Morning Light (16 page)

Just before dark, when the sun finally dipped below the mountains behind them, Clint brought his horse to a halt, pushed up in the stirrups, and hollered back, “This spot looks about as good as any to make camp for the night. What do you think?”

Loni craned her neck to see around him. Just ahead, a bend in the river provided a shallow pool. Off to the left, a small, flat area was carpeted with grass and encircled by trees. “You're the expert.”

This time Loni knew as she dismounted to keep a death grip on the saddle horn until she was sure her legs would support her. Even then, her knees wobbled with every step. Biting her lip at the pain, she led Uriah to the clearing. After watching Clint for a moment, she spoke softly to the gelding as she removed the saddlebags and then loosened the girth strap around his belly. She staggered and almost fell when she pulled the saddle from his back.

“Whoa! I'll get that.” Clint hurried over to relieve her of the burden. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

“I'm sure your sister lifts saddles off of horses all the time.”

“True, but she's been doing it for years. There's a trick to it. We call it the swing-and-drop maneuver.” He flashed her a crooked grin. “Try muscling that much weight at head height and you'll hurt your back.”

Loni already ached in every joint of her body. The last thing she wanted was a strained back, too. So instead of wrestling with saddles, she only helped loosen them and then allowed Clint to do the lifting.

When all the horses were relieved of their burdens, they rubbed them down and took them to the river to drink. Oddly, Loni enjoyed that part most. Uriah truly was a sweetie. He reminded her a little of Hannah, snuffling her clothing and giving her affectionate nudges. Bathsheba was precious, too, if you overlooked the fact that she was a tiny bit spoiled. In a way Loni could sympathize. This trip was rather hard on a pampered lady. Maybe, she decided, that was why she enjoyed petting the horses. She could stand in one place and not wiggle her butt muscles very much.

They'd hobbled the equines in the clearing and she was feeding them handfuls of grass, enjoying the tickle of their lips on her palm, when Clint hollered for her help. He was trying to string what he called a high line between two trees, and he needed her to hold the rope.

She was so exhausted she wanted to weep by the time they got all the animals fed and settled in for the night. But the work was still far from finished. Rocks had to be found to encircle a fire pit Clint quickly created with a short-handled spade. Wood had to be collected. The tent had to be put up. By the time Clint got a fire going she was ready to drop in her tracks. Her inner thighs burned like fire. Her butt felt as if it were black and blue. Her legs threatened to buckle every time she took a step.

“Here, have a seat,” Clint said.

Loni glanced behind her at the folded sleeping bag he'd laid on the ground. It looked wonderfully soft and tempting. But she hurt too much all over to bend her knees and sit. As if sensing her dilemma, Clint took her hands.

“Lean your weight against me. I'll lower you down.”

Loni felt ridiculous, but she honestly couldn't get down there by herself. He deposited her, rump-first, on the cushiony folds, making her landing as gentle as possible.

Loni was about to thank him when he said, “Drop your pants.”

Certain her ears were deceiving her, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Drop your pants.”

L
oni couldn't think what to say. He wanted her to drop her jeans? Hands at his hips, booted feet set wide apart, he stood before her, as unbending as a tree, his dark eyes holding hers in a relentless grip.

“You're saddle sore,” he said.

As if she needed him to tell her that? She had a very bad feeling her abused posterior had somehow been added to his evening chore list, right up there with lifting the horse's hooves to check their frogs for stones.

“Has anyone ever mentioned that you need to work on your lead-ins?”

He gave her a bewildered look. “My what?”

“Your lead-ins. You shouldn't just walk up to a woman and tell her to drop her pants.”

“I shouldn't?”

Loni glimpsed a twinkle of amusement in his coffee brown eyes. “No, you
shouldn't.
It would be far nicer if you
eased
your way into it, saying something like, ‘You seem to be in a lot of discomfort. Maybe I'd better have a look.'”

He nodded. “All right. You seem to be in a lot of discomfort. Maybe I'd better have a look.” He nudged his hat back to smile at her. “Is that better?”

“Not really.”

He chuckled. “No matter how I say it, you're not going to like it.”

“You're right. I'm not in the habit of dropping my pants in front of men.”

“I never thought otherwise, which is precisely why I thought the direct, no-bullshit approach was my best option. To put it simply, you're in serious trouble. If I don't rub you down with Hooter's special salve, you may not be able to walk tomorrow, let alone ride.”

“Surely it won't be
that
bad.”

“I've seen people so stiff and sore, they couldn't get out of bed the next morning.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?” He held up a staying hand. “Forget I asked that.”

Loni had to struggle not to laugh, and if that wasn't crazy, she didn't know what was. “What kind of special salve is it?”

