He laughed outright as he scooped a mixture of corn and oats into the canvas nose bags. When he considered how soft her usual routine was, she was hanging in there like a champ. Never mind how much he despised her elitist assumptions and what her family stood for, the rodeo artist within him greatly admired her tenacity for simply hanging on and enduring.
For the first time he wondered if he had confused Eric Rousseaux with Jacquelyn. It finally occured to him that he might be punishing the daughter for the sins of the father—and nothing in the highly vaunted Code of the West allowed a man to be that unfair. You were supposed to judge each person on their own merits.
And she was holding up pretty good. If he didn’t know better, he mused, he would almost suspect the girl was true pioneer stock.
His moment of benevolence passed quickly, however. He sure as hell didn’t want to get his emotions mixed up with her. She wasn’t the acrylic-nailed, vapid-gazed rodeo groupie who loved a one night stand. This woman would ask for something more—something he didn’t know if he could ever give. To fall in love meant vulnerability. And all his life he’d chosen the toughest broncs just to prove he had no vulnerability. No, he wasn’t going to fall in love with no fool woman. He wasn’t going to take the risk. People had a way of leaving him when he did that. No matter how tough he was, he knew deep inside he wasn’t tough enough to take it again like the death of his parents had given it to him.
So that beauty with the sea-green eyes wasn’t going to get under his skin. They still had Devil’s Slope to ride out. She would break yet, he predicted as he returned to his bedroll. He’d seen it all before on greenhorns. She’ll get scared, and then she’ll turn on him like a rabid animal and show her true colors: money-green, snob-purple, and chicken-yellow.
They hit the trail at the ungodly hour of 4:00 a.m. Jacquelyn quickly realized the horses were in a far better mood than she was.
She searched her journalistic vocabulary for the right verb to describe their arduous progress for the next eight hours. She finally settled for slogged. And despite her determination, fear began to poke at her mind long before they reached Devil’s Slope.
“Falling rocks,” A.J. explained, pointing up the scarred face of the mountain, “form furrows like that one right in front of us. The French trappers hereabouts called them couloirs. You have to be careful in them. The sides are stable, but the middle part is stone swept. That furrow you’re looking at now is easy climbing, at first. But it’ll become Devil’s Slope about one hour farther up.”
It was only noon. But her muscles ached and trembled from the rigors of the ascent that brought them back above the trees. They had stopped briefly to rest the horses and gnaw on thick, gnarled hunks of beef jerky.
“It’s getting a lot colder,” she commented as she dug another pullover out of her duffel. “Windier, too.”
Even as she spoke, a sudden wind gust almost seized A.J.’s hat.
“Sure it is. We’re climbing higher,” was all he said.
However, that same wind was also piling dark clouds on the horizon like boulders. He hadn’t bothered mentioning it to her, but his eyes seemed to be cloaking worry. Besides the terrain, his face was another thing that had her unsettled.
“The main thing you got to remember on loose rocks,” he lectured her as they prepared to push on, “is smooth weight transfer. If you do it right, you can put a lot of weight on loose rock. But don’t jerk your horse or you’ll risk sliding.”
She started to tilt her canteen to her lips for a drink. His iron grip stopped her hand.
“Never drink when you’re sweating. Wait till you cool off. Otherwise it’ll just evaporate before it can do your body any good.” He looked down at her, and for some reason seemed to be giving her body a very frank appraisal just at that moment—as if he was curious about exactly where she was sweating. When she caught him staring, he added hastily, “And we can’t order room service for a Perrier way up here, so conserve your water.”
She almost wanted to smile. “Be careful, there. You actually sounded considerate for a moment. You’re not getting all female and ‘mushy’ on me, are you, Daniel Boone?”
“Don’t worry,” he promised her, pushing his horse forward. “If I was, I’ll make up for it with meanness later.”
She glanced up the long, narrow, unstable furrow they were about to start climbing. Fear lay heavy in her stomach like a ball of ice. If all else failed for her, there was always bluff and bluster. She thrust her chin out with determination.
