stuff, Jonah's growing over at the greenhouses. It won't be long until the grocery store is ready to open, and our produce n'stuff will have a local market, too." "The secret that you're starting a new store, to compete with Maxine's place, is pretty much out of the bag, Lucas," Millie said, in all seriousness. "Before the lady went on her . . . vacation . . . she was getting pretty worked up . . . even more than usual. She was hell-fire bent on causing you boys as much damage as possible." "People have more sense than to listen to the likes of her," Hank grumbled, as he descended the ladder and wrapped a possessive arm around Millie. "Most people, that is." "Before you get all upset, worrying about ol' Maxine, and her rantings," Millie began, "Hank's right. People know you. They care about you . . . a great deal. You've become part of the community. You, along with the other guys," she aded, tilting her head in Bailey and Riley's direction, acknowledging their contributions, "have brought vision to Riverton, and enthusiasm, and ethical behavior in the face of adversity. "Personally, though, I admire you most 'cause you welcomed Sam into your and Owen's relationship, with open arms. 'Bout made me cry, it did, learning what you'd done. You made both Sam and Owen very happy. Not everyone would have done what you did." "Millie's told me all 'bout it, son," Hank added. "Whether folks say anything or not, they notice stuff like that. Even if Maxine might've swayed some of them with her rantings, all they needed to do was to think about the things you've done, and they'd know Maxine is nothing but a bag of gas." "Millie, Hank,"Lucas said, "I asked Sam to join Owen n'me, because I felt very strongly for him. In the months since, I have come to love him, just like I do Owen." "You felt strongly for him, I have no doubt, but you are a kind and generous man, with a heart big enough to love more than one person, and the vision to not give a flying fig for what people in town think." "Here here," Bailey murmured. "Do they think badly of us guys?" "No!" Millie said, with some heat. "Maxine, on the other hand, is about as popular as a French kiss at a family reunion." * * * "Was your meeting with Mister Sutton, disturbing?" Roxanne Jackson, the receptionist for the Pruitt Builders legal team asked, as the handsome young man stepped out of the office, and the glass doors swung shut. Lance Benham, lead attorney for the firm, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. "Dear me, but I do believe that things are about to go from complicated to . . . something . . . worse." He shook his head. "I don't know a word for how involved things have suddenly become." The attorney absently smiled, his mind swirling with all the possibilities, as he slowly closed his office door. 'Micah Sutton,' he thought. 'You are much more than you know, I'm sure of it. But . . . what does it mean, and is it possible . . . just possible . . . that you are being used as yet another weapon to attack Franklin Pruitt?' Lance Benham's lips compressed. 'Would you even know if you're being used?' The possibilities swirled through the attorney's mind. 'Should I tell someone of my suspicions? And, if I do . . . whom should I tell? If I'm wrong, I could ruin a promising career. Yet, if I'm right, and I don't tell someone, a man I've come to think of as a friend, could lose his life.' The attorney stared out of the office window, chewing on his lower lip. Finally, he turned, decisively rapping his knuckles on his desk, as he sank into his chair and pressed the intercom button on his phone. "Roxanne, would you please get me our contact, over at the FBI, on the line?" * * * "Wait till Owen hears the news about Bailey and Riley's new business," Sam smiled, as he held the door to the apartment building open, for Lucas. "Jonah and Corey were sure excited when you told them." "Whoa!" he laughed, as he turned from locking the door, and nearly ran into Lucas, who was looking up the stairs. "I 'bout ran you down!" "Owen's singing!" Sam smiled. "Yeah, awful isn't it?" "No, I mean he feels like singing." "Well . . . he told me, just before I headed over to the greenhouses to meet with you n'Jonah, n'all, that he had a surprise for us. He must be feeling good about it." "Do you know anything about what he's planning?" "Hmm," Sam said, studiously avoiding Lucas' questioning look. "Why don't we go upstairs and find out what's going on?" "I don't like secrets," Lucas grumbled, good naturedly. Sam swatted his partner on the seat of the pants, as they climbed the stairs. "Tough." "Oh . . . my," Lucas exhaled, as he and Sam entered the apartment and found Owen leaning over the dining table, biting his lip in concentration, as he lit a group of candles he'd arranged on a dinner plate in the center