up in high country and she could surmise that this wouldn’t be the last time he’d weather a Montana storm with his saddle as a pillow and a rain tarp as a shelter.
The next morning she awakened to a clear sky and the welcome scents of fire and coffee. She didn’t see Clint, but the first thing on her mind was taking a quick rinse-off in the stream. She slung a bag of supplies over her shoulder and walked through the small cluster of trees that led to the stream below the campsite. At the edge of the tree line she spotted Clint kneeling by the stream. He was stripped down to the waist; the word “Rodeo” was tattooed across his shoulders with a bull rider riding a bucking bull down the middle of his long back. There was a large, jagged scar that cut across his low back, just above the waist of his jeans.
Taylor stopped for a moment, not sure if she should return to camp or join him. Clint stood up, and she was sure he sensed that he was being watched because he turned his head a bit and caught sight of her. He waved her over.
“Good morning.” Taylor called to him.
The closer she came to the cowboy, the more her suspicion was confirmed that he’d had the same thought she’d had, to clean up before their next ride. His hair was slicked straight back from his forehead, his thickening beard was wet and the jeans were different. He was twisting the water from the shirt he had been wearing for the past several days, and a fresh T-shirt was slung over his shoulder.
“That was quite a storm,” she said to make conversation.
Standing next to a half-naked Clint was uncomfortable for her, even though he didn’t seem bothered. He wasn’t extraordinarily tall and he was on the thin side, but every muscle on his body was defined. The muscles were hard and long, and he had the type of veins that were close to the surface of the skin—you could trace each vein with a finger from the inside of his elbow down to his wrist. She tried to keep her eyes on his face, yet they were drawn time and again to the array of tattoos and scars that made the landscape of his naked torso inherently interesting to her.
“I was worried about you,” she added.
Clint shook out his shirt. “Don’t waste your time.”
He slipped on his clean shirt and brushed loose hairs back off his face before putting his cowboy hat on. “I’ll keep watch—make sure you have your privacy.”
“Thank you.” Taylor knelt down to feel the temperature of the water. It was icy cold.
Clint smoked a cigarette several yards away, his back turned to her. She didn’t question that he would keep his back turned—he’d had a rough life and his manners were not civilized at times, but he wasn’t a pervert. Wearing only underwear and a bra, a pair of rubber shower shoes to protect her feet, Taylor braved the frigid, clear water of the stream. As fast as she could, she waded to the deeper part of the stream. She couldn’t wait to try to acclimate to the temperature—that wasn’t a viable option. Instead, she took in a deep breath and forced herself to sit down.
“Cold, cold, cold...” She muttered the word over and over again.
She dunked her head back, scrubbed the roots of her hair with soap and stood up so she could quickly soap her body. She spent extra time on her armpits because the odor had been too tough even for her clinical-strength deodorant to combat, and then she sank back into the water, waist deep, and put her hand inside her underwear to clean thoroughly between her thighs.
It was one of the quickest baths she’d ever taken, and that was more than okay with her. She hurried to the shore and to her awaiting towel. Even as rapidly as she had gone through her routine, she was shivering from the cold, her arms and legs were covered with goose bumps and she was clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. One swipe of the towel across her face and then the rest of her body was all she could stand. She had to get dressed. But she wasn’t about to change her underwear out in the open. Instead, she wrapped the towel around her body and raced up to where Clint was waiting.
Clint heard Taylor’s approach and turned to greet her. He wasn’t expecting her to be wrapped in a towel with her creamy, rounded shoulders and shapely legs exposed. She smelled like orange peels and honey, and even though she was noticeably cold, the way her wet hair framed her freshly scrubbed face held a sexy, natural appeal.
“Ready?” He knew he had been caught looking at the rounded tops of her breasts.
She nodded, not wanting to speak—only wanting to get back so she could get into dry clothing. Once inside her tent, she stripped out of her wet undergarments and slipped into her sleeping bag to warm her body. She closed her eyes and willed her body to warm up and quit shivering.
“Taylor?” Clint was outside of her tent. “Here’s coffee.”
She opened the flap enough to take the cup of hot coffee. With a word of thanks, Taylor wrapped her hands around the warm tin mug; the minute the hot liquid hit her stomach she started to feel warmer. It was the perfect remedy, and it touched her that Clint had been thinking of her in that way.
As soon as she could, she dressed and joined Clint in breaking camp. Packed up and mounted on her mare, Taylor didn’t like the look of the sky in their direct path.
“I’d rather not ride in the rain,” she told Clint.
He rode up beside her with Easy trailing behind him. “Your call.”
“How long do you estimate we have before the storm hits?”
“Two hours—three tops.”
They agreed to get two hours of riding in and make camp ahead of the looming storm. She had built in several nontraveling days to enjoy the scenery and give the animals a rest. Perhaps it was time to take an early break to let the weather front move through.
They made camp just before the rain came. She hadn’t expected it, but she managed to talk Clint into joining her in the tent under the guise of not wanting to be lonely. He didn’t know that she loved her alone time, and she didn’t intend to share that fact with him.
The inside of her tent seemed much smaller now that Clint had joined her. He had to hunch his shoulders forward so there was some room for the top of his head.
“Make yourself at home,” she teased him.
His hunched shoulders were tense, his legs were half bent, half stretched out, and he seemed to be completely uncomfortable in her little temporary world. He smiled at her and she actually thought that she saw a hint of teeth.
“You mind if I play?” He took his harmonica out of his pocket.
“No.” She lay back. “I like it.”
Clint played a soft, haunting tune while the rain tapped out a rhythm of its own on the canvas roof of her tent. She closed her eyes and unintentionally fell asleep.
When the rain stopped, Clint stopped playing the harmonica. Taylor was asleep—he didn’t see any reason to awaken her to help him finish setting up camp. He unzipped the tent flap and stepped out onto the wet ground. Before he zipped the flap shut, he stared at Taylor. She had slowly started to gain his respect; she had prepared herself for this trip, and other than attempting to make the trip alone, she was a woman who made smart decisions. He was a man—he glanced at the generous curve of her breasts beneath the material of her shirt before he closed the flap of the tent behind him.
* * *
Taylor
