High Country Baby

It was a week of lessons for Taylor. Clint seemed to resign himself to his chore of watching out for her and focused his energy on teaching her how to ride the divide. She learned how to spot fresh grizzly bear markings on nearby trees and create a high line to tether the horses so that the ropes didn’t cause ring damage to the trees. She now knew how to tie a trucker’s knot, stake a horse in a field and avoid stepping on rattlesnakes.

Now she knew why Uncle Hank had trusted Clint to be her bodyguard—the Continental Divide was home to this cowboy. He was a walking encyclopedia—there wasn’t an indigenous bird or wildflower or tree that he couldn’t name. She had actually started to make a game of testing his knowledge. Her first impression of Clint had been that he was uneducated and uncomplicated. He was neither. As far as she knew, he wasn’t formally educated past tenth grade, but he wasn’t ignorant. The wild Montana mountains had provided his education—and she had a feeling that her cowboy wasn’t uncomplicated, either.

“Everything here is...so beautiful.” Taylor admired a field of wildflowers that stretched as far as her eyes could see. The rolling hills were dotted with canary yellow and violet-blue purple.

“What are they?” she asked Clint once he reached her side.

“The blue flowers are Camassia Quamash—Blue Camas—edible. But not the yellow—those are Death Camas...”

“Let me guess...not edible.” Taylor smiled, her eyes drinking in the brightly colored field of flowers. “What do they taste like?”

“Sweet—local tribes have used them for generations as a sweetener.” Clint repositioned his hat on his head. “If you want to taste one, I’ll dig up a bulb for you.”

“No—that’s okay. Conservation.”

Clint dismounted. “One ain’t gonna make the difference.”

He returned to her side with a single Blue Camas bulb. He washed the dirt off the bulb before he handed it to her. She smelled it and then nibbled on the side.

The odd sweetness hit her tongue, and for some reason, it made her laugh.

“It’s sweet.” She held out the remainder of the bulb to him.

Clint ate the rest. He didn’t hesitate to put his mouth where hers had been. Christopher had never drunk after her or shared a straw—he’d always wiped off her fork if he used it after her and that had always bothered her. And here, a near stranger, a man she had only known for a few days, had eaten after her as if it were nothing. It was an intimacy that she hadn’t shared with her husband in all of their years of marriage.

“Is there a place where I could wash?”

She felt gritty from days of sponge bathing and dry shampoo. She had packed water purification pills and filters for found water, as well as some potable water to drink, and tried to use as little as possible of her supply on washing. She needed to submerge her body in water, no matter how cold, and rinse the grimy feeling off her skin.

“I’ve got a place in mind.” He swung into the saddle. “I’m tired of jerky. How ’bout fish for dinner?”

She was tired of instant soup and protein bars. Washing the grease out of her hair and chowing down on freshly caught fish seemed like luxuries now.

“I would love fish for dinner.”

“Let’s ride about another hour and a quarter.” Clint tugged on Easy’s rope. “We’ll make camp a little early tonight.”

The promise of a real dinner made the last hour in the saddle tolerable. But, even after a full week in the saddle, she was still raw and sore by the time she dismounted at the spot Clint selected for their campsite. They had fallen into a campsite routine—Clint had his duties and she had hers. Part of her job at the bank was putting together teams that could complete a project efficiently and effectively. She had a knack for putting two unlikely people together to create a winning team. It was like that with Clint—they were very different, but somehow they worked together to accomplish a common goal as if they had worked together for years.

“We’ve got some storm clouds formin’ quick.” Clint took his hat off, wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “You’d best wait on that bath.”

“Is dinner a no-go, too?”

“I gotta be quick.” Clint eyed the darkening sky in the distance. “You got the fire?”

“Absolutely.”

Clint headed off on foot toward the freshwater lake he had fished from over the years.

“Hey—Clint.”

He turned to look at his companion.

“What happens if it rains?”

It was an odd question.

“We get wet.”

Taylor laughed. “No. I mean—you don’t have a tent.”

“Don’t need one.” Clint shrugged off her concern. “Go on and get that fire started and I’ll cook you the best damn tastin’ fish you’ve ever had in your life.”

Chapter Four (#uff5f92dc-64fc-52ad-a492-86330cc4040c)

Good as his word, Clint had caught, cleaned and cooked the best trout she had ever eaten. And, even though the menacing promise of the storm clouds cut their dinner short and canceled her plans to bath in the stream, she went to bed feeling completely full for the first time since she had started her journey up to the CDT.

When the rain started, she tried to convince Clint to join her in the tent, but he flat-out refused. She had peeked out of the tent while there was still a little light to see by and spotted him hunkered down away from the trees, covered by a small tarp. She didn’t ask him to join her a second time—she had made the offer once, and that was enough. Clint had grown 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.