In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  A bit.

  Now, with her teeth chattering, her whole being colder than she’d ever been in her entire life, she craved the warmth of the sunlight. Equally important, she needed to find something to eat.

  She pulled Spencer out from where he cuddled inside her coat, designed in the latest fashion but sadly lacking in warmth otherwise. He yawned and stretched, and upon waking fully, he seemed infused with a new vigor. Carleigh envied him for it.

  Together, they crawled out from inside the tree. She kept her sturdy stick in one hand, the leash in the other, and swept a wary glance about her surroundings.

  The crisp air carried the scent of pine resin and lingering morning dew. In daylight, the wilderness didn’t appear near as daunting as it did in the dark. Beyond the hills, a blanket of green covered the valleys, and hope flickered inside her at the prospect of food.

  A quick mental calculation revealed she stood somewhere on the southern ridge of the San Joaquin Valley where fertile farmland abounded. She moved, at first stiff and tight from the night spent on the merciless ground, then faster, until she was almost running down the rocky hills, Spencer right beside her. The ground leveled out, and as she drew deeper into the valley, the fields appeared to be cultivated, which could only mean water and a farmhouse had to be somewhere nearby.

  Renewed hope soared within her. Her run squandered her strength, and she stumbled to her knees, needing a moment to catch her breath. Spencer pawed at the green vegetation growing in the dark soil. She spread aside the leaves and emitted a cry of delight.

  “Strawberries! Look, Spencer. We’ve run right into a wild strawberry patch.” She plucked one and showed him, letting him sniff and venture a quick lick.

  He took the fruit, then promptly spit it out, and no amount of cajoling could get him to take another. He’d always been finicky, and Carleigh worried he didn’t eat, especially since she had nothing else to give him. She consoled herself that she would find him something. Soon.

  She picked a berry for herself. The fruit tasted delicious, and with its sweetness on her tongue, her hunger only increased for more. She plucked another and another, filling her mouth until she could barely chew them all, until her cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s, until an image of what she must look like—a starving, pathetic, greedy waif—forced her to recall her dignity, eat and swallow in a more civilized manner.

  Suddenly, Spencer barked, again and again. He was no longer at her side, and Carleigh whirled, looking for him, realizing only then that she’d dropped the leash while she ate, and he had wandered away.

  The ferocity of his barking sent shivers of alarm through her. Her frantic gaze found him, a little ball of white in the green foliage of the strawberry patch.

  Her mouth opened to call his name, but an answering snarl, deep and utterly fearsome, stopped her cold with a gasp. Her head snapped around.

  A bobcat.

  Sleek and muscular, his fur tawny and marked with black, the animal stalked closer to Spencer. Her little dog would be no match against the large paws that could kill with a single swipe.

  Desperate to distract him, to give Spencer precious seconds to run away, Carleigh grabbed her long stick and a handful of stones. Her mind emptied of the danger to herself; she jumped to her feet with a shout. The bobcat’s head lifted, pointed ears pricked. The long legs paused in mid-stride, and he turned toward her.

  He seemed to consider the threat she made, then dismissed her. He resumed his stalking, every movement lethal. Calculated. A powerful paw swung out, and Spencer flew into the air with a yelp. Blood erupted on the white fur. He landed on the ground with a soft thud.

  And laid deathly still. Carleigh screamed. She waved her stick and threw the stones. The cat turned toward her again. Black eyes narrowed to slits, and his teeth bared in a fierce snarl. He backed away, then bounded toward the hills.

  She choked a sob of relief and ran toward her precious pet. She fell to her knees beside him, murmured his name over and over. She stroked his tiny body, unmindful of the blood smearing on her hand and into his fur. Oh, God. What would she do if he was dead?

  He whined and twitched, tried to raise his head, then lowered it again. How badly was he hurt? Carleigh gently lifted him into her arms. She feared the extent of his injuries when she had nothing with which to doctor him.

  The bobcat could return at any moment, and they’d be an easy target for his attack. With Spencer cradled against her, she hurried toward an outcropping of brush and rock, then eased onto the ground next to it.

