High Country Hero. Lynna Banning

fork clattered onto the plate. “The Zack Beeler?”

      Cord’s black eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “You heard of him?”

      “Everyone’s heard of him. He’s an outlaw! A bank robber and a murderer. I saw his poster in my uncle’s office when I was just a girl.”

      “He’s also a fine trail cook. He taught me to make biscuits when I was seven.”

      Sage stared at Cord. Just what kind of man was he? “Mr. Lawson, what is it you do for a living?”

      “I’m a bounty hunter.”

      Oh. Oh. “Is the individual who needs a doctor, um…wanted?”

      “You could say that.” He dribbled a tablespoon of whiskey over his beans. “In a manner of speaking.”

      Speechless, Sage watched him smash up his biscuits with the fork tines and scoop beans over them. An outlaw. She was struggling up this trail to treat someone from the shady side of the law? Someone who might possibly be—in fact, likely was—dangerous?

      “Is this person your prisoner?”

      “Not exactly. Close enough, though. Can’t move much with a bullet in the back.”

      She picked up her fork, then set it down. She had to eat, had to keep up her strength. But suddenly the thought of beans and biscuits lost its appeal.

      He cocked his head at her. “Something the matter?”

      “Not hungry.”

      “Scared, you mean.”

      “Don’t put words in my mouth, Mr. Lawson.”

      “Better put some beans in it, then. Long day tomorrow. You don’t eat, you won’t be much good.”

      She sat back and digested his words, watching his hand move methodically from the plate in his lap to his mouth and back. She could deal with this, couldn’t she? Deal with him? A man she’d known a mere twelve hours? Scramble after him on a barely visible trail into the wilderness to treat Lord only knew who?

      She set her plate of food on the ground beside her and tipped sideways until her shoulder met the bedroll, then drew her knees up, wrapped her arms over her stomach and shut her eyes.

      His voice came from across the fire pit. “I know it’s tough. Hard riding when you haven’t sat a horse in some years. Steep trail. The river yet to cross.”

      Her heart leaped. Cross the river? Would she have to swim?

      “Maybe you’re afraid you’re not going to measure up?”

      “I’ll measure up, Mr. Lawson.” She licked her lips. “But…would it be all right if I measured up tomorrow?”

      The last thing she heard was the clink of tinware and his low chuckle.

      Chapter Four

      The next morning, Cord lay in his blanket, purposely not moving any part of his body, especially his head. How much had he drunk last night—a third of his stash? Half? He’d lay off when he’d got the doc up the mountain. In the meantime, he’d kill the thing that weighed on him any way he could.

      He heard noises around the camp, but his eyes wouldn’t open. “What time is it?”

      “Morning,” a female voice said. “Almost.”

      He cracked one eyelid. “What are you doing up so damn early?”

      “I am ‘measuring up,’ Mr. Lawson.” She waved a pan of fluffy-looking mounds under his nose. “Now these,” she announced with a note of satisfaction, “are biscuits.”

      He inhaled and had to agree; they sure smelled like biscuits.

      “Get up, and you can have some.”

      He drew in another breath and smelled bacon. And coffee. Oh, yes, Lord. Coffee. Measuring up? Hell’s bells, she was saving his life!

      He watched her move back to the campfire.

      She seemed stiff. He noticed she didn’t bend over, just flexed her knees to reach down. He wondered how she’d managed to poke the coals into a cookfire.

      She dipped, straight-backed, and turned over the sizzling bacon strips with a fork. The coffee simmered in the bean tin from last night’s supper.

      “I see you found the supplies.”

      “And your revolver,” she said in a neutral tone. “And your whiskey. Quite a lot of whiskey, in fact.”

      Cord’s breath hissed in. “Didn’t pour it out, did you?” That’s all he needed, a temperance advocate on a cross-country ride.

      “Certainly not. Whiskey is an excellent disinfectant.”

      He rolled out from under the scratchy, army-issue blanket and stood up. Mistake. He shut his eyes against the pounding in his temples and dropped to his knees. Lord God, he’d done it again.

      “Here.” Her voice came from somewhere close by, and the next thing he knew she was folding his fingers around a tin mug. “Drink it,” she ordered. “And don’t vomit.”

      His stomach flipped at the word. I won’t. I can’t. Not with her watching. He brought the mug to his nose and inhaled. She might be a prim and proper lady, but she sure could make coffee. He slurped in a mouthful. She measured up just fine.

      “Ready for breakfast?”

      “No,” he growled.

      “Your boots are warming by the fire.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Your shirt’s airing out on that tree limb.”

      “Airing out?”

      “It’s filthy,” she said, her voice crisp.

      “I’m filthy. Haven’t had a bath since—”

      She tsk-tsked. “Inadequate hygiene. We’ll bathe tonight. Assuming we camp near a stream.”

      Cord let a long minute pass while he sipped hot coffee and tested his equilibrium.

      “And another thing,” she began. “I do not think—”

      “Hold it,” he snapped. He lifted his free hand toward her, fingers up. “Hold it right there. You sure as hell are measuring up. Any more and I’ll have to hand over my pants and let you wear ’em.”

      “Well, that won’t be necessary I’m sure, Mr. Lawson.” She sounded pleased. “But now that you mention it, since you are wearing your pants, would you mind putting on the rest of your clothes before we eat? I am not used to sharing my meals with a half-dressed gentleman.”

      “I don’t much care what you’re used to, Doc. And as for the gentleman part—”

      “You needn’t explain,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “I am aware.”

      Cord stalked over to the fire and stuffed his right foot into his boot. “Ouch! Goldarnit, it’s hot!”

      Her eyes widened. “Don’t you wear socks?”

      “Did you find any socks when you rustled through my things?” he growled.

      “No. But I sleep with mine on, so I naturally thought…”

      Cord glared at her. “Well, I sleep with mine off. In fact, I never wear socks. Or drawers, so don’t yank my pants off cuz you think they need ‘airing.’”

      “Which they do,” she offered. There was a hint of laughter in her voice, but he was too mad—and too hungry, he realized—to care.

      “My pants,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, “don’t get washed until