Ride the Thunder (28 page)

“It’s all right on this side,” he called softly to them.

“It’s not too late to turn back, Max,” Brig advised in a low voice.

All he received for an answer was a silencing glare of resentment. He waited while Max hugged around the boulder, then moved to take his place. Holding onto the solidness of the stone felt better than balancing unaided on the tightrope of the ledge. Rounding the boulder, Brig saw Fletcher pause to glance back at Max. From his angle, Brig could see the way the rim had started to crumble about a foot or more from the boulder. The area had been undermined, leaving a shaky lip. Dirt and loose pebbles trickled from the underside as Max approached it. The faulted area was no wider than a man’s stride. Brig expected Max to step across it. When he saw Max’s foot coming down, it was squarely in the center of the undermined area. Brig knew instinctively the thin crust would never support his cousin’s weight.

“Max, don’t step there.”

But the warning came too late. Max was too over-balanced to change the placement of his foot. The ledge took his weight for barely a second before the
crust of earth crumbled. Max yelled and grabbed for anything that would stop him from falling.

Stretching, Brig gripped a jagged edge of the boulder and grabbed for a flailing arm. By some miracle, his fingers closed around Max’s forearm near the wrist. He braced himself to take Max’s weight, but nothing could prepare him for the tearing pressure. Max clutched his arm with both hands as the ground vanished beneath his feet. He kicked and fought for a toehold, but a river of rock was streaming through the gap in the ledge.

“Don’t let me go, Brig. Don’t let me go.” Max whimpered in stark panic.

There were a hundred and forty pounds dangling on his arm. Brig expected any minute that Max’s weight would yank his arm out of its socket. The pain was excruciating. Max’s deathlike grip on his arm made it impossible for Brig to let go. If Max fell, he’d be pulled along with him.

“Dammit, Fletcher! Where the hell are you?” Brig gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles popping in his arm. “Help us!” A savage anger raged within him for the man who had risked their lives for a bighorn ram—a pair of horns to display on the wall of his den.

“I can’t reach you.” Fletcher’s voice sounded far away. He was making no attempt to come closer.

Brig’s fingers were slipping on the rock, losing their grip. He strained with all his might to counteract the weight pulling him into the yawning jaws of the mountainside. The knowledge stabbed knife-sharp that Jordanna was watching from the ridge. Brig didn’t want her to see him die. Unexpectedly, the pressure on his arm was eased. Max had found a toehold. The relief was sweet. While maintaining the precarious foothold, Max searched for another, not panicking despite the whimpering sounds coming from his throat. Finally he was able to hook a knee over the solid part of the ledge and Brig found the strength to pull him the rest of the way to safety. Brig leaned against the rock, sweating and panting, while Max sat trembling on the
edge, his eyes closed against the sight of the chasm. Brig’s arm was numb. He wasn’t even sure whether it was still attached to his body. He waited until he’d caught his breath, then glanced at his cousin.

“Come on, Max. Let’s get off this ledge.”

Max’s face was white, a sickly color that told of nausea, but this wasn’t the time to give in to its weakness. Max swallowed and crawled shakily to his feet, clutching the stone support of the boulder. Brig started the retreat, inching back around the boulder and walking the tightrope of the ledge to the point where it widened.

When he reached the comparative gentleness of the rugged mountain slope, Brig stopped and began rubbing his shoulder, trying to get the feeling back. Max appeared to crumble onto the ground, his legs refusing to support him any longer.

“I . . .” Max lifted his gaze to the man who had saved his life. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. “Thanks, Brig.”

Brig could have called him forty kinds of fool for attempting to cross the ledge in the first place. It would have been a stupid way to die, but ignorance and inexperience had killed many a man. Brig knew Max would have thought twice about walking down a dark city alley at night, but he blithely walked onto that ledge without considering the danger it held. It had nearly killed him and Brig, too.

A rattle of stone heralded Fletcher’s arrival. He glanced with a show of concern at Max before he looked to Brig. Brig felt the fury boiling up within him. The hand of his good arm doubled into a fist. This had all happened because of a damned pair of horns! There would be tremendous satisfaction in busting that man’s face open.

“Are both of you all right?” Fletcher asked.