“Basically, a miracle cure for the pain you're in right now.”

“If you'll bring it to me, I'll apply it myself.”

As he strode over to a pack that lay nearby, he said, “This is no time for modesty, Ms. MacEwen. I know my way around saddle sores, and you don't.”

“The saddle sores happen to be on
my
posterior, Mr. Harrigan.”

“I have no designs on your posterior. I'm more worried about your legs.”

Loni had to admit that her legs were horribly sore. Muttering under her breath, she attempted to remove her borrowed footwear, no easy task when it hurt to bend her knees. Tossing the tube of salve onto the sleeping bag, he crouched in front of her and grabbed a boot by its heel.

“Let me, sweetheart. At the best of times riding boots are a bitch to get off. I've got a bootjack in almost every room of the house.”

“What on earth is a bootjack?”

“A V-shaped gadget that sits on the floor. You stand on one end, stick the heel of your other boot in the V, and after a little cussing and tugging, the boot comes off.”

“Maybe you should wear lace-ups.”

He looked appalled. “Lace-ups? When you're wading through horse puckey all day, you have to take your boots off every time you go to the house. Laces are too much trouble.”

With an expertise born of long practice, he tugged the first boot off and tossed it aside. The second one soon followed. Then he reached to unfasten the waistband of her jeans. Loni grasped his wide wrists and gave him a startled look.

“You seem to be in a lot of discomfort,” he said with a teasing grin. “Maybe I'd better have a look.”

She laughed in spite of herself, and the next thing she knew, the denim was being peeled down her thighs. To his credit he kept his gaze on her legs, and his manner was so businesslike that it helped to calm her jangled nerves.

When he saw the purple marks on her inner thighs, he swore under his breath, twisted the cap off the tube, and squirted some clear ointment onto his palm.

“This is going to set you on fire,” he warned. “But as soon as the burning stops you'll feel better.”

Loni jumped when his hard hand slipped between her legs. “I really don't think—”

That was all she had time to say. The next instant she was hissing air through her teeth, trying her best not to cry out.

“I know it hurts.” His voice had gone deep and gravelly. “But it has to be done.”

Loni locked her jaws. But just as he'd promised, the sting soon began to abate. Kneeling between her parted thighs, he massaged her flesh, his hard fingers kneading deep to reach the tortured muscles.

“Try not to feel embarrassed,” he told her. “I've seen women at the supermarket wearing less than you are right now.”

Practically speaking, he was right. During the summer Loni sometimes made grocery runs wearing shorts and a blouse, and she never felt indecently exposed. But somehow this was different. It was also next to impossible for her to relax with a man's hands touching her in such intimate places.

Only,
oh
, it did feel good. He knew precisely where the soreness was, and the gentle but firm strokes of his fingers soon chased the stiffness from her muscles. To distance herself from the humiliation, she tipped her face up to the darkening sky, wishing the butterfly puzzle at her gynecologist's office were pinned up there for her to study. Finding individual butterflies in the swirls of color always distracted her until the most mortifying part of an exam was over.

When he'd finished with her thighs he said, “Roll over on your stomach.”

Her gynecologist could give him some lessons in bedside manner, Loni thought. But in a weird way, his no-nonsense, “let's get this over with” tone eased her self-consciousness. To her surprise she was actually able to move without whimpering.

He spent the next few minutes working on the backs of her legs. Then he handed her the salve. “I'll let you handle the rest.”

Loni decided he was referring to the places under her panties. She was grateful when he turned his back to put more wood on the fire, allowing her some privacy. After applying the medication she tried to mimic his massage techniques, pushing in deep with her fingers to reach all the throbbing spots. Sadly, her attempts fell far short of his, but she did the best she could, then shimmied into her jeans and tugged the boots back on.

“I'm decent.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Feel better?”

Loni was surprised to realize that she did. “Much better. What is this stuff, anyway?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Yes, I do. It's fabulous.”

“It's horse salve.”

“What?”

He chuckled. “You see? Now you're appalled. It won't hurt you, I promise, and come morning you'll be able to ride again.”

“Horse salve.” Loni squinted to read the label in the waning light. “Oh, my gosh, it
is
horse salve.”

“A jockey back East came up with the concoction to treat racehorses with pulled tendons or sprains. Then he patented the recipe and began marketing it. That's probably why it burns so bad when you first apply it, because he created it to radiate heat through a horse's coat, and we apply it to bare skin. My ranch foreman, Hooter, discovered that it works even better on humans than it does on equines, and we've been using it on the trail ever since. Even veteran riders who don't get on a horse all winter can get saddle sore during the first spring ride.”

