by Carly Bloom
She was a grown-ass woman. The sole heir to the ranch. And her dad didn’t think she needed to sit in on a discussion about pasture rotation?
She hadn’t really shown much of an interest in such things before, but maybe she should have.
Her dad was sick. Ford was only staying for six weeks. Who was going to take over after he was gone?
Claire urged Cinder to go faster. She thought better when she was on the move, and the faster—or higher—the better.
She’d received Cinder as a gift from her parents on her fifteenth birthday, and it had been love at first sight. It hadn’t been long before the two of them were winning rodeo buckles in barrel racing, and Claire had loved every minute of it. She’d even been crowned Hill Country Rodeo Queen.
She’d given it up in college, but the adrenaline junkie in her had needed another outlet. She’d discovered the university’s climbing club, and she’d been hooked ever since. Whenever she felt stifled or frustrated, she either rode fast or climbed high.
She and Cinder arrived at the bluff and slowly approached the edge to look at the Rio Verde below. It was usually crystal clear, but today it was like chocolate milk, and muddy water flowed over the top of the dam.
A steep rustic trail led to a spot where people often gathered to swim or fish, but it was a crumbly, washed-out mess. There was no way to navigate it on foot, much less on horseback. Maybe there was a better spot farther down.
Ten minutes later, after evaluating every possible trail, Claire dismounted and rubbed Cinder’s flanks. “No can do, girlfriend. It’s just too dangerous.”
With a bit of smug satisfaction, she thought to herself that Ford and Coco couldn’t do it, either.
She peered down at the riverbank below. Branches and debris were piled high. It was easy to imagine the raging wall of water that had blown through here.
She started to turn away when something red caught her eye. Was it fabric?
Alison had been wearing red shorts.
Claire broke out in a layer of prickly, panic-induced sweat as dread pooled in her belly.
She should ride back to the house and call Casey. But her heart wouldn’t allow her feet to budge. She had to know what—or who—was down there.
There was a rope in her saddlebag. And she knew how to rappel without a harness. Everyone in her climbing club had practiced it on short, safe descents. It wasn’t hard if you knew what you were doing.
She was ninety-seven percent sure she knew what she was doing.
She grabbed the rope and played with it for a few minutes, pulling it up between her legs, wrapping it around her hip and thigh, crossing it over her chest and shoulder…
She remembered what to do.
She undid the rope and slipped it around a huge, sturdy cypress tree. Then she carried the two ends to the edge and dropped them over.
No problem.
Five seconds later she was rewrapped in her makeshift harness. Using her right hand as her brake hand, she backed over the edge. All of her concerns—her dad’s cancer, her feelings for Ford, and even Alison—disappeared as she slowly and carefully descended. Every bit of her attention was focused on simply getting down safely.
When her boots hit the ground, she untied the rope. The entire process had taken less than five minutes.
She wrinkled her nose from the stench of trash and rotting things, and began picking her way across the sticks, branches, roots, and trash. She watched carefully for snakes, because floods brought them out, and the last thing she needed was to be bitten by a cottonmouth.
The red fabric was just a few yards away. She couldn’t tell what it was, nor could she tell if the pile of debris it was in was on solid ground or floating on the water. She looked around for a big stick and found a cane pole. She poked it into the ground in front of her. It was sturdy, so she walked on, poking the ground with each step.
The splash of red could be clearly seen now, and Claire took a big step toward it. But as she leaned into the pole, it began to sink.
She’d run out of solid ground.
She reached out as far as she could, intending to dislodge the fabric, or at least uncover it, before getting the heck out.
“Claire!”
The unexpected sound of her name startled her, and she lost her balance and fell forward, landing in the trash. It felt solid enough—she thought she might be all right—but when she tried to stand, she started to sink.
She’d read somewhere that lying flat and distributing your weight would help you escape quicksand. Would it work in floating debris? She leaned forward and tried to bring her feet up, but it was no use. Her boots were waterlogged and heavy.
As she twisted her body to see who the idiot was who’d called her name, her feet hit bottom. Or at least something relatively solid.
Good. She wasn’t going to drown in a pile of trash.
“Claire, hold on! I’m coming!”
Holy shit. It was Ford. And he was staring at the rope like he was thinking about using it to get down.
“Don’t you try that! You don’t know what you’re doing!” she shouted.
She didn’t like thinking about what might be lurking or slithering around her boots, and she shivered and jerked as something brushed against her leg. A log shifted beneath her, and her right foot slipped off.
She tried to yank it up, but it was caught on something and wouldn’t budge.
Dang it! She was stuck.
* * *
Shit.
What had Claire gotten herself into now? Ford had shown up at the bluff to find a riderless Cinder. He’d scratched his head, looked around, and then stepped on something he’d thought might be a snake. But no, it was worse than that.
It was a damn rope.
Tied around a tree.
With two ends going right over the side of a fucking cliff.
With a sense of dread and irritation, he’d picked up the rope—it was slack—and followed it to the edge, where he now stood, watching helplessly as Claire struggled in waist-deep, trashy floodwater.
