She smiled weakly at the scolding in his tone. “Fine. Besides, we’ve got a dozen layers of clothing between us.”
“So I’ll be safe,” he quipped. Before he climbed into the bag, he ducked outside and packed the coffeepot full of snow.
“Case the seep spring freezes,” he explained as he wiggled into the sleeping bag with her.
She stared at him, no doubt with wariness in her eyes. The awkwardness was already beginning to wear off, however, when her teeth quit chattering. Already she was warmer. But he was so close. And yet so very warm. And the scent of him dark, male and enticing. Dangerous.
Her gaze caught sight of the bruise on A.J.’s temple—the legacy of his accident on Devil’s Slope. She pushed herself up on one elbow to look at the injury, then scooped a little snow out of the coffeepot and held it gently against his bruise.
“How’s that feel?” she asked.
“Nice.”
She could feel his pulse throbbing against her fingers. Their eyes met, and suddenly she realized their mouths were well within kissing range. Her own pulse quickened.
The heat between them was literally palpable—the handful of snow melted like butter on a hot grill.
She lay back down, wondering what her next move should be. The etiquette of hypothermia was unclear. Did she sleep facing him to keep an eye on him, or did she put her back against his chest, and shut him out that way? She wasn’t sure, and in the end she didn’t make the choice. He merely grabbed her and pulled her back against his chest. Despite the brief pyrotechnics between them moments before, it was comfort and warmth she sought now, not erotic gratification. His masculine solidity was exactly what she needed with the backdrop of howling wind and blowing snow.
“That flower soap of yours smells nice,” he muttered in a sleepy tone.
“What flower soap?”
“Then maybe just you smells nice,” he said, starting to breathe evenly as sleep overtook him.
“Will this snow stop soon, do you think?” she asked.
But her words simply disappeared like stones down a deep well—he was asleep, his chest rising and falling like a slow bellows. The only answer she received came from the wind. It rose to a shrieking roar that drove swirling snow into the cavern.
Holding a man whose warmth was only on loan, she surrendered to her exhaustion and sought refuge in sleep.
“It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
They had emerged from the cavern into the clear, still, silent cold of Saturday morning. Just as they began the fifth day of their laborious trek, the sun broke through the surrounding peaks. It ignited diamond glitters on the vast snow slopes.
“Beautiful,” A.J. agreed, stepping up into the saddle. He looked at her with those eyes that touched her like hands. He added, “But like most beautiful things, also treacherous.”
She could still feel the tension pulling between them like a nettlesome mattress button, but a long sleep and the clearing up of the freak storm had restored her energy. The gorgeous, white, still life of snow in the high Rockies made her think of a line from one of her favorite poems: “The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.”
The vast, white slopes seemed to have the opposite effect on him. He seemed somber and reflective, almost subdued. She meant to ask him about his strange mood, but the hard twist of his mouth told her he wasn’t feeling too chatty. Something was up, but she didn’t know him well enough to probe.
“It’s pretty,” he told her. “But I can see right now the thaw has already begun. That means we have to watch for falling beds of snow on the rock ledges overhead. There’s also going to be large icicles falling from overhanging cornices that form on the crests of the narrow ridges. They have to be avoided like falling spears.”
He secured a safety line to her saddle horn.
“The reason we’ve got to make good time early on,” he explained, “is that new snow slopes are usually hard in the early morning. By afternoon they’ll be soft and maybe dangerous. The real problem up here is steep angles. Snow can’t stay stable at an angle over thirty-eight degrees. A lot of the slopes up here are steeper than that.”
She studied the pensive set of his strong jaw. “You seem to know an awful lot about snow. But of all the dangers we’ve faced before, you seem a lot more serious here—”
He cut her off. His mouth had the same grim set. “Let’s ride,” he said, ignoring the question in her tone. “Move slow and steady and keep your eyes to all sides.”
