Never Love a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  He’d never felt so alone. Even Kit’s friendship offered little solace.

  “I hate crossin’ rivers,” Magpie said in a voice that reminded Harrison of a petulant child.

  “We’ve crossed other rivers,” Harrison pointed out.

  “But none like the Red. Reckon I oughta be grateful that the water is somewhat low.”

  Harrison narrowed his gaze and focused his attention on the riders splashing into the water to keep the cattle from wandering. He estimated that three-fourths of the herd had already crossed. The remaining cattle were stretching their necks to keep their heads above water, and the undulating waves lapped at the thighs of the men. He cast a sideways glance at Magpie. “This is low?”

  Magpie leaned forward, resting his arm on his saddle horn. “Yep. That driftwood tangled in the boughs of the trees lining the banks shows how high the water rose in the past. A flooded river is a cowboy’s worst nightmare.”

  “I thought a stampede was a cowboy’s worst nightmare.”

  Magpie nodded. “That, too.”

  Harrison looked across to the opposite bank, where Kit sat astride his horse, Jessye beside him. A shiver slithered up his back at the sight of the crude crosses visible just behind them. “What do those markers symbolize?”

  “Graves,” Magpie said somberly. “Most cowboys can’t swim. One or two are bound to lose their grip on the saddle horn and drown.”

  “Do you swim?”

  “Nope, that’s why I hate fording a river.” He released a bravado yell and kicked his horse’s flanks.

  “Bloody hell,” Harrison grumbled as he followed, urging his horse down the steep bank into the choppy water, a brown that carried the hint of red, as though it reflected the blood of those who’d died within its depths. He tried to ignore the shadow of foreboding surrounding him as he contemplated the fact that they were not only crossing a river but they were also leaving the laws of Texas behind and trampling into Indian Territory.

  The low bawling of the cattle increased in tempo. He heard the clack of horns hitting horns. The strength of the rushing water slamming against him surprised him. He feared it might be taking the cattle off guard as well. The orderly procession appeared to be reversing itself, the cattle turning as though they sought to return to the Texas border.

  Magpie grabbed the back of his saddle and twisted his body around, concern etched in his features. “They’re getting mired in the quicksand at the bank!”

  “Mired at the bank?” Stunned, Harrison watched as the cattle milled around the riders and themselves, swimming in a circle, closing ranks until they looked like a raft of horns. “There’s miles of bloody bank! Let’s move them down.”

  Magpie nodded. He turned, then jerked back as a steer swung his head around, his lethal horns cutting across man and beast. In horror, Harrison watched Magpie’s horse roll and heard Magpie’s panicked yell as he lost his grip on the saddle horn and slipped backward into the river.

  Hampered by the water and the circling beasts, Harrison made a feeble attempt to kick his horse into action. It released a high-pitched neigh and balked at going forward. Harrison saw Magpie’s head bob up and the terror in his eyes just before he went back under.

  He heard a crack of thunder that sounded like a gunshot. A steer flipped to its side, and a hole opened. He saw Magpie’s hand reaching up. Gripping the saddle horn with one hand, Harrison slid into the water, wedged his way between his horse and the steers, and grabbed Magpie’s flailing hand. Magpie broke through to the surface. Harrison jerked him toward the horse. “Climb on!”

  Gasping for breath, Magpie shook his head.

  “Damn it, man, I can swim!” Harrison roared over the din of frightened animals and rushing waters.

  Relief swept over the younger man’s face as he nodded and awkwardly scrambled onto the saddle. Harrison slapped his horse’s rump, but the animal was penned in and only able to move forward at a snail’s pace. Harrison grabbed the back of the saddle, but the wet leather and his slick hands prevented him from getting a firm grip. Thank God he could swim.

  In ponds, lakes, and rivers where ample room allowed him to churn his arms and kick—but here nothing existed but the strong undercurrent and the press of large, warm bodies against his own. His drenched clothes weighed him down. Feeling the pull of a losing battle, he took one last gulping breath before the murky depths obliterated the light from the sun.

