“Lead the way.”
Alex felt a jumble of confused emotions as she grabbed the gray’s reins and mounted. She was wet to the bone and colder than sin, but swept with an exhilaration at having wrested a victim from the violence of the storm. The stark, unguarded look she’d seen on Sloan’s face for a brief instant added to her tumult, layered as it was on top of the wrenching fear that had sliced through her when the tree gave way and almost took him with it.
Stretching up in the stirrups, she waved to the men watching from the other side, signaling them to go on. Dimitri acknowledged her wave with a lift of his arm, then turned and led the others toward the jagged line of rocks, still some distance away. Tucking her chin down against the rain, Alex headed south. The colt, still tethered by the rope, trailed at Red’s heels as Sloan followed suit.
Within minutes, she found the stone shelf carved high above the raging waters. It was wide enough to take the three horses without crowding, and deep enough to cut off the slanting, driving rain. Shoulders sagging in relief, Alex slid out of the saddle and leaned her forehead against the gray’s neck for a few moments.
Sloan’s voice filled the small space, carrying easily now over the rain’s tattoo. “Looks like we might be here awhile.”
Alex lifted her head and stared out at the gray, sheeting wall. “I’ve known these storms to last an hour…or a day.” One shoulder lifted in a shrug that rippled into a shiver. “On the steppes, one never knows.”
She turned away to loosen the gelding’s girth. Although the Don was hardy and tough, Alex had learned early to put her mount’s well-being before her own. Pulling a shaggy wool hat from the coat she’d tossed over the saddle earlier, she began to rub the gray down.
From the corner of one eye she saw Nate shrug out of his slicker and toss it over his saddle. Shaking his head like a big, well-muscled dog to rid it of the water, he lifted an elbow to wipe his face on his denim sleeve. That done, he moved to Alex’s side and tugged the woolly hat out of her hands.
“I’ll do that. You’d better go dry yourself off. You’re wetter than he is.” His glinting gaze drifted down her front. “A whole sight wetter.”
The gleam in his hazel eyes reinforced what Alex already knew. Her thin wool tunic, one of the hottest-selling items from her spring Militariana collection, clung to her skin like a wet leaf. She didn’t need to glance down to know that her nipples were puckered with the cold and pushing against the thin lace of her bra.
“Go on,” he instructed. “Your lips are turning purple, which makes an interesting combination with that chili-pepper shirt.”
Alex might have hesitated if a violent shiver hadn’t started at her shoulders and jiggled its way down her spine. It jiggled down her front, as well, and the gleam in Sloan’s eyes deepened.
The fact that she was uncomfortable aside, Alex had been taught to respect the power of the elements. Only a fool would ride out into the snows that blanketed the steppes in winter without knowing where to find shelter for himself and his mount. Likewise, those who worked the herds in the cold, wet rains knew better than to risk pneumonia in a land where medicines were precious and physicians rare.
Snatching her greatcoat from the saddle, she moved to the back of the shallow cave. The high-collared calf-length coat was modeled after the cherkessa that had protected her ancestors from heat, wet and cold alike. Alex had executed her design in a tightly woven combination of wool and camel hair similar to the fabrics used a century ago. Although damp on the outside, the coat’s inner lining was dry and warm.
Keeping an eye on Nate’s back, she peeled off her wet, clammy tunic. Her boots gave her some trouble, but eventually yielded to determined tugging. Numb fingers fumbled with the buttons to her pants and finally pushed them down over her hips. The thick felt socks she wore under her boots soon joined the heap of sodden garments. With another quick glance at Sloan’s back, she decided she could stand the dampness of her lacy underwear.
A few quick twists wrung most of the moisture out of her clothes. They’d still be clammy when she put them on again, of course, but not sopping-wet. Alex set them aside, thankful that she’d be dry and warm for the duration of the storm, at least.
