Ride The Wild Wind (Time Travel Historical Romance) by Kimberly Ivey Page A

While he might be disgusted with himself, he had been without a
woman’s companionship for some time. It was a natural reaction.
    She clung to him
like a frightened child. Her fingernails dug painfully into his shoulders as he
immersed her to the neck. As she became more buoyant in the water, he cradled
the back of her head in the crook of his elbow, keeping her face above the
surface, allowing her torso and limbs to float freely. He avoided looking at
anything other than her face, although he enjoyed the view of her breasts
peripherally. She was perfectly proportioned with a narrow waist and womanly hips.
Her skin was as soft as a baby’s—what hadn’t been reddened by the sun—the color
of coffee diluted with a lot of cream. Her arms were long and thin, her hands
as delicate as a child’s. She was possibly the most stunning woman he had ever
seen.
    Her lower lip
trembled. “I’m c-c-cold.”
    “It is the fever . Relax and let the water soothe you.”
    She did not appear
to be frightened. Nor did she seem repulsed by his touch.
    Her nipples were
erect, whether from the cool water or arousal, he couldn’t tell. And the water
was doing absolutely nothing to alleviate his situation either.
    She watched his
every move, her gaze never leaving his face. After several minutes in the
stream, he carried her out and laid her down, covering her trembling body with
the blanket. He dressed quickly, keeping his back to her, aware that her eyes
were on him the entire time.
    Afterward, he
threw open the flap of his leather bag and retrieved the remaining shirt
sleeves and a nearly empty tin of salve. Scarcely enough to cover the wound, but
it would have to do until he could gather appropriate herbs for a poultice. He
daubed a bit of the salve on the puckered skin, and covered it with a swatch of
clean fabric.
    “Do not dress. If
your fever returns, I will put you in the water again.” He sat back on his
haunches, then reached across to brush a few damp wisps of hair from her face.
The purple paint streaks in her red hair had since washed away, but the black
fingernails remained.
    She slept
peacefully for the next few hours with her dog snuggled in the crook of her
arm.
    He awakened that
night to her moans. Periodically she thrashed and cried out, or called the Cole
man’s name. He regretted he had no whiskey with him to ease her suffering.
Crawling over to her, he laid the back of his hand against her forehead and
found her skin like fire once again.
    He tore the blue
kerchief from around his neck, doused it with water from his canteen and laid
it across her forehead. He tossed the woolen saddle blanket aside and the
little dog scurried from beneath and shook himself off.
     Antonio
sponged her forehead and cheeks, moving down her body. Still, her fever raged.
He tore off his own clothes and carried her back into the dark water for
several minutes. She never awakened. The awareness she might die hit him hard.
There was nothing more he could do except make her comfortable and stay with
her until the end. The feeling of utter defeat settled over him.
    He sat beside her,
head in hands, for what seemed like hours. Reviving a dying fire, he smudged
her body with purifying smoke as a last effort, then dropped to his knees
beside her. She was too weak, succumbing fast. Fighting back tears, he raged at
God—at all the Dine ’ gods. He had tried to save her life, but even his
best efforts were not enough. What had been the point of finding her? Was this
yet another cruel trick being played on him by fate?
    Giving in to
bitter tears, he prayed her death would be swift.
    He left and
scouted for a place to bury her as well as a sturdy limb to dig with. Using a
branch, he hacked at the dry, rocky earth, loosening the soil so he could use a
flat stone to scoop out a shallow trench. Despite the plunging nighttime
temperatures, sweat mingled with tears and poured into his eyes as he worked
furiously. The furrow wasn’t deep, but if he