In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She swallowed hard.

  “But I have an idea,” he said, looking at her again, his dark eyes unfathomable.

  “You do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Care to enlighten me since I very easily could have gotten killed with you?”

  “No.” He reached for his shirt, lying next to his saddle. “But if it’s any consolation, it’s me he was after. Not you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You were standing by your horse. He had as clear a shot at you as he did me. If he wanted you hit, he would have done it.”

  “If he wanted you killed, then he missed. Perhaps he wasn’t a very good shot.”

  “Considering the distance he was shooting from, he was a damned good shot.” Trig retrieved a rolled cigarette and match from the shirt pocket. “Next time, he’ll hit his mark.”

  “Oh, God.” Her temples pounded.

  He struck the match, lit the tobacco, drew in deep.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone to hunt something for dinner,” he said, exhaling. “And I’m not going to light a fire, either, so we couldn’t cook anything. Can’t take a chance on him finding us from the smoke.”

  “Fine. I wouldn’t be able to eat anyway.” Irrationally angry, she reached for a bundle of dried fish, wrapped in one of his bandanas, and tossed him the entire thing.

  “Carleigh.”

  He spoke her name around the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. The bundle in one hand, he reached for her with the other, but she evaded his grasp, snatching her hairbrush instead.

  “If our marksman does indeed hit his mark, and I find you dead sometime soon”—she pulled the tortoiseshell combs from her hair and began brushing in clipped, vexed strokes—“is there someone besides your father I should notify?”

  “No.”

  “No woman waits for you? A wife or lover who--.”

  He swore. His fingers banded her wrist, halting the brush strokes. Her glance clashed with his.

  “I bedded you in Visalia, Carleigh,” he growled. “I lusted for you in the sand dunes and a thousand times before then. I’ve made my share of mistakes in this life, but cheating on a woman has never been one of them.”

  Her throat worked. Clearly, she’d insulted him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested you had.”

  He released her. “And you’re not going to have to notify anyone, my father or otherwise. Not if I can help it.”

  She eyed him worriedly. How could he prevent anyone from killing him?

  “You know how to shoot a gun?” he asked.

  “No. And I don’t relish the idea of learning. I fear I wouldn’t be very good at it.” She resumed brushing her hair in earnest.

  “Well, I’m going to teach you anyway. As soon as I can. I’ll show you some ways to defend yourself, too. Without a weapon.”

  Her mouth curved downward. “I’m beginning to think this trip to Mexico will be the end of both of us. It seems we’ll never get there.”

  “A couple more days.” He flicked the tobacco’s ashes. “I want to make a stop in San Diego first. There’s someone I need to see.”

  “Provided you live that long,” she said tartly.

  Black eyes glittered over her, but he said nothing more.

  She put her brush back into his leather bag and crawled over to her side of the bedroll. She wondered at the business he needed to attend to, but guessed it had something to do with the attempt on his life.

  Awash in worry, she laid down. Trig didn’t join her; instead, he remained seated at the opening of their shelter, one knee drawn up, his arm on top, lingering there to finish his smoke. She could only speculate at the plan he formed in his head.

  Her gaze drifted over his back, shirtless. Muscular. It wasn’t often she could study him so openly, not when his thoughts consumed him as they did now that he wouldn’t notice. Her appreciative glance traced the symmetry of his body, from the breadth of his shoulders down to his lean waist.

  She recalled the feel of his skin beneath her palms as vividly as if she were once again in the hotel bed with him, their arms and legs tangled in passion. She would always remember him as corded muscle and heat. Power and masculinity. An unexpected longing to slide her hands over him again rose inside her, and her fingers curled into fists to repress it.

  What would she do if he were killed?

  Dear God, she didn’t want to think it. A troubling sense of loss and dismay settled over her at the very real possibility, a loss that went far beyond her needing his expertise to get to Mexico.

  Was she beginning to feel something for Trig Mathison? Once, it would’ve seemed impossible, but now . . ..

  Now, Carleigh found herself determined to do all she could to help him stay alive.

  Carleigh leaned over the fire and turned the skewered rabbit. Her mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma of sizzling meat and smoking mesquite; her stomach reminded her it was long past breakfast and even longer since her last meal the night before.

  When Trig finished bathing in the stream, they would eat. Afterward, they would ride into San Diego.

  She could hardly wait. They were so close.

  His mood had improved today, and she guessed it was the anticipation of seeing his friend that eased his troubles. And though he was continually alert for any sign of the gunman who shot him, they’d traveled the past two days without further incident.

  Perhaps the zigzagging route Trig adopted left their trail cold. She could only hope.

  Their camp was situated next to a cool, clear stream, a run-off from the Coastal Ranges. A rich carpet of blossoming cactus grew nearby and beyond, a riotous display of deep fuchsias, fiery oranges and brilliant yellows. Amongst the assortment of prickly pear varieties grew the healing beavertail.

  Carleigh took Trig’s gloves and knife to cut more. She sliced several joints and rubbed them in the sandy soil to remove the tiny spines, as Trig had shown her, then cut several more, these younger and more tender, to use as greens with the roasting rabbit. Cactus wasn’t her favorite dish, but with a choice of edible items scarce in the California desert, she’d learned to tolerate the taste of them.