Wrapping herself more snugly in the heavy coat, she leaned her shoulders against the stone wall and watched Sloan work. His broad shoulders, encased in weathered blue denim a few shades lighter than his worn jeans, strained at the jacket’s seams with each sure stroke. The jacket rode up as he worked, giving Alex a glimpse of a narrow waist and lean flanks. Admiration sparked through her for the corded, rippling sinews of his thighs and the tight muscles of his buttocks. Her interest in his physique was purely objective, of course. Assessing the line and shape of the human body was part of the job for a woman in her profession.
He wiped the thick wool hat over the gelding with slow, sure strokes that told her he didn’t consider tending to animals a chore. When he finished the gray, he nudged it aside with one shoulder and went to work on Three Bars Red.
They were a lot alike, Alex mused, this tall, broad-shouldered man and the well-muscled stallion. Both exhibited a lazy, easygoing nature, although she’d seen them move with blinding speed when the occasion warranted. Neither showed the least hint of softness or aristocratic pedigree in the raw power of his body. They were built for performance, not show, she decided.
The thought sent a spear of heat to her belly.
For the first time, the possibility occurred to her that Sloan might actually “perform” the role she’d assigned him. As Katerina would say, he was much a man, this compatriot of hers.
Alex had no doubt that Dimitri and the men would agree he had proven himself this afternoon. The games they’d played with him earlier had been just that, tests of his temper more than of his horsemanship. She knew his good-humored compliance with their wagers and his unstinting praise for their skill had impressed them far more than if he’d won the races himself.
But it was the way he’d pitted himself against the raging waters for a spindly-legged creature he had no responsibility for or claim on that would win their respect. Among the Karistani, bravery was valued not so much for its result as for the fact it shaped a man’s soul and gave him character. Whatever else he might have, Alex thought wryly, Nate Sloan certainly had character.
So why did the realization that he might choose one of the women who fluttered around him like pigeons looking for a nest leave her feeling edgy? Why did the idea of Sloan performing with Katerina or Anya or Ivana of the honey pot make her fingers curl into the thick camel-hair fabric of her coat?
Damp, frigid air swirled around Alex’s bare feet as she asked questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Slowly she slid down the wall to a sitting position and tucked her cold toes under her.
A few moments later, Nate gave Red a final slap. “That ought to do you, fella.”
The chestnut lowered his head and nuzzled his broad chest. Nate knuckled the white blaze.
“Sorry, big guy. I don’t have anything on me but some chewing gum.”
“For pity’s sake, don’t give him that!” Alex pleaded. “I don’t want to think what he could do with gum in such close quarters.”
Nate laughed and pushed Red’s broad face away. Catching the rope still looped around the colt’s neck, he tugged it toward Alex.
“Here, you work on this one while I dump the water out of my boots. I’m walking around in the half of the steppes you didn’t swallow.”
Glad to have something to take her mind from her chaotic thoughts, Alex took the soggy hat from him and rose up on her knees. Her hands moved in smooth, rhythmic motions over the shivering animal while she murmured meaningless nonsense in its ear.
Nate sat on the stone shelf, his back to the curving wall at a slight angle to hers and hooked a foot up on his knee. He grunted as he tugged at his worn boot. It came off with a whoosh, spilling a stream of muddy water. A second small cascade followed a few moments later.
Since the man had
dragged her out of a raging torrent, Alex decided she could be magnanimous. “Use the skirt of my coat to dry your feet,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Thanks, but there’s no sense muddying it up any more. I’ll use my shirt to dry off with. It’s already half soaked and sticking to me like feathers to tar.”
He shrugged out of his jacket, and Alex noted the businesslike shoulder holster he wore under it. Despite her father’s aversion to firearms, she was no stranger to them. During her summers on the steppes, she’d learned to handle them and respect them. Sloan unbuckled the weapon and set it aside, then unbuttoned his blue cotton shirt.
Resolutely Alex kept her attention fixed on her task, ignoring the ripple of muscle and the slick sheen of his skin as he shook himself like a lean, graceful borzoi. He toweled his tawny hair, sending water droplets in all directions, then sat down again to tug off his socks.
