A Serpent In Turquoise. Peggy Nicholson

unbroken one in a position to help, and it might hold the two of them.

      “What are you doing up there?” she snarled.

      “Just making us a sky hook,” he said soothingly as he tied the rope around the branch, then knotted in foot loops. Once he’d done that, he shinnied down the rope, to swing there level with her, toeing frantically for the last loop. He found it and settled his weight into it, then drawled cheerily, “Well, hey!”

      Her upside-down face turned back and forth, then homed in when he whistled softly. “This is not the brightest idea you ever had in your life.”

      “You always this bitchy when you’re scared?” He snagged the doorframe to pull himself closer. “Okay, here’s the drill.” He’d cut her loose, while she hung on to the steering wheel. Then she’d rotate, till they were no longer in sixty-nine position. “And then—”

      “I get the picture. Just do it!”

      “Right.” Drawing his Buck Knife from its sheath, he sawed at the seat belt. “Okay, here it comes. It’s all yours!”

      Panting with terror and effort, she worked her legs out, her knees knocking him in the chest as she rotated upright. Then she dangled, treading air, her head stuck somewhere up in the Jeep’s foot well. “N-now what?”

      He grabbed the wheel, pulled himself closer. “Get your legs around my waist.”

      Easier said than done, but they managed. She had miles of leg, and he’d swear she wrapped them twice around, squeezing him like an anaconda.

      “Now all you have to do is let go of the wheel, and wrap your arms around my neck. Just let go, honey, and reach for me.”

      “I—I can’t.”

      He opened his mouth to argue—and the Jeep shifted. With a screech, she let go and boarded him, hugging him in a stranglehold. The car slid farther and McCord kicked off its moving side. As they pendulumed outward, tons of steel sighed and slipped past and was gone.

      “Yowsa!” he said reverently as their lips met. No telling who kissed whom, but still they brushed, and brushed again, then locked on tight.

      Half a mile below, the Jeep pancaked on rock. The sparks singed him from here, or maybe that was the hot woman, almost welded to his belly. No sane man would feel a twinge of arousal, dangling over his own death on not much more than a healthy twig, but with the way she shuddered against him and the wild, wet taste of her…

      Wham…wham…wham…wham…The echoes bounced off the far wall of the canyon and back again. McCord rubbed his lips across her cheek and up through her hair. She smelled like a surfer girl, whiff of coconut oil and sun-kissed sweat. He must be purely out of his mind. He glanced up at the bending branch. “There’s just one thing more we have to do.”

      The first ten feet was the hardest part, but she had the slender arms of a rock climber and McCord gave her a boost. She swarmed up his body, then the rope.

      By the time they heaved themselves over the cliff edge to collapse face-down and gasping on the road, it was just about pitch-dark. McCord rolled over and lay beaming gratefully up at the sky.

      “God!” She groaned and flopped over beside him. Her shoulder was pressed against his and it started to shake. He swung his head to look at her. So here came the girlish tears at last, and who could blame her? But no, this was laughter, bubbling and building from a silent chortle to wholehearted hoots of relief as he joined in. They struggled to a sitting position and clung to each other, yelping like a couple of moonstruck coyotes.

      At last they wound down, till they sat, shaking with their last spasms, his arm around her shoulders, their foreheads resting comfortably against each other’s. She pulled away to lean back on her hands in the dirt. “Th-thanks.”

      “Heck, I only climbed down there to get the name of your insurance company. Next thing I know, I’m hanging by my fingernails, wearing—” You. And she’d fit him better than his favorite wet suit. McCord turned to study her. Her pale, tousled hair and long, lithe form, backlit by the first stars were about all he could make out, but there was something about her growly, soft voice that curled his toes. Down, boy, he told himself absently, then stood. “Stay right there, honey.”

      “Name’s Raine,” she called as he walked to the Rover to find his flashlight.

      And she didn’t care to be patronized, he noted with a grin; not with her feet on solid ground. “Watch your eyes.” He aimed the light down at the gravel and switched it on, wondering if the rest of her matched that come-to-bed voice. “Well,” he said, and found himself grinning wider. He must look like George the coyote when McCord pulled a chunk of rabbit off the fire and prepared to toss him his share.

      She must be used to that reaction. Her smile quirked wry and resigned as she met his eyes. Or tried to. Instead she focused somewhere left of his ear.

      “Still seeing double?” he asked her.

      Actually, I figured you for the Twirling Triplets from Texas. “Guess I banged my head on the steering wheel.”

      “That’s not good.” He touched her forehead, making her jump. “Easy. Sorry. I just want to check you out.” His gentle, work-roughened fingertips explored her temples with feathery strokes that set off ripples in her stomach. “Yeah, you’ve got a split here, right at your hairline. You’ll need a few stitches and a good shampoo.” His voice went brisk with decision. “I think the doc better have a look at you.”

      It took him nearly fifteen minutes of inching forward and back to turn his car from its slewed position till it pointed downhill. Finally he helped her into the passenger seat, then fastened her seat belt. “Not that you’re going to need this. I’m the world’s best driver, so just lean back and relax.” He adjusted the seat till she was tipped almost horizontal.

      The fear had left her drained and it would have felt good to lie back, if it hadn’t made her feel less in control, being carried off into the dizzy dark. She fumbled for the lever as he walked around to his side, but she couldn’t find it. “Really, I don’t need a doctor,” she tried again as he climbed in beside her and drove away.

      “Probably not, but I can’t leave you sitting in the road, and I don’t think you’d care to be dropped off at Magdalena’s Cantina. Might get more help than you need.”

      “God, no. That’s where all my troubles started!” She told him about the lumberjacks. “I guess their truck was too wide for this track. That must be why they stopped chasing. But what I’m wondering is why they hassled me in the first place. Maybe Magdalena sicced them on me?”

      He swore as the car bounced through a pothole, then landed with a sickening slither on the gravel. “Why would she do that?”

      “I was trying to connect with a guy, a Professor McCord, who picks up his mail at the cantina. She seems to think she owns him.”

      “Huh.” He drove in silence for a while, then muttered, “I suppose Magdalena figures she’s got a lease on every man who walks through her door.”

      “She’s welcome to ’em. I’ve no intention of jumping her claim. My interest is strictly professional.”

      “Hmmm. You’re a…travel writer?”

      “Nope.” She winced as she realized she’d just blown her cover.

      “Ah, a mountain climber. You’re lookin’ to hire a camp manager.”

      “Not me. But McCord does that?” She shifted to look at him, then winced as it hit her again; there were three overlapping images where there ought to be one.

      “When he’s trying to scrape some cash together, he’s been known to do that. And worse things,” he added under his breath as the car slid again and he shifted to low. “You with the ATF? The DEA?”

      “McCord runs guns? Or dope?”

      “Not