  Gathering up the plant pieces into her skirt, she made her way back toward the camp. Shrubs of mesquite bordering the stream hid Trig from view but failed to hush the sounds he made in the stream.

  Nor did it halt the vision of him springing into her imagination. Bronzed and naked and glistening wet.

  Her steps slowed. Ripples in the water revealed he was only a few yards away.

  Just beyond the shrubs.

  Unable to stop herself, she stared through the foliage and caught a glimpse of him soaping himself with the suds from yucca roots he’d pounded near the stream’s edge. She dared to part the thorny branches to see him better. He lathered his hair, his chest, under his arms. After a complete wash, he rose to his full height.

  The blood tripped in her veins. Gracious sakes, but he was magnificent. A male in his prime. A warrior, powerful and beautiful and stunning.

  Trig Mathison.

  She’d had only an inkling of his raw sensuality the night he bedded her in Visalia. Now, he presented her with the full realization, and a budding, steadily growing ache to experience him fully swept through her.

  An ache to have him make love to her again.

  Her knees weakened just thinking about it. But in the next breath, Carleigh chastised herself.

  She mustn’t think of him like that, as if she were no better than a harlot. She was proper and refined. A lady. Carefully tutored beneath Luann’s gentle hand. Trig had already taken from her what she could give to no other man. Once his business arrangement with Papa was finished, they would go their separate ways, and she would never see him again.

  Regret, sharp and unexpected, shot through her.

  He dove into the water for a thorough rinse, came up again and speared both hands through his hair, shaking off the exces
s water. He moved gracefully, as much at ease in the water as he was on land. Carleigh’s gaze clung to him.

  She would miss him when they went back to their normal lives in San Francisco. He was so much a part of her life now. How could he not be when every moment of every day was spent with him? When she’d gotten so used to being with him, that each of those moments would be a memory she would keep forever? When his potent masculinity awakened her own femininity and the pleasures she could enjoy from him?

  He was like no other man she’d ever known.

  Yes, she would miss him. Very much.

  She shook off the heavy veil of melancholy which had descended upon her. It wasn’t like her to brood so, and the knowledge he could catch her peeping spurred her away from the shrubs. It simply wouldn’t do to have him discover what she’d been doing--and thinking--and she determinedly headed back to camp.

  Along the way, she spied a bush of early berries growing from the crevices of a rock. Thinking of the fine dessert they’d make, she strode toward them. And though she rose up on tiptoe, stretched as far as she could, they were too high to reach.

  She laid the cactus joints on the ground and crawled onto the rock. The rough surface scraped her knees; stretching as far as she could, she managed to grasp a slender branch with one hand, freeing the other to pick the berry clusters.

  “Woman, you’re going to break your damn neck.” A strong arm clamped around her waist and swung her back down again.

  Carleigh started. “Trig!”

  She pressed a hand to her thudding heart. But when she attempted to step away, his arm tightened around her, keeping her against him.

  His wet chest dampened the back of her dress. The stream had cooled his skin, and he smelled clean. Like soap. A bead of water dripped from his hair onto her shoulder.

  He made her all too aware of the heat in her own body. Of the desire stirring inside her. She tugged at the sinewy arm circled about her waist, but it remained fast.

  “You were watching me, weren’t you?” he murmured, his low voice teasing, the days-old stubble on his jaw bristly against her temple.

  She gasped, mortified that she’d been caught, after all. “I wasn’t.”

  “You were. I saw you.” He chuckled, his breath fanning her ear. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  The vision of him as he stood in the water, gifting her with a full-bodied view just before he dove in to rinse, flared in her mind.

  It had all been for her.

  She sank against him in embarrassment. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a thing to say to defend herself.

  “Did you like what you saw?” His hand splayed across her stomach, strayed dangerously near the underside of her breast.

  She tugged his hand away again. “What kind of woman would I be if I didn’t appreciate the sight of a—a healthy man?”

  “You could have come in and joined me.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” This time, she managed to push away.

  “I want to make love to you again.” He looked as ruthless as a devil out of the sea. The sight of him charmed her clear to her toes. “And you want to make love to me, too, I think.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “There’s no time. We have to go to San Diego.” In spite of everything, she gestured toward the blooming cactus. “And there’s no place, either.”

  “Carleigh, Carleigh, Carleigh.” He shook his head in feigned dismay. “You underestimate me. Just give me the word and I’ll find a place.”

  Her argument had been puny. She was simply no match for him, not when she could barely think straight.

  Her mouth formed a pout. She didn’t know how much longer she could stave off his bold assault without letting him take her right here in the dirt. “Trig, please.”

  He sighed long and loud in male disappointment. “All right. If you’re not going to let me make love to you, then I’ll pick your berries.” He reached upward to pluck the fruit with ease. “Tell me when you have all you want.”

  She cupped her hands into a makeshift bowl, and he dropped some into her palms.

