Ride the Thunder (32 page)

“Take your hand off of me,” Jordanna ordered in
a voice icy with disdain. “I don’t have to pretend to like your touch any more. The game is over.”

“I’ll say when it’s over. Remember that,” Brig warned, but released her arm to let her go.

Jordanna choked back the tears. She hated him as violently as she loved him. It hadn’t mattered before that his need for her was only sexual. She had lulled her pride into believing it would change in time—that she might make him fall in love with her. But he had pulled their relationship down to such a base level that what once had been beautiful became unclean.

Why had she lied to him, pretended it had all been an act? To save face. To rescue some of her self-respect. Before he touched her again, he would have to get down on his hands and knees and beg.

Avoiding the large tent, she walked to the smaller one. She zipped apart the two sleeping bags, gathered Brig’s belongings together and stacked them in a pile. When it was done, much of her composure had returned, enough to permit her to go to the larger tent to eat breakfast.

There was a bad taste in his mouth when Jordanna walked away. Her erect carriage, the stiff, proud lines of her body reminded Brig of a child who had been unjustly accused of telling a lie and sent to her room without supper. He was angry with himself. But, dammit, he’d been right! He took a swallow of coffee. It had become cold and bitter. With a disgusted flick of his wrist, he emptied the contents of the mug on the ground.

“What are you doin’, throwing away good coffee like that?” Tandy frowned.

Brig jerked his head around at the cowboy’s silent approach. “It was cold.” He looked beyond him. “Are the horses all ready?”

“Yep. And my stomach is ready for some breakfast.”

“Where’s Fletcher? I thought he was with you.”

“He’s right behind me. He was just tying Jughead up.” Tandy glanced over his shoulder just as Fletcher Smith emerged from the stand of trees near the clearing.

Brig thought he saw the hunter’s gaze sharpen at the sight of him. But in the next second, he decided he was mistaken as the man smiled and greeted him.

“Good morning, Brig. How’s the shoulder today?”

“Much better.”

“Good. Where’s Jordanna? Wasn’t she with you?” Fletcher glanced around curiously.

“Breakfast is ready. I think she went to eat.”

“It sounds like a good idea for us, too.” Fletcher seemed in an amiable, confident mood. He fell into step beside Brig. “I think we should follow the same route that we did yesterday, don’t you?”

Hunting sheep wasn’t exactly the foremost thought on his mind, but it was what he was getting paid for, regardless of bow much that fact stuck in his throat. Brig nodded in agreement. “It might prove as successful as it did yesterday for Jordanna.”

“I’m counting on it.” Fletcher paused to hold back the tent flap for Brig to enter first.

Jordanna was inside, but she didn’t even glance up when they entered. The expression on her face seemed to be chiseled out of cold marble. She didn’t say one word to him during the entire meal. Only once did her gaze happen to encounter his and there was a frosty coolness in her look. But he noticed the way she picked at her food, instead of eating heartily the way she usually did. She wasn’t as indifferent to him as she would like him to believe. It was a relief to have that belief confirmed.

When everyone was finished eating and the final cup of coffee was downed, they left the shelter of the tent and walked through the drizzle to the horses. The big bay horse acted skittish when Max climbed into its saddle. Snorting and tossing its head, it danced around.

“Maybe I should ride him,” Fletcher suggested. “You might not be able to handle him, Max.”

“I’ll handle him,” Max insisted, jerking roughly on the reins to make the horse stand.

“He’ll settle down,” Tandy promised.

“You can change horses if you want to,” Brig said.

“I said I didn’t,” Max snapped.

“Okay. Let’s go.” Brig turned the buckskin toward the trail they had taken the past several days.

Only this time the order of the riders changed. Fletcher rode behind him instead of Jordanna. She followed Kit, with Max bringing up the rear. Brig missed having her behind him and riding alongside him where the trail permitted. It irritated that he should be bothered by such a small thing.

As they neared the steep switchback that took them over the crest of the ridge, Brig turned in his saddle. “With this rain, it will be slippery in spots. Give your horses all the rein they want. They’ll find the solid footing.”

His sweeping glance saw the nods of understanding—all except for Jordanna, who looked coolly in the opposite direction. Tightlipped, Brig faced the front and gave the buckskin its head as it started the climb.

