Logan Rider strode toward the range office with a lighter step. He’d enjoyed the class and found the instructor unusual and interesting. In fact, he fascinated Logan. Blaze Canis had what was known as presence. He seemed to fill the room, not just because he was a large man but because there was no question that he was in charge. There was an air of relaxed confidence about him and an acute awareness of the students. He’d been particularly perceptive about Skeeter, who was obviously insecure in the company of mature men and hungry for recognition. Canis had taken the perfect way to allow the teen to feel he belonged.

The face and form of the man intrigued him as much as the way he’d handled the class. His face alone cried out to Logan to be sketched, with its well-proportioned nose and the fine crow’s feet showing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. His lips were just full enough to appeal, and high on his forehead above his left eye was a silvery scar half an inch wide running into his hair line. Considering his background, it was probably a graze from a bullet. His face had character and matched the man.

At just over six feet, Canis’s build was solid and fit, with long legs and a reach to match. With his artist’s eye, Logan guessed his weight at a hundred and eighty to ninety-five pounds. When he’d leaned down to inspect the revolver Logan had brought, Logan had glanced down on the instructor’s head and wondered who, if anyone, had styled the man’s hair. It was short and untamed, running every which way. Periodically, Canis would run his fingers through it, as if to bring about order that never happened. Logan was sure this was an unconscious act. Wiry, with shades of gray, hints of black, and a touch of reddish brown, his hair was white at the temples.

Logan’s hair hadn’t been cut since birth, and it was easy to brush it and let it fall free, tuck it behind his ears, braid, or fasten it in back. Yet he couldn’t imagine this man letting his hair grow much longer. It wouldn’t suit him the way the untamed look did.

There had been that odd moment when Logan looked into his green eyes and was almost hypnotized by the tiny flecks of mustard and gold in them. In those brief seconds, the gold seemed to spin a thread toward him and connect. He’d felt tethered to this stranger in an intensely sexual way, almost as if the thread had lassoed his dick and balls. His penis had responded by beginning to fill.

With the feeling came a vision of a four-legged animal in the misty distance. From its ears, he could tell it was Coyote, the Trickster. The creature that enjoyed playing humorous or, often, cruel tricks on humans.

What the fuck?

The instructor had looked away, breaking the contact. The feeling dissipated. Yet the abruptness with which he’d turned made Logan suspect Canis had felt something unusual as well. Logan wondered if it too was deeply sexual. If it conjured up visions of naked bodies, hot and sweaty in rumpled sheets, hands on the other man’s big cock. Of grunts and groans as they stroked and strained to reach that brief moment of pumping before they spurted their slippery, silvery seed on each other’s bellies and hands.

The thought came to him that if he still lived on a reservation, he might’ve heard the tribal shaman shake his gourd rattle and chant to the tight tempo of the elders’ small drums sending him a message. A warning?

Well, there’s a helluva thing to think about, Logan Swift Rider.

It was so ridiculous, he laughed at himself. Still, he wondered how Canis’s lips would feel pressed against his own and if his primed cock would feel like steel in a velvet glove in Logan’s hand or deep in his ass. There was no harm in wondering, but it was best to keep the Trickster in mind ...