High Country Baby

“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 rolled onto her back, her eyes opened slowly. It took her a little bit to get her bearings—she was alone in the tent and her bladder was full. When she emerged from the tent, she saw that Clint had already set up the rest of the camp, tended to the horses and Easy, built a fire.

“Sorry.” She joined him at the fire after relieving herself. “I fell asleep.”

Clint shook his head and handed her a plate with fish reheated from the night before.

He waited for her to finish before he smoked a cigarette.

“Do you mind?” She pointed to the tequila bottle next to his leg. He didn’t bother to hide his nightly routine of drinking a healthy portion of the alcohol.

He looked surprised but untwisted the cap and handed her the half-empty bottle. Taylor didn’t bother to wipe off the lip of the bottle before she took a swig, coughing in spite of her best attempts not to when the clear liquid burned her throat. He took the bottle back from her and she watched him, through watering eyes, take several consecutive swallows of the tequila.

“How do you do that?” she asked him thoughtlessly.

He put the bottle away. He was running low and he needed to conserve the rest. After one last draw on his cigarette he flicked the butt into the fire and blew smoke out of his nose.

“Practice.”

She laughed. The sound of her own laughter sounded good to her ears. There was a time that she loved to laugh—she used to laugh frequently. Years of trying to get pregnant without success, years of passing Christopher in the hallways of their childless house, years of meeting with attorneys and divorce proceedings and dividing property had taken a toll on her spirit—eroded her confidence.

“Do you mind a personal question?”

His hand moved upward in a gesture of consent.

“What happened to your back?”

His brow furrowed in thought, then it occurred to him that she was asking about his scar.

“I was gored by a bull in Boise, Idaho.”

He smiled a little at the shock that registered on her face.

“I’d been riding bulls since I was a kid, so I should’ve been able to get out of his way. But that one got the better of me.”

“How did you even survive something like that?”

“I almost bled out by the time they got me to the hospital,” Clint recounted. “I didn’t get back on a bull for six months.”

“Six months? I can’t believe you ever got back on one.” She shook her head in wonder. “Are you retired? Or just on a break?”

“I got some money things I gotta clear up first—then I’ll be back at it. I think my knees got a couple more goes left in ’em.”

“It must be nice to know exactly what you want to do,” she said aloud, even though she really meant to only speak the words in her head.

“I’d think someone like you had it all figured out.”

“Someone like me?” she scoffed. “On that note!” She stood up. “Do you think we’ll get more of the same tomorrow?”

“Naw.” Clint tipped his hat back on his head so she could see his eyes. “Should be blue skies.”

“Then we’ll make up some time. I had a spot picked out to spend a couple of days, but we’ll have to push it a little tomorrow to make it, I think.”

She had already figured out the little movements he used to respond. A slight nod of his head was a confirmation for her plan.

“Okay—good night, Clint.”

“Night, Taylor.”

There was a roughness in the way Clint said her name—it was unlike anything she had heard before. It was so compelling that she almost stopped and turned toward him to see the look on his face. The way he said it, like silk against sandpaper, made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She liked it—probably more than she should have.

* * *