Читать книгу High Country Hero - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 10

Chapter Five

Cord lay spread-eagled in the water, sculling his cupped hands to keep from drifting downstream. He let the raindrops beat on his face and chest as he watched her horse dance back and forth on the sandy riverbank while its rider tried to make up her mind about something. To swim across or ride across, he guessed. Not a big decision; the water was only four, maybe five feet deep.

Swimming in the rain is a real sensual pleasure, Doc. So why not swim across and enjoy the experience? Lord knew there weren’t that many real pleasures in this world. When one dropped into your lap, you ought to savor it.

She stepped her mount to the river’s edge, studied the wavelets lapping at the mare’s hooves, then reined the animal away.

What is she waiting for? The rain had already drenched her; she looked sodden and miserable, with her head down, her shoulders hunched. She was probably shivering so hard her teeth chattered. Wet is wet, Doc. Choose the way that feels good.

“Can you swim?” he yelled.

“Yes, I can.”

“Well, come on, then.”

“I am not familiar with this part of the river. I…don’t know if it’s safe.”

Safe? “Hell, Doc, I’m out here in the middle of it. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“I am not you, Mr. Lawson. I like to know what is, well, what is beneath the surface before I plunge into something.”

“Can’t always know that.”

“I am r-realizing th-that.”

Jehoshaphat, she was so cold she was starting to stutter. “Take a chance, dammit!”

Once more she turned the horse away from the river.

Snakes and sawdust! Maybe she just plain didn’t know how to enjoy herself.

But when she turned back, her hand was at her throat, unbuttoning her black rain poncho. Then her red plaid shirt. She dismounted and fumbled at the waistband of her skirt, then stepped out of it and shucked off her boots. Standing there in nothing but her white drawers and a lacy camisole, she looked like a butterfly whose cocoon had just been peeled away.

Cord sucked in a breath. You see a woman naked and it changes things. He stopped sculling and let the water close over his head. When he surfaced, she was rolling up her clothes and boots in the poncho. She stashed the bundle behind the saddle, hooked the reins around the pommel and waded into the water. The mare followed at a respectful distance.

Cord wasn’t watching the mare. The thin, wet fabric of her underclothes plastered itself to her knees, her thighs. She moved slowly, very slowly, using her arms for balance and testing each step tentatively before she put down her weight. Her body broke the smooth surface with scarcely a ripple. Up to her waist now. Higher, higher…

Oh, hell yes! Under the wet camisole her breasts showed clearly, like mounds of some perfectly formed fruit with a dark aureola marking each center. Oh, God, she was beautiful. He couldn’t look away.

Then with a splash she was swimming, clean, sharp strokes that cut the water with no noise. A man had taught her, he could see that. Her father, or her uncle, the marshal. At least Cord hoped so. All at once he couldn’t stand the thought of another male’s hands touching her.

She swam to within a foot of where he lay and, without slowing, glided on past. Her eyes, he noted, were scrunched shut. He rolled onto his stomach and stroked after her.

She reached the sandy beach ahead of him and waded out of the water, her backside gleaming wetly under the clinging muslin. Cord’s arms stopped working and he stifled the groan that rose from his belly, a growl of pure male hunger.

And then his sex rose and grew hard.

She caught the mare’s bridle as it clambered up the bank, then turned and stood waiting for him, her face composed.

Cord swam into the shallows, but his member was so engorged he didn’t dare stand up. Instead, he folded his knees and huddled on the sandy river bottom. He’d have to play for time.

“Enjoy your swim?”

“Yes, I did.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I swam all the way across,” she said unnecessarily. She beamed like a kid watching a parade, as if she was proud of herself.

What was it she’d said? I like to know what’s beneath the surface before I plunge into something. She’d been scared of the river. Scared of the unknown. Well, I’ll be damned.

Now what?

He waited, up to his neck in the river.

She waited on the bank.

His knees were getting cold. “Want to turn your back while I get out?”

Her eyes flickered. “I’m a doctor, Mr. Lawson. There is nothing about the male body I haven’t seen before.”

Maybe. Had she ever seen an erection that tented a man’s trousers even when they were soaking wet? He didn’t think cadavers or ailing male patients could…

“Oh, very well,” she said at last. “Since you are shy.”

“Shy!” He swooshed to a standing position just in time to see her backside disappear into a gooseberry thicket.

Shy! He glanced down at the front of his jeans. “Sure, Doc. If you say so.” He had a hard time keeping a straight face.

To take his mind off the matter, he gathered a handful of pale green gooseberries and fed them to his horse. Slowly.

“Ready to ride?” he called when he thought he was under control.

“Quite ready.” She emerged from the thicket fully dressed, her red shirt buttoned up to her chin, her skirt flaring over her boots. Hell, she looked ready for church.

