Ride the Thunder (16 page)

“What’s it say?” Tandy frowned.

“It’s from Smith.” There was a wealth of restrained and savage anger in his voice. “There’ll be another non-hunting member on the trip. His son is coming along. Is this going to be a sight-seeing excursion or a hunting trip?” he demanded.

When he hadn’t been beating himself into the ground with ranchwork these last two months, he’d been scouting the high country, studying the land, locating the bighorn herds and defining their range. Fletcher Smith had been right. If Brig was going to take his money
for a hunt, he was going to do everything he could to insure Smith got his money’s worth. But this hunt for a trophy ram seemed to be turning into something else—first with Max being invited along, and now Smith’s son.

“For two bits, I’d tell him to find somebody else,” Brig grumbled.

There was so much that still had to be done. The extra supplies had to be brought in from town. All the gear, pack-saddles, halters, bridles, riding saddles, had to be in first-class condition as well as the riding horses and packstring. All the ranchwork had to be caught up to the point where one man could handle it for the three weeks Brig would be gone, Tandy was coming with him to serve as the wrangler. Jocko would be the cook. Frank Savidge would be left in charge.

“But you said you needed money, so how can you tell him to find somebody else?” Tandy wanted to know.

“I know what I said.” Brig took another bite of the stew, but it tasted like chalk. He dropped the spoon onto the plate. “If there is any of this left after tonight, throw it out.”

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” Tandy demanded.

“Have I got a choice?” he jeered and picked up the spoon.

The back door opened and Frank Savidge entered the kitchen in time to catch Brig’s words. “What’s the matter?”

Frank was a burly mountain of a man, lantern-jawed with sandy brown hair. He was a beer-drinking, fist-brawling good ole boy who had been fired from every outfit within a hundred miles. His problem was he didn’t respect any man if he could whip him, whether it was his boss or his buddy. He’d worked for Brig the last five years.

Tandy darted a resentful glance at Brig before he answered Frank’s question. “Ahh, he’s just acting like a wolf with his tail caught in a crack. I’ll be glad when his disposition improves.”

“It’ll probably coincide with an improvement in the cooking,” Brig retorted.

“Stew?!!” Frank glared at the plate on the table.

“That’s it! That’s the last time I’m cookin’ supper!” Tandy declared.

No one argued. The conversation ended as the three men ate the meal in silence. The balled piece of paper beside Brig’s plate was a mocking reminder of events he wanted to forget. His irritation wasn’t caused by the increased size of the hunting party and the changes in accommodations it presented. His wish to cancel the agreement to guide the hunt had nothing to do with that. It was the prospect of facing Fletcher Smith and taking the man’s money after making love to his mistress. Jordanna. Damn, but he wanted to forget her name. He wanted to forget her.

Brig slammed the door on the pickup and glanced at the supplies loaded in the back. Ignoring the fact that he should be on the road back to the ranch, he walked up the broken concrete path that had once been a sidewalk and knocked on the door. The small house was old and badly in need of paint. The landlord had told Trudie that if he painted it, he’d have to raise the rent.

The door was opened and his gaze swung from the peeling paint on the sides of the house to the blonde woman behind the screen door. “Brig?” Her startled voice betrayed her surprise. She immediately became flustered, a hand rushing to fluff her hair and touch her naked lips.

“Can I come in?” He felt hard and cold, but the stone ache inside him drove him on.

“Of course.” She unlatched the screen door to let him in and clutched the front of her housecoat. “I must look a sight. Grab a beer from the refrigerator while I put on some make-up.”

His hand caught her wrist. “Don’t bother.” Brig pulled her into his arms and crushed the lips beneath
his. He hated the dry feel of them when his mouth ached for the touch of a soft pair.

