High Country Hero Read online

  “That figures,” he breathed. He flapped the reins and the horse stepped forward. “Probably too ladyfied to ride double,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Mr. Lawson, I have very acute hearing. I am not too ‘ladyfied’ to do anything that is required.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will want to select my own horse.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said again.

  “There’s the livery. Just past the barbershop. Do you see it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A spunky little mare, I think. Something with spirit.”

  “No, ma’am. You get something slow and surefooted, like a mule. Trail’s treacherous in places.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment sounded in her voice. “I do not like mules. I prefer horses.”

  He guided his mare past the barbershop and turned in to a well-kept livery yard. “Mules can carry more.”

  “With only five minutes to pack my things, there’s not much that needs carrying.”

  “Suit yourself. Just remember I warned you.” He reined in and she slid backward off the horse’s rump. The look on her face made him chuckle. Her wide mouth was pinched, as if she’d bit into a sour lemon, and her blue-violet eyes snapped with indignation. She could hustle when she had to, but she liked having her own way.

  Cord made it a point to figure out how a trail companion’s mind worked; it spared arguments and allowed him to keep one jump ahead, no matter what. He’d ridden with some humdingers in the past. He’d learned the hard way what being on the trail could do to an otherwise civilized relationship.

  “Arvo,” she called to the stocky older man who strode toward them. “This is Mr. Lawson.”

  Cord tipped his hat at the man’s nod.

  “Vat I can do for you, Mr. Lawson?”

  “Lady needs a horse. One that—”

  “One that’s surefooted and steady,” she interrupted. “But not dull, Arvo. There’s nothing I hate worse than riding a horse with no intelligence.” “Sure t’ing, Miss Sage. Maybe Ginger or Light-foot. How far you going?”

  “Into the Bear Wilderness area,” Cord answered. He watched the liveryman’s thick eyebrows jump. “Be gone ten, maybe twelve days.”

  “Ginger, then. She got better wind for a long trip.” The liveryman gave Cord a thoughtful look. “Miss Sage, does your pa know you’re going up into the wilderness?”

  “Not yet, Arvo. I thought maybe you could ride out and tell him. Tell Papa I’ve gone to answer a medical call with Mr. Lawson.”

  “Cordell Lawson,” Cord interjected. “The marshal will have heard of me.”

  Arvo’s eyebrows jumped again.

  “Don’t tell Mama, Arvo. Please. She’ll worry herself into a conniption fit. Just Papa.”

  The liveryman disappeared into the stable, reemerging a few moments later leading a shiny roan mare. “I put your old saddle on her, Miss Sage. You t’ink you remember how to ride?”

  She laughed. “I’m not likely to forget how, even if it has been six years since I’ve sat a horse. Back in Philadelphia it was the one thing I missed more than Papa’s apple pancakes.”

  She busied herself lashing the medical bag and bedroll behind the saddle while Arvo adjusted the stirrups. She was poised to mount when Arvo said, “Vait one minute.” He stepped into the stable again and reemerged with a bulky tan garment in his hand.

  “My old riding jacket!” Sage reached for it, buried her nose in the soft sheepskin lining. “Smells like horses!” Her delight made Cord want to laugh.

  “I keep it nice for you, for when you come back.” The older man made a step out of his laced fingers, and Sage swung herself up on the mare. Then she leaned down and hugged him. “Thank you, Arvo. Thank you for believing that I would come back. Mama cried and cried, thinking she wouldnever see me again.”

  “I allus know you vill come back, Miss Sage. Cal, he said you’d marry some back East man vat talks funny, but I know better.” He tapped his forehead. “I t’ink to myself that daughter of Billy West and your pretty mama never be happy anywhere but here.”

  Cord noticed that she waved until she could no longer see the liveryman. It was obvious they were friends. She was known here. Respected. Even loved.

  He scanned the length of the main street. Hotel, newspaper office, mercantile, saloon, marshal’s office. Nice little town, the kind where everybody knew everybody else, where kids grew up together and got married and raised kids themselves.