  He tried to surface, but hooves, legs, and rounded bellies blocked his way. His world narrowed into an obscene prison, an oubliette so deep that its opening was not visible. His lungs burned, his throat tightened, and his chest threatened to crush against his spine.

  Everything inside him screamed to breathe. The pressure built until he thought he would explode. The pain intensified, the panic heightened, the acceptance unavoidable. Escape was impossible.

  The irony struck him hard. His father had sought to save him from the Thames only to have him drown in the Red River.

  His last thought drifted to Jessye. He would never again gaze into her green eyes, see her smiles, or hear her sultry voice. Profound regret stabbed him as those eternal deprivations overshadowed the loss of his own life.

  Jessye’s scream shattered the air, quickly followed by rapid gunfire as Kit leveled his rifle and downed cattle, one after another. She felt powerless as she heard the pounding hooves.

  “You’re starting a stampede!” Dan Lincoln cried as he jerked his horse to a halt.

  “Do you think I give a bloody damn?” Kit yelled as he reloaded and fired again. “Harry went under near those dead cattle. Gather the men and get him out.”

  “If he went under, he’s dead.”

  Anger blazed in Kit’s eyes as he grabbed Dan by the shirtfront and nearly hauled him out of the saddle. “Get the men down to the river while I clear a path.” He released his hold and once again began to shoot cattle. Dan gave her a look that clearly implied Kit’s attempt was futile. But he turned his horse and yelled for the men to get back to the river.

  Her hands shaking badly, she reached for her own rifle.

  “Jessye, get blankets from the supply wagon. Harry’s going to need them,” Kit ordered.

  “I should stay—”

  “You should go.” He cast a somber gaze her way, and she knew his mind had accepted Dan’s dire prediction. Only his heart refused to surrender hope. “You don’t want to be here.”

  Tears burning her eyes, she nodded. He was right. She didn’t want to see Harry’s limp body brought up from the river. “He’ll need blankets.”

  She urged her horse into a hard gallop, the echo of gunfire behind her, the devastating thought screaming through her mind that Harry would need blankets, lots of them, whether he was alive—or dead.

  It seemed like an eternity passed before she caught up to the supply wagon. “Cookie, I need blankets!” she yelled as she pulled up beside it.

  “Damn it to hell. We have a drowning?” he asked.

  “No, no, Harry…he just…” Her voice caught, her heart ached. “He—”

  “Never mind, girl,” he said as he reached through the opening in the canvas. “Just get the blankets to him and I’ll head back that way myself.”

  Taking the bundle he offered, she wished she could stop trembling. She set her heels to her horse’s flanks, hope warring with certainty. Kit had fired one shot when Magpie had gone in the water. His action had opened a hole large enough for Harry to slip through so he could rescue Magpie, but it had been impossible for Magpie to turn the horse when Harry lost his hold on the saddle. The obstinate cattle directed the path.

  She neared the river. The cattle they’d kept on a tight, narrow trail were scattered to the winds. A lump rose in her throat at the sight of the men standing, a few kneeling near the river’s bank. She drew her horse to a halt. The somberness was thicker than stew.

  “He told me he could swim,” Magpie cried. “He told me he could swim. I never would have gotten on his horse—”

&nb
sp; “No one is blaming you, lad,” Kit said. “He can swim.”

  She dismounted, her weak legs quivering so badly that she was surprised she could walk. She heard the horrid retching as she wended her way through the men to the front of the circle. Harry was on his knees, hands clenching his thighs, as he brought up his insides, gasping for breath. She’d never been so glad to see anything in her life.

  As though sensing her presence from his kneeling position beside Harry, Kit glanced up. “Good.” He signaled for her to join him.

  She dropped to the ground and draped the blankets over Harry. He shook like a leaf during a storm, not that she was any steadier, but he looked as though he couldn’t quite figure out how he’d come to be on land.

  “He was unconscious when we pulled him out,” Kit said quietly. “He took in a lot of water. Needs to rid himself of it.”