She would ask him about the snow later, she decided. When they were warm and safe by the campfire. Now on the trail, she decided there could be too much of beauty. Both of them were quickly forced to don their sunglasses against the unrelenting snow glare. The mustangs had to be led into shade frequently to avoid snow blindness.
At first the numerous slopes were easy enough to ascend, especially with A.J.’s expertise to guide them. At the foot of each slope was a big crevasse. He led them directly up the expanses, carefully avoiding an oblique or horizontal track—such paths cut slopes across and increased danger of an avalanche.
Unfortunately the temperature rose quickly as the morning advanced. They were forced to a painstaking use of their ropes. He would advance upward first, secure the rope to a boulder or anchor pin, then wait for her to reach his position.
After a few hours she truly understood why the word travel came from travail. Her muscles ached, her feet were numb with cold, and each deep breath now included a little groan.
“Won’t be too long now until Bridger’s Summit,” he assured her at one point. “How you doing?”
Instead of answering him, she produced her microrecorder from the pocket of her pullover. She thumbed it on and glanced down at the glittering series of slopes they had just traversed. She got her breath back before she spoke.
“The Chinese believe that before you can conquer a beast you must make it beautiful. I’ve made these slopes as beautiful, in my mind, as great sculptures. But I still haven’t whipped them.”
He smiled. “The Chinese, huh? Well, A. J. Clayburn says buck up. We’re entering the home stretch now.”
Travel, travail, buck up. Grimly she marshaled her last reserves of strength and will and followed him.
Make the beast beautiful and you will conquer it.
“Hazel,” demanded Eric Rousseaux’s irate telephone voice, “what is this nonsense my wife tells me? Something about Jacquelyn taking some fool-headed trip into the mountains. Do you realize there’s a blizzard up in the peaks?”
“The blizzard I know about,” Hazel replied pleasantly. “I know nothing, however, about any fool-headed trip. Your daughter and A. J. Clayburn are recreating Jake McCallum’s historic ride across the Rockies for the sesquicentennial.”
“That’s another problem, Hazel. It’s all over the media how some rodeo star and a young journalist are marooned together in a high-country storm. I’m not too happy to hear my daughter’s name tossed into some kind of scandal.”
Hazel had to bite back her first reply. Eric’s horror of “scandal” evidently didn’t include his numerous affairs with local bimbos and grass widows.
“Oh, Eric, you own newspapers. You know good and well it’s always the silly season for journalists. It’s harmless saloon gossip.”
“Is it? The law takes a more serious view of a man’s good name,” Rousseaux hinted darkly.
Hazel laughed outright at the veiled threat, falling back on the patience her long years had taught her. By breeding and temperament she was an optimist. She believed that just about anything a person could dream was possible to achieve. Thus her own plan to save Mystery.
But she also realized there were natural-born dream killers lurking everywhere. She was talking to one right now. Had this man also managed to kill his daughter’s dreams? When she looked into Jacquelyn’s eyes, sometimes she wondered about it.
“Eric, I’ve been in touch with Bonnie Lofton, Jacquelyn’s editor. You know that her
husband, Ray, is the township constable. He’s been monitoring the state-wide police band radio. The National Park Service has also been advised. Those two aren’t lost—just temporarily cut off. Besides, it’s for the sake of history. You should be proud of Jacquelyn.”
“Look, Hazel,” Eric said sarcastically, “we all know you long to return to the days before once-upon-a-time. Don’t confuse senility with history.”
“No, you look,” Hazel said in her most pleasant, grandmotherly voice. “I’ve never been one to take the long way around the barn. Let’s just say it plain—you don’t care that much what happens to your daughter. You just don’t want any inconvenience. Or to lock horns with me right now,” she added meaningfully.
“Baloney, I—”
“I know why, Eric. It’s because my grandfather wrote Mystery’s present township charter.”
“Woman, you are so full of—”
“And according to that charter,” Hazel pressed on, “when it comes to land ownership, families are to get priority over any business not native to the area, namely ranching and farming. That makes it tough for you and your little Disneyland Wild West scheme, doesn’t it?”
