Читать книгу High Country Hero - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 7

Chapter Two

Cord stared at the young woman when she marched back out of the house. She could scramble when she wanted to. One minute she was swishing through her front gate looking custard-soft in a ruffled pastel dress, the next she was striding down her porch steps in a newfangled skirt split up the middle, a red-plaid flannel shirt two sizes too big for her, and what looked like brand-new shiny boots. Her hair was hidden under a battered gray Stetson with a godawful purple feather stuck in the band, and she lugged a bulky black leather bag in one hand. Under one arm she’d squashed a thick-looking bedroll and a black rain poncho.

“That all you’re taking?”

“You said five minutes, Mr. Lawson. This is the best I could do in the allotted time. I trust you are taking care of the meals.”

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer it.

She shoved the black bag and the bedroll into his lap, stuck her foot on top of his and swung up behind him. “The livery’s at the other end of town. I’ll want my own mount.”

“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 sure-footed, 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.