Wyoming Woman. Elizabeth Lane

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СКАЧАТЬ the buggy, digging around one mired wheel with a twisted sage root. Her hair hung around her face in dripping, curly strings, and her once-elegant blue suit was soaked with muddy water. She looked up in ill-disguised relief as Luke slogged his way down the bank with a coil of rope.

      “I thought you’d turned tail and left,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the rain.

      Ignoring the taunt, Luke found the middle of the rope and looped it around the rear axle of the buggy to make a tight slipknot.

      Still kneeling, she glared up at him. Her eyes flashed like a tiger’s through the dripping tendrils of her hair. “No lectures, sheep man. Just get the buggy out of the wash. I’ll see that you’re paid for your time.”

      Rankled, Luke shot her a contemptuous glance. “My name is Luke Vincente. And I don’t want your money—or your father’s.”

      She scrambled to her feet, her wet jacket outlining her small, high breasts and cold-puckered nipples. “I think you’re too proud for your own good,” she said, a scowl deepening the cleft in her determined chin. “But then, since the accident was mostly your fault, I shouldn’t expect to pay you for helping me.”

      “My fault?” He glared at her.

      “Well the problem with the brake wasn’t your fault. I suppose Mr. Finnegan at the livery should take the blame for that, since he should have fixed it. But as for the rest—”

      “The brake?” He stared at her. “You mean you were ripping down that hill with no way to stop?”

      She flashed him a withering look. “I would have been fine. Everything was under control, and I was planning to coast to a stop at the bottom. Unfortunately, your stupid sheep—” Her muddy fists clenched into knots. “Don’t think you’re doing me any favors, Luke Vincente. This mess is your fault, not mine. You owe me—”

      “Then let’s get this over with,” he snapped, playing out the rope as he moved up the bank to the waiting horse. “The job’s going to take both of us. You can guide the horse, or you can stay in the wash and try to free the wheels. It’s up to you.”

      She gazed up at the buckskin, her eyes slitted against the driving rain. “He’s your horse. You’ll get more out of him than I will. I’ll stay with the buggy.”

      “Suit yourself.” Luke had hoped she would leave him to free the wheels, but he was in no mood to argue. Not with the rain coming down harder by the minute. As he mounted the bank of the wash, he saw that she had found her digging stick and was scraping away the sand that trapped the left front wheel. A cattleman’s spoiled brat she might be. But Rachel Tolliver had grit. He would credit her that much.

      Tying the rope to the saddle horn, he swung onto the buckskin. Lightning snaked across the sky. “Get to the front,” he shouted. “When I say push, give it everything you’ve got.”

      The only reply was a shattering crack of thunder. The horse danced nervously, tossing its head.

      “Rachel?” He held his breath. An eternity seemed to pass before he heard her speak.

      “I’m ready when you are.” Her voice sounded thin and distant.

      “Then…push!” He jabbed the horse with his knees. The buckskin was a powerful animal and the buggy wasn’t heavy. One good, hard pull should be enough to break it loose, he calculated as the doubled rope strained tight.

      But Luke hadn’t counted on the sucking grip of the sand on the front wheels. He was just beginning to feel some give when he heard Rachel scream, “Stop!”

      Only then did he realize what was happening. The front wheels were so firmly stuck that the pull of the horse was threatening to rip them loose from the axle.

      Turning, Luke saw that Rachel had fallen to her knees and was slumped against the dash, one hand massaging her left shoulder. “We’ll have to dig the wheels free,” she said between clenched teeth. “Don’t you have a shovel?”

      Did the woman think he kept a blasted tool chest on the horse? “Hold on, I’ll find something,” Luke muttered, sliding out of the saddle. The rain was coming down in torrents and he was getting worried about the sheep. If the skittish animals panicked, even the dogs wouldn’t be able to hold them.

      The ground had become a sea of spattering mud that concealed any stick or rock that might be used for digging. Luke was twisting at a dead clump of sage, try to break it loose, when he heard a distant rushing sound—so faint at first that it was barely distinguishable from the drone of the rain. Only as it neared and grew did he realize, with blood-chilling certainty, what it was.

      “Flood!” he shouted, wheeling back toward the wash. “Get the hell out of there!” He raced for the bank, ready to grab her hands and help her climb the muddy slope.

      “No!” she shouted, clinging stubbornly to the frame of the buggy. “Get back to your horse! The water will wash the wheels loose! If we time it right, we can pull the buggy out! It’s our only chance!”

      “Don’t be a fool! Come on!” Luke plunged down the bank, seized her left arm and wrenched her toward him. Rachel yelped in sudden agony. Only then did he realize she was hurt.

      With a muttered curse, he scooped her up in his arms and charged for the bank—too late. The flash flood slammed into them like a buffalo stampede. Luke fought to keep his footing as muddy water, thick with silt and debris, swirled chest-deep around them.

      Glancing uphill, Luke saw a gnarled tree trunk sweeping downstream at murderous speed, its sharp roots thrusting toward them like tangled daggers. Rachel gasped as he swung her into the protecting lee of the buggy. The tree trunk hurtled past, missing them by inches. But their safety was short-lived. Lifted free by the water, the buggy began to move downstream.

      From the bank of the wash, the horse screamed in terror as the moving vehicle’s momentum dragged it toward the torrent below. Luke’s heart sank as he saw what was happening. “Hang on tight!” he shouted at Rachel.

      Her uninjured arm locked around his neck, freeing his hand to yank the hunting knife from the sheath that hung at his belt. With the strength of desperation, Luke hacked at the rope. One by one the tough fibers parted—slowly, too slowly. Weakened by the flood, the rim of the wash was already crumbling beneath the buckskin’s rear hooves. The horse squealed as its hindquarters went down. Then, with one last cut, the rope separated and the animal was free. Its forefeet found solid earth, and it wrenched itself upward to safety.

      With the last of his strength, Luke shoved Rachel clear of the moving buggy. The buggy washed away from them and went crashing downstream. It wouldn’t go far, Luke knew. But by the time the flood passed, the rented vehicle would be nothing but a battered, waterlogged piece of junk.

      He wondered if the fool woman knew how lucky she was to be alive.

      The brunt of the storm had already passed over the mountains. Ebbing now, the floodwater gushed between the banks in a waist-high, taffy-colored stream.

      Rachel groaned as Luke Vincente heaved her onto the bank and scrambled for his own foothold on the muddy, crumbling slope. Fifty yards downstream she could see the buggy. It was sharply tilted out of the water as if it had run up on some high object, perhaps a boulder.

      “There it is!” she cried, pointing. “We can still get СКАЧАТЬ