“Christ, you are losing it, Hazel. You need to do a reality check. Flush toilets are no longer a novelty. People today are into maximizing their profit potential. And that means a diverse portfolio.”
“Save your energy, Eric. You’ll need it to welcome your daughter back home. You won’t be subdividing any ranches here in Mystery. Oh, and you might not know this, but I have the majority votes on the town council.”
She was pleased by the choking sound she heard on the other side of the line.
“You won’t get away with this, Hazel,” he gasped.
“You,” Hazel said sweetly just before she hung up, “are a bigger fool than God made you.”
She wandered to the windows over the sink and pushed aside the waisted curtains to glance out toward the distant peaks. The storm presently obscured them in a soot-colored haze of clouds.
Knowing A. J. Clayburn, Hazel wasn’t seriously worried about those two surviving the storm. She was far more concerned that a romantic spark might not arc between them. What she had told Eric about the township charter favoring families over businesses was correct.
That left only one obstacle to saving the character of Mystery: Hazel had to get some more families started, and quickly. As she held that last thought, her dreamy old eyes sought the distant peaks.
A smile touched Hazel McCallum’s lips.
Thirteen
As long as she lived, Jacquelyn would never forget that last grueling stretch to Bridger’s Summit and lonely Eagle Pass. A difficult ride in the best of weather, it was now made treacherous by huge volumes of rapidly melting snow and ice.
“The day’s heating up too damn quick,” A.J. fumed at one point as they spelled the horses and reset their saddles. He shuttled his glance toward the overhead ledges. “But the good thing is that snow avalanches never fall in unexpected places. We just have to stay focused on the danger spots, that’s all.”
Jacquelyn had become aware of a new edginess in him now that they faced snow hazards. It was hard for her to comprehend. This was the same man who had shrugged off a concussion. The same man who had faced down a charging bear. Not to mention man-killing horses in the rodeo ring. She had come to understand Hazel’s faith in him. What she couldn’t fathom was his sudden tightness when it came to snow. After all, he grew up in Montana. Snow was ubiquitous here.
Ahead of her he reined in. She let Roman Nose move up beside him.
“Do you see the cabin?” she inquired hopefully.
He shook his head, half his face in shadow under his hat. “Cabin’s maybe twenty minutes ahead. Trouble is, we’ve got that to deal with.”
He pointed with his chin, and she glanced above them on the narrow trail. As far as she could see, a rock ledge covered the route ahead of them. A rock ledge that was now precariously crowned by a melting snow cornice.
“You can see the places out ahead where it’s already fallen,” he added. “Look at that one pile—big as a house. That’s solid-packed snow—weighs tons.”
“Yes, but isn’t it getting even more unstable while we stand here discussing it?” she said.
He gave her a grin. “By God, you’re learning,” he praised her. “But we’ll need at least ten minutes to pass under the ledge. It’s best to lead the horses, spread out at wide intervals. Tie this around your waist.”
He handed her one end of his lariat, tying the other around his own waist.
“I’ll go first,” he explained. “Let me get to the end of the rope before you and Roman Nose start. Keep your eyes peeled overhead.”
She had learned to trust his instincts. They had nearly cleared the dangerous overhead ledge. With each passing minute, more and more melt water splashed down on them. The back of her neck had begun to ache from staring overhead. Almost clear of trouble now, she let her gaze return to the trail ahead. Unfortunately the deadly fatigue that wore her down also decreased both her awareness and reaction time.
The moment a cracking, sliding noise began overhead, he gave a mighty tug on her rope. Startled, she flew a few yards forward and landed in an ungainly heap on the ground.
A heartbeat later a car-size chunk of ice and snow exploded in fragments precisely where she had been walking seconds earlier.
It had only barely missed Roman Nose, too. Now she had to scramble to avoid being trampled by her sidestepping horse.
