The Ides of Matt 2015

by M. L. Buchman

  As it was, they’d be staying in the fishing cabin tonight. The sunset was only a few hours off and Lucy wouldn’t be able to move quickly. It would be a far slower ride back tomorrow. On top of that, keeping Chelsea in the saddle through the night’s journey back would be a cruelty, even if Lucy was up to it.

  The final lap to the cabin at their quick walk should take about half an hour. Then Doug glanced back over his shoulder—more bad news. A squall was inbound. Blocked by the height of Wind Mountain, and the twisting trail up to the cabin, he hadn’t seen it coming. He stopped them long enough to haul on ponchos, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. They were about to get drenched.

  They’d galloped briefly on the flat trail, but they were now climbing up a harder route. The way wasn’t dangerously narrow, but it would be far more challenging. Another eye at the rain front, now a gray curtain sliding down the mountain face, had him changing plans.

  “Ease up out of the saddle a little bit,” he told Chelsea. “Lean forward. Loosen the rein. Good!”

  And he smacked Snowflake hard on the butt.

  He nudged his own mount forward and in moments they were galloping together up the valley. The way narrowed and steepened until they could no longer ride side by side. Doug didn’t dare lead from where he couldn’t see her.

  “Ride on!” he shouted as the first crash of lightning struck the mountain top and thunder rumbled down upon them, amplified by the echoes off the high rock cliffs.

  Bless Chelsea, she leaned into it and flew up the trail. He watched closely, but she stayed solid, didn’t even a grab the pommel. Her legs must be screaming fire, but she rode, if not like an experienced horsewoman, then plenty close.

  The icy rain broke over them, but the trail was solid and drained well, so he left them at the run.

  In five minutes they were drenched, but the cabin was in sight. He shouted ahead and they eased down through canter to trot and arrived at the cabin at a walk.

  “Down you go,” he slid off and helped her down from her horse. “Take their reins and walk them back and forth. It will do all three of you good. Slow is fine, just keep moving.” He stripped the saddle bags and tossed them into the cabin. He heaved the saddles inside moments later, then waved her, holding their mounts’ reins, down the valley.

  Even aching and saddle sore the woman had a walk that stirred his blood. Ridiculous! That’s what he was being.

  He grabbed his medicine bag and the oats and circled around to Lucy who was thankfully back on her feet, but hanging her head miserably in the rain. Her foal was cowering against her. She’d been ten feet from the overhang and the big box stall, but had been too dazed—yet another symptom—to walk under cover.

  He guided them in and checked her. He couldn’t do anything for the flu, which was viral, but he gave her antibiotics against secondary infection and a booster shot of vitamins. She perked up a bit for her oats and water. He got blankets over her and the foal about the time Chelsea staggered back up to the stall with their mounts plodding along behind her.

  “Is this enough?”

  He ran a hand over them. No longer breathing hard, not hot. “You did good Chelsea. Go inside. I’ll be in as soon as I get these two settled with the mare.”

  When he entered the cabin a few minutes later, Chelsea was on the floor in a fetal position.

  Shit! He was an idiot.

  11

  Chelsea had been this cold before, she was sure of it. Like when she’d camped above snowline at the base of Chulu West and the zipper on her sleeping bag had broken. But in her memory it didn’t feel colder. And when her knees had knocked together high in the Himalayas, she’d laughed at the novelty. Now she fought not to cry as the insides of her legs, rubbed raw by the saddle, sent shivers of pain right along with the cold shakes.

  She opened her eyes when Doug entered the cabin and immediately began cursing. He looked furious! His dark hair matted flat and black with the rain, water cascading off his poncho. He hauled it off with a yank and dropped it on the rough wood with a wet splat.

  Chelsea wondered if he was about to tear her to shreds because she’d collapsed, then realized she wasn’t the one he was swearing at. He dropped to his knees beside her and began calling her name loudly.

  “I’m c-c-c-cold, not d-d-deaf,” she managed through rattling teeth.