The creaking of saddle leather and jangling bits was drowned out by the sharp sounds of many hooves striking stone, scraping and scrambling on slippery rock. Behind him, Brig heard a horse snorting and rumbling angry whinnies of refusal. He didn’t like taking his eyes off the trail and he was unwilling to stop the lumping buckskin’s momentum. It wasn’t so easily regained on a wet steep trail like this.

He stole a quick glance down and over his shoulder. The bay horse Max was riding was acting up, rearing and shaking its head and trying to refuse the trail. Max was hitting at it with the reins and jamming his heels into its flanks.

“You damned, stupid Jughead!” Max cursed the horse.

Swearing to himself, Brig rode the buckskin off the trail and stopped. “Take the lead, Fletcher.” He waved the man on. He’d have to let the others go by before
he could go back down the narrow trail to help Max. As Kit went by him, the bay horse made a lunge forward at Max’s urging. Then it reared and squealed angrily. Coming down on all fours, it lowered its head and started to buck. Jordanna slowed up. “Move out of the way,” Brig ordered impatiently, the buckskin dancing beneath him. She flashed him a cold look and hurried the sorrel up the trail.

The bay horse had bucked himself off the trail. Max had abandoned his efforts to control the horse and clung to the saddlehorn with both hands, trying to stay on. His expression showed desperation and fear. As the horse attempted to pitch its rider, it lost its footing on the steep, slippery slope. After falling to its knees, the bay scrambled to its feet in panic.

Its flight had carried the horse and rider wide of the trail. The footing was treacherous, with patches of scree scattered over the entire portion of that area of the slope. Brig couldn’t hurry his buckskin once it left the trail or it would begin floundering the way Max’s horse was.

Loose rock slid from under the bay’s hooves. The horse reared, screaming in panic. Over-balanced, without solid footing, it went over backwards. Max yelled and tried to dive off on the downhill side. He rolled down the steep grade, the bay horse, with its deadly flailing legs, only a few feet behind him. An isolated landslide of loose rock carried them along while the gravity of the sharp incline pulled them down. At the base of the slope, the mountain dropped away a hundred feet to a shoulder of rock and trees.

There wasn’t any way Brig could reach them before they came to the bottom. As it was, his buckskin was covering a lot of distance sliding on its haunches and snorting nervously all the while. A lariat was tied to his saddle, but Max’s headlong descent was twice as rapid as his, putting him out of reach of Brig’s rope.

Twenty feet from the rim, the bay horse managed to get its legs beneath it. Lunging like a fear-crazed animal, it struggled to leap to solid ground. Its tearing,
clawing hooves unleashed a new torrent of rocks that trapped Max in its current. Brig saw it and reined in his horse. He was one tight band of coiled grimness.

Jordanna had stopped her horse on the trail behind Kit’s and her father’s. In fascinated horror, she watched the scene unfold. There was a strange unreality to it. She wanted to believe it wasn’t happening, that somehow Brig would reach Max.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered when she saw it wasn’t possible.

As Max was swept helplessly toward the edge, Jordanna looked away and shut her eyes tightly. A blood-curdling scream rent the air. It seemed to last for an eternity, bouncing off granite-walled canyons and echoing through the mountains. It was finally ended by a dull thud. Jordanna felt violently ill at the unearthly silence that followed.

There were voices, but they didn’t penetrate her consciousness until one sharply demanded her attention. “Turn your horse, Jordanna. We must go down.”

At her father’s terse reminder that she was blocking the trail, Jordanna turned her sorrel mount on the narrow trail and started down. Her wide, shock-glazed eyes sought the base of the slide. Brig had dismounted and was walking down the loose rock to the edge. The bay horse was standing on the other side of the talus, its legs scraped and blooded, not moving.

They rode all the way down to where the zig-zagging trail straightened out in the direction of camp. There, her father dismounted, followed by Kit, and started toward the base of the slope where Max had fallen. Jordanna hesitated. An inner force compelled her to go with them. She stepped out of the saddle onto shaky legs, accepting the churning tightness of her stomach.

Brig was standing near the rim, a few feet from the shale-like rock slide, when they reached him. His face was impassive as he looked down. He didn’t glance at them, but he was aware of their presence.

