High Country Hero

by Lynna Banning

  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 bri
m, 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.

  Chapter Six

  The trail wound up through the timber, then reached a lush green meadow fed by a gurgling stream. The doctor kicked her horse into a canter and caught up with Cord.

  He didn’t want her any closer. He resisted an urge to dig in his spurs and gallop away from her, but he guessed she’d eaten enough of his dust for one day. The wind was picking up, so it was even worse now.

  For the next quarter mile they rode side by side through the camas and meadow rue without saying a word. The quiet didn’t seem to bother her, but it got under Cord’s skin in a hurry. Not as much as those undergarments, fluttering from the back of her saddle in the warm afternoon wind, but enough that his already parched tongue felt like a dried corncob. He couldn’t wait until it got dark and they made camp. He’d take a couple of pulls at the whiskey flask, roll himself up in his blanket and forget how raw and hungry his nerves felt. Another hour until sundown. He had to hold it together until then.

  He glanced at the sky, then at the thick forest of maples and blue spruce covering the mountains ahead. The wind lashed the branches and the sighing sound set his teeth on edge.

  Her voice at his side jolted him. “Tell me something, Mr. Lawson?”

  “Depends what you want to know.” He knew his reply sounded surly, but some instinct told him to duck and run, not answer questions. She was full of questions.

  “I want to know who you were chasing. Before you needed a physician’s services, I mean.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  Her eyes blazed like two purple amethysts. “Don’t tell me what I want! I hate it when someone thinks for me.”

  “I still don’t figure you want to know.”

  “But I’m interested! I’ve always been curious about things I don’t know.”

  “That why you chose to be a doctor?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. My baby brother di ed of diphtheria when I was ten. The day we buried him I decided I wanted to know why he died. I wanted to know what a doctor would have done to save him.”

  Cord’s gut tightened. “Some things in life you can’t control.”

  “It is ignorance that leaves one vulnerable. At least that is what I fervently believe.”

  He snapped his jaw shut and counted to ten. “You’re one of those goddamned ‘truth will make you free’ types, is that it? You think if you dig up enough facts, you can just take charge of the outcome. Choose hell or happiness. Life or death.”

  “Of course, within reason. Things you know are the means to understanding life. It follows that if one understands, one can correct what is wrong. Illness, for instance.”

  “Let me tell you something, Doc. Real life is mostly about feelings, not facts. Feeling hungry. Feeling tired. Feeling the sun on your back. Feeling good, or…feeling like you want to die.”

  She sniffed. “That is an extremely limited philosophy.”

  “Maybe. In the long run, it’s the only one that matters.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes bored into his like two blue bullets. The wind lifted her hat brim, and she jerked it down tight. “And just what exactly makes you so sure of that?”

  “Managing to stay alive for thirty-seven years.”

  “But…what have you done with those years?”

  “Laughed some. Cried some. Mostly tried to enjoy them.” He didn’t think she really wanted to know about the black times.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. How old are you, Doc?”

  “Um, well, I’m—” She drilled him with those eyes again. “That is a distinctly personal question, Mr. Lawson.”

  “Yeah. But I’ve seen you with half your duds off, so you want me to guess?”<
br />
  “I will be twenty-six in December,” she said quickly.

  “And what have you done with your years?”

  She straightened her spine just enough to make him smile. “I have used them to investigate. To understand about life. I have studied. Learned.”

  “Have you enjoyed yourself?” He wanted to add something about sensual pleasure, but one glance at her tightened mouth and he thought better of it.

  “Reasonably, yes. I have a purpose in life. An honorable calling. I am…content.”

  He snorted. “Content! You don’t understand jack squat about life, Doc.”

  “I do, too! I understand a great deal about living a worthwhile life. You are a footloose thirty-sevenyear-old drifter who doesn’t belong anywhere. It is you who doesn’t understand about life.”

  He gritted his teeth. “You think so, do you?”

  “I think so, yes. I know so.”

  “Well, you’re dead wrong, Doc.” She was a prissy, stuck-up female with a brain too big for her britches. He clenched his jaw even tighter. “And if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll show you what I mean.”

  “You will do no such thing!”

  “Not much you can do to stop me, is there? I always have enjoyed rubbing some know-it-all, overeducated pilgrim’s nose in the messy part of life.”

  She rode on ahead with one hand clutching her hat, the purple feather bobbing and flopping as the wind picked up. With her other hand she vainly tried to poke escaping strands of dark hair under the crown.

  Oh, the hell with it. Now was as good a time as any.

  He caught up with her and grabbed the mare’s bridle, pulling the animal to a halt beside him.

  She pinned him with an icy look. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Teachin’ you something,” he growled. He swept the battered Stetson off her head and sent it sailing away on the breeze. Without pausing to think, he dug his fingers into her hair, raked out the pins that secured her neat bun and lifted the loosened strands away from her scalp. The wind ruffled the waves about her face.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to back out of his grasp, but he tightened his grip.