GRANITE MAN

by Elizabeth Lowell

  "Years. Six blessed, wonderful years."

  Cash said something savage.

  "Oh, it's not that bad," Mariah said.

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. It's worse."

  He laughed unwillingly and held her even closer.

  She braced herself against the temptation to put her head on the muscular resilience of his chest and relax her aching body. Her head sagged anyway. She sighed and gave herself to Cash's strength, figuring he had plenty to spare.

  "A soak in the hot springs will help," he said.

  Mariah groaned softly at the thought of hot water drawing out the stiffness of her muscles.

  "My swimsuit is in my backpack," she said. "Better yet, just give me a bar of soap and throw me in as is. That way I won't have to haul water to wash my socks."

  Laughing soundlessly, shaking his head, Cash held Mariah for a long moment in something very close to a hug. She might be an accomplished little actress in some ways, but she was good company in others. Linda hadn't been. When things didn't go according to her plan – and often even when they did – she pouted and wheedled like a child after candy. At first it had been gratifying to be the center of Linda's world. Gradually it had become tedious to be cast in a role of father to a manipulative little girl who would never grow up.

  A long, almost contented sigh escaped Mariah's lips, stirring the hair that pushed up beneath Cash's open collar. A visible ripple of response went through him as he felt her breath wash over his skin. He clenched his jaw and walked toward the corral fence.

  "Time to stand on your own two feet," he said tightly.

  With the unselfconsciousness of a cat, Mariah rubbed her cheek against Cash's shirt and admitted, "I'd rather stand on yours."

  "I figured that out the first time I saw you."

  The sardonic tone of Cash's voice told Mariah that the truce was over. She didn't know what she had done to earn either the war or the truce. All she knew was that she had never enjoyed anything quite so much as being held by Cash, feeling the flex and resilience of his body, being so close to him that she could see sunlight melt and run through his hair like liquid gold.

  When Cash's left arm released Mariah's legs, everything dipped and turned once more, but slowly this time. Instinctively she put her arms around his neck, seeking a stable center in a shifting world. Held securely more by the hard power of his right arm than by both her own arms, Mariah felt her hips slide down the length of Cash's body with a slow intimacy that shook her. Her glance flew to his face. His expression was as impassive as granite.

  "Grab hold of the top rail," Cash instructed.

  Mariah reached for the smooth, weathered wood with a hand that trembled. As she twisted in Cash's arms, the fitted T-shirt outlined her breasts in alluring detail, telling of the soft, feminine flesh beneath.

  He wondered whether her nipples were pink or dusky rose or even darker, a vivid contrast to the pale satin of her skin. He thought of bending down and caressing her breasts with his tongue and teeth, drawing out the nipples until they felt like hot, hard velvet and she twisted beneath him, crying for release from the passionate prison of their lovemaking.

  Don't be a fool, Cash told himself savagely. No woman ever wants a man like that. Not really. Not so deep and hard and wild she forgets all the playacting, all the survival calculations, all the cunning.

  Yet, despite the cold lessons of past experience, when Cash looked down at Mariah curled softly in his arms, blood pulsed and gathered hotly, driven by the redoubled beating of his heart, blood surging with a relentless force that was tangible proof of his vulnerability to Mariah's sensual lures. Silently he cursed the fate that gave men hunger and women the instinctive cunning to use men's hunger against them.

  "Put both hands on the rails," he said curtly.

  When Mariah tried to respond to the clipped command, she found she couldn't move. Cash's arm was a steel band holding her against a body that also felt like steel. Discreetly she tried to put some distance between herself and the man whose eyes had the indigo violence of a stormy twilight. The quarter inch she gained by subtle squirming wasn't enough to allow her left hand to reach across her body to the corral fence. She tried for another quarter inch.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Cash snarled.

  "I'm trying to follow your orders."

  "When did I order you to rub against me like a cat in heat?"

  Shock, disbelief and indignation showed on Mariah's face, followed by anger. She shoved hard against his chest. "Let go of me!"

