Ride the Thunder (31 page)

“Brig?” Her voice was so low, it vibrated.

He moved, turning to her. His hand unerringly found her waist and pulled her to him. His mouth bruised her lips and Jordanna accepted his angry possession. Rough kisses chased each other over her face.

“You’re a drug, Jordanna, that’s been injected into my system,” Brig muttered. “I get high on you . . . and damn every minute of the addiction.”

“What if . . .” Her fingers trembled over his hard, lean features, memorizing them by touch. “. . . I told you that I thought I was . . . half in love with you? What would you say?”

She felt his momentary stillness. Lifting his mouth from her skin, he breathed out a silent sound. “That you might have been in the mountains too long. It might be that all we have is a physical addiction—not an emotional dependency. Let’s don’t be quick to confuse the two,” he cautioned.

There was an ache in her throat because Jordanna knew it wasn’t true for her. “Is that what you think?”

A roaming hand found its way inside the waistband of her long underwear. “It’s possible,” Brig murmured against her mouth.

The words to convince him died on her lips as Jordanna became lost in the seductive prowess of his touch. Her bones melted when they came in contact with his hard length. The erratic pulsing of her heart fluttered against her ribcage as his hard lips claimed hers. She held nothing back, glorifying in the blazing fires of his passion. Love ran molten-hot through her veins. Every particle of her body gave in to him, selflessly, asking nothing more in return than his possesion. Brig’s answer was satisfaction—for both of them.

Afterwards they rested in each other’s arms. The caress of his hands was absently gentle, no longer demanding.

“Your father promised me a bonus for a ram with a forty-inch curl,” Brig said in soft mockery. “I didn’t realize you were going to throw in your particular brand of reward as well.”

His words indicated that he had sensed a difference in her response. He’d come up with his own reasoning. Hurt splintered through her.

“I wish I hadn’t gotten that ram,” Jordanna murmured.

His head turned, but he couldn’t see her in the darkness. “Why?” Brig sounded amused, in a cynical way.

Jordanna hesitated to explain. But she could never convince him, because he wouldn’t believe her. She rolled onto her side, away from him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she insisted in a husky reply. “It wouldn’t change anything.”

Brig stared at the dark shape of her head. His body felt cool where hers had lain against it. He resisted the impulse to pursue her earlier declaration of love, to discover if she had really meant it.

Ever since this hunt had started, all of his instincts had been warning him of some hidden danger. Yet his only vulnerability was in his feelings for Jordanna. Something warned him not to relax his guard.

Brig stared at the roof. Today she had stalked that sheep with the skill of a tigress and skinned her kill with the sureness of a hunter. Was he to be her next trophy? Why was he asking himself such a question?

He fought down the urge to curl her body to his length and turned his back to her instead.

I
T WAS DARK
and gray when Brig got up the next morning. Outside the tent, he could hear the whisper of a drizzling rain talking to the trees. He fastened his pants and reached for his shirt. His glance touched on the sleeping form and the gloss of dark copper hair. God, she was beautiful! The temptation was strong to crawl back in the sleeping bag to waken her. Bending down, Brig roughly shook her shoulder.

“It’s time to get up.”

Her lashes fluttered, then opened. Brig turned away to button his shirt. He was conscious that she didn’t immediately climb out of bed. The knowledge pulsed through his loins. Brig took his time buttoning the shirt to keep his hands and part of his mind occupied.

The zip of the sleeping bag drew his glance. Her tall, slender figure was clad in white thermal underwear. Jordanna stretched away the sleep, arching her back like a cat. His heartbeat quickened at the thrusting outline of her firm breasts.

Brig looked away and began tucking his shirt inside
his Levis. “If you wore those longjohns in New York, you’d start a whole new fashion trend,” he stated in a clipped voice.

“Do you think so?” she laughed and paraded in front of him in a mocking imitation of a fashion model, posturing and posing while she made an announcer’s spiel. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is what the well-dressed debutante will be wearing this season. You will notice the way the material clings to the bodice and molds . . .”