  He wore only a towel around his middle, and the fabric did little to hide the blatant bulge at the juncture of his thighs, and all her lusty thoughts whooshed into her brain again. Carleigh steered her perusal away, inching it higher to his naked torso, sprinkled with droplets of water and so rippled with muscle her pulse skipped into erratic beats.

  “Enough?” he asked.

  As engrossed as she’d been in him, she hadn’t noticed the pile in her hands. She nodded quickly. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Go on back to camp. I’ll bring the cactus you’ve cut with me.”

  At their return, Spencer broke into excited barking, and he pranced at the end of his leash, stretched taut from his attempts to run toward them.

  “Keep him quiet, Carleigh,” Trig warned, one eye narrowed toward the hills beyond their camp. She knew he thought once more of the gunman who’d tried to kill him. “He’ll give us away with that damn yip of his.”

  She snapped her fingers at her pet with a firm command to hush. Though he quieted, his gaze remained on Trig, his tail wagging incessantly.

  She placed turtle shells on hot rocks to boil water for the greens.

  “He only wants attention from you,” she said, cutting the beavertail joints into bite size pieces. “Why do you always ignore him?”

  “I prefer a real dog,” he said, eyeing Spencer with a frown. “One that has forty pounds or so up on yours.”

  Her mouth softened. “He is a real dog.”

  “He’s a woman’s dog.”

  Her smile deepened. “Is that why I love him so much?”

  Trig tossed him a bone to chew on. “He’s managed our journey well enough. I’ll give him that.”

  “Yes. Except for the run-in with the bobcat. But thanks to you, he’s good as new now.”

  “He needs another bath.”

  “And he needs groomed as well. I can hardly keep up with all the burrs in his fur.” Her head cocked in curiosity. “Did you have a dog when you were growing up?”

  Trig pulled his gaze away. “Yes. Mutts. Anything on four legs that strayed onto our farm. And none of them needed expensive haircuts like yours does.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps they knew you would give them a home.” She grew thoughtful at the image of a lost and hungry animal finding care with the Mathison family. Papa would never have stood for such a thing.

  “Maybe so. We sure as hell had our share wander in. My mother had a soft spot for each one.”

  He fell silent, and she dropped pieces of cactus into the boiling water. Did their conversation of his childhood stir up renewed worry for his father? She decided it best to change the subject.

  “We have a few minutes before dinner is ready. Do you want to shave? Your friend might not recognize you if you don’t.”

  “Times like these I miss a barbershop,” he muttered, running a hand across his stubbly cheek. “Too damned hard to work a razor when I can barely see what I’m doing.”

  “I’ll shave you.”

  His glance swung to her in surprise. “You know how?”

  “Of course. I’ll change your dressing, too, while we’re at it.” Carleigh pointed to a tree stump. “Sit.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he complied, re-tucking the corner of his towel at his waist when it came loose. He sat comfortably, knees spread, oblivious to modesty when he wore nothing beneath.

  Carleigh had plenty of suds from leftover yucca roots to use as lather. While she fetched his razor from the leather bag, he soaped his face and neck. She placed her fingers beneath his chin and tilted his head back to give her better access to his neck.

  He eyed the gleaming blade dubiously. “So who taught you how to shave a man?”

  “Luann. She often shaved Papa when his regular barber was unavailable.”

  He scowled. “You mean he couldn’t shave himself?”

  “He enjoyed his
luxuries.” She shrugged. “And why not? He could afford them.”

  The scowl remained. “But he employed Luann to care for you. Shaving him was part of her duties as well?”

  Clearly, he didn’t approve.

  “Chinese women are very subservient,” Carleigh said. “It would never occur to her to refuse him.”

  “Would’ve served him right if she did,” Trig muttered. “Seems to me he took advantage of her.”

  She had to admit that, perhaps, Papa did expect more of Luann than he should have over the years. But it wasn’t in her nature to complain.

  Or perhaps she’d been afraid to. Papa wouldn’t have tolerated it if she did.

  “I even shaved him myself a time or two,” she said.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  Exasperated, Carleigh stepped back. “We can forget the whole thing if you want.”

  “Wait.” He caught a fistful of her skirt. “I’ve never had a woman barber before is all.”

  “I promise I won’t slit your throat.”

  He released her, then tilted his head back and sat very still. She leaned over him to slide the blade through the suds along his neck and up over his chin to his bottom lip. She wielded the razor with confidence, with skill, each stroke dexterous and smooth. Before long, she’d completed one side of his face, and as she moved around him to do the other, she caught him staring down the open ‘V’ of her shirtwaist.

  She clapped a hand to her chest.

  He grinned, the devil all over again.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “You’re just too close to ignore the view.”

  “It’s hot. I only unbuttoned a few to--.” For the first time, she noticed the unmistakable evidence of his arousal through the towel. Cheeks blazing, she finished buttoning the blouse to its collar.

  “No need to explain.” His amusement increased. “I’m only thinking of the pleasures we could have enjoyed in Visalia, but didn’t take the time to take. I’m regretting it now.”

  She began shaving him again. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m lusting for you again. Try to understand.”