High Country Baby

It was odd. They were strangers, but they worked well as a team. Clint chose a spot on one side of the permanent fire pit, while she found the perfect place on the opposite side to set up her tent.

While she worked, she sneaked quick glances at her cowboy bodyguard. He was unlike any man she had dealt with in her adult life—there was a sharp edge to this cowboy. He had the look of a man who’d fallen on hard times more than once in his life. Years, presumably tough years, were etched on his narrow face and around his deep-set eyes. Everything about the man seemed to be suffering from too much wear; from his cracked leather boots to the hat that had been faded from black to a muddy gray by the sun, everything had seen better days.

Clint went off in search of kindling to start the fire while Taylor focused on finding a spot in the flat open field for Honey and Easy to graze. After they were settled, she worked on settling herself. She unzipped the black bag containing her tent and pulled it out of the bag. After the olive-green tent was unrolled, she quickly lifted and snapped the four frame braces into place.

She had the tent assembled and staked into place by the time Clint reappeared. The cowboy had a mostly smoked cigarette clutched between his teeth and was carrying an armload of kindling. He dumped the wood into the pit and then knelt down, wincing. She had noticed that he had an odd stiffness in his legs when he walked—it reminded her of how her grandfather moved before he underwent knee replacement surgery.

“I need to hibernate for a minute.” Now that they had stopped for the day, the ache in all of her joints and muscles, the fatigue she felt all over her body and the foggy brain that she had been fighting for the last several hours overwhelmed her. She had to lie down.

Clint looked over at her and gave a quick nod to let her know that he heard her. The man wasn’t a talker and he seemed determined to stay out of her way. She could appreciate that about him. If she had to have company on this journey of self-discovery, at least her company would be quiet.

Taylor zipped herself into her small tent and stretched flat out on her back, palms upward, legs straight, eyes closed. She groaned, low and long, wishing that she could locate a place on her body that didn’t hurt. With effort, she pushed her torso upright and reached down for her boot. She had developed a donut belly over the past six months and it was a chore to reach her foot.

With fingers stiffened from holding the reins all day, Taylor tugged, eyes closed, biting her lip to distract her from the pain she was feeling as the heel of the boot scraped over her blister.

“Ahhhhh!” Taylor yanked the boot off the rest of the way.

Even the simple chore of removing her boots was made harder by the excess weight she had gained.

“Gosh darn it, you’re out of shape.” Taylor muttered as she pulled off the other boot.

She tossed the boots toward the tent flap; slowly, she peeled off her sweat-soaked socks. Her socks stank, her feet stank, and the bloody blister now covered the entirety of her right heel. Taylor wrinkled her nose while she gently prodded the blister—why hadn’t the stupid thing popped already?

After examining it, Taylor struggled out of her jeans, quickly took off her T-shirt and bra, and put on a clean T-shirt that covered a portion of her panties. Once inside of the sleeping bag built for one, she slipped on her standard eye mask to block out the light and sighed the sigh of a woman who had finally found a comfortable spot after a long day of discomfort. She wiggled farther down into the sleeping bag, the top edge tucked under her chin, and prayed for sleep. Ever since the divorce she hadn’t slept well. She was hopeful that on this journey, pushing her body to the limit, that exhaustion would force her to sleep.

“Please, God—please let me sleep.”

* * *

At first, Clint was grateful to have Taylor shut away in her tent. He didn’t want this grunt job that his stepbrother Brock, foreman of Bent Tree, had volunteered him for, but with a negative balance in his bank account and creditors trying to track him down, he didn’t have a choice. At least while she was in her tent he didn’t have to worry about her.

While Taylor was temporarily contained he built a fire, broke into the beef jerky he always took with him when he went on long camping trips, drank some cheap tequila and chain-smoked cigarettes while the sun slowly disappeared behind the taller mountains off in the distance. Dusk was his favorite time to be in the mountains—it was quiet. Peaceful. He’d had a shortage of peace in his life ever since he was a kid. Which made him appreciate moments like this one—a good fire, a full stomach and a little hair of the dog.

But, every once in a while he’d catch the tent out of the corner of his eye and it would remind him that his boss’s nutty niece hadn’t made an appearance. He couldn’t say that he was worried about her—he figured she had to still be breathing—but he was worried about his own neck. As foreman of Bent Tree ranch, Brock, who’d never really had much use for him, didn’t need an excuse to give him the boot. If he screwed up with Taylor, he’d be out of luck with Brock. No. He was responsible for Taylor now. He had to make sure she returned to the ranch unharmed. His neck was already on the chopping block, so by default, he had to be worried about her neck.

It was nighttime when Taylor awakened. After she pulled off her eye mask, it took her a couple of seconds to make sense of her surroundings. The minute she started to move the reality of her situation came sharply into focus. So very sore everywhere. With another low groan, she pushed herself upright and then toppled forward, her elbows on her thighs and her head in her hands. She stayed in that position, eyes closed, until she could face standing up and getting dressed. In the low light of the flashlight that was hanging from a cord at the highest point of the tent’s ceiling, Taylor got dressed. Instead of going through the trauma of getting back into her boots, she opted for rubber-soled slip-ons. Her stomach growled loudly at the same time she was unzipping the tent flap. When she stepped outside her eyes searched for, and found, Clint leaning back against his saddle next to a healthy fire.