  He tried to swallow, but something hard was stuck in his throat.

  Before they had traveled three-quarters of a mile, Sage decided she didn’t like him. He set a pace she couldn’t match, and then he leaned back in the saddle and tipped his face into the breeze as if he’d never smelled wild honeysuckle before. As if he’d been starving and here was nourishment in the scent of the air. He stayed that way, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world, while she pushed her mount to keep up.

  She rode well. Her father had put her up on a pony before she was out of pinafores, and when she could jump three flour barrels without losing her seat, he taught her Indian tricks. How to grip with her knees and fire a rifle at a dead run. How to swing sideways out of the saddle and snatch up a hat off the ground.

  She sucked her breath in and wished she could stop to rest, just for a minute. When she realized she couldn’t, at least not without losing her guide, she blew the air out and straightened her shoulders. What she needed on this trip was not Indian tricks but stamina. Could she be getting soft at twenty-five?

  How could he ride that way, sitting the dark mare in that slouched, lazy manner, one hand resting on his thigh, the other holding the reins so loosely the leather barely moved? She’d laugh if a prairie dog spooked his horse; he’d topple off in one second flat. She kept her eye on him. If it happened, she didn’t want to miss it.

  For the next four hours their route followed the west bank of the Umpqua as it looped and curved its way around stands of Douglas fir and house-high piles of granite boulders. She knew the river, loved every inch of its swift-flowing, emerald waters. She’d learned to swim near her uncle John’s place, where the river slowed and widened to lap a sandy beach.

  She never liked swimming much. She preferred wading in the shallows, where she could see the stones on the river bottom and knew exactly where to place her feet.

  Her mouth felt dry as a dish towel and tasted the same. Would that man never slow down? She was panting for breath, her mouth open; by nightfall her teeth would be black with trail dust.

  Nightfall? She eyed the sun, just tipping behind the treetops on the ridge ahead of them. She’d never make it till nightfall.

  “Mr. Lawson?” she gasped.

  He twisted to look back at her but kept his horse moving.

  Oh, the devil with the man! She reined in, brought the mare to a stop and reached for her canteen. She’d downed a single swallow of water when it was wrenched out of her grasp.

  “You stop when I stop. Drink when I drink. Someone who’s been shot might not have much time.”

  “I am going as fast as I can.” She’d like to fling the contents of the canteen in his face, but she’d be thirsty later if she did. Blast the man. The worst part of it was that he was right—a person with a bullet wound was looking death in the face.

  He screwed the cap back on and handed over the container. “Let’s ride.”

  Well, of all the… What if she had to urinate? Would he stride back into the bushes and yank up her drawers? The thought was so bizarre she laughed out loud.

  He turned in the saddle and pinned her with a questioning look in those hard, gray-green eyes.

  “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

  But what if her bladder were ready to burst? What would she have to do to make him stop?

  She kneed the horse forward and studied the man’s back. Cordell Lawson wasn’t as easygoing as he appeared. He was driving himself hard and dragging her along with him. Her thighs burned. Her neck
hurt from tipping her head against the sun. This was, she realized, a perfect example of mismatched traveling companions. She was human, and he was not.

  The trail narrowed and began to climb. Halfway up the steep path she knew she couldn’t make it. Rocks jutted above her, and below, the river glinted silver. If the horse stumbled…

  She drew rein and stopped.

  Cord heard the horse’s steps cease. What now? He kept on, hoping she would resume her pace, but no sound came from behind him. Clenching his teeth, he turned his mount.

  She had halted in the middle of the trail and was sitting there, slumped in the saddle, with that ridiculous feather drooped over her face. But her hands told him all he needed to know. She wore deerskin riding gloves, and while he couldn’t see her knuckles, he knew from the way she gripped the saddle horn that her hands would ache come sundown. Especially if she hadn’t sat a horse in—what had she said?—six years. And they’d been on the trail for a full seven hours. Hell, she wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.

