Lost and Found 2

Chapter 2

Milton watched the circle of men in the firelight. Mace and Trent were collecting the final plates from dinner and coaxing the final slice of cheese pizza on Brad. All the pizzas had been a hit, even the cholesterol topper with ham, summer sausage, pepperoni, Italian sausage, and extra cheese. Cotton was squashed into the armchair near the fire. He played restlessly with Brad’s zoo animal tie now that he had no pizza in his hand. Tilden was on the floor, his back against the hearth with Luke curled in his lap like a cat. Sheldon bounced about after Trent and Mace. Milton had put a heavy hand on his partner’s shoulder to remind him to not send soda sloshing from glasses or pass pizzas like flying pies. Mike poked at the fire as if prodding an angry bear, sending sparks showering onto the hearth. 

The fire and the meal had settled the worst of the tension, but still a restlessness filled the air like the quick winds before a summer squall. Milton reached out and grabbed Mike’s shirt before he could stir the fire again and plunked him down on the sofa next to him.  “Let’s not set the house on fire. Haven’t we had enough excitement for the day?”

Sheldon clattered back from the kitchen with a plate of cookies and looked at Milton, unsure where to go with his spot taken. Milton glanced toward his feet and mouthed, “please.” Milton didn’t want to shift Mike as he could feel the young man relaxing, allowing his head to droop against Milton’s shoulder.

Milton saw Sheldon nod and give him a faint smile. For all of Sheldon’s antics, he did understand the dynamics of these relationships, and while he might voice comments that were best left unspoken and not fade into a quiet corner, he liked Mike and Luke and worshipped Tilden. He would never do anything to hurt any of them.

Sheldon sank down on his knees next to Milton. “Do I make a good sub?”

“Not hardly,” Milton said with a smirk and kissed the top of his hair. “Do you think story telling would settle this bunch?” Milton watched the men shift in the flickering firelight, waving like grain in a light wind under the setting sun.

“Ghost stories,” Sheldon said.

“I prefer to sleep tonight,” Trent said from across the room. "How about a story from your childhood, Milton?”

“Little House in the Big Woods meets Boys Town,” Sheldon snarked.

“Behave,” Milton mock smacked Sheldon on the head.

Brad stirred and started to pull Cotton to his feet. “We better be going; we have a long drive ahead of us.”

“We made up the spare bedroom. Driving will be much easier in the morning after the rain's tapered off.” Milton tried to balance authority with a gracious host. “You’ve both had a hard day that’s not over yet, and it’s no trouble for you to stay.” Milton didn’t know Brad well enough to pull him aside and bluntly tell him his partner needed spanked, but he hoped he would catch the broad strokes of the conversation. Cotton was restless and clinging hard. Further delay might pull the two of them apart, and Tilden’s initial assessment of Brad seemed correct, a sincere, sweet man floundering in his new role as a top.

“Can we stay?” Cotton pleaded.

Brad nodded. Milton knew that those few words convinced Brad to stay more than any rational argument about slick roads and driving when exhausted. Milton rummaged through the stories in his mind; some were his own, while others had been passed down through the family on winter nights in front of a crackling fireplace. Milton cleared his throat and began a story of his own childhood. 

*****

 The Green Mountain Boys

When I’d heard the footsteps, I knew we couldn’t be quick enough. I should’ve known earlier by the sound that the steps were crossing the cobble courtyard into the old barn, a vast wood and stone structure where we stored the season’s hay and where I lay hidden.  A few stray chickens wandered on the floor, searching for bugs and hiding eggs in the centuries of hay droppings that had been smashed into the dirt and manure floor until the entire surface was a uniform dusty brown. Feet made a different sound when they crossed the smooth concrete of the milking parlor and the rows of stanchions for the prized Ayrshires and Brown Swiss. My family had been running dairy cattle on this rocky hillside of Vermont since before the Revolutionary War and Granddad, like his father before him looked with disdain at the herds of Holsteins that now crowded the hillsides. Factory farmed white water he called it, not enough butterfat for a decent glass of milk, let alone a nice cup of cream. I didn’t dare tell him that skim milk was all the rage; that would be heresy in our family.