By the time he tossed the shirt aside and pulled his jacket back on, Alex had finished with the colt. The animal whuffled softly and stuck its muzzle into her side, as if wanting to share her body heat. Evidently deciding she didn’t have enough to spare, he ambled over to join the other horses. With a tired sigh, she sank back down.
Sloan’s deep voice carried easily over the drumming rain. “Your turn.”
“What?”
By way of response, he dug under her coat and located one icy foot. Grasping her heel firmly in one hand, he began to massage her numb toes with the other.
Alex jerked at the touch of his big, warm hands on her skin.
“Relax,” he instructed. “I’ve had a lot of practice at this. From the time I was big enough to get my hands around a bottle of liniment, I’d work Wily Willie over after every rodeo.”
He glanced up from his task, his mouth curving. “Willie generally collected a sight more bruises than he did prize money, you understand?”
“Mmm…”
That was the best Alex could manage, with all her attention focused on the warmth that was transferring itself from his hands to her chilled toes. He had working hands, she thought, feeling the ridges and calluses on his palms with each sure, gentle stroke. The kind of hands her grandfather had possessed.
“What did he do when he wasn’t rodeoing?” she asked after a few moments, more to distract herself from the feel of his flesh against hers than anything else.
“Willie?” The skin at the corner of Nate’s eyes crinkled. “As little as possible, mostly. As long as he had enough money in his pocket for the entry fees at the next event and the gas to get us there, he was happy.”
“And you? Were you happy?”
“What kid wouldn’t be? I grew up around men who didn’t pretend to be anything but what they were, which was mostly down-and-out cowhands. I was convinced that sleeping in the bed of a truck and feasting on cold beans out of the can was the only way to live.”
“You slept in a truck?”
“When we had one,” he replied, with a lift of one shoulder. “Willie was always selling it to raise the cash for entry fees. He and I were the only ones who knew how to wire the starter, though, so we always got it back at a reduced price when he was in the money again. Here, give me your other foot.”
How strange, Alex thought, studying his face as he took her heel in his lap and worked her instep with his incredible, gentle hands. All the while he shared more stories of this character who had given him his name and his peculiar philosophy of life and not much more, apparently. Nate Sloan came from a background as nomadic as that of any Karistani, one he’d evidently enjoyed, despite the deprivations he made light of.
Alex hadn’t thought about it before, but perhaps in every culture, on every continent, there were people who preferred change to stability, movement to security. People who felt restless when surrounded by walls, and crowded when within sight of a town.
With a grudging respect for Katerina’s instincts, Alex admitted that her cousin had been right in her assessment of this man. Sloan seemed to possess many of the same characteristics as the Cossacks who had originally claimed the steppes—the stubbornly independent outcasts who’d fled Russian oppression and made the term kazak synonymous with “adventurer” or “free man.”
This tall, self-assured man fit in here far more than she did herself, Alex thought, with a twist of the pain she’d always kept well buried. She was the product of two cultures, torn by her loyalties to both, at home in neither. Sloan was his own man, and would fit in anywhere.
“And now?” Alex probed, wanting to understand more, to know more. “Now that you say Willie’s retired and settled on this bit of land you have in…”
“Wolf Creek.”
“In Wolf Creek. Do you always just pick up and travel halfway across the world as the mood or the opportunity strikes you?”
His hands shaped her arch, the thumbs warm and infinitely skilled as they massaged her toes. “Pretty much.”
“You’ve never married? Never felt the need to stay in Wolf Creek?”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled. “I’ve never married. Why? Does it concern you? Are you worried that I might be woman-shy and upset this little scheme of yours?”
“I worry about a lot of things,” she responded tartly. “That’s not one of them.”
He caught her glance with a sardonic one of his own. “I might not have the experience Three Bars Red has, but I’ll surely try to give satisfaction.”
