Dreaming Of A Western Christmas. Carol Arens

buckled. She grabbed onto the dangling stirrup and suddenly there he was behind her, one hand gripping her leather belt.

      “I have to—”

      “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Over there.” He laid his hand on her back and shoved her toward the tree.

      There was no privacy at all. The tree trunk looked no wider than a sleeve press, and the sparse branches would not screen a four-year-old child.

      “I trust you will turn your back, Mr. Wyler?”

      “We’ll take turns. You first.”

      It was so much easier for a man, she fumed. Just unbutton and... She, on the other hand, would have to shimmy her jeans down over her hips, then lower her underdrawers and squat practically in plain sight.

      She perched on her haunches with her bare bottom exposed and watched to be sure he didn’t peek. While she did her business, he brought their horses to the stream and bent to fill his canteen. He did keep his back to her, for which she thanked the Lord who created men and women.

      His voice startled her. “You finished?”

      “Y-yes.”

      “Come on over here, then. Fill up your canteen.”

      She tried to stand, but her legs shook so they wouldn’t support her weight. She kept squatting near the ground and wondered how she could pull up her drawers and jeans without standing up. She hadn’t been this embarrassed since she fell in the mud hole under the cypress tree back home when she was nine.

      Think! She needed some way to pull herself upright, but... A low-hanging branch would do, but the tree’s foliage started several feet over her head. The tree trunk, that was it. She reached for it with both hands and managed to scrabble her fingers against the bark.

      “Miss Cumberland?”

      “Oh, leave me alone!” she cried. Inch by inch her fingers clawed their way up the trunk until she was halfway vertical. When her belt was once again cinched in the waist of her jeans she wanted to weep with relief.

      “Ma’am? You all right?”

      “I am perfectly all right, thank you.”

      “Kinda stiff, I’d guess.”

      She opened her mouth to lambaste him, but then heard the unmistakable sound of a stream of urine hitting the ground. Why, he wouldn’t dare!

      But he did. He stood in plain sight with his back to her. She turned away with a huff and after a minute he called that it was time to mount up.

      “I am coming, Mr. Wyler.” She took two steps toward the horses and realized she could scarcely move, much less mount her horse.

      He met her halfway, took one look at her crabbed walk and snorted. “You sure as hell are no horsewoman.”

      “And you sure as hell are no gentleman!” she blurted out. Oh, my! Mama would wash my mouth out with soap for that.

      “You got that right.” Then he chuckled and gave her a thorough once-over. “You look half-dead.”

      She did not deign to answer such an uncouth remark. Instead she lifted her chin and tried to edge past him.

      “Guess I should have stopped sooner,” he said.

      “You were paying no attention whatever to me, Mr. Wyler.”

      “Not true,” he replied. “Maybe not the fancy kind of attention you’re used to, but attention nevertheless.”

      Before she could draw breath, he scooped her up into his arms and plopped her into the saddle.

      “Ow!” It slipped out before she could catch herself.

      “Sore, huh?”

      She didn’t trust her voice, so she sat up as straight as she possibly could and nodded in what she hoped was a regal gesture.

      “Well, damn,” he said under his breath. “I plumb forgot how green you are.”

      He slung both canteens behind his cantle and swung up into the saddle. “Five more miles,” he said. “Think you can make it?”

      She nodded again, but he wasn’t looking. He walked his mount close to hers, caught up her reins and laid them in her lap. “Try to keep up.”

      She ached to slap him. She wanted to ask how long it would take to travel five more miles, but he spoke before she could form the question.

      “About another hour and a half.”

      She stifled a moan. In addition to being the most insufferable male she had ever encountered, he could read her mind, too.

       Chapter Three

      Brand surreptitiously glanced back at her whenever the trail had a twist in it. She was working hard to stay upright in the saddle, but he could see she wouldn’t last much longer. Good. Maybe she’d think better of her crazy plan and turn tail back to Fort Hall.

      But he had to admit that even though she drooped lower and lower over the saddle horn, he didn’t hear a whimper out of her. She might be hurting, but she sure had sand. He’d known women who’d be bawlin’ and beggin’ by this time.

      An hour passed, and still the woman on the mare behind him made no sound. Aw, hell. She’d been through a lot, and he knew she was hurting; maybe he should cut her some slack.

      Up ahead he spotted a copse of cottonwoods and a clear, rushing stream. End of the trail for today. He dismounted, looped the reins over a willow branch and walked back to the mare and its rider.

      Her eyes were closed, her face sweaty and dust-streaked under the brim of her hat. She’d need help standing up.

      He moved the toe of her boot out of the stirrup, reached up and settled his hands at her waist. With one smooth motion he lifted her down and moved toward the creek.

      “Miss Cumberland, I’m gonna set you down in the cold water. Be good for your sore muscles.”

      “Mmm...” she groaned.

      He went down on one knee to lower her body into a wide part of the creek. The water was ice-cold and she jerked when it soaked up her jeans.

      “This will help,” he muttered. “Just sit quiet. I’ll come get you out in a while.”

      She nodded without opening her eyes. He left her lolling in the deep pool and went to tend the horses and roll out the bedrolls. Supper would be canned beans and coffee, and if she didn’t like it, that was tough. There weren’t any silver spoons on the trail.

      He built a fire, boiled up some coffee and pried open the tin of beans. Then he tramped back to the creek and lifted a dripping Suzannah Cumberland into his arms. Even wet and shivering, she felt damn womanly. He settled her beside the fire and folded her hands around a tin mug of coffee. “Hope you don’t take milk or sugar.”

      She made no answer. Brand lifted the beans off the warming rock and jammed in the spoon. “Guess we’ll have to share. Only packed one spoon.”

      He sneaked a look at her face and bit his tongue. Her eyes were closed. She was beyond caring about spoons or beans or anything else. As he watched, moisture seeped out from under her eyelids and smudged her dirty cheeks.

      He dug the spoon into their supper and lifted it to her lips. “Open your mouth.”

      Obediently she parted her lips and he shoveled in a spoonful, devoured a bit himself, then fed her another. Alternating between her and himself, he soon scraped the bottom of the can. He held the mug of coffee to her mouth, but she shook her head.

      When her body began to tilt to one side, he knew she was finished. Quickly he grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around her and tipped her backward until she lay next to the fire.