  “How long do you think he was unconscious?” she asked, dreading the answer. What if something had happened so he’d never again be right in the head? She’d heard stories of that happening to men.

  “Haven’t a clue. I had to pound his back—”

  Harry stopped retching and sliced his gaze toward them. “Do you two…” He coughed. “…mind not discussing me…” He coughed again. “…as though I weren’t here?”

  Her relief that he was as ornery as ever was short-lived as a coughing fit seized him. Wrapping his arms around his middle, he moaned between coughs.

  “You’re gonna need to see the cook as soon as he gets here,” she said.

  Nodding, he drew in a ragged breath.

  “We’ll make camp nearby,” Kit said as he stood and cast a quick glance around the circle of men. “You can see about gathering up the cattle now.”

  “We’re in Indian Territory,” Dan said.

  “Meaning?” Kit asked.

  “I don’t want any of the men riding alone.”

  “Fine. Do what you have to do to protect the men and get the cattle.”

  “What happens if the Injuns done got ’em?” someone asked.

  “Negotiate to get them back, and if you can’t, then leave them. Make no mistake. On this drive, the men come before the beasts.”

  Jessye had never seen so many mouths drop open.

  “Now, get about it,” Kit ordered. “I want to get out of this Indian Territory as soon as we can.”

  “Damn it, man! Take care!” Harry commanded.

  “I’m tryin’, but you’re bruised and broken,” Cookie snapped.

  “I’m not broken,” Harry grumbled.

  “You got a couple of cracked ribs—”

  “So take care that you don’t damage them further.”

  Hunched beside the fire, unable to find the elusive warmth, Jessye watched as the cook tightly wound strips of cloth around Harry’s ribs. She saw the shadow of bruises forming and knew by morning his back and sides would be black and blue.

  “Have you given any thought as to how you’re going to sit in a saddle come morning?” Kit asked.

  “Probably in much the same manner that I’ll sit in it during my night watch—gingerly.”

  “Take the night off,” Kit suggested.

  Moaning slightly as he shifted his body, Harry shook his head. “I won’t sleep anyway. Might as well be useful.”

  Carefully, he shrugged into his shirt and grimaced. Jessye was sure the action had caused him discomfort. Damn him for not being what she’d thought. She brought herself to her feet. “I got an announcement to make.”

  She felt all eyes come to rest on her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a paper. She unfolded it until the absurd words were visible. “This is our agreement.” Holding Harry’s gaze, she tossed the contract into the fire. “From now on, the three of us are equal partners.”

  She spun on her heel and strode from the camp, fearful she’d reveal all her weaknesses if she stayed.

  Harrison walked through the thick copse of trees, resenting the pain that shadowed each movement, resenting more that he’d taken no satisfaction in Jessye finally realizing that he was not bluffing. He had thought proving her wrong would bring him victory. Instead, her defeated mien left him with a measure of grief that he could not comprehend.

  He found her standing at the edge of the river, staring at the waters, which reflected the moon in a kaleidoscope of ever changing images. Too much like life. Every time he thought he understood the game, someone changed the rules.

  “Jessye?”

  She spun around, the anger and tears in her eyes throwing him off guard.

  “Damn you!” She pounded both fists against his chest and sent him staggering backward. He bit back a groan. “Damn you! What did you think you were doing this afternoon? Getting off your horse and going into the river to save Magpie. What were you thinking?” Advancing, she hit his shoulder. “Damn you!” She hit him again. “You don’t even like him. Why in the hell would you risk dying for somebody you don’t like?”

  Within the moonlight, he saw the tears dampening her cheeks. “Oh God, Harry, I thought you were dead.” She pressed her fists against her mouth and released a heart-wrenching sob. “I thought you were dead!”

  He grabbed her arms, jerked her to him, and cradled her face between his hands, relishing the fact that he was able to do so. “I thought I was dead, too.”