He picked her up and carried her across the small living room and down the narrow hall. The bedroom door was closed and he kicked it open with his boot. The bed wasn’t made and clothes were scattered on the floor. When he sot her down, Trudie hurried to pick them up.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized for the mess. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Forget them.” He had already unbuttoned his shirt and was pulling the tails out of his waistband. Her subservient attitude grated when in his mind was a memory of pride with a touch of arrogance. “And take off that robe.”

His bead touched the pillow for an instant. He felt worse than he had before. The frustration of wanting was clawing at his guts despite the physical gratification of lust. It ate at him. Brig swung his long legs to the floor and reached for his pants.

“Who is she?” Trudie pulled the sheet over the nakedness, a tremor of hurt in her voice.

“Who is who?” Brig feigned cold ignorance.

“You were trying to pretend I was some other woman,” she accused softly without anger.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugged into his shirt and tucked it inside the waistband of his Levi’s.

“Brig, this isn’t the first time it’s happened,” she chided him for treating her like an ignorant child. “After we made love, you used to lay in bed with me and we’d talk. Lately, you . . . well, you’re out of bed almost before it’s over.”

“I have to get back to the ranch.”

“Sure.” She didn’t believe him.

“Dammit! If you don’t like it, . . .” Brig pivoted, the rage fading at the gently forgiving look on her face. He closed his mouth, a muscle leaping in his jaw as he
contained the frustration that made hunt lash out at whoever was near.

“I never said that, Brig,” Trudie murmured. “But we’ve known each other a long time. I didn’t think we had to lie to each other. There is someone else. You know it doesn’t matter to me.”

“You have a vivid imagination.” His mouth smiled but his eyes were cold. He’d get that she-bitch out of his system if it was the last thing he did. “I’ve got to leave,” Brig stated and reached for his hat on the dresser. “Take care, Trudie.” He bent over the bed and kissed her.

Halfway to the front door, he discovered his hand was wiping the feel of her lips from his mouth. He hadn’t accomplished anything by stopping here. Yanking open the screen door, he pushed it out of his way, letting it swing shut with a bang as he walked out.

His long, swift strides slowed at the sight of Jake Phelps coming up the walk. Jake owned a ranch near the Montana border. At fifty, he’d never been married, a road Brig was headed down. He was a short man with a pock-marked face and a beer belly. The snowy white hat on his head hid his baldness. Brig’s gaze ran over the western suit and string tie. His jowlly cheeks had been shaved so close they were almost raw. Brig could smell the spicy shaving lotion from three feet away. Jake’s face reddened under Brig’s narrowed look.

“What brings you here, McCord?” he blustered.

The rancher was slicked up to a go a-courtin’. The only things missing were a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a box of candy under his arm. Brig glanced back toward the house and smiled cynically.

“The same thing that brought you here, Jake,” he replied.

The man began to puff up like a bullfrog. “I don’t like them kind of references to . . . ”

“Save your breath, Jake,” Brig interrupted. “I won’t be back.”

“What do you mean?” The rancher frowned certainly.

“Trudie is a nice girl. She deserves someone who will treat her decent.” And not use her as a pounding board for his frustrations, he thought to himself.

Brig left the short man standing on the cracked and broken sidewalk with his mouth open. He didn’t look back as he climbed behind the wheel of his pickup and backed away from the house into the street.

The image of an auburn-haired woman with green-speckled eyes kept dancing in his head. Her memory was becoming an obsession with him. He’d dream about her at night and wake up hurting. He’d ride through a mountain meadow and catch the tantalizing scent of her amidst a patch of wildflowers. Watching a sunset, he’d remember the way her brown hair caught fire in the light.

“Jordanna.” Brig said the name aloud and wanted to tear out his tongue. He cursed savagely at the memory that had destroyed his peace of mind. He had walked away from Trudie without a twinge of regret. Why couldn’t he walk away from the memory of a night two months old?

But it lived with him. He could hear her voice and feel her soft, alabaster skin. He could taste her mouth and smell the wild sweetness of her skin. Most of all, he could see the smooth, proud lines of her body lying on that bearskin rug.

