Ride the Thunder (24 page)

“I
HOPE YOU
have a nice, quiet horse for me, Brig.” Max eyed the saddled horses with misgivings.

“Ride the paint. It’s the gentlest mount in the remuda.” Brig pointed to the brown-spotted horse standing three-legged at the corral fence.

Jordanna stood to one side, watching the last minute preparations. Tandy was weighing the panniers to evenly distribute the load on the pack horses, while Jocko went over his checklist. Frank, who had maintained a respectful distance from her all morning, was tightening the saddle cinches on the horses. The attitude of all three men had changed toward her. They now regarded her as Brig’s woman and she liked the feeling it gave her.

“Jordanna.” Brig was assigning the riders to their horses.

A pleasant warmth spread through her when he spoke her name. “Yes.” She stepped forward, her hands in the pockets of her hunting parka, her hair
swept under the crown of her wide-brimmed western hat, revealing the long, slim line of her neck.

“You’ll ride the sorrel.” His look was impersonal, but then it had been ever since he’d left the bedroom that morning.

“Alright.” She walked toward the saddled horse Frank was untying from the fence. Looping the reins over its neck, he held the horse’s bridle while she mounted. “The stirrups are too short, Frank. They need to be lengthened,” Jordanna noticed.

“You’d better tell Brig,” he mumbled and moved quickly away.

She stared after him for an amazed instant. His avoidance of her was almost comical. With a wry shake of her head, Jordanna started to dismount and do it herself.

“What’s the problem?” Brig walked toward her.

She sat back in the saddle. “The stirrups are too short.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Drawing her foot out of the stirrup, she bent her leg back toward the cantle. She watched Brig lengthen the strap a notch before he walked to the other side of the saddle to do the same. When he’d finished, he stepped back.

“How is that?”

Jordanna stood in the stirrups. The scabbard containing her rifle rested familiarly under her leg. “Fine.” She nodded. He held her gaze for a moment, then patted the sorrel’s withers and walked away to give Tandy a hand.

Her father and brother were astride a pair of bays—tough, mountain-bred horses, their dark coats showing the thickness of winter growth. In the saddle of the pinto, Max looked more adept on a horse than he had led them to believe. All of the riders wore wide-brimmed western hats like Jordanna’s to shade their eyes from the glare of the sun at the higher elevations and to protect their faces from the dust, wind, and rain.

Kit rode over to wait beside Jordanna for the last of the packs to be tied. “It won’t be long now before we leave,” she observed.

“You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” It seemed a foolish question. Jordanna couldn’t help smiling at it. “This will be a hunt of a lifetime. Dad has often said that a man is entitled to only one bighorn sheep in his life.” Brig was walking the packstring, double-checking to be sure all the packs were securely fastened. He’d been just as thorough in his lovemaking, Jordanna thought, and was warmed by the comparison.

“You look happy.” Kit eyed her thoughtfully, an unspoken question in his expression.

“I am.” Maybe mellow was a better word. For the first time, there didn’t seem to be anything missing in her life.

Her brother followed the direction of her gaze, stopping when he found the object of her attention, Brig McCord. “Dad didn’t have anything to do with last night, did he?”

She was startled by the question, and confused. “What do you mean?”

“I know Dad suggested you should be nice to McCord when he was so upset about having a woman along, especially you.” His gaze continued to probe her expression, indifferent to the indignant anger he saw gathering.

“And you think that last night, I . . . slept with Brig because Dad wanted me to?” Jordanna raged, in a low, vibrant voice. “My God, you’re my own brother. How could you think that of me? Of Dad?”

“I know you practically worship the ground Dad walks on. In your eyes, he can’t do anything wrong. I don’t know how far you would go to please him,” Kit calmly defended his position. “I do know you are attracted to Brig McCord. It’s possible you rationalized last night with the knowledge that Dad wanted you to make McCord change his mind about you.”

“You’re wrong. You couldn’t be more wrong.” She
was so angry and hurt she could hardly talk. The sorrel horse sensed the violent agitation of its rider and shifted nervously, tossing its flaxen mane. “In the first place, I would never do such a thing for that reason. And Dad would never suggest it.”

