One to Leave (One to Hold 5)

Thinking back, I remembered my visceral reaction when her horse ran into the barn without her. Adrenaline surged in my veins, and my vision tunneled. Ignoring the pain in my back and legs, I’d saddled up Ranger and taken off after her.

God, she was beautiful standing on that pier. The shirt she wore was transparent wet, and her dark nipples hinted through the fabric making my mouth water. Her chestnut hair hung in gentle waves over her shoulders, and her hazel eyes glowed like the sun behind the clouds.

Which was exactly the problem. I was no fucking poet. Now I had all these bullshit lines flooding my brain over a girl half my age.

All I could think about were her soft lips, the feel of her in my arms. Riding back, I’d had to fight not to respond physically to her body moving with mine in the saddle. She held my hand, and the pull between us... I was like a fucking teenager.

Worst of all, I kissed her.

She tasted like cool liquid and she smelled... like heaven. Shit, if she didn’t make the most amazing noises. I picked her up, and she was so light in my arms. I wanted to carry her up to the loft, take her, claim her, make her mine, cover every inch of her skin with my mouth. Visions of her riding my lap tormented me. I was healthy, I was over the meds, and I wanted her.

Growling, I rubbed my forehead hard, trying to scrub these thoughts and images away. I’d beaten one drug. I could do it again.

* * *

The kitchen was dark when I finally took the chance to enter. I waited until everyone had eaten, visited and gone to their rooms in the hopes of avoiding her. It was beneath me to act this way—hiding from a woman. The problem was I was still getting my strength back.

When I entered the dim room and saw I was alone, disappointment tightened my stomach. Ridiculous. I’d talk to Bill about taking a few days at the cabin. I was close to being one hundred percent, but I needed a little more time.

Winona left a plate of fried chicken, a baked potato, and rolls in the microwave for me, and I poured a glass of wine to go with it. The fire burned low, and I walked over to sit on the hearth and have my dinner as the orange flames caressed the black coals.

It reminded me of nights under the stars. Healthy nights when I’d camped alone and enjoyed the solitude and majesty of the open plain. It was the remedy that would get me back to whole. Then I’d return to the desert.

A soft creak on the floor made me glance up, and I hated the anticipation burning in my chest. I hated the disappointment when I saw it was only my uncle.

“Sorry to disturb your quiet,” he said, giving me a kind smile. “I’d wanted to talk to you about this at dinner.”

“I didn’t feel like company.” I took a bite of roll, and the two of us watched the flames a moment.

Finally, he cleared his throat and propped a boot on the hearth. “Well, I won’t take all your time. Evan Robertson rode over while you were away this afternoon. A few of his cattle got loose, and he’s worried about them getting lost, electrocuted. Asked if we could help track them down and round them up tomorrow.”

“Think it’s wise to wait?” Metal fences often became electrified during a Chinook, and unsuspecting livestock died as a result.

“Not my call to make.” Bill straightened and walked over to the hall leading to our rooms. “He asked if we could join them at sunup. I thought you might like to ride along.”

Today’s unplanned trip across the plain had irritated my back, but I wasn’t about to stick around another day with temptation so close at hand.

“I’ll be ready when you are.”

* * *

Evan Robertson owned a cattle ranch several miles west of us, toward Vaughn. In addition to cows, he was one of several ranchers who’d added bison to his herd, and those animals, it seemed, led yesterday’s escape.

Dressed in jeans and a brown leather jacket and chaps, Evan hopped up on a flatbed trailer before shouting over the wind to the group of about twelve men on horseback, who’d come to help.

“Got about ten of the big ones running ahead of the wind,” he said. “If we split, half going north, the other half east toward Benton Lake, we should spot them and circle them back around to the pen. I picked two leaders, we each have a flare gun to shoot when they’re spotted.”

Conway Hendricks, who was from a spread near Benton, held up one of the large-barreled flare guns. His thick, grey beard was unmistakable, and he had two guys, one wiry and one stocky, with

him. In addition to cowboy hats, they had bandannas tied around their mouths and noses. It seemed like overkill to me. A few other guys had joined us. From the looks of them, they had ridden up from the Air Force base, probably looking for some adventure.

Bill and I stayed with Evan’s group. We wore jeans and canvass jackets. Even at dawn, with the sun just cutting across the mountains, the warm winds made jackets unnecessary. They were good protection, though, against flying debris or electrified objects.

I turned Ranger’s head to follow my uncle, who was on Scout, the Palomino Patrick rode yesterday. He along with my paint Ranger were the best herding horses on the ranch. A sharp whistle rang out, and two groups of six took off at a gallop in opposite directions across the tan grasses.

For miles, all we could see was nonstop brown dotted by the occasional green or blackish scrub. Evan was in the lead with my uncle not far behind. I’d dropped back to keep my eyes open in the direction from which we’d come, making sure we didn’t miss anything. It was a tough day of riding hard and squinting harder, doing our best to distinguish brush from bison.

After a while, it became monotonous, and I struggled to keep my thoughts from drifting to memories of soft lips and sunset eyes. I tried to focus on my recovery and my plan. I was getting better. The physical symptoms had receded, and truth be told, the mental side wasn’t as hard for me. I hadn’t taken the drugs to escape or to find some mental respite. That was a bonus. I’d only sought relief from the pain.