Buried Secrets

By Hank Edwards

Bryson Franklin made bad choices in his past. When he inherits his grandparents' farm outside the small town of Willow River, however, he sees it as a chance for a fresh start. But patterns from his past resurface when Bryson takes up with Daniel Riggs, his bad boy neighbor, and he soon finds himself helping Daniel cover up a murder.

 

After Bryson breaks things off with Daniel, the kindness and attention of handsome sheriff's deputy Sam LeClaire gives him hope, but when Daniel shows up on Bryson's doorstep a year later, will Bryson be able to resist temptation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hank Edwards
• Release date: May 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223153429

Hank Edwards

Hank Edwards has been writing gay erotic fiction for more than twenty years. He has written over two dozen novels and even more short stories. His writing crosses many sub-genres, including romance, rom-com, contemporary, paranormal, suspense, mystery, and wacky comedy. Find out more at www.hankedwardsbooks.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bryson Franklin watched the moving truck pull out of the dirt drive and turn west on Route 427. As it accelerated down the two lane blacktop, Bryson felt as if it had carried off the tattered memories of his old one and dropped off everything he needed for a fresh start. The early August air was hot and still, and Bryson sat on the porch swing smiling at the familiar creaking sounds of the wood slats and chains. The truck disappeared from sight behind the line of trees that marked the border between his land and that of the neighbor’s, and Bryson let out a long breath.

This was it. The farm was his. All through his youth, he’d spent his summers here with his grandparents, helping with chores and whiling away the long hours of daylight. He had learned all of the special hiding places in the surrounding woods and the location of every pond and swimming hole. The few neighbors they had knew him by sight, and even those people who lived in town he didn’t know waved hello when they’d driven past as he walked along the side of the road.

And now this all belonged to him. The house, the barn, the land, all of it. His grandparents had long ago sold off their livestock, and grandpa had leased out the land to help pay the property taxes on the four bedroom house with the wraparound covered porch and the big gazebo out back. Fields of soybeans grew to the east and the west, stretching all the way to the line of trees that marked the borders of Bryson’s property, their green leaves dusty in the dry August heat.

He closed his eyes and listened to the birds call and the insects buzz. A tractor rumbled to life somewhere nearby, and a hot, damp breeze set the beach glass wind chimes in motion. He had given grandma those wind chimes for her eightieth birthday. She had told him she liked the tinkling sound of the beach glass better than the sound of wood or metal chimes.

Reminiscing wasn’t going to get his belongings unpacked. Time enough later for rest and reflection.

The porch swing groaned when he got up to go inside. He stopped when a car drove past out on the road, and the driver honked and waved. The car was a Mustang, bright red in the hot summer sunlight and unfamiliar to him. Bryson waved back—it was just what people did around here—and watched the car go by, surprised when the driver hooked a sharp right turn into the neighboring driveway. The Mustang’s powerful engine roared up the driveway around to the back of the house, coming to a stop in a cloud of dust. Bryson could see well enough between the trees to watch a man get out and stride through the dust to the back door of the house where he disappeared inside. That must be the neighbor I haven’t met. Friendly enough at least, or so it seemed.

Telling himself to stop wasting time, Bryson opened the screen door and walked into the house. He stood for a moment just inside the front door, looking around. The hallway stretching out before him led to the kitchen. A half bath had been added under the stairs, one of the modern updates he’d helped his grandpa pay for. To his right through an arched opening lay the sitting room with a fireplace against the outer side wall. The dining room was to his left through a matching arched entry way, and a swinging door at the back wall led to a small butler’s pantry which, in turn, led into the kitchen that stretched along the back of the house with access to a stone-walled root cellar. Four bedrooms and a full bathroom made up the second floor of the house.

He’d spent every summer here with his grandparents when he’d been growing up, more than happy to escape the palpable tension of his parents’ home. Over the years, he’d overheard enough of his their drunken, shouted arguments to know he’d been a mistake. His parents felt little love for him, and even less for each other.

But his father’s parents had been another story. They’d welcome him at the beginning of every summer with strong hugs and quiet conversation and just enough chores to give him a sense of responsibility. He’d be diligent about finishing all of his chores early, and then he would spend the rest of his day playing in the barn or exploring the woods and ponds around the area. His grandfather rotated crops between corn and soybeans until it had become too much for him to maintain, about the time Bryson had turned thirteen. After that, his grandfather started leasing out the land to a neighboring farmer.