“Claire!” he hollered again, holding the rope. She’d obviously used it to get down there. Why couldn’t he do the same?
“Don’t you dare,” she yelled. Her voice echoed off the canyon walls, traveling up and down the river. “I’m fine!”
She was not fine. God knew what lurked in that muddy water. Broken glass, jagged metal, snakes…And what if something shifted and she went under and became trapped? It was almost as if she didn’t understand that risk-taking was, well, risky.
Claire was watching him over her shoulder. “Don’t you even think about it, you idiot! Just give me a minute to get my foot unsnagged.”
Her foot was snagged? Ford eyed the rope again, but Claire was right. He had no idea what he was doing. So he stood there like a dummy, watching helplessly as Claire grunted and squirmed and grimaced.
And then…
“Aha!” Claire shouted. “It’s free!”
Stress and strain leaked out of Ford like water through a sieve. But Claire still had to actually climb out of the river. However, instead of turning around and doing just that, she picked up a tree branch and reached across the debris to poke at something red.
Casey had said the missing girl was wearing red shorts.
Ford held his breath as Claire used the limb—still standing in waist-high water—to snag the red object. After just a few seconds, her shoulders slumped in relief, and Ford finally let out his breath as she dragged the object over and held up a bedraggled red umbrella.
* * *
Claire stared up the side of the cliff. She’d been in such a hurry to get down that she hadn’t given all that much thought as to how she’d get back up. As far as climbs went, this one was easy.
With proper gear.
She sighed and kicked her remaining boot off. It would make for a horrible climbing shoe. “Ford!” she hollered.
She saw the brim of his hat first, then the toes of his boots. Both were p
eeking over the cliff, which meant he was standing way too close to the edge.
“Holy cow, back up, would you?”
He disappeared momentarily, then just his head appeared. He’d dropped to all fours.
“I’m going to need you to pull up one end of this rope, okay? And then wrap it around that tree again. Hold on to it as I climb up, but leave some slack in it.”
“Do you want me to tie the rope to Coco and let him pull you up?”
Claire did not want to be dragged up the side of a cliff by a horse. She was banged up enough as it was.
“Thanks, but I think I’m better off free-climbing. Just keep a bit of slack in the rope, and if I fall…”
“I’ll catch you,” Ford said.
Even from down here she could see the steely glint in those hazel eyes.
After Ford was set with the rope, Claire inhaled. Exhaled. Looked up the face of the cliff. First, she intentionally scanned for footholds and patterns in the granite, her eyes darting here and there, her brain consciously calculating. But then the shift happened. It always did. The sensation reminded her of looking at one of those posters that appeared to be just a bunch of pixels, but if you allowed your eyes to lose focus, an image suddenly popped up, clear as day.
And just like that, the path revealed itself.
She reached up with her right hand and grabbed hold of a jutting piece of granite. Put her foot on a well-anchored tree root, and up she went. Ford did his part, keeping just the right amount of slack in the rope.
This was a really easy climb, the kind she would have attempted as a young teen without any gear or knowledge. And she’d have most likely made it up just fine without any awareness of the danger she’d been in.
But now that she had experience and training, she knew there was no such thing as a safe climb, and so she remained focused.
This was a green wall with lots of roots and trees and things to grab hold of. But any one of them could break free. So, she tried to avoid them, looking instead for jutting granite she could count on to support her weight.
Her left foot slipped as a root pulled loose, and she felt the tension on the rope increase. Ford practically jerked it, which wasn’t comfortable, but at least she knew he was on the ball. She regained a foothold quickly and continued her way up, wincing from the pain of being barefoot.
When she reached the top, Ford extended a hand, and with seemingly no effort at all, he lifted her to the top of the cliff.
“Thanks,” she said, proud to note she was barely breathing hard.
She unwrapped the rope from her body and tried to coil it up, but Ford clung to it with a death grip.
“You can let go of that now,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
“The rope. Let go.” She gave it a slight yank.
Ford looked as if someone had snapped him out of a daydream as the rope slid through his fingers. “You…”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “Mmm?”
“You just nearly died. Right in front of me. Again.”
He was pale. What the heck was wrong with him? “Nearly died?”
What was he talking about? She’d been irritatingly uncomfortable and somewhat grossed out. Who wants to stand waist-deep in a pile of soggy trash? But she had been nowhere near—
“You fell in the river. You could have gotten sucked under all that junk.”
“Oh, I was not going to let that happen, Ford.” She’d felt in total control. The biggest problem had been her snagged boot, which she’d freed.
“And then you climbed up that”—Ford pointed to the edge of the cliff—“like fucking Spider-Man.”
His eyes were huge. Was he even okay?
“You knew I climbed.”
“But I’ve never seen it until today.”
Claire finished coiling the rope and started for her saddlebag. “So, what did you think, cowboy? Surprised to learn that ropes can be used for more than hog-tying a calf or roping a steer?”
Ford’s hand was suddenly around her arm, yanking her back and turning her to face him.
“Goodness, Ford. What’s wrong?”
