High Country Hero. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ Drink when I drink. Someone who’s been shot might not have much time.”

      “I am going as fast as I can.” She’d like to fling the contents of the canteen in his face, but she’d be thirsty later if she did. Blast the man. The worst part of it was that he was right—a person with a bullet wound was looking death in the face.

      He screwed the cap back on and handed over the container. “Let’s ride.”

      Well, of all the… What if she had to urinate? Would he stride back into the bushes and yank up her drawers? The thought was so bizarre she laughed out loud.

      He turned in the saddle and pinned her with a questioning look in those hard, gray-green eyes.

      “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

      But what if her bladder were ready to burst? What would she have to do to make him stop?

      She kneed the horse forward and studied the man’s back. Cordell Lawson wasn’t as easygoing as he appeared. He was driving himself hard and dragging her along with him. Her thighs burned. Her neck hurt from tipping her head against the sun. This was, she realized, a perfect example of mismatched traveling companions. She was human, and he was not.

      The trail narrowed and began to climb. Halfway up the steep path she knew she couldn’t make it. Rocks jutted above her, and below, the river glinted silver. If the horse stumbled…

      She drew rein and stopped.

      Cord heard the horse’s steps cease. What now? He kept on, hoping she would resume her pace, but no sound came from behind him. Clenching his teeth, he turned his mount.

      She had halted in the middle of the trail and was sitting there, slumped in the saddle, with that ridiculous feather drooped over her face. But her hands told him all he needed to know. She wore deerskin riding gloves, and while he couldn’t see her knuckles, he knew from the way she gripped the saddle horn that her hands would ache come sundown. Especially if she hadn’t sat a horse in—what had she said?—six years. And they’d been on the trail for a full seven hours. Hell, she wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.

      Of all the doctors in Oregon, why did he have to find her? She was prim and proper and saddle-green. Too slim and willowy to be very strong. And female. Very definitely female—moods and all. Probably enjoyed herself only once a year, at Christmas.

      He’d bet she’d never taken a bath in the woods, either. In two days she’d smell like a rotting cabbage. If there was one thing that spoiled the pleasure of the mountains and the sky and the sweet, fresh air it was a partner who smelled bad.

      For a long minute he sat still and watched her. Just when he thought maybe he ought to say something, she kicked her mare and it jolted forward.

      She moved toward him, still bent over the saddle horn, her head down, not even watching where she was going. Her shoulders were hunched tight with exhaustion.

      But she was moving. She had sand; he’d say that for her.

      Chapter Three

      Cord watched the exhausted woman pry her fingers off the saddle horn and lay the mare’s leather reins in her lap. For the last three hours, as they’d climbed the slope to where the trail leveled off at Frog Jump Butte, she’d hung on by sheer force of will, and her face showed it. Beneath the brim of that sad-looking gray felt hat her eyelids were almost shut.

      He let loose an irrepressible snort. No wonder. She was fighting to stay awake, clinging to the hard leather pommel like she’d been glued there.

      “Let’s make camp,” he called.

      There was no response.

      He dismounted and peered through the darkness at her form, still hunched so low in the saddle the purple feather in her hatband brushed the mare’s ear.

      “You all right?” he ventured.

      After a long silence, a gravelly voice drifted out of the shadows. “Do you always travel like this? Of course I am not all right. I’m half-dead.”

      “Travel like what? You’re not half-dead. You can still talk, can’tcha? I hate a woman who exaggerates.”

      She straightened, groaned and tried to swing her leg over the horse’s back to dismount. “I know your friend is in need of medical help, but you travel like someone is breathing down your neck.”

      She gave up, hefted her bottom over the cantle and slid off the mare backward. When her feet hit the ground, she grasped the animal’s tail to keep from staggering and leaned her forehead against the mare’s hindquarters.

      “Maybe someone is,” he said.

      She just shook her head and made a small moaning noise.

      Goddamn, was she crying? “I’ll build a fire.”

      She lifted her head and took a wobbly step. “I would gather some kindling for you, Mr. Lawson, but I don’t think I can bend over. Who would be following you?”

      He didn’t answer. Five minutes of scrounging and his arms were full of pinecones and dry branches. He kicked some rocks into a circle and dumped his load. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved.

      “You can stand up all night if you want, Doc, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

      “I will be seated when I am…able. In the meantime, I need to answer a call of nature.” She took another shaky step and grabbed the horse’s tail again.

      Cord tossed three broken tree limbs onto his unlit fire and strode toward her. “If you were a man, you could pee right where you’re standing. Seeing as you’re not…”

      He grasped her elbows and propelled her ahead of him into the scrub. “See that big huckleberry bush? Use that.”

      He released her, and she swayed forward.

      “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you. I can manage now.”

      He tramped back to the fire pit while she made rustling sounds in the brush. Out of courtesy he decided not to ignite the kindling until she’d finished. Firelight would illuminate the whole area.

      He waited, stalked off into the woods on the other side of camp to do his own business, then squatted beside the fire and waited some more, his flint box poised and ready.

      Nothing. Not one leaf rattle or scritch-scratch of twigs came from the direction of the huckleberry bush. An evening songbird started in, stopped, then resumed singing. What in blazes was taking her so long?

      “Dr. West?”

      There was no answer.

      She couldn’t have stumbled off the edge of the butte. Hell’s bells, she couldn’t walk that far. What was she doing?

      “Dr. West? Sage?”

      To heck with her. He struck a spark and puffed his breath onto the thatch of smoldering pine needles. When it caught, he added more branches, then unloaded his saddlebag.

      As he worked laying СКАЧАТЬ