High Country Hero Read online

  “This.” He combed his fingers through the dark, silky mass, let the breeze play with it. She swatted at his wrists.

  “Stop that this instant!”

  Instead, he tilted her head so the wind whipped through her flying hair. “You feel it?”

  He scarcely heard her answer. He felt it—the wind on his face, her hair against his skin. Oh, boy, did he feel it. The sensations curled inside his chest, his belly and right on down to his toes.

  “Feel it?” he rasped again. “It’s a gift. Free for the taking, not like other things in life. All you have to do is open yourself up to it.”

  He released her, snatched at the buttons on his shirt and flung it away. His hat followed. He turned toward the wind, lifted his face to the rushing air and let it caress his cheeks and neck. His arms lifted away from his sides, hands stretched out, fingers flexing. “Damn, that feels good!”

  Sage stared at him, trying to corral unruly strands of her hair as the breeze slapped them against her face. His hands captured hers, pulled them to her sides. “Just sit still,” he hissed. “Don’t fight it.”

  Pinned, she sat as motionless as she could, facing into the warm air that licked and nuzzled her skin. Like hundreds of little cats’ tongues, flicking her nerve endings into awareness.

  What was happening to her? An hour ago she’d felt confident and in control. But he had changed that. Now she felt…well, she didn’t know what she felt, exactly. Trembly. Excited in an odd way.

  All at once something unlocked inside her and she wanted to cry.

  He stepped his mount closer, dropped his hands to her shoulders. Desperately she tried to control the shuddering of her body. She would not weep. Only silly, overwrought females wept at every little thing. Hysterics, her professors termed them. Women who needed a man. Babies. Oh, what was the matter with her?

  “Never cried for him, did you? Your baby brother.”

  “N-no. Mama did. She screamed and carried on, but I couldn’t. I…I had to take care of Mama.”

  “You locked it all inside,” Cord said.

  The dam within her broke. She nodded, hiccuping with harsh gulping sounds as she choked back her sobs. “I don’t want to do this,” she gasped. “It hurts. It hurts.”

  “Do it anyway.” He cupped one hand behind her head and pulled her forward, pressed her forehead hard against his neck.

  He looked beyond her as she wept, felt his throat tighten. After a long minute, he closed his eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  Sage cried until Cord’s neck and the upper part of his chest were wet with tears. His skin felt warm and sticky, but he didn’t move. He held her while her shuddering lessened and the sobs subsided to an occasional hiccup. Over her head he watched puffy white clouds sail to the west, driven by the wind. Might be a storm blowing up.

  He brought his mouth to her ear. “Can you ride?”

  She nodded against his chin.

  “There’s a well-protected campsite ahead, about an hour as the crow flies.”

  “How far on horseback?” she murmured.

  Cord hesitated. He didn’t want to let her go. She felt good in his arms, soft and warm and alive. Zack Beeler had given him an orphaned baby bobcat on his ninth birthday; the animal had snuggled against his chest and Cord had laughed with joy. Later, when he had to turn the cat loose after it clawed him, he had wept.

  “Another three hours. Switchbacks,” he explained.

  Her shoulders slumped. “That means ‘up,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Not too far. Just enough to give me a view of the valley.” No need to tell her how crucial it was that he see an approaching horseman. His quarry would be a fool to follow them, but with a killer you never knew.

  Cord had spent some hours trying to think like that son-of-a-dog Suarez. What would a desperate man do if you’d watched him shoot someone and then ridden away? Would he hightail it back to Chihuahua? Or come after Cord, to make sure he didn’t tell anyone about it?

  She lifted her head, pulled herself upright in the saddle and swiped her shirtsleeve under her reddened nose. It was such a little-kid gesture his heart turned over. God, he hated to see a hurt thing.

  Without her hat, one cheek had sunburned; the other, the one that had been buried against his neck, looked dead white. She’d need spirits. Cord licked his lips, hoping there was enough whiskey for both of them.