Clint had been just about to get up and check on Taylor when he heard the tent flap being unzipped. He hadn’t really expected it, but he felt something that could be interpreted as relief when Hank’s niece reappeared. They stared at each other for a split second, neither of them speaking, before Taylor grabbed something out of a nearby bag and disappeared into the woods.

The yellow light of a flashlight confirmed what she was going to do—and yet, he found his entire focus turned to the dark edge of the woods. When he saw the light grow brighter, signaling Taylor’s return to the campsite, the muscles in his arms, legs and jawline relaxed simultaneously. It was at that exact moment that his body connected with his mind and he realized how important this stranger’s safety was to him. He didn’t want the job of protector—he had a reputation of putting his own hide above everyone else’s. A well-deserved reputation.

What were Brock and Hank thinking?

At the edge of the woods, Taylor considered her options. She could go back to the tent or she could join the cowboy. It seemed a little ridiculous to avoid him—for better or worse, they were joined together on this journey for the next several weeks. No time like the present to start making the best of it. Taylor walked slowly over to the campfire, allowing herself to take her time. Even in the slide-on shoes, every step was a miserable one. Once she reached the fire, she switched off the flashlight and carefully lowered her body to the ground. Beneath the brim of his black cowboy hat, Clint’s darkened eyes watched her.

“You’ve got a limp.” His voice was a little raspier now.

Yes, Captain Obvious! She stifled her sarcasm for a more congenial “Nasty blister.”

Clint stood up and tossed his cigarette into the fire. On his way upright Taylor noticed that he paused with a noticeable wince. The cowboy walked over to her side of the fire to kneel down beside her.

“Let me take a look.”

Caught off guard, Taylor pulled her foot back. “What?”

“Let me take a look—see how bad it is.”

“No, thank you.”

Clint grabbed her by the ankle, pulled her shoe off and bent her leg backward so he could get a closer look at her right heel in the firelight.

“Hey!” Taylor tugged against him. “Hey!”

“Hold still.” The cowboy issued an order.

Clint pulled a knife out of a small sheath on his belt. When Taylor caught a glimpse of the silver blade, she yanked her ankle out of Clint’s hand and pushed backward away from him.

“Don’t even think about it!” she snapped at him.

He had touched her smelly, sweaty foot! She didn’t like people touching her feet. She didn’t get pedicures because she didn’t want anyone touching her feet. She left her socks on during a massage because she didn’t want anyone touching her feet!

“It needs to be popped.” Clint waved the blade quickly over the flames of the fire.

“No it doesn’t. Everyone knows you aren’t supposed to pop a blister.”

“We need to pop this one.” Clint rested his forearm on his bended knee. “It looks like it’s on its way to being infected. We’ll pop it, drain it—I don’t doubt you’ve got all manner of first aid in that mountain of stuff you packed...” He nodded toward her supplies. “Pour a little alcohol on it, let it dry out overnight—you’ll feel a heck of a lot better.”

The man looked as though he’d spent most of his life healing something—she was inclined to believe him.

“Are you sure?” Taylor asked.

He nodded his response, so she said, “Go ahead then—but do it quick, please.”

“It’s done.” The cowboy wiped the blade of his knife onto the leg of his jeans.

Taylor opened her eyes and craned her neck to the side to get a look at her heel. “Huh—that didn’t even hurt.”

She told Clint where he could find her first-aid kit. Popping the blister hadn’t hurt, but draining it and then dousing it with alcohol hurt like all get-out. The cowboy was clinical and unsympathetic. He expected her to sit there, quietly—take it like a woman. It was a silent challenge that she decided to accept. She could only imagine what this man thought of her—a soft, socialite city girl without the faintest clue about how to make it in the Montana wilderness. She was a city girl, and proud of it, but she wasn’t soft.

The procedure was done and the cowboy returned to his side of the fire. He began to play a harmonica that he had retrieved from his saddlebag. He wasn’t just producing random sounds—he really knew how to play. He filled the cool night air with a slow string of pretty notes and those notes blended with the crackling of the fire and the sound of an owl in the distance.

It was at that moment when Taylor felt as if she had really arrived in Montana. No, she wasn’t alone on the journey. But it didn’t seem to matter anymore. The experience she was having now, sitting by a campfire, beneath a blackened sky dotted with a smattering of white stars, listening to a real cowboy play the harmonica, made her feel like woman of the wilderness. An adventurer in her own right.

Taylor stared into the fire, watching one particular piece of wood glow bright orange right before it broke apart and crumbled into smaller bits of red embers. She didn’t have the need to fill the silence with aimless talk as she normally would, which was helpful, because it took energy to talk and she didn’t have much of that to spare. Clint would take a break every now and again from playing the harmonica and she would catch the flash of something out of the corner of her eye. Curious, she glanced up to see Clint take a quick swig of something from a bottle. He was leaning down, his head turned away from her. He didn’t want her to see him drinking, but she already had.

“What’s in the bottle?”

Clint twisted the cap down and tucked the nearly empty bottle back into his saddlebag.