If she had been doing a striptease, the fire in his veins couldn’t have been any hotter. She was joking but there was sensuality in every movement. The tantalizing sight of her was more than he could stand. His arm hooked her waist to draw her to him and abruptly cut off her mocking speech. Before he could pull her completely into his arms, she was straining to reach his descending mouth. Her eagerness and ardency tightened the circle of his arms to crush her to his length. The action stabbed a sharp pain through his injured shoulder, forcing him to lessen his hold as he winced.

“Your shoulder. I forgot.” Instantly Jordanna was contrite, running a hand over it in silent apology. Her hazel eyes were dark with concern. “How is it this morning?”

The fire was under control and Brig set her away from him. “It’s better.” He reached for his sheepskin-lined jacket. “You should get dressed before you catch cold.” Brig ignored the invitation in her look. “It’s misting rain today so be sure to have your poncho and plenty of warm clothes.”

Without another glance, he slipped out of the tent and walked to the larger one. The air he breathed was heavy with moisture. Water dripped off the point of his hat brim. It was going to be a miserable, cold day. He ducked inside the flap of the larger tent, feeling the warmth and smelling the aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon. Brig realized he’d overslept.

A grumpy-looking Max was sitting on the bench,
hunched over the table and his cup of coffee. Kit was unzipping the sleeping bags and arranging them to dry. At the stove, Jocko was turning the bacon.

“Is Tandy still with the horses?” Brig asked.

“Si.” Jocko glanced at him. “Fletcher is helping him this morning.”

Brig would have liked a cup of coffee, but knowing the man who had hired him was out there in the misting rain doing his job turned Brig around. A woman’s body had made his bed too soft and he’d slept longer as a result. Or so he convinced himself.

Halfway to the grassy area where the horses were picketed, he met Tandy coming back. “I see ya’ finally woke up,” the stocky cowboy greeted him with a faint grin.

Brig’s mouth tightened at the comment. “Are the horses ready to go?” He glanced behind Tandy. “Where’s Fletcher?”

“He’s back with the horses.” Tandy gestured over his shoulder in the direction he’d come from. “I was just comin’ to see if you was awake. The pinto threw a shoe. I was wondering if you wanted me to saddle Jughead for Max or what?”

“Damn,” Brig swore softly under his breath. “Why didn’t you check the horses more closely?”

“I did,” Tandy protested. “I didn’t notice the pinto havin’ any loose shoe last night. But this morning, there it was—on the ground.”

“You’re slowing up, Tandy. You aren’t as sharp as you used to be. Age is finally catching up with you.” Brig saw the older cowboy flinch then draw himself up with pride. Brig knew Tandy was sensitive about his accumulating years and he cursed himself for taking advantage of that vulnerability when he berated the cowboy’s oversight. It hadn’t been necessary.

“I checked that horse. I checked all the horses carefully. There wasn’t no shoe loose on any of them,” Tandy repeated in stiff defense. “What do you want to do about a mount for Max?”

“Saddle Jughead.”

“Do you want me to top him off or do you think my bones are too brittle?” It was a sharp challenge. “They might have aged considerably since yesterday morning.”

“Go ahead and bust the kinks out of him,” Brig answered and hesitated. “I . . . didn’t mean what I said earlier, Tandy. I was just . . . snapping. No coffee this morning.”

“Well, go get some. I’ll finish the horses. I don’t need your help.” The cowboy turned on his heel and walked back the way he had come.

Indecision made Brig hesitate. He was tempted to leave well enough alone and have the coffee as Tandy had suggested. But Fletcher was with the horses, assuming his responsibility. He took a step after Tandy.

“Brig?” Jordanna called to him and he stopped, looking back. She was hurrying toward him, a tin mug of coffee in her hand. The hood of her poncho had slipped off her head. The dark sheen of moisture hid the mahogany cast of her hair. She stopped beside him to hand him the cup.