  He dismounted to retrieve the shirt and hat he’d flung into the wind, then found her gray Stetson lodged in a huckleberry bush, the purple feather looking ragged but still bobbing upright. There was no sign of the hairpins.

  He steadied her horse, laid the reins in her open palm. “Couldn’t find any of your hair doodads. Can you make do with a piece of string?”

  In answer she untied the red bandanna at her throat and rolled it into a soft rope. Lifting her arms, she slipped the fabric under the mass of dark waves and looked up at him. He wished she hadn’t.

  Without dropping her gaze, she looped the bandanna into a knot, catching the hair at her neck. Cord slapped his hat on his head and shrugged into his shirt, not bothering to button it. He’d let the warm air dry his tear-drenched skin.

  And he’d try like hell to think of something other than the way her shirt pulled over her breasts. Latin verbs, maybe. Brands of cut tobacco.

  “Ready?” The word rasped out of a dry throat.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes looked puffy and red rimmed. Her hands clasped the reins with such a loose grip he wasn’t sure she knew what she was doing.

  “I am ready,” she added. The words came out slow and flat.

  Like hell she was. Part of him wished they could camp right here so she wouldn’t have to drag herself any farther. The rest of him knew he couldn’t take the risk. He’d push her for her own safety, and his.

  Sometimes he hated the life he’d chosen. But he was already more than halfway across this particular river; if he turned back he’d have nothing. If he turned back, he’d drown.

  He kneed his horse forward, and without a word she fell in behind. He’d have to hand it to her. Even worn out by her crying jag, she was still a fighter. There weren’t many women like that—half-dead and still in the saddle. His mother had done that same thing the night he was born. He always thought that kind of grit had died with her.

  The mare plodded steadily forward, right up to the hindquarters of the lead horse. Sage hadn’t noticed that Cord had stopped, but even when she realized it, she made no move to dismount.

  In a minute or two he’d move on, and she’d have to dig her heels into her mount again. Her legs felt so lifeless she wondered if she could manage such a feat. Unable to lift her head, she studied the tiny tear in the hem of her riding skirt and waited.

  Two large hands closed around her waist, tipped her sideways and pulled her off the horse. Then she was aware of being carried, her chin bumping against a pearl button, the smell of horse and sweat in her nostrils. He could toss her in the river for all she cared; her mind and her body were no longer communicating.

  Instead of cold water, she felt a soft spongy mass of something under her buttocks. She reached out one hand and patted the material. Pine needles. Oh, thank the Lord. The pungent scent was the sweetest thing she’d ever smelled!

  Sage leaned sideways until her shoulder hit the nest of pine boughs, then she pulled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes. She heard footsteps, then the sound of a saddle being lifted and plopped on the ground near her. Two saddles.

  Bless the man. She wouldn’t have to ride anymore today.

  More noises. Saddlebag straps opening, the clink of tin plates and a frying pan. Something gurgling out of a bottle. Then a voice, low-pitched and hoarse, but oddly gentle. “Here, drink this.”

  A hand guided her fingers to a tin cup. Water, she hoped. She sniffed at the contents.

  Whiskey. It didn’t matter a whit; it was liquid. She swished it around in her mouth to wash away the trail dust, and swallowed. She couldn’t ev
en feel it going down.

  She laid her head back on the pine needles, set the cup in front of her. Whenever she garnered strength enough, she took a swig, tipping the cup sideways to her mouth. Between sips she watched Cord move around the camp, building a fire in a circle of already blackened stones. He’d been here before.

  He dropped two bedrolls on the other side of the now crackling fire, and she listened to the horses crunching grass some yards away, nickering in contentment. Somewhere a stream burbled. She was filthy, and the thought of a bath tugged at her, but she had no will to stand up, let alone search in her possibles bag for a bar of soap.

  The sun dipped below the trees, and the sky began to flare with a warm rose-gold glow. Cord disappeared for a few moments, then knelt beside the fire and balanced a bucket of water on the stones. Beside that he set the frying pan, and the next thing she knew bacon sizzled and an enamelware pot began to bubble.

