type of woman who would drink anything straight from a bottle, much less cheap tequila. Clint tilted his chin up enough so he could see her face beneath the brim of his hat. In the firelight, the natural prettiness of Taylor’s oval face caught his attention for the first time. She wasn’t model pretty, but she had the kind of face that a man could look at for the rest of his life. And, he was a man, so he had noticed that Taylor had a curvy body, on the thicker side, with round hips, a smaller waist and larger than average breasts. He preferred women who looked as though they wouldn’t blow over in a windstorm. Other than the fact that she was as city as a person could be, Taylor Brand was his type of woman.
Clint pulled the bottle out of his saddlebag, twisted off the cap and stretched his arm to bridge the space between them. When Taylor took the bottle from his hand, he saw the flash of a large, round diamond and a platinum band on the ring finger of her left hand. Now, what was a married woman like Taylor doing trying to ride the Continental Divide by herself? When Brock had assigned him to this task, he’d been too angry and too hungover to think, much less consider anything from Taylor’s point of view. But even though there was part of him that was curious, he’d discovered early on in life that it was best to mind his own business.
Taylor moved the bottle farther away from her face, then a little closer, so she could read the label. She really needed to get her eyes checked when she got back to Chicago. She could read the larger letters on the bottle, but the smaller letters were a chore to decipher.
“Corazon Blanco...white heart.” She read the label aloud. Christopher had always insisted on using Gran Patron on the rare occasion they had hosted a margarita party together.
She enjoyed a frozen margarita, light on the alcohol, but she had never taken a shot before. All of her friends would be shocked to see her drinking straight tequila from the bottle. But wasn’t that exactly what this trip was about? Getting out of her rut?
Taylor used the tail of her shirt to thoroughly clean the outside and inside lip of the bottle. Then she brought it up to her lips and tried to pour the clear liquid into her mouth without touching the glass. She titled the bottle a bit too far and a large swig of the clear liquid spilled onto her tongue and slipped down her throat. Taylor started to cough and her body lurched forward, chin tucked, eyes watering as if she were crying. She waved the bottle at Clint so he would take it from her. Her tongue, her gums, her lips, her throat—they all burned. The bitter taste of the tequila made her want to gag. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and shook her head several times after she managed to get the coughing under control.
“Yuck!” Taylor finally managed to get one word out.
Clint took a mouthful of the tequila, sat back and watched the show. Taylor’s face was scrunched up into a sourpuss and she was wiping her eyes every couple of seconds. The woman clearly could not handle her tequila. When she gave her critique of his drink of choice, it made him smile.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude,” Taylor said apologetically in a raspy voice. “But that’s repulsive.”
Clint held the bottle up to the firelight so he could see how much of the tequila was left in the bottle. He swirled the liquid around for a moment before he decided that there wasn’t enough to leave for later. In one long tug on the bottle, he drank the rest of it as though it was water. He’d drunk tequila for most of his life—his father had given him his first taste when he was nine. It used to burn going down; these days he didn’t feel the burn until it hit his stomach. That burn in his stomach reminded him that he was alive and it was the sensation he craved. It was a sensation he’d grown to need.
“I admit—” the cowboy stuck the empty bottle into his saddlebag “—it takes some gettin’ used to...”
“I don’t know why anyone would want to get used to that.” Taylor wiped her tongue on her sleeve.
Clint smiled a quick smile before he went back to playing the harmonica.
“Well...” Taylor rolled to the side a bit in order to lever herself into a squatting position and then to a standing position. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. So...I’ll see you in the morning...”
Clint waited for Taylor to zip herself back into her tent before he exchanged the harmonica for a cigarette. He took his hat off, slid downward and used the seat of his saddle as a pillow. He stared up at the stars scattered across the blue-black night sky. They would reach the peak tomorrow. He wasn’t certain, but he imagined Taylor would see what she had come to see and then they’d head back to the ranch. He hadn’t packed enough tequila and cigarettes for a long trip. Tomorrow he needed to do what he should have done in the very beginning—find out the particulars of the trip. Better late than never, he supposed. Clint flicked his cigarette into the fire, closed his eyes and covered his face with his hat. Taylor was greener than he had originally thought. And he had a feeling that she could turn out to be a wild card. He was going to have to keep a real close eye on her, which meant he needed to sober up a bit. Damn rotten luck.
* * *
Taylor awakened with the feeling of a sharp rock digging into her right shoulder blade. She winced and let out a low groan when she sat upright. How was it possible that this was the sorest day thus far? Shouldn’t her body be acclimating? She forced herself to stand up without giving the pain too much thought and tended to the blister on her foot, glad to see that Clint had been right about draining it. She pulled on her jeans and boots, and then rolled up her sleeping bag tightly. When she emerged from her tent she was pleased to see that Clint was already awake and kneeling in front of a small fire.
“Is that coffee?” she asked hopefully. Taylor had decided not to pack coffee. She had only packed items that she had thought were essential in order to keep her load light for her journey. How could she have ever thought that coffee wasn’t an essential?
Clint had made enough coffee for both of them—he’d already had a cup laced with a small shot of tequila. Yes, he needed to sober up, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. Taylor grabbed her multipurpose cup and brought it over to the fire. Clint poured coffee into it.
“You’ll get some grounds,” he warned her.
She didn’t care. The piping hot liquid had already heated the thin tin of her cup and started to warm her cold hands. The smell of strong, black coffee filled her nose as she blew on it to cool it down enough to drink. When she took that first, grateful swallow, she ignored the bitter taste. Less than a month ago she would have turned her nose up at any coffee that wasn’t a custom blend—and it made her feel good that she could notice some change in herself, no matter how small.
Taylor took several more sips, warming her body from the inside out. She opened her eyes with a small smile.
“Thank you.”
The closer she got to the bottom of her cup, the more grounds she encountered. Oddly, it didn’t deter her. She simply picked the grounds off her tongue as they came along, and then kept on drinking until there wasn’t a drop left in the bottom of her cup. She gave herself a little extra time to enjoy the coffee—then she quickly ate a protein bar and started to break camp. It would have gone a lot faster if she had allowed the cowboy to help her. But she wanted to do it on her own. That was the whole point of this journey—to build self-reliance and self-confidence. And, to his credit, Clint didn’t interfere. He put out the fire and then smoked a cigarette downwind from her.
The entire time she was packing, she tried to figure out how she was going to get onto her horse. She looked all around the camp, but there wasn’t a good makeshift mounting block in sight. Maybe—just maybe—this would be the morning that she could manage it without standing on a large boulder