When Bryson had been a junior in college, his grandfather called to tell him his parents were dead, killed in a drunk driving accident. Bryson’s first thought they’d hit another car and killed someone else, but before he could think of how to tactfully word his question, his grandfather had explained it had been a single car accident. His father had been driving home from a house party, unsurprisingly drunk, and rolled the car into five feet of water in a runoff ditch, drowning them both.

The life insurance policies paid for Bryson’s final years of college, helped him rent a small apartment, and bought his pick up truck. With the money left over, he’d paid for improvements to his grandparents’ farmhouse and now, as the new owner, he was glad he’d done it. He just wished he’d known back then that eight years later both of his grandparents would be gone as well, taken by cancer months apart from each other. The loss still sat low in his gut like a cold stone at the bottom of a well, and he wondered if he’d ever truly get over it. They’d been the only love, the only stability he’d ever known. His mother’s parents had died before he’d been born, and his parents had been the most vicious and self destructive people he’d ever encountered.

But enough lollygagging about the past. Sooner it’s begun, the sooner it’s done, he whispered. His grandmother always said that. I’m on it, Nana, he said, smiling sadly.

By the end of the week, he’d unpacked all of his belongings and rearranged the furniture to accommodate the few new pieces he’d brought. The artwork he owned was stored in the smallest bedroom, and for now he left the paintings and photographs his grandparents had selected in place until he could figure out how to blend the two collections. He’d spent the first couple of nights sleeping in his old bedroom, surrounded by sports pennants and movie posters. But the soft, single mattress was more unkind to his adult body than it had been to his young, more pliable one, so he moved into his grandparents’ bedroom. He emptied the drawers and set the clothes aside for charity donation, keeping a few of the faded bandanas his grandfather always carried with him to wipe away the sweat.

He made a few runs into town during that week to pick up groceries and other household items. During one of his trips around lunch, his stomach rumbled as he placed the bags on the floor of the truck’s passenger side, and he looked around for a quick place to get something to eat. A sign in the window of a small pizza joint advertised slices for a dollar, and he crossed the street and stepped inside. He ordered a couple slices of pepperoni and mushroom, glad to see the place used the smaller pepperonis that curled up on the ends to form tiny pools of grease. His stomach rumbled louder, and a man standing in line behind him snickered.

Sounds like you’ve worked up an appetite out there, the man said.

Bryson handed the teenager behind the register his money then looked over his shoulder to find a sheriff’s deputy smiling at him. The man was tall and handsome, and Bryson smiled before nodding.

Yeah, I forgot to make something for myself before I came into town.

I get that, the deputy said, nodding as Bryson moved off. Enjoy the pizza.

Bryson thought about the friendly deputy as he drove back to the farm. He wasn’t sure, but Sam might have been giving off a vibe. Bryson was really bad about picking up signals from people, so maybe he mistook the deputy’s simple friendliness for sexual interest.

You’re not good enough for him anyway, an inner voice slyly whispered. Bryson hated the cold whispers he sometimes heard in the back of his mind. The voice seemed to feed on regrets and his own imperfections, building up his self-doubt and suspicion and tearing down any confidence he may have as it murmured in his mind. Over the years, Bryson had decided it resided somewhere within the chilly shadow area around his lonely heart, and try as he might to keep it at bay, it always seemed to find a way to speak up when he was least prepared for it. It would delight in reminding him he wasn't good enough for any man, and encouraged him to simply get used to being alone, no one would ever want to move in with him.

It was his most personal ongoing struggle that had been with him as long as he could remember. Logically, he knew it had taken root in his parents' drunken babble and had no real merit, but every disparaging word they'd hurled at him might as well have been imprinted on his heart which picked the worst possible times to repeat them.

As he approached home, Bryson passed his neighbor’s driveway and noticed him sitting on his shady porch. Since Bryson’s window was open, he lifted his arm high in a greeting before turning into his own driveway and parking the truck around in back of the house. He carried the bags into the house, including the one with the pizza. After dropping the bags of supplies on the floor, Bryson sat at the table, pulled out a slice, took a bite, and closed his eyes with satisfaction.

Now the place felt like home.

Chapter 2

Two weeks later, Bryson sat on the porch enjoying an unusually cool breeze for August and reading a book he’d been meaning to get to for years. He was in between freelance web design projects and had decided to treat himself to some relaxation. The sound of a car engine grabbed his attention and he looked up, watching his neighbor’s Mustang turn into his driveway. As the car approached, Bryson noted it was a few model years out of the showroom but still in good condition. It pulled up to the side of the porch and came to a stop. A man got out and stood beside the car, looking over the roof at Bryson a moment, one hand resting on the convertible top.