  Coffee! The man could read her mind. And he could cook. Well, maybe not biscuits, but right now she’d eat anything he set before her, even fried rattlesnake. She watched him set a flat rock on top of the bacon to keep it from curling up. It worked better than her mama’s fancy bacon press.

  Sage closed her eyes and let herself float. How absolutely delicious it felt to lie still and just listen to the sounds—the wind sighing through the treetops, a thrush warbling from a thicket of vine maple. The fire snapping like hot popcorn.

  Cord moved about the camp with slow, deliberate steps. A spoon clunked. The bird ceased its song, then resumed. Sage felt warmth creep into her bones.

  She ate most of a plate of smoke-flavored beans and bacon before she began to feel even half-alive. Nothing had ever tasted so good, not even her father’s special fried trout. Something Cord sprinkled over her plate added a tang she couldn’t identify.

  “What is that sharp flavor?”

  He glanced up from his heaping plate, fork poised midway to his mouth. “Mexican pepper.” He chewed a mouthful, watching her reaction.

  “It feels cool on my tongue, then hot in my throat.”

  His eyes held hers. “You like it?”

  “I’m hungry enough to like practically anything,” she admitted with a laugh. “Even fried rattlesnake.”

  “The sensation, I mean. The peppery bite, and then the heat. You have to wait a few seconds to get the full effect.”

  Sage nodded and held the next bite in her mouth before swallowing. This time her lips burned.

  “You’re not much aware of feeling things, are you, Doc? You kinda button up tight and skirt around them.”

  “My responses to life are my own concern.”

  Cord chuckled at the frost in her voice. “Yeah, that’s true enough. Still, you say you like to investigate things, so how come you haven’t done more exploring in regard to yourself?”

  “Because,” she said with a hint of steel in her voice, “I already know about myself. I understand how my mind works. I know when I am ill or happy or sad or…” she eyed a strip of crisp bacon “…hungry.”

  “That’s all, huh?”

  “Is that coffee I smell?” she said quickly.

  He set his plate aside, got to his feet and filled her mug. Before he gave it to her, he splashed in a bit of whiskey and then took a sip. His dark eyebrows drew together briefly and an assessing look crossed his face while he held it in his mouth. Finally, he swallowed, nodded and handed the cup over.

  For some reason the gesture made her feel good inside. Cared for. Not even her father would check how his camp coffee tasted.

  “Getting back to how things feel,” he continued. “How about this afternoon, back at the meadow?”

  She gave him a blank look. “The meadow?”

  “You remember. The wind came up and I—”

  “Oh, yes. I do recall. You threw away my hat and…and then I started to cry.”

  “All you recall is crying? Not the breeze ruffling your hair or the smell of the wild buckwheat?”

  “N-no. I must have missed something.”

  “Yep. You most definitely missed something,

  Doc. You spent near an hour sobbing like your heart was broken, and you didn’t notice the things that might’ve helped ease the hurt. Life gives us plenty of hurt. It’s those other things we need to help us stay sane.”

  Sage stared at him. “Are you prescribing for me? I would remind you that I am the physician.”

  “You want to get educated?”

  “Yes!” She snapped out the word, and then another. “No!”

  “Make up your mind, Doc. You’ll most likely have just this one chance, so take it or leave it.”

  “Why will I have just one chance?”

  “Because I’m the one who can teach you, and we’ve only got seven or so days left.”

  Sage bit the inside of her cheek, considering. She was tempted—no, that was the wrong word. Tempted pertained to carnal matters. She was… curious. What could this man—a life-hardened rolling stone, a bounty hunter, for heaven’s sake—possibly know that would be of value to her? Besides how to rip hairpins from a woman’s chignon and make the most eye-watering coffee she’d ever tasted?

  A lazy smile curved his lips. “Scared?”

  She sat up straighter. “Certainly not.”

  “You’re lying,” he said quietly.

  “No, I am…” Oh, yes she was, she admitted. Scared and lying both. The prospect of whatever he had in mind set something aquiver in her belly, as if she sensed that what she might learn would change her. She wanted it, whatever it was, and at the same time she wanted to shut herself off from it and flee.