  “I’ll start a fire,” he jumped up toward the iron woodstove in the corner.

  She tried avoiding the hard “c” of close, but found the “sh” sound little easier. “Sh-sh-shut the door first, you big lummox. R-raised in a b-b-barn.”

  Doug closed the door and then redeemed himself with his efficiency in building the fire.

  “Heat? How long?” she managed.

  He looked uncertainly from her to the stove. Not soon enough.

  She tried to remove her poncho, but her hands weren’t under her control anymore. This was bad.

  “C-c-clothes. Off. B-b-bed,” she instructed.

  He stripped off the outer layers and hesitated until she stuttered out a series of curses at him. She cried out when he peeled her jeans.

  Then he began cursing all over again.

  She looked down. Her legs’ normally pale skin had gone white with the cold, except for the insides from boot top to panties were livid red with abrasions. No wonder they hurt.

  The goofball stopped at her soaking wet turtleneck as if embarrassed.

  “C-c-come on. You know you want to s-s-see me naked.”

  He grunted and had the decency to try and look away as he finished the job and then scooped her up like a feather hard against his soaking wet jacket.

  “Eww!” Yet even the tiny bit of heat that escaped through the denim felt so good.

  The cabin was simple. Three bunk beds, several couches and plush chairs that had seen better days probably back at the main house, and a small corner kitchen with an impressive collection of cast iron pans appropriate for frying fish. Doug dropped her in one of the lower bunks and began piling blankets over her. She couldn’t even clutch the blankets to pull them tighter.

  “S-s-strip!” Chelsea ordered.

  “But…”

  “C-c-come on. You know I want to s-s-see you naked,” she did her best to stammer it out the same way she had the first time. “I need heat.”

  He began peeling down and Chelsea watched as much as the shivers would allow.

  “Wow! C-c-cowboys are built pretty.”

  He smiled at her for the first time since finding her on the floor. “This is a horse ranch. Not a cattle ranch.”

  “So get your fine butt in here, horseboy. Before I f-f-freeze to death.”

  He hesitated at shedding his underwear, someone please explain men to her, then turned away as he finally stripped off that last piece. His butt really was fine; topped by a narrow waist and broad shoulders with muscle that rippled across them with each movement.

  Doug slid in beside her and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled her against him. His skin was so warm compared to hers that it burned, but she leaned into it as hard as she could.

  “Christ! You’re freezing!” He began chaffing those big hands of his up and down her back.

  “D-d-duh!” Chelsea managed to get the covers completely over her head and concentrated on soaking up Doug Daniels’ warmth.

  12

  Doug held her until the shivers stopped. With his arms still around her, he could feel her breathing slow. Once she was deeply asleep in exhaustion, he slipped out of bed and dug out fresh clothes from the saddlebags, hanging the others to dry. He stoked the fire, made hot chocolate and wished for coffee, but the latter would make him even more awake than he already was.

  A quick radio call back to Logan told him that the Hendersons weren’t back from Great Falls yet. Logan wasn’t a pilot so he couldn’t bring the helo to fetch Chelsea. With the shakes gone,
she probably just needed sleep…and time to heal. Gods but she was tough.

  The windows were dark with the fading light of sunset happening somewhere beyond the heavy overcast. Lightning still shimmered through the heavy rain, though far enough off that the thunder was a rumble rather than a crack. The weather was still too nasty for a flight even if Mark was back. He had Logan leave a message on the kitchen table so that they wouldn’t worry when they returned and found no Chelsea.

  “Doug,” Chelsea’s voice was a whisper barely louder than the crackling flame from the glass-fronted woodstove. “Come back to bed.” The firelight caught the blue of her eyes and the tip of her nose from where they peeked out of the blankets.

  “You trying to kill me, girl?” Yes, he’d wanted to see Chelsea naked, from the first moment he’d spotted her climbing down out of that plane in those deliciously tight jeans. Even shuddering with the leading edge of hypothermia, she was beyond spectacular.