“Jocko said you hadn’t had any coffee yet.” Water dripped off the tip of her nose.

“Your hair is getting wet.” Ignoring the cup, he reached out to lift the rainhood over her head. Then his hands cupped her head, rainhood and all. The moistness of her lips was too much of a temptation and he kissed the rain-clean sweetness of them. Afterwards, Jordanna rubbed her cheek against the rasping stubble on his jaw.

“You haven’t shaved yet,” she murmured. “Shall I do it for you?”

There were at least half a hundred things he wanted her to do for him. Desire gnawed at him like a dog worrying a bone. His hands slid to her shoulders and Brig set her firmly away from him.

“I can manage on my own,” he insisted and the meaning stretched to other things besides shaving.

“Your coffee.” Jordanna prompted him, holding up the cup as a reminder. Brig took it, glad of the minor
distraction. “You’d better drink it. The rain has probably cooled it, as well as diluted it.”

The sip he took was a little hotter than lukewarm, but it was black. “I needed that,” he muttered—in more ways than one.

“Where were you going?”

“To help with the horses.” Brig knew he should walk away, but the rain-washed freshness of her face kept him rooted.

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

“I know. I . . .” A commotion from the horses turned Brig. Tandy was on the heavy-boned bay horse in a repeat performance of yesterday morning’s bucking exhibition. After a couple of minutes, the bay horse crow-hopped a few yards and quit.

“Are you riding him again today?” Jordanna asked.

“No. Max draws the unlucky number this morning. The pinto threw a shoe.”

“Poor Max.” She smiled, but with little genuine sympathy.

“Don’t you like him much? He’s a friend of your father’s.”

“He’s your cousin,” Jordanna reminded him.

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“If you feel that way about him, why did you save him? Wouldn’t you be better off if he wasn’t around?” The instant the words were out she appeared to regret them, as if she had blurted them out without stopping to think.

Brig found the questions curious. His gaze narrowed on her in hard appraisal. Where had she gotten her information? Not from Max, he was certain. That didn’t leave many alternatives. He thought of her near declaration of love last night. At the time, some wary instinct had kept him from believing it wholly. The sensation came rushing back this morning.

“What makes you think Max has anything I want?” he challenged smoothly.

“I don’t.” Her answer was fast—too fast. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Forget it, Brig.”

“There’s a lot I would like to forget.” He gave her a long, considering look that mentally stripped away the layers of garments that hid her body from his eyes. “How sensual you are behind that self-possessed composure. How you quiver in my arms. What it’s like to hold your breasts in my hand—and feel you under me.” He saw the flush rising in her cheeks. “This moment I would like to undress you very slowly and kiss every inch of you.” Brig paused deliberately to test her with his next remark. “You are very good on your back, Jordanna.

She gasped in outrage at his demeaning tone. Brig saw the arc of her hand and did nothing to stop or elude it. The stinging numbness on his cheek was oddly pleasant. Her retaliation was what he had expected, and wanted, but he wasn’t totally satisfied.

“You are a bastard, Brig McCord!” she hissed at him, her eyes glittering with fury. “There is more to life than sex.”

“But sex is all there is between you and me. There’s nothing wrong with unadulterated lust. You can’t deny it’s mutually satisfying.” In spite of himself, he continued to prod, needing more proof.

“Has it?” Her jaw was taut, but there was welling of tears in her eyes.

“If it hasn’t, you’ve been a damned good actress, but I always suspected that you were.” Brig waited for her to deny it, driven by some angry need to hear the words.

“I am. The funny part is, I played the role of lover for so long I almost began to believe it,” she laughed bitterly.

“Liar!” Her sudden agreement prompted his denial. “Yon weren’t faking those responses.”

“Wasn’t I?” she taunted and turned away from him.

Anger flashed inside him. Brig grabbed her arm to stop her. “Don’t walk away from me.” It was a bitter blow to his pride to realize that he still didn’t want to let her go.