  With a rapacious hunger, he captured her mouth, his tongue delving deeply, the need to reaffirm life clouding his judgment. If only she had hit him again, shoved him, kicked him, or bit his invading tongue—

  Instead she welcomed him with a desperation that equaled his own. Her arms came around him, her hands pressing, touching as though to reassure herself that he was indeed alive and not a ghost. He welcomed the discomfort, for he had thought to never again feel a woman’s touch, to hear her soft sighs, to inhale her sweet scent, to taste…to taste the salt of her tears.

  They drove him beyond reason. When had any woman ever wept over him? Never. And that this strong, courageous woman would was enough to bring him to his knees.

  His mouth still latched on to hers, he lifted her into his arms and carried her down to the warm earth. The fragrance of wildflowers wafted around them. He rocked back on his heels, and, holding her gaze, he unbuttoned her shirt and bared her body to the moonlight, which glistened over her flesh, an ethereal caress. He dipped his head, took a puckered nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Gasping, she arched against him. He ran his hands over her silky skin and trailed his lips across the valley between her breasts. “I want to taste all of you, Jessye, all of you.”

  “Yes,” she rasped, threading her fingers through his hair.

  If desperation weren’t clawing at him, he might have laughed at the realization that he’d never unfastened someone else’s trousers. The urgency of his needs, his desires caused his fingers to fumble with the buttons. She moved his hands aside, finished the task, and shed her clothes with fluid movements etched in moonbeams that he thought he would remember for the remainder of his life.

  She opened herself to him with no coyness. Her honesty terrified him as much as the desire raging through him. The cold scepter of death had touched him today. He needed her, needed to feel the hot, hungry passion of life.

  Ravenous, he hovered over her, keeping his promise, tasting her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and her most intimate of treasures. Gasping, moaning, she writhed beneath him as though possessed by sensations too pleasurable to bear.

  He tore open his own trousers, rose above her, and sank into the hot, moist depths of her body. Her arms came around him, her fingers digging into his buttocks as she met his thrusts with wild abandon.

  When she cried out, he captured her mouth, absorbing the full power of her release and matching it with his own.

  Breathing heavily, he lay still, feeling the small tremors cascading through her body, the trembling of his own. The magnitude of what they’d just done slammed into him with the force of a battering ram.

  In the river, as the blackness engulfed him, h
e’d thought his life was over. Only now did he realize that it had never fully begun. Emotions he’d long since buried fought to rise to the surface, just as he’d struggled this afternoon.

  For reasons he dared not contemplate, terror ripped through him now with a greater ferocity. How could he fear losing what he did not possess—her heart?

  A need to reaffirm life had motivated their actions. Nothing more. He could not allow it to be anything more. He would not give her the power to destroy him.

  Yet she’d given him the power to hurt her. Regret surged through him. He’d never meant to harm her.

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. He skimmed his fingers over her face. Incredibly lovely. He trailed his fingers along her collarbone. So dainty. She had discarded her clothes, but he had not completely removed his own. Even as an adult, bruises still shamed him, a visible sign of weakness. She deserved so much more, a man of better lineage.

  He eased off her and righted his clothing before reaching for hers and handing them to her. He swallowed hard. “You can’t go into camp looking as though you’ve just battled a wild animal. I’ll get your bag.”

  He shoved to his feet and looked down on her, clutching her clothing to her breasts, staring at him through eyes mired with confusion. He spun on his heel and strode back to camp.

  “How’s Jessye?” Kit asked as Harrison neared the supply wagon.

  “Shaken.” He rummaged through the bags at the back until he found Jessye’s.

  “I’m not surprised. When you went under the water, her face…it might as well have been her drowning.”

  “Thank God, it wasn’t.” He snatched her bag and met Kit’s gaze. “I doubt we’ll return to camp tonight. I shall kill any man who speaks ill of her tomorrow.”

  “They all love her. I think they sought to spare her sorrow more than your life.”

  Harrison nodded, turned, and began to walk away.

  “Does it hurt?” Kit asked in a low voice.

  Harrison staggered to a stop. “The bruises will heal.”

  “I was referring to the pain in your chest where you have no doubt just discovered you have a heart like the rest of us.”