He seemed to sense her fear and false bravado. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready when you are, Mr. Clayburn,” she told him defiantly.
His sarcastic lips twisting, he went ahead, intoning in a solemn voice that nonetheless mocked her, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
A.J. was right about the couloir: its sloping sides were fairly stable—at first. Although Roman Nose occasionally slid on smooth stone, the ground underfoot was solid and stable.
Because of the danger to the second rider in a single-file ascent, each of them took a separate side of the furrow. Jacquelyn took great care to keep Roman Nose from wandering too close to the unstable middle.
Too soon, however, the going got a lot rougher. Now even the far edges of the couloir were littered with broken talus and loose volcanic scree.
“Just slack your reins,” he called over. “Give your horse his head and let him pick his own way.”
She did as ordered, too scared at the moment to resent yet one more surly command. But it felt strange to be completely passive and useless, dependent on a half-wild mustang for her life.
Gradually A.J.’s horse worked its way higher up than Roman Nose. She watched him draw rein, waiting for her to catch up on her side.
“Good thing you buffed your nails, huh?” he called out, adding a mocking laugh.
He stood up in the stirrups to see up the slope better. In that one offguard moment, the mountainside began to move. In the sliding rock, his horse lost his footing. The animal fell to his knees and scrambled to get back on all fours. Caught off balance, A.J. had no time to react. He was tossed from the saddle like a doll from a dog’s mouth. She saw him hit the slope, bounce once, then lie ominously still.
“A.J.! A.J., are you all right?”
But the real trouble was still shaping up. As A.J.’s panicked horse got his footing and took off, the animal escaped higher and higher, sending another shower of debris sliding down toward him. So far nothing big had struck, but the rock slide was gathering size and force as the horse clambered higher.
“A.J.!”
Thank God! At least he was struggling to sit up, so he wasn’t seriously hurt. He tried to stand, but his knees seemed to have come unhinged. She saw how glazed and unfocused his eyes were and realized he’d struck his head.
With a crashing roar that made her gasp, a huge, heavy rock smashed down the slope only a few yards from him. More detritus was thundering down on him, and he couldn’t possibly survive another thirty seconds in that deadly slide.
In that moment, without willing it to happen, her reflexes and years of riding took over.
Heedless of the danger, she reined sharp left and squeezed Roman Nose’s shoulders with her calves. The game little horse leaped right into the unstable moraine and talus at the center of the furrow.
Everything she had ever learned in show jumping came into instant focus in the next critical moments. Balance, grace, control and precise, split-second decisions that meant life or death. All guided her now as they had over hurdles and around obstacles.
She had to ride a wild, crinkum-crankum pattern to avoid the worst spots. The deft mustang responded precisely to each tug of the reins, her will becoming his. But when, by some miracle, she actually cleared the unstable center, she had a full-blown rock slide to avoid on the other side.
“A.J.!” she shouted above the train-yard roar of falling debris. “A.J., can you hear me?”
He had managed to get to
his knees—she could see him through the gathering dust cloud. But he was still groggy and out of it.
Somehow, assisted by fear strength, she helped him onto the horse, then got mounted heself without either of them being crushed. But now she had to get back across to her side with his extra weight to endanger them.
With one hand stretched awkwardly behind her to steady him, she clutched the reins in the other. Roman Nose began picking his way back across the rock-swept center of the couloir.
Unfortunately, in all the dust and racket and confusion, she wasn’t able to pick the same safe route she followed coming over. They were perhaps halfway across when the slope under Roman Nose turned deadly. They started sliding.
Her heart leaped into her throat. She realized the section of the furrow was almost all unstable. Roman Nose managed to heave himself up onto a small section of stable rock. But now, she realized with a sinking feeling, they were virtually marooned on a tiny island.
She could clearly see the stable slope now, only a few tempting yards away. Could they jump it? It was unlikely, what with this double load on such a small horse. And so little room to build up any speed.
