High Country Hero. Lynna Banning

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      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 brim, 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.”

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