He held her arm tightly—almost painfully—and it must have shown on her face because he loosened his grip.
“I told you I was fine. Good grief, get over it. I mean, I’m wet. And filthy.” She lifted a bare foot and looked at the scratches. “And I might need antibiotics.”
“You scared me,” Ford repeated, squeezing her arm again. “And then you…”
She looked up. The angle of the sun lit up his face, but the brim of his hat cast his eyes in shadow. His lips were fully visible, however, and they were not smiling.
“And then I what?” She was not about to be lectured by a man who knew absolutely nothing about climbing.
“Amazed me,” Ford whispered.
That was not what she had expected. And it wasn’t what she was used to. She was used to being told to slow down or get down or hold on or—
Ford pulled her closer. Heat emanated from his body, and she wanted to melt into him.
He let go of her arm and slipped his hand around to her back, warm and steady.
“You are really something, Claire. Do you know that?”
She knew a lot of things. She knew she was pretty, because she’d been told so her entire life. She knew she wasn’t stupid, even if school hadn’t always interested her. But Ford was seeing other things. Things she’d thought were invisible. The things that fought to be noticed.
I’m strong. I’m capable. I can take care of myself.
He took off his hat and there were those eyes. Nearly green at this time of day. And they stared right at her. Right into her.
“I see you,” he whispered.
His lips were so close.
She dropped the rope. Ford’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. She rose on her toes and their lips touched in a soft and hesitant kiss. Claire held back, hoping he’d be the first to pull away. God knew she didn’t have the strength.
But he didn’t pull away. He deepened the kiss, so intensely that Claire could hardly breathe.
Who needed oxygen when this man’s lips were made of everything she needed to survive?
Every inch of him was hard and unyielding. She remembered him naked, standing before her. So close…
Somewhere deep within her was the willpower she’d used to stop this nonsense when it had happened at the cabin. But she couldn’t seem to muster it now to save her soul. She wanted the kiss to last forever. Because if it did, there would never be any consequences. No broken hearts.
This was the ticket. Just keep kissing.
Ford began to tremble. Then he groaned softly, and Claire responded by knocking his hat off his head and running her hands through his hair. Ford pulled her even closer, and sparks traveled up and down her spine like it was the fourth of July. But then Ford’s soft groan turned into an angry growl as he let go of her and broke the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said, before Claire even had a chance to open her eyes.
They both stood there, trembling and panting, in silence.
Cinder neighed as if she were fussing at Claire for losing her hold on reality. Because reality required staying away from Ford’s lips since they, and the rest of him, were leaving in six weeks, and she could not get wrapped up in him again.
Claire straightened her shirt, which had climbed up her midriff when she’d wrapped her arms around Ford’s neck. “Well, you should be sorry,” she said, peeling some wet grass off her jeans and pretending she hadn’t just tried to smother him with her mouth. And arms. And legs.
Rather enthusiastic response, Claire.
Ford shifted nervously from foot to foot and fiddled with the brim of his hat. “I lose my mind when I’m around you.”
“Clearly.”
“So, I don’t think I should be around you. On account of how I, you know, need my mind.”
“I’m not going to limit my movement around my own ranch,” Claire
said, walking to Cinder and slipping her bare foot into the stirrup. “Just because you can’t hold on to your senses.” She slid seamlessly into the saddle. “So, you’d better get a grip on yourself.”
She snapped the reins and rode away as fast as she could, knowing full well that she was the one who needed to get a grip.
Her dad had told her there were more than five hundred million square feet on the ranch. Surely, she and Ford could avoid ending up in the same one for the next six weeks.
Chapter Twelve
Ford got out of the shower and stepped into a pair of jeans he’d borrowed from Beau. Or maybe it was Bryce. He couldn’t tell them apart to save his soul. Claire could, but she’d grown up with them.
Bryce’s face is a little thinner.
Beau’s chin cleft is deeper.
Ford was staying in the bunkhouse tonight. He was bone tired and didn’t have it in him to ride back across Wailing Woman. He hadn’t much cared for riding through that rushing water this afternoon, and Coco hadn’t seemed to enjoy it, either.
The creek should be easier to get through tomorrow, and one night in the bunkhouse wouldn’t kill him. He’d set out some food for Oscar, and the cat probably preferred it when Ford was gone anyway.
As soon as he’d walked into the bunkhouse, he’d been given the news that Alison had just been found—alive and well—in San Antonio with her teenaged boyfriend. Ford had felt a level of relief that was probably uncommon for a man who’d never met the girl or her family, but floods did a number on him. He was thrilled she was okay, although she was probably in a heap of justified trouble.
The guys were going out to celebrate, so he’d have the place to himself for several hours. He gathered his dirty clothes and dropped them in the washing machine, and then he headed out to the porch, shirtless and barefoot, grabbing his hat on the way out the door.
He sat his weary ass in one of the rocking chairs and leaned back, putting his feet on the railing and slipping the brim of his hat just low enough to shield his eyes from the setting sun while still being able to take it all in.