  Of all the doctors in Oregon, why did he have to find her? She was prim and proper and saddle-green. Too slim and willowy to be very strong. And female. Very definitely female—moods and all. Probably enjoyed herself only once a year, at Christmas.

  He’d bet she’d never taken a bath in the woods, either. In two days she’d smell like a rotting cabbage. If there was one thing that spoiled the pleasure of the mountains and the sky and the sweet, fresh air it was a partner who smelled bad.

  For a long minute he sat still and watched her. Just when he thought maybe he ought to say something, she kicked her mare and it jolted forward.

  She moved toward him, still bent over the saddle horn, her head down, not even watching where she was going. Her shoulders were hunched tight with exhaustion.

  But she was moving. She had sand; he’d say that for her.

  Chapter Three

  Cord watched the exhausted woman pry her fingers off the saddle horn and lay the mare’s leather reins in her lap. For the last three hours, as they’d climbed the slope to where the trail leveled off at Frog Jump Butte, she’d hung on by sheer force of will, and her face showed it. Beneath the brim of that sad-looking gray felt hat her eyelids were almost shut.

  He let loose an irrepressible snort. No wonder. She was fighting to stay awake, clinging to the hard leather pommel like she’d been glued there.

  “Let’s make camp,” he called.

  There was no response.

  He dismounted and peered through the darkness at her form, still hunched so low in the saddle the purple feather in her hatband brushed the mare’s ear.

  “You all right?” he ventured.

  After a long silence, a gravelly voice drifted out of the shadows. “Do you always travel like this? Of course I am not all right. I’m half-dead.”

  “Travel like what? You’re not half-dead. You can still talk, can’tcha? I hate a woman who exaggerates.”

  She straightened, groaned and tried to swing her leg over the horse’s back to dismount. “I know your friend is in need of medical help, but you travel like someone is breathing down your neck.”

  She gave up, hefted her bottom over the cantle and slid off the mare backward. When her feet hit the ground, she grasped the animal’s tail to keep from staggering and leaned her forehead against the mare’s hindquarters.

  “Maybe someone is,” he said.

  She just shook her head and made a small moaning noise.

  Goddamn, was she crying? “I’ll build a fire.”

  She lifted her head and took a wobbly step. “I would gather some kindling for you, Mr. Lawson, but I don’t think I can bend over. Who would be following you?”

  He didn’t answer. Five minutes of scrounging and his arms were full of pinecones and dry branches. He kicked some rocks into a circle and dumped his load. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved.

  “You can stand up all night if you want, Doc, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “I will be seated when I am…able. In the meantime, I need to answer a call of nature.” She took another shaky step and grabbed the horse’s tail again.

  Cord tossed three broken tree limbs onto his unlit fire and strode toward her. “If you were a man, you could pee right where you’re standing. Seeing as you’re not…”

  He grasped her elbows and propelled her ahead of him into the scrub. “See that big huckleberry bush? Use that.”

  He released her, and she swayed forward.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you. I can manage now.”

  He tramped back to the fire pit while she made rustling sounds in the brush. Out of courtesy he decided not to ignite the kindling until she’d finished. Firelight would illuminate the whole area.

  He waited, stalked off into the woods on the other side of camp to do his own business, then squatted beside the fire and waited some more, his flint box poised and ready.

  Nothing. Not one leaf rattle or scritch-scratch of twigs came from the direction of the huckleberry bush. An evening songbird started in, stopped, then resumed singing. What in blazes was taking her so long?

  “Dr. West?”

  There was no answer.

  She couldn’t have stumbled off the edge of the butte. Hell’s bells, she couldn’t walk that far. What was she doing?

  “Dr. West? Sage?”

  To heck with her. He struck a spark and puffed his breath onto the thatch of smoldering pine needles. When it caught, he added more branches, then unloaded his saddlebag.

  As he worked laying out his bedroll and the supper things, he listened.