  “Not girl. It’s woman. And I think you trying to kill me once already today should be enough for both of us.”

  “I didn’t—” But he had. He’d taken her skills for granted when she climbed up on the horse. And led her on a grueling ride through a storm. Sending her out on a cool-down walk in the freezing rain was about as dumb as it got.

  Unlike so many of the guests who came to the ranch, Chelsea radiated skill. She’d triggered none of his high-season alarms that told him who to watch out for. Though she was certainly triggering other reactions.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Get your warm butt back in here before I have to climb out and kick it. I ache right down to my joints.”

  Which told him just how dangerously cold she’d gotten.

  Once again he stripped down, far more conscious of the woman who now wouldn’t turn away than the earlier one whose eyes had been partly rolled back into her head.

  She went to throw a leg over his, but jerked back and hissed at the pain.

  “God I’m so sorry. Let me get some horse liniment,” he climbed out of the bunk.

  “Hello! Not a horse.”

  He grabbed a bottle from the kitchen shelf and returned to stand over the bed. How was he supposed to…

  “Here,” he held out the bottle. “Trust me. It works great.”

  13

  Chelsea felt as if she was being a total wanton. She was in a cozy little cabin with no distractions of electricity. A very handsome man, momentarily unaware of his own nakedness, stood close beside her lit by the soft firelight that filtered through the woodstove’s glass-paned door. And he was holding out the horse liniment the way you hold out a mouse for a dangerous viper to snack on.

  The normal version of herself would have taken the liniment and tried to slather it on under the covers.

  Instead, she watched Doug’s face as she slipped a leg out from under the covers and twisted to turn it, inside-thigh up. His eyes didn’t narrow suspiciously, instead they widened in alarm. She’d watched him handling the horses with a gentle but firm hand. A half ton of horse flesh didn’t bother him at all, but the inside of a woman’s leg had him totally flustered. Damn but he was cute.

  “Come along, horseboy,” she coaxed him in the same tone he’d cajoled the colt to follow its mother into the stall.

  His gaze snapped from her leg to her face, and then his nice deep laugh rolled out. “Okay, you got me. I’m dying to slather some liniment on those fine legs of yours.” And he knelt on the wood floor beside her and smoothed some on.

  It was cold and sent a shiver up her leg. But the warm steadiness of his hand stroking in the thick liquid calmed the convulsive response before it could turn back into the shakes. She could feel his hard calluses and easy strength, but was surprised at the gentleness of his rough hands. Within moments a numbing warmth spread up her leg in a wave of relief.

  “I’ll smell like a horse,” she complained to cover a moan of delight. The camphor was sharp in the cabin’s warm air, but her attention was nowhere near her nose.

  “A sweet smell to a rancher.”

  “How about to a horseboy?”

  “Lady,” he didn’t even bat an eye. “You smell incredible to this horseboy, with or without the liniment.”

  There was no sign of any embarrassment by the time he’d ministered to both her legs and tucked them once more under the covers. He’d somehow transferred all of it to her. As he slid back under the layers of blankets, Chelsea was intensely aware of the narrow bunk and the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She was more of a long t-shirt gal, but it would be stupid to ask for one with a man she’d lain naked against for most of the last few hours.

  Unable to find words, she simply nestled inside the curve of his arm. Then, against the fiery tension building so high that it roared in her ears, Doug began talking. He told her about the birth of the foal, who slept even now in the nearby stall with Lucy. He talked about the ranch and the spring wildflowers that colored the prairie like a paintbrush.

  She fell asleep with the sound of his love for his life rumbling from his chest directly into her ear. It was the sweetest, safest sound she’d ever heard.

  14

  He’d offered to call the helo a half dozen times this morning, but Chelsea had turned him down cold, despite hobbling about like a geriatric case. Another round of liniment helped some, but he knew she’d be stiff for days.