  The rock afforded her a measure of protection, if only from behind. Carleigh laid him in her lap and ran shaking fingers about his body. She discovered the gash from which he bled near his shoulder and several scratches but nothing more. He whined again, lifted his head to lick her wrist. He seemed stronger now, more alert, and the knowledge he might not die after all soothed her.

  She rested her head back against the rock. She needed a moment or two to calm her frazzled nerves. The sun beamed down, and she lifted her face to soak in the warmth. The comfort.

  A slight buzzing noise sounded above her. A sizzling rattle that sent every sense Carleigh possessed hurtling once more to life.

  Her eyes flew open in horror. Without moving, without looking, she recognized the warning of the snake coiled in the rocks only inches from the top of her head.

  She whimpered, her breath shallow gasps of terror.

  “Don’t move, Carleigh.” Trig’s low voice reached her through the numbing fear. “Whatever you do, don’t move.”

  Chapter 7

  One eye narrowed, he leveled the barrel of the rifle over the triangular-shaped head of the diamondback and waited for that head to slither forward at just the right angle. When it did, Trig pulled the trigger. The force of the shot sent the deadly snake flying, its head somewhere in the distance, the rest of its four foot long body, still writhing and curling, right on top of Carleigh.

  Specks of blood spattered onto her face, her coat. She shrieked, her arms flailing, her legs kicking, her hands clawing. She shrieked and shrieked, frantic to be free of the reptile coiling over her shoulders and waist. Trig bolted from the saddle and flung the snake off of her.

  He dropped the Winchester to the dirt, grasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Carleigh! It’s dead. It can’t hurt you now.”

  She stopped screaming, her skin pale but for the blood sprayed across her cheek. Her bosom heaved. She stared up at him, her blue eyes dazed, as if her mind was still caught in the grips of horror.

  “Oh, Trig!”

  Her features crumpled. She burst into tears and flung her arms around his neck.

  Trig held her tight. Her body quaked and quivered; she pressed closer, as if she tried to climb into his skin, panicked and desperate for his protection.

  Her sobs cut through him. He cupped the back of her head, his fingers catching in the tangles of her hair. Trig had to admit to some inner quaking of his own. Seeing the rattlesnake right above her, warning of a strike, had scared the hell right out of him.

  Suddenly, she pushed away.

  “Spencer! Where is he?” She searched wildly about her. “He was right here. On my lap. He--”

  “Easy, Carleigh. He’s sitting next to us.” In the tense moments before killing the diamondback, Trig had been aware of her dog leaping away from her, but he hadn’t noticed the blood staining the white fur. “What happened to him?” He lifted the little dog by a hand. Before he could examine the wounds, she snatched him with a soft sound of distress.

  Cuddling him close, her cheek to the top of his head, she shuddered. “A bobcat wanted him for breakfast.”

  “Jesus. A bobcat?” Unease filtered through Trig. If the animal was bold enough to attack Spencer, it meant he had no fear of Carleigh, or other humans, and that made him more dangerous than ever.

  Instincts told Trig the cat would still be close, that he wouldn’t have given up the kill so easily.

  Carleigh’s screams ha
d led Trig to find her in the valley. Now he knew the reason for them. He reached for the rifle, took her elbow and urged her to her feet.

  “Come on, Carleigh. Let’s go.”

  What little color remained in her face drained away. “What is it? Do you think he’s still around here? I saw him leave.”

  “Could be he circled back around. Climb into the saddle. Now.”

  “Oh, God.” Instead of obeying his command, her worried gaze joined his in sweeping the rise of rock and brush.

  Trig stepped backward to his horse, pulling Carleigh with him, his rifle at the ready. The gelding shifted, giving a nervous nicker, and Trig’s glance sharpened over the brush.

  There was no time to get her mounted and race all three of them to safety. The cat was out there.

  Trig could feel it.

  Spencer could, too. He growled, low and continuous in his throat.

  Suddenly, the cat appeared, his black eyes riveted on the little dog. Trig could almost see him salivating, that look was so intense, so wild. The bobcat stood on the crest of the rise, body taut, poised for attack. The lethal jaws opened in a ferocious snarl. One single leap, and he would be on them.