  He said nothing, just shoveled food into his mouth, studying her with those unnerving green eyes.

  “Very well, I accept your offer.”

  Still he said nothing. When his plate was empty he set it on the ground, stood up and came toward her. “How are you feeling right this minute?”

  “Tired. My head aches and my eyes feel hot.”

  “How about the rest?”

  “The rest?”

  “From your neck down. There’s more to being alive than having a brain that works.”

  She hesitated. “Well, I am…filthy. And I feel sticky all over. My skin feels like sandpaper.” She thought she saw the glimmer of a smile, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “I know just what you need.” He turned toward the fire, lifted the steaming bucket of water off the rocks and strode toward her.

  “Strip,” he ordered.

  Chapter Eight

  Why the devil did I think this was a good idea? A bucket of warm water, a bar of soap, a washcloth—it all seemed straightforward. She’d wash off and feel better. Pretty simple.

  Until she rose without questioning his order and began to unbutton her shirt.

  Cord wanted to watch, but for some reason he couldn’t. He turned away, heard her boots thunk onto the ground, imagined her skirt dropping at her feet. And she wore nothing underneath, he recalled. God almighty. He remembered the lacy white camisole and ruffled drawers pinned to the saddle blanket on the back of her mare. The garments were dry now, but what the hell.

  To keep his mind on the business at hand, he began to talk. “This is real soothing, Doc. You can do it every time you feel dusty or hot or just plain low in spirits.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured. He knew she was standing there behind him without a stitch on. He ached to turn his head and take a peek. At the mere thought his trousers felt tighter.

  He decided he needed to talk some more. “Now, Doc, don’t just scrub yourself off like you’re a dirty plate. What’s important is to feel every inch of your skin and pay some mind to it. Go slow and smooth, so it feels good.” He swallowed.

  “I know how to take a spit bath, Mr. Lawson.” The oh-so-superior note in her voice made him want to yell at her. He swallowed again. Yelling at her would hurt her feelings.

  “I’ll just…clean up the skillet down at the creek,” he blurted. He strode away, hearing the splas
h of water behind him.

  Scouring the skillet with wet sand didn’t take near long enough. He was too aroused to go back to camp just yet, so he shucked his jeans, waded into the deepest part of the stream and took a long, cold dip. He stayed in until the skin on his fingers puckered and goose bumps prickled his forearms. When he was good and chilled, he slogged to the bank, paced up and down, letting the air dry him off, and pulled his boots and trousers back on.

  Moving quietly out of long habit, he drew near the camp and caught a glimpse of her through the trees. The sight halted him in his tracks. Lord God in heaven.

  She was slim, perfectly formed with small, pointed breasts and a softly rounded bottom. Except where she was sunburned, her skin looked like sweet, fresh cream. She turned to wash behind one knee, and the dark triangle of hair between her thighs made his groin tighten all over again.

  He’d seen women before, but not like this one. He couldn’t make himself move. He knew he should close his eyes, shut out the vision she made standing in the firelight with her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. But he couldn’t stop looking.

  After she dried herself and slipped on her undergarments, he purposely rustled some dry branches to make noise and stalked into camp brandishing the clean skillet. Quick as a cat, she rolled herself into a blanket and curled up by the fire.

  “All finished?” he asked, his voice tight.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Warm?”

  “Yes, warm.” Her voice was noticeably softer.

  “Feel better?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He tramped over and looked down at her. Sound asleep. He couldn’t help smiling. Seemed his “lesson” had just plain worn her out.

  Cord cleaned the supper utensils, poured out the cold coffee and filled the pot with fresh water for morning. He dumped the bucket of wash water on a parched-looking wild azalea bush, checked the horses, paced twice around the fire pit. While the flames burned down to glowing coals and the stars winked to life above him, he did everything he could to keep from thinking about her. Not just the satiny skin that looked so delicate, and her female curves, and those breasts he’d like to stroke, but her. Dr. Sage West.