Sweet Sarah Ross. Julie Tetel

a fur trader or a bison hunter or even a settler. It was just his luck to have run into the Tetons on a bad day in a bad mood.

      And it was just his luck to have run into a beautiful idiot who didn’t understand the first thing about life on the frontier. He might even have said as much to her. But she had a pair of scissors in her bag and was wearing yards and yards of useful cloth, and now he had dragged himself over the twigs and the rocks and the sand and was at river’s edge and didn’t have a thing to worry about anymore.

      He put his face in the water and drank. It was cold and bracing and provided as exquisite a pleasure-pain as he had ever experienced. He drank some more and then some more. The more he drank the thirstier he became, and he doubted that he could ever drink enough to have enough excess to piss ever again.

      When he needed air more than he needed water, he lifted his head, turned his entire body. He picked the absurd flower-printed bandages off his feet, rinsed them out. Then he flopped over so that he could immerse his blazing members in the cold. The sizzling sting of the water on the open sores of his soles nearly killed him, but almost as quickly numbed his wretched feet, so that the overall effect was mercifully, outrageously sensual. He lay on his back in the sand, his feet in the water, his eyes on the clouds drifting across the diamond dust in the night sky, and thought, It’s good to be alive.

      With his return to life came the return of his ability to plan for the future. He knew where he was. He knew who he was with. He knew his resources. He knew what he would be up against come morning. His chances didn’t look good.

      Still, it was good to be alive.

      He yielded to the pleasure of bathing his feet in icecold water and of witnessing the magnificent spill of stars high above. His well-trained eyes picked out the constellations, and he reckoned the lateness of the hour by the hunter Orion walking stiff-legged across the sky. He tried to find the Little Dipper by climbing up its tail from the polestar but lost it in a sky too milky with moonlight.

      He could think of ways to improve his lot in life, and the first would be to spirit away the woman with the shawl to the drawing rooms of Washington, D.C. He could picture her perfectly there, chattering all day long with every other woman he had ever known who was exactly like her. He had, alas, no magical powers to transport her from here to there, and the more he accepted her presence in his immediate circumstances, the happier he was that he had a pair of trousers to wear.

      Lying naked on the riverbed, he made a mental note to put those trousers on before the first rays of dawn would illuminate him, once again, in all his masculine glory.

      

      Sarah snuffled half-awake to a rumbling in her stomach and a crick in her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but her room was flooded with disturbing daylight, suggesting that someone had forgotten to draw the curtains. And her bed was as hard as the earth. She groggily rehearsed the prettily worded complaint she would offer the hostess of the house party she must be attending.

      Then she remembered that she was lying on the board she had for a bed in the wagon and regretted having turned down William’s offer of marriage. She sat bolt upright, put a hand to her neck and shook her head to alter the unpleasant illusion that she was seated directly on the ground in a clump of trees in the middle of nowhere and in the company of—

      A man-beast who was sitting cross-legged with his back to her. He seemed to be tending something in front of him, but at the groan she emitted upon coming fully awake, he turned and looked at her. She was pleased that he was wearing the trousers she had retrieved for him, but the expression on his face did not encourage her to think that she would find him any more agreeable today than she had the day before.

      Nevertheless, she greeted him properly. “Good morning, sir. I trust you are feeling better today than yesterday. May I ask if your feet are improved?”

      A look of faint disbelief—or was it amusement?—crossed his features. “I’ll put it this way,” he answered her. “I’m no longer running the risk of fatal infection, but I’m not walking anywhere today. We’ll be staying put.”

      The vision of a tedious day stretched before her. She sighed and felt the wreck of her coiffure, then patted the ground for precious pins that might have fallen while she slept. She picked up her bonnet, brushed it off, took out the stockings she had stuffed inside it. She folded these into the waistband of her skirts and rose to her feet, holding the bonnet by its ties so that it dangled from her hand.

      “We’ve plenty to do,” he added, turning back around, “so don’t worry about remaining idle.”

      This was not the first time he had accurately guessed her thoughts. “Do you fancy yourself something of a mind reader, sir?” she demanded, palming several hairpins.

      He shook his head and occupied himself with whatever was in front of him. “No, but it’s plain you haven’t traveled much.” She was sorry that he had turned his back to her, for he missed her rather superior smile. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been to England and back.”

      To that he made no response.

      “Two years ago it was, and my chaperon was an elderly lady who needed more care than she gave. So I assure you that I have dealt with many demanding situations as a traveler abroad and proved myself equal to all occasions.”

      “Ah. Now tell me. What language do they speak in England?”

      Poor, ignorant man-beast! “They speak English, sir, and it is a version very similar to that which you and I speak.”

      “The dwellings the English inhabit, what manner would they be? And what manner of conveyance do the English commonly use?”

      “They live in houses, some of which are like palaces, and they often ride in carriages.”

      “I see. Tell me something else. What language do the Sioux speak?”

      “Indian, I suppose.”

      “What manner of dwelling do they inhabit?”

      “I have heard they live in rough tents called tepees.”

      “And have you encountered any roads or carriageways in the past few days?”

      She caught the man’s drift and was annoyed. “I gather it is your objective to emphasize the dissimilarities in my two traveling experiences,” she said evenly, “but I can tell you that crossing a vast ocean is a very demanding experience.”

      “We’re not on the ocean now, we don’t enjoy the protection of a ship with a well-stocked hold, and we aren’t bound for familiar or friendly shores.”

      Her response was frosty. “You have made your point, sir.”

      This was hardly the ideal beginning to the day, which, she noted, had hardly dawned. She yawned, then stretched out the kinks in her back and neck. At that moment she caught a whiff of something malodorous. “What’s that I smell?”

      “Breakfast.”

      Approaching him, she looked over his shoulder and puzzled over the sight of a jumble of smoking rocks crisscrossed by sticks. “And what is for breakfast?”

      “Tree frogs.”

      She thought she detected a slightly gleeful note in his deep voice, like the kind a little boy might use when dangling a slimy worm before a little girl. Although her empty stomach recoiled when she perceived the outlines of the small, shriveled creatures skewered on sticks, she suppressed her revulsion in order to reply knowledgeably, “The French eat frogs. They are considered quite a delicacy.”

      He took a stick and held up a wizened carcass. “Want one?”

      She declined the French delicacy, citing customary lack of appetite first thing in the morning. She saw him take the frog off the stick and begin to eat it. Feeling nauseous, she looked away and announced her intention to go to the river. She added—with as much dignity as rumpled clothing and a ruined coiffure would allow—that she hoped she could be assured of her privacy.

      To