At the sting in his voice, Alex hesitated. “Look, Sloan, I know I may have pricked your ego a bit this morning by offering you up like a plate of pickled herring, but…but you don’t understand the situation here.”
Strong, blunt-tipped fingers slid over her heel and moved up to knead her calf. “Try me.”
Alex bit her lip. For a few seconds, she was tempted. With an intensity that surprised her, she wanted to confide in this man. Wanted to share the doubts and insecurities that plagued her. To test her half-formed plan for Karistan’s future against the intelligence he disguised behind his lazy smile.
With a mental shake, Alex shrugged aside the notion. One of the painful lessons she’d learned in the past few weeks was that responsibility brought with it a frightening loneliness. She couldn’t bring herself to trust him. To trust any outsider. Not yet. Not while there was still so much danger to her people and to Karistan. And not while Sloan had his own role to…to perform in the delicate balance she was trying to maintain for the next few days, a week at most.
While she debated within herself, his hands continued their smooth, sure strokes.
“You’re using me as a diversionary tactic, aren’t you, Alexandra?”
She shot him a quick, startled glance. Had the man read her mind?
His eyes locked with hers. “I’m supposed to draw the friendly fire, right? Keep Katerina and the others occupied until you resolve whatever’s putting that crease in your brow? No, don’t pull away. We can talk while I do this.”
“Maybe you can,” she retorted, tugging at her leg. “I can’t.”
Alex wasn’t sure, but she thought his jaw hardened for an instant before he shrugged. “Okay, we’ll talk later.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but then, Alex never knew quite what to expect of this man. Frowning, she tugged at her leg. “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
He relaxed his hold until her calf rested lightly in his palm. “Why so skittish, Alexandra?” he taunted softly. “We established the ground rules last night, remember? I won’t touch you…unless you want it. Or unless I want to risk getting my hide stripped by that short-tailed whisker brush you tote.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the nagaika, if I were you,” she retorted. “The Cossacks of old could take out a gnat’s eye with it…at full gallop.”
A rueful gleam crept into his eyes. “After seeing Petr Borodín in action this afternoon, I don’t doubt it.”
Belatedly Alex realized that his hands had resumed their stroking during the short exchange. Had he taken
her failure to withdraw from his hold as permission to continue? Or had she given it?
With brutal honesty, she acknowledged that she had. His touch was so gentle, so nonthreatening. So soothing. Slumping back against the wall, she gave herself up to the warmth he was pumping through her veins.
The minutes passed. Rain drummed on the stone roof above them. An occasional roll of thunder provided a distant counterpoint to the snuffling of the horses. The faint scent of wet wool and warm horseflesh filled Alex’s nostrils.
Gradually it dawned on Alex that Sloan’s gentleness was every bit as seductive as the raw strength she’d tasted in his arms last night. The slow, sure friction of his big hands generated more than just heat. Prickles of awareness followed every upstroke. Whispers of sensation came with each downward sweep. Telling herself that she was crazy to let him continue, Alex closed her eyes.
Only a few moments more, she promised herself. She’d hold on to this strange, shimmering feeling that pushed her tension and her worry to a back corner of her mind for just a little longer.
Only a little while longer, Nate told himself. He’d only touch her a little while longer.
Although it was taking more and more effort to keep his hold light, he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. He couldn’t. Despite the heat that warmed his skin and the slow ache that curled in his belly.
When her dark lashes fluttered down against her cheeks, a tangle of emotions twisted inside Nate. Emotions he had no business feeling.
He should be using this enforced intimacy to draw some answers out of her, he reminded himself brutally. She still stubbornly refused to confide in him, but she was coming to trust him on the physical level, at least. It was a step. A first step. Something he could build on. Something his instincts told him he could take to the next, intimate level…if he was the kind of man she thought he was. If he was the stud she proclaimed him.
At that moment, he sure as hell felt like one. He’d spent enough of his life around animals to respect the breeding instinct that drove them. And to know the raw power of the desire that sliced through his groin as he stared at her shadowed face.
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