by Devine,Carol
"And miss the treat of a lifetime?"
"You won't do it?"
"No way."
Sarah had heard that expression before and knew what it meant. The stubborn goat. After all she'd done, too. "Why must you be so bullheaded?"
"Have some experience with bulls, have you, Sarah?"
"Like most males of their species, they always want to do exactly as they please."
"Wouldn't be a bull otherwise. Be a steer headed for the slaughterhouse. Ever think of that?"
"You're talking nonsense."
"You wouldn't call it nonsense if you were the steer."
Sarah held her breath, struggling to hold onto her composure. Steers, indeed. She tried a different tack. "If I may be so bold as to remind you, I'm in this position not for my health but for yours. All I ask is that you comply with a simple request."
"Nice try, Sarah." He chuckled, patting her hip.
"Why won't you grant me this one favor?"
"Give me one reason why I should," he said suggestively, running a wayward finger along the waistband of her petticoat.
"Because," she blurted, "I pulled you out of the water and got you breathing again!"
"What?" His finger stopped.
"Did you know I lost my shoes in that creek? My chemise is ruined, not to mention my petticoat."
"What did you say?"
"I said, I'll never be able to wear these undergarments again! And my only decent pair of shoes are halfway to kingdom come by now!"
"No, before that. Did you really give me mouth-to-mouth?"
Sarah blinked in consternation. Mouth-to-mouth described it very well, indeed. Undoubtedly he'd tease her about this liberty as well. "I beg your pardon?"
"Quit begging my pardon and give me a straight answer for once. Did you or did you not give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?"
"You weren't breathing," she said miserably.
"Let me get this straight. My horse bucks me off and I do a face plant in the creek, knocking myself out while cutting my head open. You come over, drag me out, get me breathing again and sop up half my bodily fluids with your underwear. Does that about cover it?"
"I think so," she said, catching the gist of his slang. Or so she thought until he slanted his gaze to better look at her. There were no devils in his eyes now.
"You saved my life."
Sarah swallowed, recalling an old legend of the Northern Cheyenne that said when you saved a man from death, he was beholden to you until he returned the favor. "If I had been the one to fall into the creek, you would have done the same for me."
"That's a pretty incredible statement, lady. Precious few people nowadays go out of their way to save anybody, whether friend, relative or stranger. It's all about saving your own skin."
Sarah remembered the elderly couple who had found her collapsed by the side of the road, exhausted after seven hours of running to put distance between herself and the Community. They'd taken her home, given her food and shelter for the two days it had taken her to recover, then given her a lift to Helena, sixty miles south. "You're wrong, Zach."
"Where the hell do you come from? La-la land?"
Hearing his contempt, she felt a shrinking around her heart. "Montana," she said quietly.
"Even Montana doesn't grow them like you. What's your game?"
"Game?"
"What do you want from me?"
"We've barely met. There is nothing I could want."
"Nothing, she says. Where have I heard that before?"
"What was I supposed to do?" she inquired tartly. "Leave you to drown?"
Swearing, he jerked his body and stared straight ahead, wrestling with some inner demon she couldn't see. Sarah knew every living being had a personal cross to bear. But his was all the more awful for the angry restraint in which he held it. She had the oddest impulse to lay her cheek against his shoulder in silent empathy. But she held back, made uncertain by his sudden, inexplicable rage.
"I'm sorry," she said, offering the only comfort she dared.
He stiffened. "Christ, lady. Don't do me any more favors."
"I don't understand. Have I offended you?"
"Forget it. It's nothing."
"But you're upset."
"I said to forget it!"
Sarah heard the angry warning in his tone and hesitated. She still had much to learn about the world outside the Community. The relations between men and women, so prescribed in the place where she grew up, were vastly different here.
She studied the bunched line of his jaw and the fixed eyes, staring straight ahead. Yes, Zach Masterson played the renegade. But underneath there was a man possessed by something deeper. He made her think of a lonely eagle, circling in a sky full of thunderclouds.
Chapter Three
Zach lay on the creek bank with every muscle tensed, senses honed on Sarah. The silence stretched between them like a rubber band. He kept waiting for it to snap.
He wanted her to get all pissy again, get her arguing about how she'd saved his life and he owed her and it was time he better do exactly what she said or else. Instead she didn't say anything. She simply laid her forehead against his shoulder, offering comfort. The gesture was wordless but still affected him in savage ways. No demands, no arguments, no recriminations. What in hell did she think she was doing? Trying to make him feel worse? Trying to put him even more in her debt?
"I'm going to move now," she said.
His heart picked up speed. The twin knobs of her knees retreated from his spine, taking away her warmth. The pressure on the bandage shifted and he heard the crunch of gravel as she rose. The hem of her damp skirt passed like a ghost over his exposed left side. Air stirred, cooling the space in the middle of his chest where sweat had broken out.
Cold sweat.
He kept his eyes wide open, recalling how much he'd wanted to see her topless. The fact that he focused on a blade of grass directly in front of him meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She nudged his hand aside with a tentative toe. Then came the brush of damp fabric as she settled on the ground again, positioning herself near his head. "Zach?" she asked.
