of his final thought...
Just the way I do.
* * * *
At age thirteen, her first experience branding convinced Rachel that top ropers got the best of a hard job.
Ropers stayed on horseback, cutting out a calf, swinging a loop around its neck and leading or dragging it near the fire. The ones on the ground dealt with the close-up stench of branding and the blood of ear-notching and castrating.
So she'd set to making herself as good with a rope as she was with a horse, even learning the tricky figure eight of roping head and both front feet with a twisted loop. From her second roundup on, she'd never been afoot. She supposed she could wield a branding iron if she had to, but she'd as soon not have to.
Still, she acknowledged that night as she breathed in the sharp scents of sage and campfire and dipped her bandanna in the creek, staying on horseback didn't make her immune to the dust and sweat and smell. She'd washed before supper, but the water felt cool and cleansing as she wiped at her face and neck again.
She wouldn't feel truly clean until she could get full away from the men and take a good long bath with soap.
A sound made her pivot, still half-crouched. Nick stood on the slight rise a yard behind her, outlined by the distant glow of the fire and the faint remaining twilight. A haze of dust stirred by his boots surrounded him. For a moment of heart-hammering disorientation, he seemed to her a figure stepping out of an unearthly smoke, or the mists of ancient legends.
He's just a man.
He did not move as she slowly straightened. Then he took a single step forward.
She could see him now in earthy detail. His shirt and blue vest carried a diagonal smear of blood across one side, streaks of dirt and the seeping stain of sweat. Dust coated his boots, masking marks of less pleasant origin. Bearing nicks and scratches on their rawhide surface, chaps wrapped his legs and narrowed over his hips to buckle around his waist. She'd seen men in chaps past counting. For the first time she was aware of how they framed the area from waist to the juncture of his thighs.
She remembered the look of him there stark naked. The taut skin, the dark hair. The power.
She swallowed hard. Maybe she'd have been wiser keeping him a mythical figure.
"Ma'am. What're you doing here?” he asked, not quite a demand, but his low voice too rough to be polite.
At least he hadn't brought up the conversation from this afternoon. They'd avoided each other the rest of the day, and even at supper they'd found seats at the opposite sides of the gathering around the fire.
"Enjoying the evening air."
He ignored her sarcasm. “Is this where you disappear to every night?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It gives the boys a chance to cut loose, without having a woman—and the owner—around.” Her own honesty surprised her.
He said nothing. After studying her face, a regard she forced herself to return, he nodded. That was it.
Irritation surfaced from her jumbled reactions. “What are you doing here?” she asked with prickly politeness.
"Enjoying the evening air,” he responded, deadpan.
The grin slipped loose before she could stop it. He didn't quite grin back, but the line of his mouth eased.
"You're a wise woman, Mrs. Terhune. That's why I left, too. They don't need a boss around, either."
"Shag's there,” she pointed out. “Whittling up a storm."
"He's one of them."
He said it evenly—a man who knew he was an outsider and accepted it. Because he'd always been an outsider.
Rachel didn't want to feel sympathy, but sympathy came regardless. She felt an ache she hadn't known before. An ache all the stronger because this man seemed to have no sense of his own pain.
"That's all right.” She forced gaiety into her voice. “Leaves all the more evening air for us to enjoy. Don't have to divide three ways, just two."
He regarded her for an unreadable moment, then tilted his head slightly, apparently accepting her shift in mood. “Wouldn't want to run
Just the way I do.
* * * *
At age thirteen, her first experience branding convinced Rachel that top ropers got the best of a hard job.
Ropers stayed on horseback, cutting out a calf, swinging a loop around its neck and leading or dragging it near the fire. The ones on the ground dealt with the close-up stench of branding and the blood of ear-notching and castrating.
So she'd set to making herself as good with a rope as she was with a horse, even learning the tricky figure eight of roping head and both front feet with a twisted loop. From her second roundup on, she'd never been afoot. She supposed she could wield a branding iron if she had to, but she'd as soon not have to.
Still, she acknowledged that night as she breathed in the sharp scents of sage and campfire and dipped her bandanna in the creek, staying on horseback didn't make her immune to the dust and sweat and smell. She'd washed before supper, but the water felt cool and cleansing as she wiped at her face and neck again.
She wouldn't feel truly clean until she could get full away from the men and take a good long bath with soap.
A sound made her pivot, still half-crouched. Nick stood on the slight rise a yard behind her, outlined by the distant glow of the fire and the faint remaining twilight. A haze of dust stirred by his boots surrounded him. For a moment of heart-hammering disorientation, he seemed to her a figure stepping out of an unearthly smoke, or the mists of ancient legends.
He's just a man.
He did not move as she slowly straightened. Then he took a single step forward.
She could see him now in earthy detail. His shirt and blue vest carried a diagonal smear of blood across one side, streaks of dirt and the seeping stain of sweat. Dust coated his boots, masking marks of less pleasant origin. Bearing nicks and scratches on their rawhide surface, chaps wrapped his legs and narrowed over his hips to buckle around his waist. She'd seen men in chaps past counting. For the first time she was aware of how they framed the area from waist to the juncture of his thighs.
She remembered the look of him there stark naked. The taut skin, the dark hair. The power.
She swallowed hard. Maybe she'd have been wiser keeping him a mythical figure.
"Ma'am. What're you doing here?” he asked, not quite a demand, but his low voice too rough to be polite.
At least he hadn't brought up the conversation from this afternoon. They'd avoided each other the rest of the day, and even at supper they'd found seats at the opposite sides of the gathering around the fire.
"Enjoying the evening air."
He ignored her sarcasm. “Is this where you disappear to every night?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It gives the boys a chance to cut loose, without having a woman—and the owner—around.” Her own honesty surprised her.
He said nothing. After studying her face, a regard she forced herself to return, he nodded. That was it.
Irritation surfaced from her jumbled reactions. “What are you doing here?” she asked with prickly politeness.
"Enjoying the evening air,” he responded, deadpan.
The grin slipped loose before she could stop it. He didn't quite grin back, but the line of his mouth eased.
"You're a wise woman, Mrs. Terhune. That's why I left, too. They don't need a boss around, either."
"Shag's there,” she pointed out. “Whittling up a storm."
"He's one of them."
He said it evenly—a man who knew he was an outsider and accepted it. Because he'd always been an outsider.
Rachel didn't want to feel sympathy, but sympathy came regardless. She felt an ache she hadn't known before. An ache all the stronger because this man seemed to have no sense of his own pain.
"That's all right.” She forced gaiety into her voice. “Leaves all the more evening air for us to enjoy. Don't have to divide three ways, just two."
He regarded her for an unreadable moment, then tilted his head slightly, apparently accepting her shift in mood. “Wouldn't want to run
Similar Books