I could see Grandfather’s shadow in the barn door, still tall but stooped at the shoulders from years bent over attaching the milking machines. A full head of gray hair was covered by a baseball cap from our local Landmark. I didn’t need to see the cap to know the brim would be sweat stained and crushed beyond recognition. As always, a piece of timothy hay was clamped between his teeth. When he was deep in thought, he’d pull the hay from his mouth, examine it, and then jam it back between his teeth. 

He’d spotted Mark. I could tell by the way he headed directly for him. Mark was a city boy, and by the time I’d recognized the danger there hadn’t been time to help him into the second level of the loft. I’d played in this barn since I was a toddler, and I’d instinctively scaled the rotten farm gates that divided the tiers of the loft. I was safely tucked in a nook between bales of timothy and clover; Mark was below, exposed, and scrambling for his shirt and pants, his briefs still around his knees. My shoes, socks, and shirt lay below as noticeable as a colorful banner held in front of a charging cavalry. As least, I'd managed to grab my pants.

Grandfather stood in the barn aisle, hands on his hips, chewing on a  scraggily piece of grass. He pulled the  stem from his mouth, spat on the floor, wiped his mouth, and replaced the stem.

“Mark, Son, come on down.” 

At least he wasn’t shouting. Mark turned three shades of crimson and tried to hide his exposure with his hands as he reached behind him searching for his jeans.

“Mark, it’s not like I haven’t seen it all before. Go shower in the milk house. You don’t want to put those clothes back on with hay, sweat, and who knows what else all over you.”

Mark stuffed his feet back in his boots with no socks, grabbed the remains of his clothes, and scrambled down the ladder, trying to both hold the ladder rungs and strategically cover himself with his T-shirt. Mark’s head was down, and he looked as close to tears as I’d ever seen him. 

Mark was a tough guy, and he didn’t cry easily. Last year he’d been knocked flat by a baseball. He'd dusted himself off and hit the the next ball into the parking lot. He lived with his aunt and uncle on the other side of the valley. Rumor was that his parents had sent him out of the city after he’d gotten into some major trouble. The speculation ran wild. Had he been busted for drugs? Was he running a prostitution ring out of his parents’ basement? I knew the truth, and it wasn’t nearly so glamorous. His grades were in the cellar, and his parents had found out that when he said he was over studying with the stockbroker’s son he was really cruising the party scene with his brother’s roommate from college. Goodbye Times Square—hello maple syrup and cow shit.

Grandfather reached out and grasped the back of Mark’s neck in his big hand. He whispered something in Mark’s ear that I couldn’t hear. Mark nodded and Grandfather tousled his hair before he let him go. Mark scrambled for the safety of the milk house, only looking back once when he cleared the doors of the barn. Grandfather wiped his hands on his manure encrusted coveralls. He pulled his work gloves from his back pocket and then replaced them on the opposite side. I could see his lips move, but I couldn’t here the words. Finally he looked up, right at the bales that I crouched behind.

“Milton, I know you’re up there. Go in the kitchen and wait for me.” His tone was eerily quiet. The only time I’d ever heard that voice was when Uncle Doug had almost gotten his hand caught in the tractor’s power take off. Grandfather had been white as he’d ordered Doug in a voice barely above a whisper to take care of the calves in the far barn. I’d been told to put the tractor away in the bottom barn. It hadn’t made much sense as we only had a few more post holes to dig. Doug hadn’t questioned Grandfather’s order. He’d just wiped the sleeve of his coat over his face and hurried off. I’d started to argue about finishing the job, and Grandfather had shot me a look that I thought could peel paint off the wall. Needless to say, I'd put the tractor away posthaste.

I scrambled from my hiding place and collected my boots and shirt before I climbed the final ladder to the ground. Grandfather didn’t say anything. He just pointed to the house before he turned on his heels and marched out toward the high pastures and the brown and white dots grazing on the hillside.

I kicked off my boots and stacked them by the door. Doug’s large boots were already in the pile; he must be upstairs somewhere. I sat at the table, resting my chin in my hands.  For me, the kitchen had always been a place of sanctuary. At Christmas, I baked cookies with Uncle Doug or Grandfather. We made gingerbread farmers and acres of racks full of Brown Swiss cattle. We were the only house that forsook the traditional wreath and star shapes for cattle. The Brown Swiss were the easiest as their coat color matched lightly baked gingerbread. Some years we were more adventuresome and branched out to create Ayrshires, Belted Galloways, and even the much derided Holsteins. In the summer, the kitchen smelled of sugar and berries as Doug prepared the jam that graced our table throughout the year and was sent to far off relatives for gifts along with Vermont’s famed maple syrup and recipes for fluffy, light pancakes every time.