The visitor wore a cowboy hat that shaded the top half of his face, but Bryson was able to tell he had gray eyes, a tanned, handsome face, and dark stubble around full lips. Bryson was struck by the man and felt a strong, almost physical reaction to the sight of him.

Howdy, the man said with a flashing white smile. I’m your neighbor just beyond the tree line. Thought I’d stop over now that you’re all settled in and welcome you to the area. Name’s Daniel Riggs.

Bryson looked toward Daniel’s house, visible between the spaces of the trees. It had once belonged to the Weirs, a hard-working husband and wife with a number of kids all older than Bryson. The Weir kids had been just old enough that Bryson had never played with them when he had been visiting his grandparents. He set the book aside and got out of the chair, stepping down from the porch to meet Daniel halfway between his car, a hand extended in greeting. Bryson Franklin. I just inherited the place from my grandparents.

Daniel nodded. I’ve lived here for a couple of years now, so I knew Tom and Jillian. They were good people. I’m sorry for your loss.

Thank you, Mr. Riggs. That’s kind of you to say.

Call me Daniel. He smiled, and the sight of those white teeth and the resulting dimples sent a rush of blood to Bryson’s cock.

All right. Daniel, it is. Bryson waved to the porch. Would you like to sit a spell? I have a six pack in the refrigerator.

You know, Daniel said, a beer would really tamp down the heat a notch. But a beer and a shot of whiskey would do it even better.

Well, I don’t have any whiskey, sorry, Bryson said.

Daniel thought a moment. Tell you what. I’ve got a fifth of whiskey back at home. Why don’t I run and get it and bring some leftover fried chicken I’ve got in the icebox.

Well, now it sounds like some kind of party.

Call it your housewarming. Daniel pulled open the car door and dropped into the seat. Be right back.

Bryson watched him drive off, then hurried inside. The breeze had cooled the interior of the house, and he took a deep breath to try and relax. He hadn’t spent any time with a man for a while, and he had no guarantee that Daniel Riggs was even gay. However, Bryson thought he’d detected a current running between them. And if he hadn’t been mistaken, Daniel had been looking him over more closely than any straight man would. He couldn’t recall if he’d brushed his teeth yet that day—one of the pitfalls of living alone—so he sprinted up the steps and frantically brushed his teeth. Minutes after Bryson had rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth, Daniel rapped on the screen door, rattling in its frame.

Jesus, did he teleport back? Bryson mumbled to himself. He hurried down the steps and stepped up to the door, pushing open the screen to allow Daniel inside.

Daniel stepped into the house holding a half full bottle of whiskey by the neck and a glass storage container filled with pieces of fried chicken. He stood just inside the doorway for a moment and looked around with a smile. They just don’t build them like this anymore, do they?

Nope, they sure don’t. Bryson led the way to the kitchen, very aware of Daniel following close behind, the heels of his boots hard against the polished wood floor.

Bryson pulled down glasses and plates from the cupboards and tore off a number of paper towels to use as napkins. He twisted off the caps of a couple of beers, and then sat across the long wood table from Daniel. As they ate the excellent cold fried chicken, took long pulls from the beers and tossed back shots of whiskey, Bryson was surprised to find himself talking and laughing more than he had in a long time. Daniel was easy to talk to and told quite a few humorous stories about his single life on his own farm.

After a few more drinks, Daniel shifted the conversation from polite to personal. He dropped a chicken bone onto his plate and sat back, using a paper towel to wipe off his fingers and lips as he stared at Bryson.

You seeing anyone? Daniel asked. His gray eyes were half closed and he smiled, sexy and sensuous, showing off the matching dimples in his cheeks. He’d removed his hat, and his thick, dark waves of hair were threaded with silver.

Bryson dropped his gaze to the chicken bones littering his own plate and spun his now empty glass. Nope. All on my own.

No girlfriend? Daniel asked, leaning up to pour more whiskey into Bryson’s glass. Or boyfriend?

Bryson looked at him quickly, surprised, as his heart pounded.

Daniel shrugged and leaned back again. I don’t judge. To be honest, I’m no stranger to the taste of cock.

I… Bryson’s throat closed up as heat swamped his face, the top of his head, and his chest, then settled into