He saw the tension ripple across the man's shoulder and when Benedict's jaw tightened.

Destrie nodded toward Benedict's hat. "I was talking about your hat, cowboy, not your—" His gaze shifted downward to the obvious bulge in the man's jeans.

Benedict swung away, his big hands wrapped around the snow-covered handrail. Destrie saw the knuckles whiten with the stranglehold grip.

"Why'd you come out here, Destrie? There'll be talk. It'll all start up again." His voice had deepened since Destrie last saw him. Right now it seemed tinged with tension, tight and raspy.

"Been a long time, Benedict. Glad to see you too."

He saw Benedict's shoulders fold inward as he leaned heavily against the rail.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. This town has a long memory. It never forgets. Do you want them coming after you again? Especially now?"

"I can take care of myself. They're nothing compared to what I've seen." What I've done, he almost added but didn't. There were things a man didn't talk about. Sure as hell not to civilians.

The silence stretched between them. Long and thick and tense.

"I'm sorry about Ray," Benedict said, his words soft, barely above a whisper. If Destrie hadn't been tuned intently to the man standing next to him, he might have missed them.

"Thanks. Laine's taken it hard. They just moved into town last year. They were only getting settled when the heart attack took him."

"Yeah. He went to the doctor last week. New guy, just came to town."

"I know. I heard Doc Logan passed last year. Laine wrote me; she thought I'd want to know."

Destrie was afraid the old wooden rail would snap beneath Benedict's grip. It was Doc Logan who had patched up Benedict and Destrie after the incident eight years ago. It was Benedict who had hauled Destrie on foot, slung over his shoulder, limping heavily after the beating, the long two miles to Doc's house.

Destrie rubbed at the raw memento on the side of his face. He'd never forget the tight, demonic smile on Jake's face as he cut into Destrie's flesh as three of Jake's friends held him down. Now a jagged, shiny pink line of scar tissue that arced from the corner of his eye down to his chin kept the occasion fresh. He remembered when it had flowed freely with his blood, covering both him and Benedict. He remembered the smell—the pain.

It had turned into his lucky charm over the years, reminding him to keep his edge, never let his guard down. It kept his rage fresh and new. In his profession, that reminder had paid off more than a time or two.

He also remembered the late-night visit from Benedict's father while he was healing at Doc's place. It was that visit that had sent him out of Coyote Forks eight years earlier. He'd escaped all of them by joining the Army. He appeased the raging spirit inside him by joining his battalion's sniper unit. For a lot of years it had worked—until recently. Until now. Because he knew this time he had no excuse for not returning to Coyote Forks. And he knew it would mean trouble.

All the angry memories, all the pent-up yearning, came flooding back. He turned to look at Benedict, and suddenly, unable to help himself, he surged forward. Control be damned. He peeled Benedict's fingers from the rail, spun him around, and fastened his mouth to his ex-lover's hard lips.

All the heat was still there, every bit as fierce and deep as it had once been. Destrie fastened his hands around Benedict's thickly muscled forearms and shoved the cowboy backward. Benedict stumbled down the two steps, almost falling, and his hat fell onto the ground, landing upside down in the snow. The two men practically danced a two-step backward through the snow-covered alley.

Destrie shoved him beneath an eave flat up against the hewn-log walls of the bar. The alley was winter silent. Hot, fast breaths clouded the air, frosty and vivid. He released Benedict's arms and shoved one hand down the front of Benedict's denim jeans, past the plain belt buckle, and inside the stiff fabric of his jeans, curling around the rigid erection imprisoned inside. He tasted Benedict's groan.

Destrie remembered it all, every moment of those combustible months when they were eighteen. When they were invincible and passionate and so, so needy for the touch of each other in every way there was to be taken. That same summer heat branded his palm as he gripped Benedict's dick.

He brushed a broad thumb over the flared head, sliding through the wetness of precum leaking from the slit.

"Benedict," he whispered against the man's lips just before he covered them with his own mouth once again.

Benedict shot forward, grabbed onto Destrie's arms, and whirled him around. He forced Destrie back against the building and looked into his eyes.

An impression of pain creased Benedict's brow as he reached for Destrie's hand and carefully removed it from inside his pants.

"We can't do this. Not again. It doesn't matter how much we want it. It doesn't fucking matter. Jake and his crew will kill you if they find out."

"But you still want me. You haven't changed."

Benedict shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against Destrie's.

"You have no idea, man. No idea what it's been like. But I've learned to live with it. I can't do it again. I can't go back. You left, remember? I've learned to live with that. And I don't plan to let Jake finish the job he started. I can't have your death on my conscience. I won't let this happen."