This was first time I’d ever sat in the kitchen with dread. Last spring a few sparks of lightning had cancelled baseball practice. The storm never came, and the air had cleared by the time I’d made it home. I’d run up the porch steps, following my usual routine of grabbing a drink and dropping my bag in the kitchen before going to the barn and offering a hand. The outer door was open, but the screen was on the latch. As my hand moved to knock, I heard a wail and a choked sob. I could just see a portion of the kitchen from where I stood, the old beat up gas range with the cherry red kettle perched on the back burner, the wide counter stacked high with early spring lettuce and spinach, the worn pine flooring grooved by years of dog nails and chairs scratching across its surface, and Grandfather sitting on a chair with Uncle Doug draped over his leg. Grandfather’s hand landed on Doug’s rump with a resounding crack, and I fled, closing my ears to the wails from the kitchen. I ran up the rock strewn hill, finally stopping at the old spring house, where I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees watching the idyllic scene, worthy of a picture postcard, of the cattle grazing below me a splash of spring wildflowers blooming in the fence row.

I think they must have seen me, but no one mentioned it. I returned to the house at my usual time. All was quiet; there was no blood in the sink or battered Doug hiding in the closest. It was Uncle Doug who later that night asked if I was OK. I told him I was fine, but in all honesty, he looked more fine than I did. He raced through the barn work with his usual speed and stamina; the only change that I could spot is that Grandfather suggested he hit the sack early and take a warm bath with epsom salts since they’d had such a hard day. Yeah, a hard day getting whacked.

I now wondered if that fate lay ahead for me. Neither Grandfather nor Uncle Doug had ever hit me. I’d been grounded a few times for the usual teenage things, and when I’d gotten a traffic ticket for running a red light, Grandfather in a fit of creativity had made me copy the D.M.V. study guide five times. All in all they frequently told me that I was an easy teenager and a joy to raise. I did my share of the work and was tops in school. Now that was all about to end.

I heard Doug start down the stairs. “Hey, I thought you were out playing with Mark,” he said with his trademark wide grin.

“He had to go home early,” I muttered into the table.

Uncle Doug didn’t miss much. He was down the remaining stairs in two bounds, and I felt his hand plunk reassuringly on my back. “Oh, honey, did you two have a fight?”

“No, I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” I said in a tone that all parents know as teenage angst.

Doug’s hand rubbed a circle on the small of my back and he leaned forward and kissed the back of my sweat soaked neck. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” he whispered into my ear. 

He hadn’t kissed me since I finished grade school. If I hadn’t felt so wrung out, I think I would’ve flinched. Instead I leaned into his hand and lapped up the comfort. When Mark had first met my grandfather and uncle, he’d teased me mercilessly for being blind to the fact that they were a couple. But now as Doug rested his hand on my back and broadly hinted that my relationship had disintegrated, I felt like a naive fool for not seeing  the truth of their relationship. The two beds, as Mark had succinctly put it, were just for show. I’d seen them put a hand around each other’s waist or Grandfather push the hair back on Doug’s forehead and drop a light kiss when he went off to bed, but I’d never seen anything overtly sexual. And then again, the farmers of Vermont were not a demonstrative people. Heterosexual couples didn’t paw each other in public either.

I pondered these new facts as I waited for Grandfather to arrive in the kitchen. Given Grandfather and Uncle Doug were gay, why was Grandfather angry for finding me with Mark? It wasn’t like I could get him pregnant. He wasn’t angry with Mark, brusk perhaps but not angry. But he was white hot furious with me. I was still trying to work out this puzzle when I heard the screen door bang.

“Doug, why don’t you get the basket and go harvest the tomatoes. We want to get as many in before it frosts as possible,” Grandfather said.

It seemed like an idiotic request, but Doug swung the basket over his arm and left without comment. The counter was strewn with tomatoes, and today had been well into the seventies, even though it was a week after Labor Day.

“Milton, we need to talk.” Grandfather’s voice was soft, and his eyes looked troubled, not angry, but I went on the offensive. I didn’t want to end up tipped over his knee if I could avoid it.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you and Doug were lovers?” I shouted as if it were a vile accusation.