  The sparrow twittered on as if it was his last night on earth. A coyote yipped somewhere. But nothing sounded like a female doing her business behind a bush. He began to wonder about that split-up-the-front skirt she wore. Did it unbutton between her legs? Or did she have to pull it down and drop her drawers? Anatomically, women were at a disadvantage.

  The songbird stopped abruptly, after which he heard nothing but the occasional spark popping from the fire. What in blazes was going on behind that huckleberry bush? Nobody took half an hour to pee.

  “Sage?” He stood up. “Dr. West? I’m coming over.” His boots crunched through the bracken, managing to stop just before he tripped over her.

  She lay curled up on her side, her hat squashed into the pine needles. Cord knelt beside her, checked her breathing.

  Sound asleep. He suppressed a chuckle. Just one tuckered out, ladyfied lady. He’d bet she’d pulled up her drawers and then just fallen over.

  Oh, boy. He’d have to wake her up for supper.

  He strode back to camp, untied her bedroll and spread it out by the fire. He mixed up some biscuits, then opened a tin of beans and set it on a flat rock. Over it, close to the heat, he placed the tin pan with six lumps of sticky biscuit dough arranged in a circle, and one in the middle. No fresh water up here, so they’d make do with what was left in the canteens.

  And whiskey. His mouth watered at the thought. He wouldn’t get drunk, just smooth out the rough places. It had been a long time since he’d felt this edgy.

  She was still asleep when he went to get her. “Doc?” He nudged her shoulder with the toe of his boot. “Wake up. Supper’s ready.”

  She groaned and pulled her knees up closer to her chin.

  “Doc?” Aw, the devil with it. He went down on one knee, slid his arms under her and stood up. She weighed no more than a sack of sugar. Her long legs swung as he moved, but she didn’t wake up.

  He laid her out on her bedroll and she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Just what do you think you are doing, manhandling my person?”

  Man, did she wake up fast! Her voice was clear as a cold creek.

  “You fell asleep. I lugged you out of the woods for supper.”

  She sat up. “Supper?”

  “Beans and biscuits.” And whiskey.

  “Oh?” She smiled and her whole face lit up, especially her eyes. In the firelight they looked like the pur
ple pansies Nita used to grow. Big and velvety.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Sage said.

  “Huh? What question?”

  “Who is following us?”

  Cord sent her a sharp look. A more single-minded female he’d never encountered. He thought he’d sidestepped the issue hours ago. “Nobody’s following us,” he said quickly.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He leaned back and stared at her. “You know, I had a dog like you once. Used to get his teeth into something and wouldn’t let go.”

  “I had a dog like you once, too,” she said with a sideways look. “He used to drop a ham bone at my feet and then bite me if I picked it up.”

  Cord sat back on his heels and studied her. High cheekbones. Three or four freckles. A generous mouth, still rosy from sleep. Kind of an English nose. And those eyes. She was pretty, but too smart for her own good.

  He switched tactics. “You like venison in your beans?”

  “Is your real name Cordell?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  She gave him a tired smile. “Nothing. I just wanted you to know I could do it, too.”

  “Do what, cook?”

  “No.” She looked straight into his eyes. “Change subjects when I need to.”

  Oh, yeah. Sand and then some.

  Sage eyed the pocketknife he slipped out of his jeans. He snapped it open with a flick of his long fingers, and she caught her breath. It looked as sharp as any scalpel she’d ever picked up, and when he pulled a leathery-looking strip of dried jerky from a dingy flour sack and carved off two-bit-size rounds, she began to breathe again. He grinned at her as if he knew what she’d been thinking and dropped them into the tin of bubbling beans.

  “Is that knife really clean?” she said without thinking.

  “Clean enough,” he responded.

  “But we’re going to eat that! What about bacteria? Germs?”

  “What about ’em? The heat’ll kill the puny ones, and this—” he dribbled in a healthy splash of whiskey “—will make the survivors happy.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about the survivors. I was thinking about the ingesters.” She used the word on purpose.