"What?"
"I feel much more comfortable now. Thank you."
He didn't like what those last two words did to him. It was like salt rubbed on a wound. He should be thanking her, not the other way around. But the words stuck in his craw and his unreasonable anger doubled, spurred by this gratitude he hadn't asked for and didn't want.
It wasn't that he resented the fact she'd saved his life. Far from it. What he resented was that he owed her. Big time. And he hated, hated with a passion, owing anybody anything.
To make matters worse, telltale heat flushed the places on his body she had touched in passing. Even now he was imagining how she must look, sitting there prim and proper… and totally naked from the waist up. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have discharged the sexual tension between them with a joke. But he couldn't even do that. Her show of dignity deserved a gesture in return, however grudging it might be.
Zach closed his eyes.
"Bleeding stop yet?" he asked curtly.
"I dare not take the pressure off long enough to look. You've already lost too much blood."
"But I'm feeling okay," he said, wanting nothing more than to get away from her so he could breath something other than the fragrance of yucca and mint. Maybe that would clear the sensual awareness.
"I will check." Her fingers moved slightly.
"Well?"
"Much improved. Let me dress the wound to keep it from reopening."
The rip of fabric near his ear told him she was tearing strips from her skirt. Just what he needed to fire his imagination. "Don't you have anything else you can use?"
"My only dress is wool and won't tear easily. I suppose by calico blouse would suffice but it's the only one I have."
"Never mind."
"No, you're right. The calico is freshly washed, certainly cleaner than what I'm w
earing now. I'll get it."
She rose with a soft rustle. He reached out blind and grabbed her ankle. She had incredible bone structure, delicate yet strong, like a Thoroughbred's. "What you're using now is fine."
"Zach, don't be silly. You are entirely correctly. Cleanliness is very important with this type of wound."
She tried to step out of his grasp. He tightened his grip, warning her to comply. "I won't let you rip up any more of your clothes."
"It's no trouble."
"It is for me."
"If the wound should become infected, I would never forgive myself."
"Let me worry about that."
"But--"
"I mean it, Sarah. The last thing I need is another sacrifice on your part."
Her ankle flexed as she knelt and laid a gentle hand against the side of his face. "Zach, please. You needn't feel obliged."
Those words instantly doubled his sense of obligation. He clenched his teeth, wanting to lash out at her. But how could he lash out at someone who had just saved his life?
She ran her finger along the tight line of his jaw and sighed. The sound was soft, like her name, and for some stupid reason made him want to give in. She beat him to it. "Very well," she said. "I'll use the strips I already took from my petticoat. They'll do."
He released her immediately, afraid that if he wasn't careful she'd guess the extent of the power she had over him. It didn't help that he was attracted to her physically. The more he told himself that going after her was impossible now, that he couldn't have her under any circumstances, that the stakes had suddenly become way too high, the more angry he became. "Hurry up," he said.
She applied the strips around his head, humming under her breath. The tune was "Amazing Grace," one of the few hymns he knew because he had the Judy Collins version on his music list. When he got back to civilization, he was going to delete it for good.
When she finished, he kept his eyes closed and sat up abruptly, waving off her attempts to help. "I'm fine," he said despite the vertigo washing over him. "Get some clothes on."
She padded away, only to return a moment later, brushing his arm with her damp raggedy skirt. A warm tin cup was pressed into his hands. "Willow-bark tea," she said.
"Go get some clothes on!"
This time she hustled away, leaving the scent of woodsmoke in her wake. Scowling, he sipped the tea, knowing full well he needed both warmth and liquids. A moment later a blanket settled around his shoulders.
"Sarah!"
"I told you," she said, her voice lilting. "Bullheaded."
Zach wanted to go after her, pull her down and let her know just how bullheaded he could be. Instead he hunched under the blanket. The sooner he got warm, the sooner he'd be able to get back on his feet and get away from her.
Damn, he was dizzy. His shivering didn't help but it was a good sign, indicating that his core body temperature was still within the range of normal. The loss of blood he could deal with, as long as he didn't go into major shock. Moving around would help.
"You decent yet?" he called.
"Yes," she said, sounding very close.
Startled, Zach opened his eyes. She was kneeling right in front of him, wearing the gray dress. It had a high collar and long sleeves and covered her body completely from neck to toe. The row of shiny jet buttons followed her curves, making him think about what lay beneath. Not a chemise. "That's quite a dress," he said and tossed back the rest of his tea.
"It's a bit formal, I know."
"Yeah? Well, you look like you're ready for my funeral."
"Not if I can help it." She held out his t-shirt. "I found this next to the creek. It's still fairly dry."
He grunted an unintelligible thank you, dropped the blanket, then took the t-shirt and gingerly pulled it over his head. She stretched the ribbed neckline so it wouldn't come into contact with his wound and her warm fingers grazed his ear. Zach pretended not to notice.
She fussed with the material of his shirt, pulling it down past his chin and trying to fit it over his shoulders. He caught her hand, forcing her to stop.
"Why can't you wear jeans like everybody else?" he asked.
"You're not wearing them."
"At least my fatigues are normal."