“You never asked,” Grandfather said mildly. “And I thought you’d figured it out when you were being so open with Mark.” 

His calmness knocked the fight right out of me. I remembered the knowing smiles that Doug and Grandfather had given me when Mark had come over to study and the sudden insistence that I study with him at the kitchen table instead of up in my room. I’d thought they’d wanted to be hospitable, make sure they fed both of us since they knew I could become lost in my studies and forget to eat. No, they’d wanted to prevent excess necking just as if I’d brought a girl home. 

“You knew about Mark and me?”

“It was obvious if you knew what to look for,” Grandfather said with a small shrug. 

“Then why are you angry with me?” I asked, confused.

“I’m not angry, disappointed, not angry. Do you love Mark?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have a duty to protect him, and you failed.” Grandfather’s voice had become sterner and deeper as he spoke of protection.

“I don’t understand.”

“You help Mark with his schoolwork?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled. Grandfather knew I was helping Mark.  

“He doesn’t do it unless he’s with you.”

“He finds school hard, and he wants a baseball scholarship. School’s easy for me.”

“Have you ever punished him for not doing his schoolwork?”

“What?” I exclaimed. "I’m his friend, not his dad."

Grandfather pulled out a chair and sat down next to me. “Didn’t you tell him that you wouldn’t go with him to the movies if he didn’t finish his math?”

I groaned, remembering the incident last spring. We’d both been wanting to see the new spy thriller since the previews started appearing in December. Amazingly it opened in our small town theater amongst the stale popcorn and crackling sound system the same week it opened in the great cities of L.A. and New York. We’d been planning to go opening weekend for months when Mark failed his math test on Thursday. I remembered when I asked Mark as I caught him coming from class, the test crumpled in his hand. He claimed that he’d done all right, but I knew from his edginess it’d been a disaster. As usual, he spent Friday evening with me. I’d put his math test out of my mind, looking forward to a late night in front of the television, but he came in the door carrying his math book and shoved the crinkled test in my hand. There was more red on it than his original pencil marks. The only hopeful sign was the math teacher was also the baseball coach, and he’d offered to allow Mark to retake the exam on Monday.

“Oh, Mark, it wasn’t so all right, was it?”

“No,” he flushed. “I’m sorry about lying to you earlier.”

“Please don’t lie to me again,” I said, giving him a piercing glare before affectionately ruffling his hair. 

We sat down and went through the test. Mark as usual was having a terrible time concentrating and kept babbling about pitchers’ E.R.A.’s and the new rookie playing for Boston who was going to break the curse of the Bambino.

“Mark, settle down, or we’ll never get finished.”

“I can’t. I hate this.”

“You want to play baseball at Florida,” I interrupted before he could go into a full blown tirade against  algebra II.

He nodded, and I cut him off before he could protest further.

“Well then, as I see it, we review this math today and tomorrow. If it’s not done, we don’t go to the movies.” I stood up when Mark started to complain, and I was now standing with my hip propped against the table and my arms crossed.

Mark looked at me with wide eyes and responded, “Yes, sir.”

He later told me that I sounded frighteningly firm during the whole process—put his dad to shame, as he put it.

Grandfather was right; I had forced Mark to do his math, but what did that have to do with the incident in the barn?

“Milton,” Grandfather said, engulfing my long, slender hand in his large paw, his knuckles swollen and discolored from countless cows bashing and trapping his hands in the headlocks. I could feel the callouses on his palm as he gripped my hand. “I want you to understand that I’m proud of you, and I’m proud of your sexuality, but you’re a top and with that comes some responsibilities.”

I stared at him, perplexed. At that time, I was a naive small town boy. I’d only heard top used in the context of sexual position and then only vaguely and in whispers. I hadn’t had anal sex with Mark. We were going to try it when Grandfather so rudely interrupted. Homosexuality wasn’t actively discriminated against in our little corner of America, but it wasn’t celebrated and was kept discreet. In sex-ed class, Mrs. Sharp had hurriedly mentioned that some girls might be attracted to other girls and that some guys might find their fellow guys interesting before returning to the science of the fallopian tubes.