And here he stood, like a randy cowboy with a hard-on.

The downpour ceased abruptly, as if someone had suddenly turned off a spigot. She glanced skyward, stuck out her hand, palm up. “Oh, look, the rain has stopped. Now my undergarments will dry.”

Blazes, she didn’t even notice the bulge in his pants! He’d guess she wouldn’t understand it if she did see it. He rolled his eyes.

She mounted her horse and turned its rump toward him. Clipped to the saddle blanket with four wooden clothespins were her drawers and the lacy camisole.

Cord thought about that as he sloshed out of the river and caught his own mare. Underclothes flapping on the back of her horse. It would be hard not to look at them.

Okey-doke. Then he wouldn’t look.

He swung up into the saddle. Water squished out of his wet jeans, coursed down the animal’s hide and dripped off the stirrups. Every move he made reminded him he was sodden as a drowning rat.

And hard.

He’d keep his eyes on that funny-looking skirt she wore, and that plaid shirt she’d buttoned up tight like a prissy schoolmarm. He wouldn’t think for one second about the fact that she wore absolutely nothing underneath…

Lord-oh-Lord. It was going to be a long, long day.

She rode behind him, had done so ever since they left the Umpqua River three hours ago and headed east cross-country toward the Green Mountains, but it didn’t help. He kept thinking about her backside.

He tried reciting multiplication tables in his head. When he completed the twelves, he tried poetry. “This is the forest primeval…”

No good. His now-dry jeans rubbed his flesh the wrong way.

He’d try conversation, he decided. Anything to keep his thoughts from wandering where they had no business going. He twisted in the saddle and spoke over his shoulder. “How come you swim with your eyes closed?”

No answer. After a good dozen heartbeats, her voice floated to him. “Because it scares me.”

“But you did it. You looked pretty pleased with yourself after you got across.”

“I was pleased. Swimming across that river is a milestone for me.”

He chuckled. “Like Caesar crossing the Rubicon.”

She made a noise somewhere between a cough and a chortle. “How would you know about the Rubicon?”

“I read about it.”

“In Latin, I suppose.” Her tone indicated disbelief.

“Yeah. Zack Beeler taught me. His mama was a schoolteacher back in Rhode Island. Zack knew more about Latin than making biscuits.”

She didn’t respond.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Let’s just say I am…skeptical.”

“Try me.”

“All right, if you insist. Caveat viator.”

“Let the traveler beware,” he translated instantly. “Carpe diem,” he tossed back.

“Seize the day,” she said in a triumphant voice. “So there!” He could tell she was smiling. He wished he could see her face; it lit up when she smiled.

He decided to push his advantage. “Quam minimum credula postero?”

“Trust…um, trust…”

“Trust tomorrow as little as possible,” he finished for her. “I rest my case.”

A long, long silence followed. Cord concentrated on the faint trail ahead of him, noted the angle of the sun, the various shades of green in the wooded area to his right. Pretty country. No settlers. Not even a stage stop out here in the middle of nowhere. It suited him just fine.

When he was tracking someone, he rode through towns, talked to ranchers, stopped at army posts and Indian camps. After a capture he preferred to be alone. Raised by four men on the run, he’d never been comfortable around civilized people. The first Latin word he ever learned was solus. Solitary.

Ah, what the hell. People were no damn good anyway.

Except for her, maybe. Most folks pointed fingers, spat out insults, drew sidearms on a fellow for no cause but suspicion or being “different.”

She was an exception. She had the gumption to ride with him, and that said quite a lot about her. She was dedicated to her profession.

She was…

Don’t think about it, Cord. Don’t think about those underclothes, either. Dry by now. Hanging out in plain sight getting bleached by the sun. Probably warm to the touch. She’d slide those drawers up her legs, over her thighs, around her—

“Seven times seven is forty-nine,” he said aloud. “‘The murmuring pines and the hemlocks…’”

Forget Longfellow. “‘I knew a maiden, fair to see…’” He swallowed and dredged up some more Latin from his memory. “Sic transit gloria mundi.”

Oh, yeah? The glory of the world wasn’t passing; it was riding not twenty paces behind him.

“Seven times eight…”

Sage heard him muttering ahead of her, a low rumble that rose and fell like the humming of bees. She couldn’t hear distinct words, but maybe that was just as well. What would a man like Cord Lawson, a bounty hunter who spoke Latin of all things, have on his mind?

As she thought about it, the niggle of interest turned into a nagging curiosity. She had always hungered to know what lay beneath the surface of things that were more complex than met the eye; it didn’t matter if it was a swollen area of skin on the chest or stomach of a patient, a river, even a whiskery man who swam the dirt out of his laundry. She’d like to peel him open and peer inside.