of the table. Next to the candles, on either side, was a drinking glass, serving as a vase for a small bouquet of yellow flowers. The sun, hovering on the horizon, set the surrounding clouds ablaze, as its light shone through the window, casting bands of pale yellow stripes across the rug and over the dining table. In the background, some of Owen's favorite soft jazz music was playing. "Welcome home!" He crossed the room and wrapped first Lucas, then Sam, in an embrace. "You're just in time for dinner." "Dinner?" "That's where one sits down to eat," Sam supplied, ignoring Lucas' look of exasperation. "I made it," Owen said, proudly, gesturing toward the dining table, then back to his partners. "Mama told me what to do, but she wouldn't touch anything. She just leaned against the counter and crossed her arms, giving me instructions." He blushed. "When she figured I couldn't ruin anything, she left, gathering up Nathan as she did so, inviting him to dinner. "Nothing special's going on; I just wanted to have a meal celebrating the fact that the three of us are together. You guys are always doin' something for me. I wanted to try this, for you both." Lucas' mouth opened and closed, as he looked from the table, to the flowers and candles, then to Owen, who was looking on nervously. "I know it's not like when you were livin' at home," Owen began, then hiccoughed to a stop. "Oh, Cowboy," Lucas sighed, as he took Owen in his arms. "This is so much better than anything I've ever had at home. Just the fact that you made it and want to share what you've done with Sam n'me. Well . . . it's great. Thank you, Thank you!" he said, as he held Owen in a tight embrace. "You never cease to amaze me, at how much you're always thinking of someone else. Thank you." "Smells wonderful," Sam said, as the three men separated from an embrace and group kiss. "What's for dinner? Are the other guys invited?" "Nope," Owen said, "This meal is for you, Lucas, n'me. Like I said, Nathan went home with Mama. She invited him over to have dinner with them, and Jonah and Corey. Bailey and Riley left a bit ago and are over in Evanston having dinner, celebrating something. Bailey told me you'd tell me all about it. So, the three of us are here, all alone." Owen dimmed the lights and held a chair for Lucas, and Sam, who grinned at Owen's enthusiasm, and Lucas' look of amazement. "I was over at the greenhouses earlier today and yanked some stuff out of the ground, for our salad," he explained, as he carried a large bowl of greenery to the table, with an air of great consequence. "I guess I took a little more than I needed, so . . .," he grinned. "We've got salad stuff for at least a week." He placed a brimming bowl of greens in front of both Lucas and Sam, then sat down. "I'm sure Jonah'll find something to stick in the holes I left behind." "Well . . . eat. The rest of the meal's still in the oven." * * * "Owen's making dinner?" Jonah asked his mother. "I mean . . . for real? And the guys are gonna eat it?" Bea turned an exasperated look on her youngest son. "Yes. I was over there for a while, earlier in the afternoon, and your brother was doing a very good job. This is real important to him, Jonah, so don't make fun of his efforts, okay? "I never know what to expect from that boy," she continued, as she handed Jonah something to carry into the dining room. "One minute, he's laughing and teasing, and the next time I see him, you'd think he'd just lost his dearest friend." She turned to Corey, as Jonah hurried from the room. "Do you have any idea what's going on? It's not something between him, Sam, and Lucas, do you think?" Corey fidgeted, and did his best to smile reassuringly, as his stomach tightened. "No, ma'am. I'm sure if anything's bothering Owen, it's not that." "Ma'am?" Bea eyed Corey with suspicion. "Since when am I, ma'am?" Bea studied her youngest son's partner from beneath lowered lashes. "Corey?" she asked, drawing out the word. "Bea," Daniel called from the next room. "The guys aren't here to exchange gossip. If you have questions you want answered, maybe you should talk to Owen, instead of trying to pump the guys for information. Ask Owen. We all know the young man's never been one to avoid a chance to talk." Corey's face heated, as he took whatever it was Bea had handed him, and turned to the dining room, where Jonah waited, wearing a somber expression. Nathan watched, as Daniel silently studied Corey and Jonah's silent communication. When the older man realized he was being observed, he tried to soften his look of concern. Still, Nathan flushed in self-consciousness, as Daniel turned to him and cocked an eyebrow. "Don't look at me," he said, as he laughed nervously. "I'm just a guest. I don't know anything."
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