But what other choice did she have, with half the mountain tumbling down around them?
“Hold on, A.J.!” she shouted, not knowing if he could understand her. “Gee up, Roman Nose!” she added, slapping the mustang’s neck and squeezing her knees. “Hiii-ya!”
Again her training took over. She assumed the classic jump position, lowering herself in the saddle with her torso forward. Bent low over Roman Nose’s neck, she spoke urgently to him, assuring him he could make the jump.
Now!
With fine-tuned timing, she slacked the reins and let Roman Nose get his head down for the jump. They went airborne, then landed hard on solid ground. A.J. almost slid off on impact, but somehow managed to stay on.
For a moment, realizing what she had just accomplished, she began to tremble with pent-up emotion. But she quickly realized they were far from safe yet. She still had to get them the rest of the way across Devil’s Slope. On her own.
A.J., a huge blue-black bruise swelling his left temple, slowly regained strength and awareness as they progressed up the dangerous slope. By now the wind gusts were so cold that she shivered despite several layers of clothing. And although it was still only the middle of the afternoon, the sky had grown as dark as twilight.
He said little during the ascent. They finally reached the stable ground above Devil’s Slope, and his mustang stood calmly waiting for them.
He had regained his strength by now and swung down to the ground easily. Then he surprised her by reaching up to help her down. Those probing searchlight eyes of his looked at her differently somehow. With less derision.
“National Velvet saves the Rodeo King. That was a hell of a jump you and Roman Nose made back there,” he told her. “Maybe I better look into this English riding, huh?”
She couldn’t believe it. The insufferably egotistic A. J. Clayburn actually had some humility in his tone. She studied him, sure she could also detect a tone of wounded male vanity. He praised her now, but she might yet have to pay for that rescue. It wouldn’t surprise her at all.
“I just can’t imagine you in a hunting jacket,” she assured him, shivering against the raw knife-edge of the wind. “My God, it’s getting c-cold!”
He nodded as he grabbed his saddle horn, then swung up into leather.
“You did a nice job on Devil’s Slope.” His eyes lifted to the rapidly gathering raft of black storm clouds. “But the waltz ain’t over yet,” he added grimly. “C’mon, let’s hurry. Between this spot and Eagle Pass is some of the area’s worst avalanche country—and we’ve got a skyload of snow about to fall on us.”
Twelve
He was right: the “waltz” was far from over.
They were perhaps one hour beyond Devil’s Slope when the heavens opened up on them with a vengeance. A thick, damp, heavy snowfall was whipped into a blinding fury by unrelenting wind gusts.
There was no good place to take cover, so stopping was not an option. Fearful of separation as visibility decreased, A.J. tied a lead line to Roman Nose’s bit ring.
“Cave up ahead a few hundred yards!” he shouted close to Jacquelyn’s ear, his voice barely audible above the shrieking wind. “It’s big enough that we all can take shelter!”
By now Jacquelyn couldn’t see more than a few feet past the nose of her horse. But it was the cold that most tortured her Southern system, bone-numbing cold such as she had never before experienced. Even her soaking in Crying Horse Creek hadn’t left her shivering like this.
But A.J.’s mental map proved reliable again. She gave silent thanks when he abruptly appeared again out of the white, windblown vastness. He pointed her off the trail, and within moments she had followed him into a large, wide cavern with a dry floor of rammed earth.
“Hobble your horse to the right of the entrance,” he told her. “There’s a little seep spring there if it ain’t froze up yet.”
She noticed his tone had definitely changed since the near miss on Devil’s Slope. He still gave orders, but no longer in the voice of a sergeant to a worthless recruit.
“This place isn’t on Hazel’s map,” she remarked as she secured Roman Nose, foreleg to rear, with short strips of rawhide.
“That’s because Jake gave it wide berth,” he confessed.
“Wide berth?” the reporter in her asked, stomping snow off her boots. “Why?”
“It was bad medicine. Mountain Utes used to entomb their dead here.”
