Inheriting a Bride. Lauri Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ gave the boy a moment, letting him think about his options. For all his gruffness, he was scared. The way his shoulders twitched and his feet fidgeted belied his crustiness.

      “Suit yourself,” Clay said, when enough time had ticked by. “I don’t have all day.”

      The kid shuffled forward, and moments later, after he had stuck a foot in the stirrup, grabbed Clay’s hand and awkwardly swung himself behind the saddle, Clay wished he’d never made the offer. The brief reprieve of being upwind made the stench that much worse.

      Breathing into the crook of his arm, and holding his neck muscles tight, lest he start gagging, Clay kneed his mount, heading straight for the pool of water. The horse he’d seen yesterday was back in Black Hawk by now, that was certain, which was where they were headed. Riding double on the mountain trail all the way to Nevadaville would be too dangerous.

      Stinking to high heaven or not, by climbing on this horse, Henry had probably saved Clay’s life. If Clarice ever got wind of him coming across a child and not lending aid, she’d kill him. Clay grinned, knowing his sister would do no such thing. But, he acknowledged, she’d sure as heck never let him forget it.

      Women were like that, reminding men of blunders, making their lives miserable. He was dually glad he’d sworn off them. Kids, too. His old partner’s will had saddled him with enough youngster worries to last a lifetime, and Clay’s own past mistakes had taught him life’s greatest lesson concerning women. There wasn’t a one in the lot who wouldn’t lie to get what she wanted. The opera house he’d built in Nevadaville was a constant reminder of that.

      Even with such heavy thoughts, by the time the pool of sparkling blue came into view, Clay was damned near light-headed. The front of his coat was pulled up over his nose, had been for several miles, but it didn’t help. He could still smell the noxious odor, and his burning lungs desperately needed a breath of fresh air.

      “Why we stopping?” Henry asked in that mock rough voice.

      “Andrew needs a drink,” Clay answered without breathing.

      “Who?”

      Leaping to the ground, Clay moved to the front of his mount while sucking air deep into his lungs. “My horse.”

      Henry climbed down, in an almost delicate and sissy way. His toes searched for the ground, and he didn’t let go of the saddle until both feet were safely planted. Tugging on the hat brim, as if it wasn’t already as low as it could go, he asked, “Your horse’s name is Andrew?”

      “Yep, after Andrew Jackson, the seventh president of the United States.” A man didn’t know how sweet air was until he missed it, and Clay couldn’t seem to get enough. He led the horse closer to the pool, glorying in every deep breath.

      “I kno—” Henry cleared his throat again. “I know who Andrew Jackson was.”

      “Do you?”

      “Y-yes.”

      Justification took to wallowing in Clay’s mind. The sun had crested the mountains and was heating the air, but not the water. Even months from now, at the height of summer, it would still be icy cold. It really couldn’t be helped, though. He couldn’t ride for hours without breathing. Walking wouldn’t be any better and would double their travel time. Long ago he’d learned that when something needed to be done, it was best to jump in and get it over with. He’d known Henry for only a short time, but he’d learned a lot about him.

      One, he stank, which said he didn’t like baths.

      Two, he prickled easily, which meant he’d argue.

      Three, he stank.

      Clay flinched, thinking about what was to come, but he couldn’t stand here pondering all day. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the back of Andrew, patting the horse’s rump affectionately and trying to look casual.

      Henry sidestepped, as if suspicious.

      Clay shot out an arm, catching the kid by the collar.

      “Hey! Let go!”

      “I will in about three steps,” Clay assured him, grabbing the waistband of his britches with his other hand.

      “Put me down!”

      As promised, three steps later Clay let go, pitching the boy into the pond.

      “You—” The resulting splash stifled Henry’s high-pitched protest.

      Folding his arms, Clay watched the water swell up to engulf the youngster, hat and all. Henry would be mad enough to spit bullets when he surfaced, but at least he’d smell better.

      Clay grimaced, feeling more than a little sorry for the boy. That water had to be bone-chillingly cold. Maybe he should have offered a deal—a bath for a ride to Black Hawk. Concern tugged at his conscience as the ripples slowly faded, but when the pond turned smooth and glassy, his heart slammed into his throat.

      “Aw, shit!”

      He didn’t bother to remove anything, just ran. When the water hit his thighs, he dived toward the exact spot where he’d pitched Henry.

      Pin prickles of cold stung his eyes as he searched the murky depth. Catching a flutter, he reached out. His fingers snagged material and he tugged. Heading upward, he towed the kid, adrenaline pounding through Clay’s veins with every stroke of his arm and kick of his feet. His head broke the surface and he tugged harder, thrusting the kid above the waterline. The first thing he heard was spitting and sputtering.

      Clay’s heart fluttered with thankfulness, and gasping for air himself, he shouted, “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim?” Holding Henry by the waist with one hand, he used the other arm to tread water, orientating himself by searching for the bank where Andrew stood.

      “Why’d you try to drown me?” Henry shouted between sputters.

      Clay kept one arm around the kid and used steady strokes with the other to pull them through the water. “I didn’t try to drown you.” They neared the shore and he lowered his legs. The slick soles of his boots slipped on the rocky bottom several times before he found solid footing. “I was giving you a bath.”

      “A bath!” The kid’s squeaky voice sounded downright self-righteous.

      Clay bent to pluck his hat out of the water, having lost it when he dived in. A thought occurred to him and he twisted, ready to get his first good look at Henry. Dumbfounded, he stared. The shabby hat, now black instead of dirt brown, with water dripping off the floppy brim, was still on the kid’s head.

      As if he knew what Clay was thinking, Henry grabbed the brim with both hands and held on tight. The kid spun, an action that made it appear he was about to shoot back beneath the water. Clay caught the tail of the well-worn shirt and started walking toward the grass-lined bank.

      Squirming and digging his heels into the creek bed, Henry fought him every step. Clay, shivering from the icy water and damn near steaming at the same time, gave a hard wrench to pull the kid out of the water.

      A rip sounded and the cloth went slack.

      “Aw, shit,” Clay mumbled. He hadn’t СКАЧАТЬ