"My skirts are cooler in summer, warmer in winter. My legs are free, not constricted by tight seams."
"Skirts are impractical as hell. Do you have something more appropriate than a heavy wool dress that looks like something my great grandmother wore?"
"My other clothes are still damp." She sounded defensive.
"So is this." He caught her by the sleeve and rubbed the fabric between his fingers, measuring the level of saturation. "Not exactly drip-dry."
She shrugged. "I'll be warm enough. Wool keeps moisture away from the skin better than cotton."
It was true. He was surprised she knew it, though. She had plenty of survival skills, old fashioned or not. More brownie points. Why couldn't she have been an incompetent greenhorn, a granola head from some commune somewhere, pretending she knew how to live off the land as though she were in the previous century? Then he could dismiss the fact that she'd saved his life as a stroke of pure luck, a quirk of fate. Quirks of fate didn't require much in the way of payback.
He pulled the hem of his shirt down over his chest and discovered one sleeve was inside out. He fiddled with it but couldn't get it right and cursed inwardly because Sarah was right next to him and he felt like a fool.
Wordlessly she guided his hand through the armhole, then ducked to pull the shirt's hem all the way down. Her fingers brushed the skin at his waist and he experienced an insane urge to trap her hands there, to keep her close. He suddenly was glad he'd lost so much blood. It had the same effect on his sex as an icy shower.
"There," she said, stepping back to check how he looked. "You're all dressed."
"Whoopee."
"Here," she offered, taking his arm. "I'll help you to stand."
"No, thanks." He shook her off and rose, gaining his balance through sheer will. Still she hovered, making him feel like an invalid. Which, judging by the unsteadiness of his legs, he was.
"Are you certain you're all right?"
"Peachy," he said, though he was about to keel over with dizziness. He focused on the nearest tree and headed toward it, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Sarah stayed with him like a shadow. He wanted to tell her to go away but if he fainted while he said it, he'd never get rid of her.
"Butcher, come." Sarah waved the dog forward and it trotted over to investigate. Zach put a hand on the tree to steady himself. The dog was aptly named. He had a scarred black face and the type of long legs that ate up distance with ease. The eyes were small and he carried his head low, like a scouting wolf. His ears were cropped and so was the tail, giving him the look of a bear somehow. Maybe it was the muscular body. Zach ignored the dog's snuffling around his shins.
"Don't you like dogs?" she asked.
"I like them fine. Tie him up, will you?"
"Butcher wants to make friends."
"He had his chance."
"But he won't hurt you.
Zach caught Sarah's arm. "Tie him up."
She gazed at him a long moment, her eyes a shade darker than the bark of the tree. "If you insist."
He released her, feeling dizzier than ever. Using a rope she pulled out of her pack, she attached one end to the dog's collar while wrapping the other around the base of a tree on the opposite side of the campsite. Zach studied Butcher's build to distract himself from Sarah's efficient competence. She could tie a knot better than a sailor. "Pit bull cross with a beagle?" he asked.
"Pit bull father, hound mother. He can pick up a deer scent from a mile away."
"He didn't pick up on me that quick."
She scratched behind Butcher's ears, her smile serene and damned irritating. "He was hunting."
"Hunting what?"
"Supper." Feet bare, she picked her way to a heap
of brown fur that lay crumpled at the edge of the clearing and picked it up. It was a dead rabbit. "That's why you didn't hear him coming when you were on your horse. He didn't bark because he had this in his mouth."
She wrapped a cord around the rabbit's hind feet and strung it from a branch. Using tongs, she selected one of the simmering tin cans set on the grate. "More tea?"
Now that he saw her hands clearly, he noticed her knuckles were rubbed raw. "You told me you weren't hurt."
"My injuries are minor compared to yours. I'll tend to them later."
'You've got something else besides skinned knuckles?"
She poured tea into her own cup and sipped, her expressive eyes hesitant as she considered him over the rim. Zach frowned. She wouldn't be so reluctant unless she had more than an insignificant scratch.
"Show me, Sarah."
She went to him and held out her cup, indicating he should take it. He complied without speaking. Her hands went to the front of her skirt, hitching it up. She lifted one fine-boned foot, then the other. The abrasions weren't deep but there were plenty of them, along the tops, sides and the soles of her feet, and he remembered what she'd said about losing her shoes in the creek.
"Do you have anything else you can wear besides those old Nike sneakers?"
She dropped her skirt. "They were my only pair of shoes."
"Are you kidding me?" Zach wanted to throttle her. However much she knew about living off the land, she had no business being out here by herself with little more than a pair of battered sneakers and a couple of long gowns. "How old are you?"
"Four and twenty."
"I'm surprised you've managed to live that long," he said, struck again by her way of putting things. He was also struck by a wave of pure protectiveness. If the woman didn't have the means to take proper care of herself, he'd do it himself. "Where are my boots?"
"I set them by the fire to dry."
"You'll be wearing them when we walk out of here."
She looked startled.
"They're way too big, I know, but it's only a couple of miles back to the main part of the ranch. Once we get there, I'll replace everything you've lost. The sneakers, the clothes, everything."