She cast a restive glance about them. A.J., busy building a fire with the last of their wood, laughed. “Don’t worry. Every last bone and bead has been stolen by artifact hunters.”
She digested that depressing news, then crossed to the wide entrance. Clutching her elbows against the cold, she tried to see outside, but raging wind and driving snow formed a virtual whiteout.
“My God,” she said, fear showing in her voice. “It’s terrible out there. I can’t believe it. What if we…I mean, but what if—”
“Just settle down,” he said, fanning tiny flames larger with his hat. “This is Montana, girl. A little bad weather ain’t nothing. Won’t be long till you’re safe and snug in the cabin on Bridger’s Summit.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” she said softly, still glancing outside. “I can’t believe it’s August. Not looking at that.”
“It’s not August that matters, it’s altitude and longitude. But this weather now is just chicken-fixins. I got caught in a summer snowstorm up here back in ’93. I survived by crawling inside a hollow log for a day and a half. The snow got so deep the rabbits suffocated in their burrows.” He added with a grin, “Man, did I have to pee when I finally crawled out.”
“You knew we could have weather like this? And you still went along with Hazel’s idea?”
“Car wrecks happen, too. Should I quit driving?”
His tone scoffed at her. He had a point, and she let it go. It wasn’t as though he knew this exact storm was coming, she reminded herself.
“Better get warm while you can,” he called over to her. “This is the last of our wood. I expected our next stop to be the cabin. Once this burns out, we stay cold until we can get to the summit.”
“Couldn’t we just stay here?” she suggested, again staring out into that white swirl. “I mean, won’t help be sent?”
“Help?” He tossed back his head and laughed. “Why? Lady, you do beat all. We ain’t in no scrape yet.”
She glanced at the large knot forming on his head. “But what about your concussion? You blacked out back there.”
“Nothing. Besides, even if we did need help, they can’t get to us here. This place is God forgotten. We’re on our own.”
She knelt beside the little fire, grateful for the sustaining heat as she held her hands over it. But the warmth did little to quell the fear, fatigue and depression that combined to sink her spi
rits.
A few minutes passed in silence while she brooded and watched the flames burn gradually lower. He said something, his voice nudging her back to the present.
“Pardon me?”
He sat directly across the fire from her, cross-legged like an Indian in the council lodge.
“I said, I’ll bet you didn’t tell your boyfriends back in Georgia about this little trip with me, huh?”
“Boy friends? Should I have put out a press release? You rodeo stars are the ones with harems.”
“Harems is a stretch, but we do have our little fan clubs.”
“Poor baby, stuck here with a steel magnolia when he’s used to his lilting daisies…”
“I can bear up. I’m tough. You’re the one seems to be moping. Like maybe you miss…somebody.”
Yes, she thought with a pang behind her heart. Somebody. But who? Who can warm up to the ice princess?
“I’m not moping,” she finally told him, starting to shiver harder as the fire died down. “I’m just tired.”
“If we want to repeat old Jake’s experience, that means getting bone-deep tired. And bone-deep discouraged,” he added, his tone actually kind, as if to rally her spirits.
Jake and Libbie, Jacquelyn thought with a little stab of resentment. Yes, what they had was real, all right. But theirs was a simpler, more sentimental age. And they were stronger people than she. What they seized was beyond her grasp.
The fire was nearly dead now, down to its last rubylike embers. Her entire body felt thoroughly chilled, and little warmth lingered in the drafty cavern. Beyond the entrance, blizzard-force winds shrieked like souls in torment.
She wasn’t sure exactly when A.J. suddenly appeared at her side, unrolling his sleeping bag.
“Take your boots off,” he instructed her. “Then crawl inside my bag. We’re going to pool our warmth.”
She started to shake her head.
“Look,” he insisted, “believe me, I’m not making a pass at you. When I do that, I don’t bother with tricks. But we could be in here for some time yet, and I’m damned if you’re going to freeze to death on my watch. Hazel would skin me alive. Now stow the modesty and crawl in there.”
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 10