Loni could still feel the heat radiating deep into her tortured flesh. It wasn't quite as wonderful as sitting in a hot Jacuzzi, but it came close. “I'm glad you thought to bring it.”

He grinned and winked at her. “I brought it along especially for you.”

“Which must mean you weren't worried about getting sore yourself. Do you ride frequently, then, even in the winter?”

“Oh, yeah. That's why I built that huge arena, so my horses and I can stay in shape even when the snow's ass-deep to a tall Texan.”

Loni had never sat by a campfire after dark. On the one hand the blackness of the woods around them was unnerving. The light of the flames seemed to compound her night blindness. But when she wasn't thinking about long-toothed predators sneaking up behind her, she found herself mesmerized by the dancing tongues of fire and the orange embers that occasionally snapped and shot up sparks. She also enjoyed the wonderful smell of the wood smoke. It was far better than any campfire scene she'd ever watched in a movie. You missed the true ambience when you were sitting on a sofa, munching popcorn.

Popcorn. Mmm.
That sounded so good.

She wasn't expecting much by way of an evening meal, but Clint surprised her with delicious-smelling beef stew heated right in the cans. He used a folded piece of leather to protect his hand as he turned the containers and occasionally stirred the contents with a camp spoon.

Watching, Loni found it easy to imagine him in an Old West setting. Whether he liked the term or not, he was the very epitome of a cowboy, from the crown of his brown Stetson to the toes of his dusty riding boots. His blue chambray shirt, soft with wear, skimmed his torso, showcasing his lean, muscular upper body. He seemed as comfortable in a crouch as most people were sitting on a stool, giving the impression that he could hold the position for hours without his leg muscles tiring. With the pines silhouetted in feathery black against a navy blue sky behind him, and the campfire limning him in amber, he looked like a man from another era.

“That smells divine,” she said, inclining her head at the stew. “I didn't realize I was hungry until now.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Where was the Orville Redenbacher Kettle Korn when she needed it?

A horse chuffed and whinnied. Pushing easily to his feet, Clint went to check on the animals. In the darkness his deep voice carried to her on the crisp night air, his affectionate rumblings making her smile. His horses weren't mere possessions to him, but friends that he cherished.

She admired his gentle way with them, and also his limitless patience. In only a day Loni had come to realize that each horse had a different personality and its own little quirks. She suspected that many horsemen would view any headstrong behavior in an animal as unacceptable, but Clint humored his horses as much as possible, allowing each of them to be individuals. Bathsheba, for instance, had to have her treats, her favorite being tender baby carrots. If Clint forgot to reward her periodically throughout the day, she started whinnying, much like a spoiled child that grew whiny. Then there was Malachi, Clint's mount, a gorgeous thirteen-year-old flaxen chestnut gelding who
insisted
on always being in the lead. If Clint fell back in line for too long, Malachi would take the bit in his teeth and trot back up to the front. When the horse reached what he clearly believed to be his rightful place in line, he made sounds that Clint laughingly called “Malachi's happy grunts.”

Oddly, Clint's leniency with his horses never resulted in obstinate behavior. He respected the equines, and in turn they seemed to respect him. It was heartwarming to watch man and animals interact. Clint was firm and demanding when necessary, but after watching him all day, Loni had determined that he preferred using a reward system to encourage obedience rather than force a horse into compliance.

After checking each of the animals, he headed back toward Loni, stopping off en route to rummage through a pack. When he returned to the fire, he held a plastic bottle of whiskey in one hand. With a quick turn of his wrist, he uncapped the container, tipped it to his lips, and then wiped the mouth clean with the tail of his shirt before passing it down to her.

“Not much by way of a before-dinner cocktail, but it'll have to do.”

“Oh, I—”

“Have some. It's part of the Harrigan saddle-sore cure, not to mention that it'll help you sleep.”

She smiled and took the bottle. “Cheers.” She took a swig, shuddering at the burn. “Oh,
nasty.
”

He reclaimed the whiskey, took another swallow, and then replaced the cap. “It always tastes better the second time around.”

A few moments later Loni could attest to the truth of that. The next swallow did taste better. She was feeling relaxed and languorous by the time supper was ready. Clint sat beside her on the sleeping bag as they partook of the stew and a sleeve of saltine crackers. Both of them were so hungry that they barely came up for breath between bites. The taste of the stew, the scrape of their spoons against the cans, the smoky scent—
ah
, it was wonderful, as close to an orgasm as Loni had ever come. As her appetite for food waned, she thought about the injustice of that. Other women had sex and babies, thinking nothing of it, while she satisfied her cravings with kettle corn produced by Orville Redenbacher, a man who'd been dead for at least ten years.