Miss Murray On The Cattle Trail. Lynna Banning

and she had always arranged her life for the maximum comfort with a minimum effort. Maybe Mama had known something Alex didn’t.

      Something jostled her, and she snapped her lids open. Zach Strickland’s black horse was beside her mount. He tipped his head to indicate she should pull off to the side, then reined in and reached over to grasp her horse’s bridle.

      She ran her tongue over her gritty teeth and opened her mouth. “Is something wrong?”

      “Maybe.” He gave her a look and quickly glanced away, then poured water from his canteen over a blue bandanna and pressed it into her hand. “Tie this over your nose and mouth. Keeps out the dust.” He kicked his horse and trotted off.

      “Thank you,” she called after him, but he gave no sign he’d heard. Hurriedly, she tied on the wet bandanna and drew in a mercifully grit-free breath. Oh, no. He would surely have noticed her tear-streaked face. Darn him! She hated it when she appeared weak and wishy-washy.

      Like her mother.

      With a groan she snatched up the reins and urged her mount forward. She hated Zach Strickland. Anyone who would revel in her distress was no gentleman.

      But he wasn’t reveling. Actually, he had done her a kindness. It was a civilized gesture, she acknowledged. Well, she’d thanked him, hadn’t she? That was all the good manners she could summon up on this awful, scorching afternoon.

      Oh, Aunt Alice, what have I done?

      How many more hours were there before she could climb down off this animal and rest her aching thighs? And her bottom. She squinted up at the sun. Almost straight overhead, which must mean it was nearly noon. Did that mean lunch? She could endure anything if there was a meal at the end. She kicked her heels into the horse’s flanks and jolted forward over an expanse of tiny purple flowers.

      But lunchtime came and went, and still the cowhands prodded the bellowing animals forward. She had long since gulped down the last of the lukewarm contents of her canteen, and her growling stomach didn’t let her forget for a single sunbaked minute that she was hungry. Desperately so. Right now she’d eat anything, a handful of cracker crumbs, a morsel of desiccated cheese, even a mouthful of the soft leather glove gripping her reins.

      This was misery, all right. Aunt Alice hadn’t varnished the truth one bit. She thought longingly of the wide, shaded front porch at the Rocking K ranch house, then determinedly shook her thoughts back to reality. There must be shade ahead somewhere; tall trees with blue-green needles bordered their route, and underneath them she glimpsed a mossy green carpet and some sort of green, grassy plant no more than six inches high.

      But there was no shade out here. Apparently there was to be no noon meal, either. She bit her lip. The bandanna helped some, but underneath it the hot air felt as if it were suffocating her. At least it kept out the gnats swarming around her head.

      Then out of the dust emerged a sweat-streaked sorrel, and Juan, the young boy, was smiling at her.

      He reined in close and thrust a hard biscuit into her hand. “Eat!”

      “Thank you!” Oh, no, that was wrong, he was Mexican, wasn’t he? “Gracias!”

      He flashed her a grin and galloped off through the dust. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a biscuit, or an apple, or something?

      Her aunt had suggested packing a clean shirt and an extra pair of underdrawers in the drawstring canvas bag rolled up behind her saddle. She couldn’t blame her for forgetting to mention biscuits.

      They didn’t stop until late afternoon, and by then Alex’s throat was so parched she couldn’t even spit. Ahead of her stretched lush green grass and a stand of leafy willow trees and...surely she was beginning to hallucinate...the chuck wagon, parked next to a burbling stream.

      She blinked hard. She must be dreaming.

      She edged her mount close to the rear wagon wheel and dismounted. The instant her boots touched the ground her knees buckled. She grabbed the saddle and hung on.

      “Señorita,” Roberto said at her shoulder. “You must put horse in corral, not dismount next to cook wagon.”

      She groaned. “I can’t let go, Roberto. I can’t walk.”

      Carefully he pried her fingers off the saddle, grasped her around the waist and settled her on the ground with her back propped against the wheel. “Cherry!” he shouted to the wrangler. “Come get the señorita’s horse.”

      Alex leaned forward and dropped her aching head onto her bent knees. Footsteps approached, and the next minute her saddle plopped down beside her and she heard the horse’s hooves clop away.

      “Thank you!” she called after whoever had taken her mount.

      “Ride too long today,” Roberto observed. She nodded, her forehead pressed against her jeans.

      “Be plenty sore mañana. I go get boss.”

      “No!” She jerked her head up. “Don’t get him.” She didn’t want to appear weak in front of Mister I-Told-You-So Strickland.

      Roberto stood surveying her, his hands propped at his waist. A stained homespun apron covered his bulky form. “I think yes, señorita. You hurt much, no?”

      She sighed. “Yes, Roberto. Much. Very much.”

      “Ay de mi,” the old man murmured. He moved away and Alex concentrated on straightening one leg, then the other. She tried three times before she gave up.

      Then Trail Boss Zach Strickland was standing before her, his long legs spread wide and a stony hardness in his green eyes that made her shudder. He was not smiling. “Sore, huh?”

      She clamped her teeth together and nodded.

      “Not surprised,” he said. “We covered ten miles today.”

      “Ten miles!” Ten whole miles? In her entire life she hadn’t ridden more than two miles, and that was along a shaded bridle path.

      “Do you always ride this many miles in a single day?”

      He shook his head, the dark hair streaked with gray dust. “Nope. Usually ride twelve to fifteen miles each day, but today bein’ our first day out, the cattle need some trail learning. And you, bein’ a tenderfoot, need some trail learning, too. We’ll ride more miles tomorrow.”

      “Where did all these cows come from? Surely Uncle Charlie’s ranch is not big enough for—”

      “Huh! Charlie’s ranch is plenty big, plus we picked up some steers from neighboring ranches.” He leaned forward. “Don’t call ’m ‘cows’ on a trail drive unless you wanna get laughed at.” He shot her a hard look. “But as for where they came from, Miss City Girl, cows come from other cows. And a bull, of course.”

      “I see.” How could she ever explain about cows and bulls in a city newspaper?

      “Got any more dumb questions, Dusty?”

      Dusty? She must look a frightful mess for him to call her that. She wiped her sweaty, gritty hands on her shirtfront. “No, no more questions. But...but I, um, I find that I...I cannot walk,” she confessed.

      “Not surprised,” he said again. “Well, let’s get it done.” He reached down, grasped her under the arms and heaved her to her feet.

      “Ouch-ouch-ouch!”

      “Yeah,” he said, his voice dry. “Come on.” He swung her aching body up into his arms and strode away from the chuck wagon and past the roped-off horse corral. When he came to the stream, he paced up and down the bank and suddenly halted, stepped forward and dropped her, bottom first, into the cold water.

      “What are you doing?” she screeched. She tried to scramble to the bank, but he laid one hand on her shoulder and pressed down. “Stay there,” he ordered. “Cold water will help. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

      She had no choice.