  On Spencer.

  Trig pushed Carleigh behind him, pinning her against his horse. “Stay behind me.” For the second time in a matter of minutes, he lifted the Winchester to his shoulder, his aim true. “And keep a hold on your dog. If he gets away from you . . ..”

  He let the sentence dangle. A bobcat could take down a deer twice his size. Spencer, he could take blindfolded for a mid-morning snack.

  Trig kept his finger on the trigger.

  Seconds ticked by.

  The bobcat bared his teeth, hissed another fierce snarl. He leapt from the rocks toward them.

  Trig reacted. The air filled with the loud burst of the rifle shot. The bullet hit its mark, straight to the cat’s heart. The sleek body jerked, and Trig fired again. The bobcat dropped lifeless into the strawberry patch only a few feet away.

  Trig lowered the rifle, let out a slow breath.

  Carleigh ventured a peek around his shoulder.

  “You did it,” she said, her voice shaking. “Oh, my God. You killed him.”

  He turned toward her. The urge to take her into his arms again was near overpowering. “Your morning’s gotten off to a bad start, Carleigh. Reckon from here on out, thing’s will get better.”

  Eyes wide, she peered up at him. “Is there nothing you can’t do?”

  He slid the Winchester back into its scabbard. “Seems I’m doing a poor job of keeping you from escaping me all the time. Because of it, you damn near got yourself killed.”

  Her gaze faltered. “That’s not entirely your fault, is it?”

  “I’m responsible for you. I’m making it my fault.”

  She bit her lip and looked away. “I can see why my father hired you. You’re very good at—at what you do.”

  “That remains to be seen.” He had a long way to go in convincing her to return to San Francisco. He wondered if he ever would. “Look. You’ve had a hell of a scare. Both of us had a long night, and we’re hungry.” He thought of the opossum he’d shot, still tied to the back of his saddle and ready for roasting. “We’ll rest up a few hours before we have to ride again.”

  He expected her to argue that she wanted to keep moving south. Instead, she set her dog on the ground, bettered her grip on his leash, and said nothing.

  Trig guessed she finally understood the realities of the journey to Mexico. He felt no victory in all she must be feeling. Noticing the blood and dirt on her face, he reached for his canteen and a clean bandanna.

  “Maybe we can find you a stream to bathe in while we’re at it. You’re a mess,” he added roughly. Wetting a corner of the bandanna, he dabbed at her chin. “You’ve been eating strawberries.”

  “Yes.” She held very still under his ministrations. “Too many, I think. My stomach is churning.”

  “A run-in with a snake and a bobcat will do that to you.” Her tears had smeared the blood the diamondback left on her, and he made short work of cleaning that away, too. “There. Much better.”

  “Thank you. For everything.” She considered him, her expression somber. “You’re being very nice to me when you’re probably furious.”

  “I’m not furious. We have our differences, Carleigh. Most of them beyond our control. No reason why we can’t be civil to one another while we iron them out.”

  An inner turmoil darkened her eyes to an indigo shade of blue. “Will we, Trig? Iron them out, I mean.”

  “We’ll have to. One way or the other.”

  She looked troubled. The sound of hoof beats prevented him from prolonging the conversation when he wasn’t yet finished with all he had to say.

  A pair of riders approached, and as they drew closer, their likenesses suggested they were father and son.

  “We heard shots,” the man said without greeting. “Everything okay?”

  “Now it is,” Trig said.

  “Look, Pa!” The boy, about twelve, pointed excitedly to the ground. “The bobcat!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” His father dismounted and strode closer. He knelt beside the dead animal; his palm stroked the hide in admiration. “You shot him?”

  Trig nodded. “Didn’t have a choice.”

  “He was a mean one. Tough to trap, too. Can’t tell you how many chickens and piglets of mine he killed. Got a baby lamb last week. The missus’s favorite.”

  “After that, Ma said he deserved to be a rug for the fireplace,” the boy said.