“I never said you were consciously influenced by him,” her brother clarified. “I don’t underestimate Dad. And I don’t like the idea that he might be using you to get something he wants.”

“He isn’t,” Jordanna retorted in a hiss.

“Dad wasn’t very upset when he saw McCord coming out of your room this morning.”

“How could he be? I’m an adult. He has no control over what I do,” she argued.

“You are his daughter,” Kit reminded her. “Dad is pretty possessive about things that belong to him. He doesn’t like people taking what is his . . . unless he wants them to. What I’m saying is that either he wanted you to become involved with Brig, or Brig has made himself an enemy.”

“No wonder Dad dislikes you,” Jordanna lashed at him with words, wanting him to feel their sting. “you aren’t a son to him. You’re a Judas.”

A sad smile touched his mouth. “He isn’t God, Jordanna.” He reined his horse away from hers and walked it over to Max.

Jordanna sat rigid in the saddle, staring after him. Tears burned her eyes. How could he say those things about her—about their father? Such insidious things. She didn’t hear the muffled thud of a horse and rider approaching her.

“What’s the matter, Jordanna?” Her father’s voice startled her. “What did Kit say to you?”

After one surprised glance, she kept her face averted from him and struggled to keep her expression of wounded outrage from showing. “Nothing unusual.” Her voice was tight and husky. “We can’t talk for five minutes without arguing. It’s the same old thing.” She couldn’t risk looking at him to see if he believed her.

“Jordanna, I . . .” Whatever he had intended to say, he abruptly changed his mind. “I hope you brought plenty of lip balm this time. I don’t fancy the idea of using grease for my chapped lips the way we had to on the Alaskan trip.”

At high altitudes, the atmosphere was less dense, permitting the sun to quickly dry and chap lips. His reminder of that previous trip was an attempt to distract her from the unpleasant conversation with Kit and joke about a time when they had shared hardships. Jordanna tried to respond.

“I have three tubes this time,” she assured and flashed him a tight smile.

“That should be enough,” Fletcher returned the smile, a veil masking the piercing look he gave her—or had Jordanna only imagined the look because of Kit’s accusations? Before she could decide, her father was turning away. “It looks like we’re ready to leave.”

Brig was mounting a big, muscled buckskin. Its coat gleamed a palomino gold in the early morning sunlight, contrasted with a black mane, tail, and stockings. Its size suited the rangy build of its rider. Brig turned the horse in a semicircle to face the hulking frame of Frank Savidge.

“You know the general area where we’ll be hunting. With any luck, we’ll be back in less than three weeks,” he told him.

“I’ll look after things here,” Frank promised.

With a curt nod, Brig let his gaze encompass the hunting party. “Let’s go,” he said simply and started his horse forward.

Jordanna’s sorrel stepped out eagerly as Brig took the lead. The pack horses were tied single file, one roped to the next one’s tail with Jocko leading them and Tandy bringing up the rear. The group of riders trotted across the mountain meadow, clustered in no particular order. Moving offered release, but Jordanna continued to feel a measure of tension in the company of both her brother and her father. The broad shoulders
of the rider in the lead offered an escape from it. She urged her horse to catch up with the buckskin and slowed it when she came alongside Brig.

“Do you mind if I ride with you?” she asked, meeting his sidelong look with candor. Jordanna wanted to be with him and made no secret of the fact. She had made her attraction for him much too plain in the last twenty-four hours to hide it now.

His saddle creaked as he turned to look over his shoulder at the trailing riders. His questioning glance back to her was lazy and warm. “Are you sure your father doesn’t object?”

“I’m past the age of consent.”

Her comment drew no reply as Brig faced the terrain ahead of them. Jordanna saw the faint curving of his mouth beneath the mustache. It was his only indication that he wanted her riding beside him. The knowledge warmed away the chilling tension Kit’s words had created.

By late morning, they were miles from the ranch house and riding deeper into the mountains. The rough country had strung the riders into single file with Tandy and Jocko bringing up the rear with the pack horses. The sun was hidden by a gray cloud cover that crowded the mountain peaks around them. The nipping temperatures turned the horse’s breath into white vapor. The air was sharp and invigorating to the senses.

