When the last of the steers stumbled down the muddy bank and into the river, Zach watched Dusty tentatively turn her gelding toward the water to follow them. He knew Dusty’s sorrel would swim; what he didn’t know was how steady its rider’s nerves would be. A river crossing could be dangerous. More drovers died from drowning in rain-swollen rivers than from gunfire.
He was halfway across, Dancer swimming strongly in the roiling water, when Dusty’s gelding waded in up to its hocks and struck out for the opposite bank. She clung to the saddle horn with both hands, but a sudden surge of current swept her off the animal and dumped her into the river.
“Grab his tail!” Zach yelled. He watched her flail after the horse and lunge for its bushy tail. She held on for a scant minute, then lost her grip. With a strangled cry she went under.
He plunged toward her, but the raging current was sweeping her downstream. “Hold on!” he yelled. He grabbed his lariat, spun it out and dropped it over her head and shoulders.
She made a desperate grab for the rope, and when her hands closed on it he swam Dancer to the sandy bank, dallied the rope around his saddlehorn and began reeling her in, hand over hand, while she thrashed in the icy water. She clung to the lifeline until her feet scrabbled on the river bottom and she staggered up the bank.
Zach dismounted. Holding the rope taut, he pulled her in like a hooked fish. When she reached him he stepped toward her, slipped the lariat off over her shoulders and tossed it aside. She stumbled forward and he snaked out an arm and pulled her against him.
Damn, she was cold! She shook uncontrollably and her teeth were chattering. He put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. A mile ahead Juan peeled away from the herd and galloped back.
“Get a blanket!” Zach shouted. “And some whiskey. In my saddlebag.”
Five minutes later he wrapped the rough wool blanket around her and held the whiskey bottle to her lips. “Swallow,” he ordered. She coughed and sputtered and tears came to her eyes. “Again,” he barked. Her teeth chattered against the rim of the bottle, but she took another big gulp.
Juan was already building a fire, feeding it with dry brush and tumbleweeds until the flames began to crackle. Then he looked up.
“Ride on ahead and tell Roberto to save us some supper.”
“Si, boss. Is stew and corn bread tonight.”
Dusty was still shaking like an aspen tree in a high wind, and he snugged the blanket around her as he watched Juan clatter off. The minute he was out of sight, Zach set her trembling body away from him.
“Strip,” he ordered.
Mute, she stared up at him. “Strip,” he repeated. “Get out of those wet duds. Most cowhands die of pneumonia.” He dropped to his knees and snagged off her waterlogged boots.
She didn’t move.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled. “Get your clothes off!”
She scrabbled ineffectually at her leather belt, but it was plain as pudding her fingers weren’t working. He stood up and did the job for her, tugged her jeans over her hips and when she stepped out of them he tossed them aside.
She fumbled at her shirt buttons until he took over. She was shaking so violently he could scarcely force the buttons through the buttonholes. Finally the garment opened all the way down the front and he snaked it off her shoulders, trying hard not to look at her.
Now he was down to her soaked camisole and drawers. He sucked in his breath, let the blanket drop, and pulled her arms up over her head. She made little moaning sounds when he stripped off the upper garment and instantly clasped her arms across her bare breasts. He steeled himself to keep his eyes on the ground, grabbed up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then he blew out all the air in his lungs and slid her drawers down over her hips. Lordy, her skin was frigid. And, oh, God, it felt smooth under his fingers.
He pulled the lower part of the blanket closed over her hips and turned away to wring out the garments and lay them out on the flat rocks Juan had gathered around the fire. He nudged her forward and pressed her down onto the largest stone.
She dropped her head to her knees but said nothing. Juan galloped up and thrust a canteen into Zach’s hand. “Café. Roberto sends.”
Zach grinned. “Gracias, amigo.”
“The señorita, she will be all right?”
“Yeah. She will be, in a little bit.”
Juan touched his hat brim and reined away. Zach glanced over at Dusty. “You gettin’ warm?”