“The poor, stupid bastard. I warned him the mountains would kill him,” he murmured absently.

“He’s dead, then,” her father said in an emotionless voice.

Unwillingly, Jordanna’s gaze was drawn over the edge. A hundred feet below sprawled the figure of a man, horribly contorted, lifeless like a ragdoll. Reeling, she turned away from the cliff and her brother’s arm curved around her shoulders. She wanted to cry—to let tears ease the burning dryness of her eyes and the hot ache in her throat. But she was encased in a freeze-burn of shock, icy and trembling.

“We’ll have to go down and get his body,” Brig stated.

“I’ll come with you,” Fletcher volunteered quietly. “Kit, why don’t you take Jordanna back to camp and tell the others what happened.”

Her brother didn’t respond directly to the request. He turned Jordanna toward the waiting horses. “Come on.” The arm around her shoulders provided support and the impetus to walk. Jordanna started shivering with the stark, cold terror of what had happened.

“I should have done something,” she whispered in an attack of guilt. “I was the closest. When he first had trouble with the horse, I should have taken hold of the bridle and led it to the top.”

“Don’t think things like that,” her brother remonstrated gently, adding with hesitation, “I’m . . . not sure anyone’s to blame.”

“Oh, God.” The mute prayer came out in a dry sob.

“I’ll get the horse.” Fletcher took a step to cross the loose rock and reach the bay horse.

“You stay here,” Brig ordered. “I’ll get him.”

Climbing up a few feet, where the band of scree was narrower, Brig gingerly worked his way across. Miniature avalanches of stone were touched off by each careful footstep. A deadly calm robbed him of any feeling except caution.

The horse was trembling like a cowering dog when
Brig reached it. It appeared terrified to move from the solid ground beneath its feet. When Brig reached for the dangling reins, it shied, tossing its head and snorting nervously. Its rolling eyes showed the white of fear. Brig talked softly to the horse before making a second attempt for the reins. Its ears swiveled nervously at the sound of his voice, but the next time the bay didn’t try to elude the hand that reached for the reins.

Brig stroked the quivering hide of its neck. The horse stood, not resisting his touch, its tremors beginning to dissipate. Assured that the horse would not suddenly panic, Brig let his gaze inspect the bay’s injuries. There were scratches on its withers and flank. Patches of hide had been scraped from its legs, exposing raw flesh, blood oozing from the lacerations. But there was no sign that the horse was favoring any leg unduly, which meant no broken bones.

Gripping the reins close to the horse’s chin, Brig started to lead the gelding across the loose rocks. The horse resisted, straining away from the pressure pulling him forward. Brig tugged on the reins and continued to talk to him. Reluctantly, trembling with every step, the horse submitted to the commands, snorting and whickering nervously.

“Are you going to take the horse back to camp?” Fletcher asked when Brig had led the horse across the slide.

“No. We’ll tie him up along the trail and pick him up after we’ve recovered Max’s body.” Not pausing, Brig walked to where he had left his buckskin and Fletcher followed behind the slightly limping bay horse.

Fletcher had left his horse on the trail, so Brig led the buckskin as well as the bay to that point, and then mounted, leading the bay to a stand of trees farther along the trail. Fletcher hesitated, unsure about something.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Brig’s question was a challenge, his expression stone-cold. “Haven’t you ever seen a dead man before? It isn’t much different
than a bighorn or an elk—except the body once was human.”

The gray-haired man flashed him an angry look. “I’m coming.” He swung into his saddle and reined his horse behind the bay Brig led.

Halfway to the place where Brig intended to cut off the trail to reach the rocky shoulder where Max lay, they met Tandy. They didn’t have to say anything. His expression said he knew the story from Jordanna and Kit.

“I thought you might need some help,” he told them simply.

Brig gave a short nod of acceptance to the offer and Tandy turned his horse on the trail to ride along with them. Brig noticed the folded tarp tied behind the cantle of Tandy’s saddle, a shroud for the body, and said nothing.

Jordanna sat on the bench at the table, unaware that her face registered no emotion. Kit sat opposite from her, his elbows on the table, his hands rubbing his forehead. Jocko set a tin cup of coffee in front of each of them, richly black and heavily sweetened.