  She might as well have tried to push away the mountain itself. All her struggles accomplished were further small movements that had the effect of teaching her how powerful and hard Cash's body was – and how soft her own was by comparison. The lesson should have frightened her. Instead, it sent warmth stealing through her, gentle pulses of heat that came from the secret places of her body. The sensations were as exquisite as they were unexpected.

  "C-Cash…?"

  The catch in Mariah's voice sent a lightning stroke of desire arcing through Cash. For an instant his arm tightened even more, pinning Mariah to the hungry length of his body. Then he spun her around to face the corral, clamped her left hand over the top rail of the corral and let go of her. When her knees sagged, he caught her around the ribs with both hands, taking care to hold her well away from his body. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about her breasts curving so close to his fingers, her soft flesh moving in searing caress each time she took a breath.

  "Stand up, damn it," Cash said through clenched teeth, "or I swear I'll let you fall."

  Mariah took in a shuddering breath, wondering if the jolting ride to Black Springs had scrambled her brains as well as her legs. The weakness melting her bones right now owed nothing to the hours on horseback and everything to the presence of the man whose heat reached out to her, surrounding her. She took another breath, then another, hanging on to the corral fence with what remained of her strength.

  "I'm all right," Mariah said finally.

  "Like hell. You're shaking."

  "I'll survive."

  With a muttered word, Cash let go of Mariah. His hands hovered close to her, ready to catch her if she fell. She didn't. She just sagged. Slowly she straightened.

  "Now walk," he said.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Walk."

  A swift look over her shoulder told Mariah that Cash wasn't kidding. He expected her not only to stand on her rubbery legs but also to walk. Painfully she began inching crabwise along the corral fence, hanging on to the top rail with both hands. To her surprise, the exercise helped. Strength returned rapidly to her legs. Soon she was moving almost normally. She turned to give Cash a triumphant smile, only to discover that he was walking away. She started after him, decided it was a bit too soon to get beyond reach of the corral fence's support, and grabbed the sun-warmed wood again.

  By the time Mariah felt confident enough to venture away from the fence, Cash had the horses taken care of and was carrying supplies into the line shack. The closer she walked to the slightly leaning building, the more she agreed that "shack" was the proper term. Tentatively she looked in the front – and only – door.

  Cash hadn't been lying when he described the line shack's rudimentary comforts. Built for only occasional use by cowhands working a distant corner of the Rocking M's summer grazing range, the cabin consisted of four walls, a ceiling, a plank floor laid down over dirt, and two windows. The fireplace was rudely constructed of local rocks. The long tongue of soot that climbed the exterior stone above the hearth spoke eloquently of a chimney that didn't draw.

  "I warned you," Cash said, brushing by Mariah.

  "I didn't say a word."

  "You didn't have to."

  He dumped her backpack and makeshift bedroll on the floor near the fireplace. Puffs of dust arose.

  "If you still want to go to Black Springs, put on your swimsuit," Cash said, turning away. "And wear shoes u
nless you want to ride there."

  "Ride?" she asked weakly. "Uh, no thanks. How far is it?"

  "I never measured it."

  Mariah's small sigh was lost in the ghastly creaking the door made as it shut. She changed into her swimsuit as quickly as her protesting leg muscles allowed. The inexpensive tank suit was made of a thin, deep rose fabric that fit without clinging when it was dry. Wet, it was another matter. It would cling more closely than body heat. Since Mariah had been dry when she purchased the suit, she hadn't known about its split personality.

  "Hey, tenderfoot. You ready yet?"

  Groaning, Mariah finished tying her shoelaces and struggled to her feet. "I'm coming."

  As she stood, she felt oddly undressed. If she had been barefoot in the bathing suit, she would have had no problem. But somehow wearing shoes made her feel … naked. She grabbed her windbreaker and put it on. The lightweight jacket was several sizes too big. Normally she wore it over a blouse and bulky sweater, so the extra room was appreciated. With only the thin tank suit to take up room, the windbreaker reached almost halfway down her thighs, giving her a comforting feeling of being adequately covered.