She snugged the blanket tighter about her body and gave a jerky nod, so he uncapped the canteen and held it out. “Hot coffee.” She took a sip, and he screwed the cap back on and folded her hands around the warm metal. Her fingers felt like icicles.
For the next half hour he piled dry branches onto the fire and tried not to look at her. Knowing that she was buck naked under that blanket didn’t help much. He tried not to think about her satiny skin and her... He tried hard not to think about her at all. Instead, he watched her wet clothes steam away on the rocks. The small, light items dried almost immediately, but he knew by the time everything else got dry, their supper in camp some distance ahead of them would be stone cold.
He stood up, shrugged out of his vest, then unbuttoned his red plaid shirt and tossed it to her.
“Put this on. I’ll turn my back.”
Her burble of laughter made him blink. “What f-for? You already t-took off all my clothes!” She didn’t sound mad, exactly. Just tired and cold and maybe beginning to feel human again. A good sign.
“I didn’t look,” he said evenly. “I wanted to, but there were more important things.”
He risked a glance at her face, expecting... He didn’t know what he expected. But even though her lips were still almost blue, she was trying to smile. She downed another swig of coffee and held the canteen out to share with him.
Something in his chest tightened at the gesture. He waved it off and turned away, and when he looked back, she’d donned his shirt and was eyeing her still-steaming jeans.
“It’ll be a tight fit,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “They’re still wet.”
“I c-could wrap this blanket around my waist, c-couldn’t I? Then we could ride on and get some supper.”
“You need trousers,” he said flatly. He walked off a few yards, found a dry juniper branch and whittled some pointed sticks. He poked four into the ground close to the fire and draped her jeans over them. About twenty more minutes, he figured. Then he scanned the horizon for the chuck wagon. He knew it would be about two miles ahead, but he couldn’t see it.
Her jeans were only half dry when she stood up. “I’m g-getting hungry,” she announced. “I’m going to get dressed. Turn your back, please.”
Her voice had gone all shy and ladyfied. Okay, he’d be a gentleman and turn his back, but he sure couldn’t turn off his imagination. Juan was right—Dusty was mucho woman. Her skin, where he accidentally brushed against it, felt like silk, smooth and inviting. And...inviting. He clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palm.
God forgive him, he wanted to touch her, run his fingers down her bare spine to her...
Don’t go there, Strickland. Keep your mind on the business at hand.
But the business at hand was a naked Dusty, who was sitting three feet away from him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to think about it. Close enough to want to. Oh, hell, he had to admit he wanted to run his tongue over her nipples. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to touch her all over, in places he’d wager no man had ever touched her. He wanted to be the first.
But there wasn’t time to be honest with himself. He had to get her back to camp before he forgot the should and oughts, and when he got her back to camp, what he would give to be able to take a long, cold bath.
He turned away, but it was harder than he thought. He fought not to watch. And he tried like hell to ignore the picture that rose in his mind of her covering that trim little butt with white cotton and pulling that lacy camisole over her breasts. God, as cold as he was, he was beginning to sweat.
After a long ten minutes he heard her tentative voice.
“I—I can only get my jeans halfway up. They’re still awfully damp.”
His heart turned a big fat somersault inside his chest. “Want some help?”
“N-no.” Another long pause. “Well, yes, I guess I do.”
He walked around in back of her, keeping his eyes averted as best he could, grabbed the waistband of her jeans and gave a good hard tug. She kind of shimmied her behind back and forth until the jeans fit while Zach gritted his teeth and tried not to notice.
Then he sank down in front of her and pulled her wet leather boots on over first one foot and then the other while she steadied herself with one hand on his shoulder.
He liked that, her touching him. Shouldn’t, maybe, but he did.
Finally he stood up. “Think you can ride?”
She nodded. “After s-surviving a cold swim in the river, I c-can do anything. That water was much colder than the other night when I took a bath.”
“Different river,” Zach said. He kicked dirt over the fire, walked Dancer over close to her, and boosted her up into the saddle. Her butt was cold and damp, but the fit of her jeans was so snug he had to look away.