Brig stepped on the accelerator and the pickup shot forward, but he couldn’t outrace the visions in his mind.

“T
HIS IS AS
far as we go,” Tandy Barnes announced as he set the brake and switched off the ignition. “We’re here.”

Jordanna moved stiffly, cramped and sore from the bouncing, jarring ride over the dirt road. She looked out the windows of the high-mounted four-wheel-drive vehicle, but she couldn’t see a sign of a building. The bulk of yesterday had been spent flying, in and out of airports, changing planes, and finally arriving in Idaho. The short, stocky driver had met them at the airport and taken them to a hotel to spend the night, advising them the drive to the ranch should only be taken during the daylight hours. After traversing that road, Jordanna could understand why. It would have been suicide in the dark.

“Where is here? I don’t see the ranch.” As soon as she had said it, Jordanna realized it had been a mistake. The driver was giving her a look that said he expected a female to complain.

“It’s on the other side of the river. We have to go the rest of the way on foot. There’s only a pack bridge across it,” he explained with the patience of a man who knew a woman would disapprove of such primitive conditions. “Like I been tellin’ you, we’re pretty well isolated here. We’re a working ranch so don’t expect luxury accommodations.”

“I believe you mentioned that before, Mr. Barnes.” Jordanna smiled tightly, irritated by his patronizing attitude.

Ever since she had stepped off the plane with her father, brother, and Max Sanger, and this squatty, short-legged cowboy had come forward to meet them, she had been subjected to all kinds of warnings about how rough it was going to be. Although Tandy never said it, his meaning was obvious—a woman didn’t have any business in a hunting party.

Granted. she probably hadn’t made the best impression. She had been wearing an ochre traveling suit that looked like something out of the pages of Vogue, which it was, but it was the most comfortable set of clothing she had for traveling. He had taken one look at the slender brown heels of her shoes, the jeweled brooch on her scarf, the earrings dangling from her earlobes, plus the suit, and labeled her a foolish female. Jordanna hadn’t been able to change his opinion. She had the feeling he would have regarded her more favorably if she’d arrived wearing blue jeans and a sloppy sweater, and no make-up.

Opening the door. she jumped lightly to the ground. Today she had worn slacks, a thick sweater over her blouse, and sensible flat shoes, but Tandy Barnes continued to give her sideways looks of disapproval. Jordanna was used to such skepticism. Eventually she would overcome it. Her father had often teased her that she wouldn’t have any problem if she were skinny and ugly.

But men, especially the rugged outdoor types, didn’t expect young beautiful women to like their kind of life. Women like that were supposed to be interested
in fashion and jewels and candlelight dinners instead of campfire fare, insects, and insulated underwear. Whenever she looked like she was enjoying the discomfort, they would laugh and say that she was being a “good sport” about it. There were times when it was impossible to win and Jordanna had learned to stop trying to batter down their prejudices and ignore them so she could enjoy herself.

The sound of rushing water turned her gaze to the river sprouting in rocky ground beyond the pines. A worn stone and dirt path wound through the trees toward the shimmering water visible through the limbs. It was the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. Its white-water rapids, alternating with deep pools, carved out a gorge in the rocky terrain.

On the other side of the river gorge, mountains rose. The conical shapes of pine trees dotted their slopes. But Jordanna could see no sign of the ranch buildings Tandy Barnes had claimed were on the other side. Rugged peaks made jagged points on the horizon, snow-capped and wild.

“Its beautiful country, isn’t it?” Christopher was standing near her, his hands on his hips, his dark head tilted back to see the tops of the mountains.

“Beautiful,” she agreed and turned to follow his gaze to the east.

Bare granite mountains stabbed the sky with a multitude of rocky spires and jutting ridges. The forbidding peaks loomed above them with rugged grandeur, majestic and awesome. An osprey floated on the mountain currents, following the snaking river.