  When Cash heard the front door creak, he turned around. His first impression was of long, elegant, naked legs. His second impression was the same. He felt a nearly overwhelming desire to unzip the jacket and see what was beneath. Anything, even the skimpiest string bikini, would have been less arousing than the tantalizing impression of nakedness lying just beneath the loose black windbreaker.

  Mariah walked tentatively toward Cash, wondering at the harsh expression on his face.

  "Which way to the hot tub?" she asked, her voice determinedly light.

  Without a word Cash turned and walked around to the back of the cabin. Mariah followed as quickly as she could, picking her way along the clear stream that ran behind the cabin. Even if her legs hadn't been shaky, she would have had a hard time keeping up with Cash's long stride. When her path took her on a hopscotch crossing of the creek, she bent and tested the temperature of the water. It was icy.

  "So much for my hot tub fantasy," she muttered.

  The racing, glittering water came from a narrow gap in the mountainside that was no more than fifty yards from the cabin. Inside the gap the going became harder, a scramble along a cascade that hissed and foamed with the force of its downhill race. The rocks were dark, almost black, which only added to the feeling of chill. Just when Mariah was wondering if the effort would be worth it, she realized that the mist peeling off the water was warm.

  A hundred feet later the land leveled off to reveal a series of graceful, stair-step pools that were rimmed by smooth travertine and embroidered by satin waterfalls no more than three feet high. As Mariah stared, a shiver of awe went over her. The pools could not have been more beautiful if they had been designed by an artist and built of golden marble.

  The water in the lowest pool was a pale turquoise Mariah had seen only on postcards of tropical islands. The water in the next pool was a luminous aquamarine. The water in the last pool shaded from turquoise to aquamarine to a clear, very dark blue that was the exact shade of Cash's eyes. At the far end of the highest pool, the water was so deep it appeared black but for swirls of shimmering indigo where liquid welled up from the depths of the earth in silent, inexhaustible pulses that had begun long before man ever walked the western lands and would continue long after man left.

  Slowly Mariah sank to her knees and extended her hand toward the jeweled beauty of the pool. Before she could touch the water, Cash snatched her hand back.

  "I've cooked trout at this end of Black Springs. Sometimes the downstream end of the pool is cool enough to bear touching for a few moments. Most often it isn't. It depends."

  "On what?"

  Cash didn't answer her directly. "You get hot springs when groundwater sinks down until it reaches a body of magma and then flashes into superheated steam," he said, absently running his thumb over Mariah's palm as he looked at the slowly twisting depth of Black Springs. "The steam slams up through cracks in the country rock until the water bursts through to the surface of the land in a geyser or a hot spring. Most often the water never breaks the surface. It simply cools and sinks back down the cracks until it encounters magma, flashes to steam and surges upward again."

  Mariah made a small sound, reflection of the sensations that were radiating up from her captive hand. Cash looked away from the water and realized that his thumb was caressing Mariah's palm in the rhythm of the water pulsing deep within the springs. With a muttered word, he released her hand.

  "I can tell you how a hot spring works, but I can't tell you why some days Black Springs is too hot and other days it's bearable. So be careful every day. Even on its best behavior, Black Springs is dangerously hot a foot beneath the surface."

  "Is the water drinkable?" she asked.

  "Once it cools off the trout love it. So do I. It has a flavor better than wine."

  Mariah stared wistfully at the beautiful, intensely clear, searingly hot water. "It looks so wonderful."

  "Come on," Cash said, taking pity on her. "I'll show you the best place to soak out the aches." He led her back to the middle pool. "The closer you are to the spring, the hotter the water. Start at the lower end and work your way up until you're comfortable." He started to turn away, then stopped. "You do swim, don't you?"

  Mariah glanced at the pool. "Sure, but that water is hardly deep enough for me to get wet sitting down."

  "The pool is so clear it fools your eyes. At the far end, the water is over my head." Cash turned away. "If you're not back in an hour, I'll come back and drag you out. I'm hungry."