“Yeah.” His lip curled in a wolflike snarl. “No thanks to you.”

“There was nothing I could do.” Fletcher misunderstood and thought the criticism was for his lack of
help rather than his attempting to cross the slide area in the first place. “Once that ledge gave way and that rock started coming down, I couldn’t get into a position to reach Max.”

That was probably true. Brig had been too occupied to take much notice of Fletcher’s position on the ledge. It was possible there had been no way for him to safely reach them without starting a major slide, sweeping all three of them to their deaths. Brig suspected that Fletcher had been more concerned with saving his own neck than rescuing them.

“The whole thing was a damned fool stunt.” Brig wasn’t about to forget whose idea it was. “You should have warned Max about that undermined area before he blundered onto it.”

“I . . . thought he saw it.” Fletcher frowned and shrugged at his weak excuse.

“Come on, Fletcher.” Brig was contemptuous of the answer. “You know that a person could write on his little finger all the information Max knows about the dangers in this kind of country.”

The hunter bristled defensively. “You’re the guide. You were supposed to be out in front leading the way, not me.”

“And I advised you that it was suicide to try to skirt that slide, but you ignored me,” Brig shot back.

“If he hadn’t come after us, I would have been killed,” Max stated in a voice that still carried a tremor.

Fletcher turned to him. “Believe me, I know that, Max. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it happened, but it’s too late for hindsight.”

“You can say that again,” Brig muttered. “We were damned lucky.”

Half-turning, the hunter looked up the slope. “That ram is probably clear over the next mountain ridge by now.”

My God, Brig thought, he’s still thinking about that damned sheep! Fletcher was a self-centered man, never concerning himself with anyone else for long. He
wouldn’t tolerate anyone standing in the way of something he wanted. The only way Brig could have stopped him from going on the ledge would have been with physical violence. The more Brig learned about the man, the more wary of him he became.

His shoulder was starting to hurt. Brig preferred the pain to the paralyzing numbness. He glanced at Max to see how he was recovering. He still looked shaken, but more in control of his limbs.

“We’d better start back,” he said.

Brig walked over and slipped a hand under Max’s arm to help him to his feet. The trio started back for the high ridge, taking a more direct line, no longer needing to conceal themselves from the bighorn ram that had since fled. Neither he nor Fletcher commented on Max’s wet pants.

Halfway back, they were met by Jordanna and her brother. Her eyes were wide with concern and alarm when she reached Brig. The brush with death made him want to feel the life in her body against his. But a glance at Fletcher’s grim face kept him from sweeping her into his arms. The man puzzled Brig. On the surface Fletcher endorsed, with his silence, Brig’s relationship with his daughter, yet he appeared to resent it at the same time.

Jordanna stopped before him, only inches separating them. Alert, she noticed the way he favored his sore arm. She touched it hesitantly, as if aware the contact could ignite an embrace.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Not seriously.”

“I was . . . worried about you.” The admission was made with a hesitation, and she glanced at her father. “You shouldn’t have tried it. You could have gotten yourselves killed.”

“Why did you?” her brother demanded, searching Fletcher’s face with an intent look. “You said you wouldn’t if it was too risky.”

“Because I thought we could make it,” was the impatient defense. “I did.”

“But Max didn’t,” Kit accused. “He nearly fell to his death because of you.”

“But he didn’t.” Fletcher was barely controlling his temper. “What has happened is over. There is nothing to be gained by rehashing it.”

“Except to be sure nothing else like it happens,” Kit murmured in a tone that sounded like a challenge. He flashed a cold glance at his father and walked over to Max. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. And don’t worry,” Max said. “Your father can stalk his own game from now on. I’m not budging off the horse.”

“First we have to get to the horses,” Brig reminded him, and the small party started forward again.

After the long climb back to where the horses were left, it was a welcome relief to their legs to ride the distance back to the camp. A quarter-mile from camp, the buckskin broke into a trot. Brig winced as the pace jarred his arm. As they dismounted near the picket line, the sharp-eyed Tandy Barnes noticed the careful way Brig held his arm so as not to aggravate the injury to his shoulder.

“What happened to you?” he wanted to know.