She watched his bare back moving with the horse. He must ride shirtless more often than not, she decided. His skin was smooth and very, very tan, so dark it resembled the rich mahogany of her mother’s piano. His ear-length black hair had dried in the breeze, and now the ends wanted to curl up. It made him seem young. Even looking into a mirror he wouldn’t see how boyish and untamed those little uncorraled strands appeared.

She liked that. It was as if she could see part of him that he himself didn’t know existed.

She studied his shoulders, tried to estimate their breadth, then let her gaze drift down his spine to where the subtly moving bones of his back disappeared under the leather belt at his waist. There wasn’t an ounce of extra fat on him. Extra anything, really; his torso looked as if it was carved out of dark clay and rubbed smooth with knowing hands.

An odd feeling lodged in her lower belly, as if she had gulped hot chocolate on a winter afternoon. The rich, warm sensation came as a surprise, and she felt it again when he turned to look at her.

“I figure another three hours till we make camp.” He squinted against the sun behind her, reached up one hand, pulled his black hat down to his eyebrows. Beneath the tilted brim, his green-gray eyes narrowed.

He was waiting for something, but what? She hadn’t requested a necessary stop, or even time to rinse her dry mouth with a bit of water from the canteen. She hadn’t slowed him down in the slightest. And after her inquiries about her patient—the location of the wound, the presence of fever and a dozen other questions he had simply sidestepped—she had given up. She prayed that the wounded man would still be alive when they reached him.

She had been an ideal traveling companion, pushing as fast as she could, never complaining. So why was he looking at her like that?

“You all right, Doc?” he called back to her.

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Mighty quiet.”

“I am…thinking.”

He grinned suddenly. “You know, I’ve about got you figured out.” He turned back to scan the trail ahead. The Bear Wilderness area loomed before them, a thick tangle of Douglas fir and spruce that swathed the hills in various shades of brown and green.

Sage stifled the laugh that bubbled up in her throat. “Nobody has figured me out, Mr. Lawson. Not my father, not my mother. Mama and Papa let me go to medical college because they were afraid I would run away if they didn’t. But they didn’t understand.”

Now that her medical studies were concluded, the one thing she missed was being kept busy. Too busy to dwell on why she sometimes felt restless, as if her skin had shrunk overnight. She liked probing the mysteries of diphtheria and puerperal fever, liked finding out what was true and what was old wives’ tales or just superstition.

But what was beneath her own surface was a mystery she didn’t want to poke into.

“And just what have you figured out?” The words leaped out of her mouth before she could catch them.

He twisted to face her again. “You sure you want to know?”

“Of course. Though I doubt very much your observations will prove insightful.”

“Well, you’re not gonna like this, but here goes.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You’re all locked up inside. Afraid to feel things.”

“I most certainly am not! Whatever gave you such a ridiculous idea?”

He held her gaze without smiling. “The fact that you swim with your eyes closed. Like you don’t want to…I don’t know, let yourself go and enjoy it, maybe.”

“That is presumptuous, Mr. Lawson.” To give herself something to do, she flapped the reins, then realized every step the mare took brought her closer to him.

“You can call me Cord, Doc. You’ve seen me half-dressed, and I’ve seen you, well, vice versa. I think maybe we’ve been introduced good enough.”

“Mr. Lawson!”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re right about the ‘presumptuous’ part, though.” Again, he twisted to scan the trail ahead. “I don’t have a lot of fine manners to trip over,” he called over his shoulder.

“You are certainly correct on that score,” Sage murmured.

“So,” he continued, “I just say what I think. I’m not wrong very often.”

Sage took her time about answering. She drew in a long breath, expelled it, drew in another. “You are wrong this time, Mr. Lawson.”

“Cord,” he reminded her. “You know, I’ve only seen you smile three times in two days, Doc. Once was when you swam the river. The point is, you were a little scared, but it felt good, didn’t it?”

She swallowed instead of replying. Her father had taught her it was bad manners to argue on the trail, but she was so mad she felt like heaving the canteen at him. Tears stung her eyes. She straightened her shoulders.

“Well, Cord, I am not smiling now.”

“You think about it, Doc. I know you’re riding with me to do good for your fellow man. Might be this journey could do you some good, too.” He moved forward at a faster pace and this time did not look back.

Sage reached behind the saddle and grabbed the first thing her fingertips encountered. Her camisole. She didn’t alter her pace, didn’t make a sound. But that old feeling of restless hunger was back, flooding her entire being until she wished she could just jump out of her skin and escape.

She used the garment to dab at her eyes until they reached a grassy clearing. When Cord called a halt, she wadded up the muslin and stuffed it under her saddle.