Traversing the shoulder of the mountain, the horses walked quietly on a carpet of pine needles. They were riding the edge of a thick stand of fir trees and skirting a talus of loose rock that fell away to the canyon below.

When Brig reined the buckskin to a halt and the rest of the horses stopped automatically, Jordanna thought his intention was to give the horses a rest. It had been more than an hour since their last stop and they had been steadily climbing. Her lungs were trying
to adjust to the thinning oxygen of the higher altitude, her breathing slightly labored.

She glanced behind her to see how her brother and Max were holding up. Novices were often deceived by the belief that the horse was doing all the work when, in reality, horseback riding was an exercise that, like swimming, used most of the muscles and expended a lot of energy. Both of them looked to be in good shape, although the discovery was registering that they weren’t simply sitting in the saddle.

“Look.” Brig’s quiet order pulled her attention to the front.

Her gaze followed his pointing arm. Where a ridge joined their mountain slope to a companion peak, the trees thinned to form a rocky meadow. Her gaze swept the area once without seeing anything more than the rough terrain. On the second pass, something moved and she focused on it.

A massive bull elk stood at the edge of the clearing, his rack of antlers blending in with the limbs of the trees. Despite its heavy, square body, it appeared majestic rather than clumsy. The lift of its head gave the impression of regal power. It started forward with a lordly walk. The white circle on its rump—which earned it the Indian name of “wapiti,” meaning white rump—showed up plainly against its buff-colored coat. It stopped and turned its head in their direction, as if warned by some sixth sense of their presence. The spread of its antlers from tip to tip took Jordanna’s breath away. It was easily the largest rack she had ever seen, more than five feet.

“Look at that elk, Dad.” She spoke in an awed breath and glanced over her shoulder to see if he had spotted the huge animal.

But he had already dismounted and pulled his .270 Winchester from its scabbard. His expression was absorbed in calculating the distance and measuring the wind currents. Absently he responded to her comment.

“That’s a Boone and Crockett rack if I ever saw one,” he declared, referring to the trophy standards of the famous Boone and Crockett Club.

Brig reined his buckskin horse into her father’s line of fire. “I thought this hunt was organized for bighorn sheep. You didn’t mention you were going to take other game. Or do you normally shoot everything you see?”

“My God, man! That’s a trophy head out there! Get out of my way,” her father ordered harshly, an angry frown creasing his forehead.

The buckskin received no command to move as Brig rested both hands on the saddlehorn. “Just to make sure I understand you—all you are interested in is a trophy kill and you don’t care what kind of animal it is, is that right?” Behind the taunting question was a silent challenge. “As your guide, I should know because we’ll be spotting more game while we’re looking for the bighorn. If you are going to shoot at everything that comes along and not concentrate on the bighorns, you should have mentioned it to me before.”

“I want the ram,” her father stated.

Jordanna knew Brig was questioning how badly he wanted a trophy bighorn—bad enough to pass up the elk? Indecision warred in his expression before Fletcher finally turned to impatiently thrust his rifle in the leather scabbard. Brig reined his buckskin back to the head of the group, not commenting on the hunter’s decision to forget the elk.

With his line of sight unobstructed, Fletcher’s gaze returned to the massive creature and Jordanna saw the anger and frustration written in his look—an anger that he had been deprived of something he wanted and a burning resentment of the person who had thwarted him. She glanced at the elk trotting over the ridge and out of range. It was a splendid animal and would have made a priceless trophy. She didn’t understand Brig’s objection to killing it.

Brig waited until her father was in the saddle before he resumed the journey. Jordanna maintained her place
in line behind him. The atmosphere around the silent riders was considerably heavier than it had been.

In the middle of the afternoon, Brig called a halt to rest the horses. Three hours of crossing a solid field of rock had noticeably tired their mounts. Max swung stiffly out of the saddle, grimacing at the soreness of his muscles. No amount of conditioning had prepared him for the effects of the first day, although he was standing up well to the test.

“How much farther are we going today?” he asked Brig.

“We’ll camp around four. It will take us the rest of tomorrow to reach the site of our base camp.” Brig loosened the saddle cinch on his buckskin, then moved to the pinto horse to loosen Max’s.