Brig explained briefly, and not too precisely, what had happened. He glossed over the accident as something that could have happened any time, and not as the result of Fletcher’s foolhardy attempt to cross a dangerous slide area.

“Jocko and me will take care of the horses. You go on to camp and get some hot coffee in you,” Tandy insisted. “As soon as I’m through, I’d better take a look at your shoulder.”

It was paining him enough so that Brig didn’t object to Tandy’s examination. In the large tent, warmed by the shepherd’s stove, he stripped to his pants, an action that stabbed him like a hot knife. Jordanna hovered near the table, watching as Tandy probed the shoulder with his sensitive fingers.

“It’s lucky you didn’t dislocate it. You should have
. . . if you was a normal man,” the stocky cowboy grumped.

“I just pulled some muscles.” Brig pulled away from the pushing, prodding fingers that were adding to his pain.

“Yeah, you pulled some muscles, all right, and sprained ’em, and wrenched ’em, and every other damned thing,” Tandy scoffed at the light dismissal of the injury. “We’d better wrap that shoulder up some to support them muscles and give ’em a chance to rest.” He turned to the Basque shepherd looking on. “Jocko, do . . .”

“Si, I will get some bandages.” Jocko answered the question before it had been asked.

Jocko walked over to a corner of the tent and opened a pack containing first aid supplies. From it, he took out a wide roll of elastic bandage to give to Tandy. Tandy began wrapping the injured shoulder, but his attempt was clumsy.

“If you was a horse, I’d know how to do this,” he muttered to Brig and unwound the bandage to start all over.

“Let me do it.” Jordanna stepped forward to take the flesh-colored bandage from the cowboy’s hand.

“Do you think you know how?” Brig taunted, not in the best of moods.

“I’ve had several weeks of training,” she replied calmly. “It’s handy knowledge to have on a hunting trip. You never know when you might need it.”

Her hands were gentle and efficient. She stood close to him to secure the end of the bandage, bent at the waist, her long hair falling forward across one shoulder and glinting red in the lantern’s light. Her familiar scent drifted to him. She smelled of horses and saddle leather mixed with a clean, sensual fragrance.

Despite the primitive conditions of the camp, she washed frequently, heating the water in a kettle over the open fire and sponge bathing in the privacy of the tent. He’d seen her silhouette on the canvas walls on more than one occasion. It hadn’t been a provocative
act on her part, but the result had been the same, the indistinct outline of her body and his own imagination firing his blood with desire. The same look was written in his stone-brown eyes now.

His shoulder was firmly bound. As Jordanna smoothed the end of the material, she glanced at him. “Is that all right?”

“It’s fine.” The discomfort that the injury was causing him was far from Brig’s mind at the moment, and she saw it in his look.

She straightened, avoiding his eyes as her gaze flickered to Tandy and Jocko. The hint of self-consciousness seemed to be more for their sake than hers. She reached for the long-sleeved, thermal undershirt draped across the wooden bench.

“I’ll help you put this on,” she said.

“It looks like you’re in good hands, Brig.” Tandy moved to the tent flap. “I’ll go get that firewood you were wanting, Jocko.”

“I will come with you. I need to get some water from the stream to heat so the men can wash up.” Jocko found an excuse to leave them alone.

When Jordanna turned to him with the shirt, Brig reached out to slide a hand over her thigh, clasping her hipbone to draw her close. He buried his face in the valley between her breasts, layers of clothing keeping his mouth from her bare skin. He listened to the reassuring sound of her heartbeat and pulled her down to his knee while his mouth worked its way up to hers. Her lips were creamy smooth and the kiss lingered possessively.

“Today . . .” she began and Brig knew she was wanting to talk about the accident.

“I don’t want to talk about this afternoon.” He didn’t want to remember the way his thoughts had turned to her when he thought they wouldn’t make it. Brig stood her up. “Help me with the undershirt.”

After she had helped him slip his arms into the sleeves and drew the thermal shirt over his head, Brig
refused her assistance with his flannel shirt, managing it on his own—if painfully. He flexed his injured shoulder. It would be a few days before there was any freedom of movement without pain.

“Would you like some coffee?” Jordanna was at the stove, a cup poured for herself.