  “She’ll be relieved this cat’s dead,” the man added. “All the folks around here will.”

  “This is your farm then?” Trig asked, eyeing their appreciation of the tawny fur.

  “Yes.”

  He thought of Carleigh, of all the things she needed. Female things, left behind in her satchel. “Fine pelt, though. Should bring a decent price.”

  “Very decent.” The farmer rose. “Since you shot him, you stakin’ a claim to him?”

  A corner of Trig’s mouth lifted. “Maybe we can strike a bargain.”

  Sensing the way of his thinking, the boy let out a happy whoop.

  His father grinned. “Maybe we can,” he said. “Just name it.”

  Carleigh stepped from the creek, water streaming down her bare legs. Her fingers squeezed the excess from her hair. A brilliant mid-day sun shone down on her nakedness, warming her.

  She had never bathed outside before. Gracious sakes, who would have thought it? But the babbling creek had called to her; the prospect of feeling clean again had been too tempting to resist.

  A thicket of trees afforded her complete privacy. Trig waited on the other side, keeping her dress and shoes with him as a guarantee she wouldn’t try to escape again. After what she’d endured these past hours, she didn’t know if she could.

  She set the bar of rose-scented soap down onto the ground. The farmer’s wife had been sympathetic to Carleigh’s plight and quick to offer it. A hairbrush, too, along with several tortoiseshell combs. A sobering experience, being on the receiving end of someone else’s help and generosity, when Carleigh had never lacked for anything before.

  Taking Trig’s towel, she dried herself, then wrapped the linen around her head, turban-style. She’d washed her undergarments as best she could in the creek, and they lay drying over a bush. She cast a wistful look at her damp chemise, but reached for Trig’s white cotton shirt instead.

  She pushed her arms into the sleeves and fastened each button. His scent lingered in the fabric, and her eyes closed. She remembered the last time he’d worn it.

  The night he made love to her.

  It had been she, Carleigh Chandler, who parted the buttons in her frenzied passion, had assisted him in pulling the shirt from his shoulders. Had she been that wanton? Had she wanted him so much?

  Yes. She had. The need to feel the heat of his skin beneath her palms had been that strong.

  Her
eyes opened again. Worse, she still needed him. His skills and expertise. Protection. Guidance. All the things that made Trig Mathison the man he was.

  She couldn’t get to Mexico without him.

  She’d been a fool to think she could.

  He’d traded the bobcat for a saddled horse, an aging palomino mare, barren and one the farmer was only too grateful to swap in his relief for the wild predator’s demise. His wife was thrilled with the luxurious pelt. The bargain had worked in everyone’s favor.

  Carleigh sighed. Yet one more thing Trig had done for her.

  Her glance slid beyond the thicket to the edge of the creek. The gelding and palomino grazed side by side, both rested and ready to ride.

  Now that she knew of its perils, she dreaded the thought of escaping Trig again, even though she now had her own horse to help her do it.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice.

  Carleigh came out of the thicket, bare legged and so damned alluring, Trig nearly dropped the roasting opossum into the fire.

  He couldn’t help staring, but she was too busy avoiding him to notice. She sat on the grass, pulled the towel from her hair, and laid it modestly over her lap. After shaking the wet mass loose, she began brushing through the tangles, working them free.

  She was determined not to look at him. Annoyance flickered through him.

  “You took so long in there I was beginning to think I’d have to go in after you,” he said gruffly.

  Her gaze flew to him then. “You promised you wouldn’t.”

  “And I didn’t. I just thought about it.”

  She appeared wary of his mood. “You said yourself I looked a mess. There was sap in my hair from the aspen tree last night. And I washed my clothes. I wanted to be clean again.”

  “You’re entitled, Carleigh.”

  A vision of her in the water, the sun glistening off her wet skin, heated his blood. More than once while he waited, he entertained the idea of joining her in the creek.

  Both of them. Naked.

  He shifted from where he crouched near the fire to ease the growing tightness in his loins; he removed the sizzling meat from the spit. Using his bowie knife, he cut off a chunk, placed it on a plate and handed it to her. “Careful. It’s hot.”