  "You don't have to wait for me," she said, setting shoes and socks aside.

  "The hell I don't. You're the cook, remember?"

  ~ 7 ~

  On the fourth day, Mariah didn't have to be awakened by the sound of the front door creaking as Cash walked out to check on the horses. She woke up as soon as sunrise brightened the undraped windows. Silently she struggled out of her tangle of blankets. Although she still ached in odd places and she wished that she had brought a few more blankets to cushion the rough wood floor, she no longer woke up feeling as though she had been beaten and left out in the rain. Shivering in the shack's chill air, Mariah knelt between her blankets and Cash's still-occupied sleeping bag as she worked over the ashes of last night's fire. As always, she had slept fully clothed, for the high mountain nights were cold even in summer. Yet as soon as the sun shone over the broken ramparts of Devil's Peak, the temperature rose swiftly, sometimes reaching the eighties by noon. So while Mariah slept wearing everything she had brought except her shoes, she shed layers throughout the morning, adding them again as the sun began its downward curve across the sky.

  Enough coals remained in the hearth to make a handful of dry pine needles burst into flames after only a few instants. Mariah fed twigs into the fire, then bigger pieces, and finally stove-length wood. Despite the fireplace's sooty front, little smoke crept out into the room this morning. The chimney drew quite well so long as there wasn't a hard wind from the northeast.

  When she was satisfied with the fire's progress, Mariah turned to the camp stove that she privately referred to as Beelzebub. It was the most perverse piece of machinery she had ever encountered. No matter how hard or how often she pumped up the pressure, the flame wobbled and sputtered and was barely hot enough to warm skin. When Cash pumped up the stove, however, it put out a flame that could cut through steel.

  With a muttered prayer, Mariah reached for the camp stove. A tanned, rather hairy hand shot out of Cash's sleeping bag and wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from touching the stove.

  "I'll take care of it."

  "Thanks. The thing hates me."

  There was muffled laughter as a flap of the partially zipped sleeping bag was shoved aside, revealing Cash's head and bare shoulders. Another big hand closed over Mariah's. He rubbed her hand lightly between his own warm palms. Lon
g, strong, randomly scarred fingers moved almost caressingly over her skin. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature in the cabin.

  "You really are cold," he said in a deep voice.

  "You're not. You're like fire."

  "No, I mean it," Cash said. He propped himself up on one elbow and pulled Mariah's hands toward himself. "Your fingers are like ice. No wonder you thrash around half the night. Why didn't you tell me you were cold?"

  "Sorry." Mariah tugged discreetly at her hands. They remained captive to Cash's enticing warmth. "I didn't mean to keep you awake."

  "To hell with that. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I was afraid you'd use it as an excuse to make me go back."

  Cash hissed a single harsh word and sat up straight. The sleeping bag slithered down his torso. If he was wearing anything besides the bag, it didn't show. Although Mariah had seen Cash at Black Springs dressed in only cutoff jeans, somehow it just wasn't the same as seeing him rising half-naked from the warm folds of a sleeping bag. A curling, masculine pelt went in a ragged wedge from Cash's collarbones to a hand span above his navel. Below the navel a dark line no thicker than her finger descended into the undiscovered territory concealed by the sleeping bag.

  "It's not worth getting upset about," Mariah said quickly, looking away. "Any extra calories I burn at night I replace at breakfast, and then some. Speaking of which, do you want pancakes again? Or do you want biscuits and bacon? Or do you just want to grab some trail mix and go prospecting? I'm going with you today. I'm not stiff anymore. I won't be a drag on you. I promise."

  There was a long silence while Cash looked at Mariah and she looked at the fire that was struggling to burn cold wood. Deliberately he cupped her hands in his own, brought them to his mouth, and blew warm air over her chilled skin. Before she had recovered from the shock of feeling his lips brushing over her palms, he was rubbing her hands against his chest, holding her between his palms and the heat of his big body. It was like being toasted between two fires.

  "Better?" he asked quietly after a minute.

  Mariah nodded, afraid to trust her voice.