“Hurry on, dammit!” he urged her. “That loosed the rest so it’s all coming down!”
But even as he spoke, the mass of the frozen overhang was cracking loose. Roman Nose leaped nimbly to safety. Jacquelyn, however, fell down trying to get traction in the snow.
A.J. gave up waiting. He pulled the rope taut and ran with it, literally dragging her the last twenty yards or so to clear the overhang.
Jacquelyn, facedown in the snow, heard a noise like the world exploding just behind her. Then she felt a shocking splash of ice fragments and ice-cold water wash over her.
“We’re keeping you alive in spite of yourself,” he chastised her mildly as he helped her up. “But I’m damned if we can keep you dry. You okay?”
She nodded. “Is the c-cabin close by, I hope?”
“We’re only five minutes from Bridger’s Summit. There’s cordwood at the cabin if nobody used it. Have you dry and warm in two shakes.”
Despite the chaos, he still had his bearings correct. Only a few minutes later they made their way around a big jumble of rocks. “There it is,” he called out. “Snowed in, but looks fine from here.”
She reined in beside him. The trail no longer seemed to be climbing now, and a flat clearing opened up like a fan before them. A small cabin of notched logs was protected by a man-made windbreak of rocks.
“I think we found the Ritz after all,” she said, her teeth chattering in earnest now. “What’s that out back? An outhouse?” She motioned to a small, weather-tight shack now half-buried in snow.
“No, the outhouse is down the back slope, out of sight from here. What you’re looking at is the springhouse. It used to cool food in the summer. See how it’s built right over that little bubbling spring? That spring’s one reason Jake bothered to haul wood up this high and build a cabin here.”
While they spoke they were moving closer, leading their horses now over the rocky, snow-slippery slope. A warm sun had created a multitude of little streamlets as snow melted. An old, rotten windlass beside the cabin creaked like rusty hinges in the wind.
“That lean-to off the cabin is for sheltering the horses,” he explained. “I’ll take care of them while you get some dry clothes on.”
She stared at him. Things had sure changed in the last day or so. She was no longer the neophyte, worthy of ridicule. In fact, now he almost seemed concerned about her, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it. It made her more uncomfortable than his derision.
“No doorknob?” she asked, staring doubtfully at the weather-warped, split-slab door.
“You think Jake had a hardware store nearby?” he teased. “See this leather latchstring? That’s your ‘knob.’ If you’re inside and you don’t want the door opened from outside, you just pull it in when you enter. Not much problem with privacy up here, though.”
His gunmetal eyes met her gaze as he added, “’Course, it was a honeymoon cabin.”
“I’m here to absorb history, not relive it,” she assured him, even though her cheeks burned at the remembrace of their hot kiss by the spring. She couldn’t get the picture out of her mind. There was something about being fully clothed, and him being naked, that hit an erotic button inside her. She could never remember kissing Joe like that. Their time together had always been quick, clean and cool. He had wanted a woman to put on a pedestal, and when he’d found one, he could not allow her to fall from it. And so the freeze came. In the end he wanted Gina, he’d decided, who was slow, messy and hot. He could never allow Jacquelyn to be that way, and she had wondered if it was even inside her.
But now, thinking about A.J., she was sure she could be that way. Slow, messy and hot. Sure, it was in her all right. Because it scared the hell out of her.
“Better let me poke my nose in first,” he suggested, looming behind her. “Sometimes critters take up residence inside.”
He shouldered the door open, and a musty, closed-up smell wafted to their noses. She peered around his chest, impressed at the cabin’s basically neat and orderly condition. Only a patina of undisturbed dust proved it wasn’t occupied.
“All clear,” he announced.
She saw a couple of cowhide-covered chairs and a solid deal table. An iron Franklin stove filled one corner, with a child’s cradle now serving as a wood holder beside it. The stove was designed for both cooking and heating. Two walls held bracket lamps, and a brass cuspidor sat near one of the chairs.
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 11