“I’m not talking about your position during sex, but how you relate to your partner and lover. Mark looks to you for leadership, guidance, and protection, and you failed him. You left him exposed in the lower loft while you hid above him. What if I hadn’t been friendly toward same sex relationships?”

“Sorry,” I murmured, feeling my face redden.

“I know, Son, but today I’m going to physically discipline you. Not because what you did today was a great crime, but because you’re no longer a child. Someday you’ll be disciplining your own partner and lover.” Grandfather’s voice then dropped to a whisper. “You saw me with Doug last May, didn’t you?”

I nodded unable to say more with all the new information that was whirling around my head.

“You need to understand what it feels like to give yourself to the punishment, the trust necessary to be a good top. I failed with your dad. When you were in your crib, I swore I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.” 

Grandfather’s voice broke as he mentioned my dad. From what I knew, their relationship had been tough. Grandma had died in a terrible tractor accident when Dad was still in diapers, and Dad had grown up wild. At seventeen, he’d shacked up with a sixteen-year-old girl, and I was the result. I never knew my dad except for the  one picture with me wrapped in swaddling and the two of them standing over the bassinet. I’d been dropped at my grandfather’s doorstep still in blankets, and neither parent was seen again. When I was ten, a thin, official looking envelope had arrived announcing my dad’s death and subsequent burial in Mexico. Grandfather and Uncle Doug had planted a cherry tree in the orchard. According to the stories, my dad ate bowls of cherries as a child. That tree was never harvested; instead the cherries were left for Dad to pick. According to Grandfather and Uncle Doug, cherries were my dad’s favorite food. The cherries disappeared off the branches every year, but I the skeptic always thought the birds ate them.

“I’m going to put you over my knee and strap you. You will do this someday. I’m doing this because I love you.”  Grandfather bent over and kissed my forehead before he rose and started rummaging through the junk drawer. We kept odds and ends in this drawer: a flashlight with spare batteries, duct tape, a few strands of bailing twine, a rusty pair of wire cutters, and a broken belt without a buckle. I swallowed hard; I now knew why that piece of well oiled leather resided in the drawer.

I saw Grandfather wind the strap around his big fist and then walk over to the table and pull a chair out to the middle of the floor. It was the same place I’d seen him with Doug.

“Take your jeans off and come here,” he said pointing to his left side; Grandfather was left handed. 

Slowly I unbuckled my belt and drew my jeans over my thighs. Grandfather didn’t hurry me, but I could tell by his expression that he wouldn’t wait all day. As I came into reach, he grabbed my wrists and tugged me down over his knees. I could’ve pulled away, but I didn’t. I scrabbled against the hard slick floor to find purchase with my socked feet and fingers as I hung down with my face level with his ankle. His left hand rested on my boxers, and his right hand was firmly tucked around my waist.

“What’s this strapping for?”

“For abandoning Mark, not protecting him.”

“Good boy; remember I’ll never punish you for loving someone.”

Grandfather shifted his leg and my butt rose higher. He brought the strap down hard, ten times in rapid succession like shots from a machine gun. It was over practically before it started. I felt Grandfather lower me to my knees between his legs and wrap his arms around my back. I laid my head on his thighs, and the sobs started. I couldn’t stop myself; I cried great wet tears all over his lap. He said nothing, just hung on to me and occasionally ran his fingers through my hair.

Finally my tears slowed to choked gasps and Grandfather pulled me to my feet. “You’re a good boy. I love you,” he said and kissed me with bruising, claiming firmness under my shaggy bangs. “Splash some water on your face, get your jeans back on, and come help with the milking.”

This was normal Grandfather, brusk and kind. He wrapped his heavy arm around my shoulders as we walked to the milking parlor. Doug had already brought the herd in and was washing a cow’s udder when he spotted us. He stood, walked up to me, pulled me out from under Grandfather’s elbow and gave me a fierce, crushing hug.

“Everything good now?” he whispered into my ear.

“Yeah,” I said, “It’s good.” It was good I realized. Without a doubt, my butt hurt as the tender skin rubbed against my underwear and jeans, but as Grandfather had said I wasn’t a child anymore. Some boys go off to the army or to college to find their manhood. I’d found it in our kitchen.

*****

Milton look around the living room. Mace and Trent were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the love seat. Sheldon had settled cross-legged at Milton’s feet and was masquerading as an angelic sub. Cotton had crawled completely onto Brad’s lap and was buried under his arms. Milton saw Brad whisper into Cotton’s ear and the answering nod.