  Doug finally gave in. Partly because he knew Lucy wouldn’t be up for more than a casual amble and partly because he wanted every single minute with Chelsea that he could get. He’d held her throughout the night, marveling at the rightness of it.

  It had been like that when he’d arrived at the ranch fresh out of the service. After three full tours, most of them spent on ships in the Persian Gulf, he’d been sick to his heart of the unending heat, the limitless steel, and the noise—for a Navy ship was never silent. He’d been on the ranch for three years now and could still feel the Persian dust in his pores. But the ranch had fit him since the first moment he’d stepped on the soil.

  He’d ridden plenty as a kid at his parents’ place in Wyoming. When he didn’t re-up, SEAL Commander Luke Altman had sent him up to see his own former commander outside Highfalls, Montana. Mac had shown him around Henderson Ranch and Doug had decided on the spot that he never wanted to leave. Mac and Ama had been looking for a foreman. Together, they’d transformed the aging ranch into a showplace tourist destination.

  He’d worried a lot about “the son” coming home, until he’d met Mark and Emily. Mark had taken one look at the transformation and thumped him hard on the shoulder before walking away without a word.

  It was Emily who’d translated for him. “He was so worried for his parents. You’ve really touched him.” Then she’d kissed him on either cheek. “You done good, Doug. Keep it up.” Then she’d gone after her husband. That’s when he’d set his sights on the kind of woman he wanted. One just like Emily Beale.

  And he couldn’t have found one more different than Chelsea Bridges if he’d tried. Oh, a lot of the things that were right with Emily were just as right on Chelsea, especially her absolute fearlessness—the image of her galloping through a thunderstorm on her first ride still fired the imagination.

  But where Emily was quiet, thoughtful, and soft spoken, Chelsea spoke her mind and laughed with a bright joy—even when on the verge of succumbing to hypothermia.

  He imagined it would take years to fall for the right woman once he met her, because his ideal woman didn’t fall that quickly. At least so he’d thought until he’d rubbed noses with Chelsea inside a parka hood and received a kiss for it. Now he was crazy about a sassy redhead who’d slept in his arms like she’d always been there.

  Slept. And that was all she’d done. Hard to blame her, as her body had been through a lot of extremes yesterday. But the only extremes he’d been throug
h had been treating Chelsea as if she was his injured sister. Everything had been perfectly chaste last night, if you didn’t include his thoughts.

  “Storm has passed,” he did his best to distract himself. “Temperature is falling and there’s another front moving in. Let’s get ahead of it.”

  “Sure,” she gamely picked up her saddle, that probably weighed half as much as she did, and headed for the door.

  So much for a morning tumble, or even a kiss.

  He’d escaped her bed early—because it was either that or he was going to do something wholly inappropriate—and bundled up to go tend the horses. Lucy had perked up overnight enough to greet him. She was still snotty with the flu, but it was clear so no secondary infection yet. Her breathing also sounded clear enough for the walk back to the ranch. The foal was more cheerful than the night before, which he’d take as a good sign regarding his mother’s condition. By the time he was back inside, Chelsea was dressed in warm clothes and had made the bed. Oatmeal and coffee were simmering on the woodstove.

  She’d looked as natural here as no paying guest ever really did.

  They’d had breakfast together; Chelsea going on about the upcoming ride…and he hadn’t jumped her. What was up with that? There was decent and there was ridiculous, and he’d definitely crossed that line somewhere in the night.

  Then she’d washed the dishes, grabbed her saddle, and gone.

  He’d already taken his own saddle out. So, he gathered up their saddle bags, double-checked that the woodstove was secure—the few remaining embers would burn themselves out—and gave the cabin one last look. All shipshape…damn it. Not a single tousled bed sheet. He hadn’t brought any protection with him, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other options. But had they used them? Nope! Not a single, damned, inappropriately pleasant fondle had passed between them.

  Closing the door, he stomped around to the horse stall and ran head on into a kiss.