“Milton, could we take you up on your offer to stay the night? I don’t think either of us are in a fit state to drive,” Brad said.

“We wouldn’t have offered if it were a problem. The guest room is on the second floor all the way to the end on the right in the turret. If you like peace and quiet, shut all the doors. I’ve laid some spare toiletries and overnight things out on the bed.”

Trent stood as Milton was speaking. “I’ll show them up. I think Mace and I will call it quits for the day.”

Milton watched them head up the stairs. Sheldon in a sleepy voice asked, “Do you think you convinced Brad to spank Cotton?”

“So that’s what you think I was doing?”

“You don’t tell those kind of stories without a reason. When you're just story telling we hear about the herd getting loose on Christmas Eve or your first trip on the New York subway.”

“Don’t give all my secrets away,” Milton said with a low chuckle. “Luke and Mike aren’t fully broken in.” Milton ran his fingers through Mike’s short hair and smiled softly.

Sheldon’s eyes widened as he watched his partner. “You spanked Mike today, didn’t you?”

Even in the dim light, Milton could see Mike blush, and he rubbed the young man’s back. “Sheldon,” Milton said, drawing the syllables out in his partner’s name.

“Where was I when all the fun was going on? I can’t believe I missed it. My partner spanking someone’s ass besides mine.”

In one quick motion, Milton slid off the sofa, grabbed his errant partner, and reseated himself with Sheldon face down over his lap. “I guess I’ve been neglecting my duties.” Milton deftly took down Sheldon’s dress pants and started spanking in the same pattern that he’d used with Mike earlier.

“Shit! That hurts,” Sheldon yelped and reached back with his hands.

“Leave your hands up front, or I’ll take your boxers down and do this right, audience or not,” Milton growled under his breath. Sheldon pulled his hands forward, and Milton finished quickly, pulled up his boy’s pants up, and righted him between his knees. Milton hugged Sheldon hard before lifting his chin and passionately kissing his partner. “Are you still feeling neglected?” 

“No, sir,” Sheldon said, reaching around to rub the sting out.

During the spanking, Mike had curled his long legs into a ball and was now huddled on the far corner of the sofa. Milton reached out and grabbed  Mike’s hand, unwinding the tight knot of arms and limbs. “It’s OK, Mike. For all of Sheldon’s bluster, he’s harmless. I think you guys might even like each other if you gave it half a chance. God help us if you do.” Milton gave an exaggerated eye roll. ”All the tops will be exhausted. I shudder to think of the mischief you two could create.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. I was out of line,” Sheldon said.

“It’s OK. I’m probably too sensitive right now,” Mike said with a faint twist of a smile.

“I know what you mean,” Sheldon said, rubbing his butt.

“It serves you right,” Mike said with a touch of vengeance in his voice.

“It did.” Sheldon laughed. “I know better.”

Mike couldn’t help but smile at Sheldon’s light hearted reply. 

“Mike,” Milton said now that a fragile peace had been negotiated between the two men.

“Yeah.”Mike’s tone was still laced with resentment.

“I thought you were finished snarling at me,” Milton said, letting his hand rest on Mike’s hip. 

“Was that the only time you were spanked?” Mike asked

“No,” Milton said, “but it was the time that meant the most to me, and the only time by my grandfather, even though he did threaten it a few other times.”

“Who else spanked you?”

“I think we need to get your partners trundled off to bed. They look like they're going nowhere fast.”

“Hey, that’s evading the question,” Sheldon said. “You’d never let me get away with that.”

“Who’s the top here?” Milton mock growled and reached out and captured Sheldon, playfully swatting him before tickling him.

“Stop, you ogre,” Sheldon laughed, stepping back and nearly tripping on Tilden.

“I’m awake now,” Tilden murmured, I’ve just got to get these old bones moving. Oh and if you want to know who spanked Milton ask him about his final semester in high school.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Milton groaned. “See if I help you carry Luke to bed.” Despite his words, Milton plucked the sleeping young man off Tilden’s chest, so his friend could stand. Milton swept his hand through Luke’s curls—so innocent, so naive and cursed with that thing who was supposed to be a father. At least he had Tilden and Mike now. Two boys without family sheltered under a man who had family to spare.