Page 3 of Point of Mercy
“The cowboys are back for a while. Between rodeos,” Jill explained a trifle breathlessly.
Cowboys? Heather wasn’t particularly interested in the rough-and-tumble, range-riding type of man. She thought of Dennis, the banker’s son, and he suddenly didn’t seem so bad. But dusty, grimy, outdoorsmen smelling of tobacco and leather and horses…? Well, most of her fantasies were a little more on the sophisticated side.
However, she remembered the ridge rider and her heart did a peculiar little flop. But he was a man of her dreams, not a flesh-and-blood cowpoke. She didn’t bother peeking through the crack in the door. Instead, to atone for her earlier idleness, she hauled the sacks of potatoes and onions back to the pantry where she double-checked that the plastic lids on huge tubs of sugar and flour were secure.
Cowboys! She smiled to herself. If she were to believe the image on the silver screen, cowboys spit tobacco juice and tromped around in filthy scraped leather boots and tattered jeans. They loved the open range as well as horses and booze and country music and loose women in tight denim skirts.
And yet there was something appealing about the cowboy myth, about a rugged man who was afraid of nothing, about a man who would die for what was right,a man who disdained city life and health clubs and sports cars.
Even Rachelle—stalwart, sane, levelheaded Rachelle—had fallen for a rogue of sorts. Jackson Moore, the reputed bad boy of Gold Creek, the boy whom everyone believed had killed Roy Fitzpatrick. Rachelle had stood up for Jackson when the whole town had wanted to convict him; Rachelle had given him an alibi when he had desperately needed one; and Rachelle had stayed in town, bearing the disgrace and scandal of having spent the night with him, while he’d taken off, leaving her alone to face the town.
And that short love affair had scarred her and their parents forever.
“I’m not going to sit around and watch you make the same mistake your sister did,” Ellen had told Heather as she’d nervously taken a drag from her cigarette. “And she was the levelheaded one! You, with all your fantasies and silly notions about romance…ah, well. Unfortunately, you’ll learn in time.” She’d stubbed out her cigarette, and concern darkened her eyes. “Just don’t learn the hard way. Like Rachelle did. That no-good Moore boy used her, he did. Spent one night with her, then left town when he was accused of murder. Left her here alone to defend him and mend her broken heart.” Ellen had shaken her head, her loose brown curls bobbing around her face. “You listen to me, Heather. Romance only causes heartache. I loved your father—was faithful to him. Lord, I had supper on the table every night at six…and what happened? Hmm? He flipped out. Wanted a ‘younger model.’” Ellen scowled darkly.“Don’t fool yourself with thoughts of romance. Make life easy for yourself. Marry Dennis.”
Heather frowned at the memory. Closing the pantry door behind her, she crossed the kitchen and headed up the back stairs to the room she shared with the other girls. She changed quickly, stripping off her apron and uniform and sliding into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
Within minutes, she’d caught and saddled her favorite little mare, Nutmeg, and was riding along a dusty trail through the pines. Telling herself she needed the ride to cool off, that her interest in exploring the trails had nothing to do with the rider she’d seen, she urged Nutmeg steadily upward, through the foothills. The sun had disappeared, and a handful of stars was beginning to wink in the evening sky. For the first time that day, Heather felt free and content. Her blond hair streamed behind her, and she even hummed along to the tempo of Nutmeg’s steady hoofbeats. She met no one, didn’t so much as hear another horse neigh.
So much for the solitary ridge rider…. Another fantasy.
Clucking gently to the mare, Heather followed the trail that led to the river. The air was fresher there, though the drone of insects was constant. She smiled as she spied the natural pool she’d discovered, a deep hole that collected and slowed the water where the river doglegged toward the mountains.
“I deserve this,” she told Nutmeg, as she slid to the ground, and without a thought to her horse, stripped quickly out of her clothes, dropping them piece by piece at the river’s edge. She ran along the rocky shelf that jutted over the dark water and with a laugh,plunged into the cold depths.
Frigid. So cold she could barely breathe, the icy water engulfed her, touching every pore on her body, sending a shock wave through her system. The river sprouted from an underground spring and the water was close to freezing. She didn’t care. After battling the heat of the kitchen oven and the hot summer sun all day, the cold water was refreshing. She felt alive again.
Surfacing, she swam to the far shore, feeling the tension slip from her muscles as she knifed through the water. As the sky darkened, she dived down again, touching the rocky bottom with her fingers before jetting upward and breaking the surface. Sighing happily, she tossed her hair from her eyes and nearly stopped breathing.
She wasn’t alone.
A tall, rugged man stood on the shelf of rock jutting over the water’s edge. Dressed in dirty jeans, scratched boots and work shirt that was unbuttoned to display a rock-hard chest, he stared down at her with eyes the color of gunmetal. His lips were thin and compressed, his tanned face angular and bladed.
Without a doubt, this was the very man she’d seen earlier riding the ridge.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Romantic fantasies fled.
She didn’t know this man, didn’t know what he was capable of. He could be dangerous, and from the looks of him she didn’t doubt it for a moment. Though his brown hair was streaked with gold, there was something about him, something about the arrogant way he stood in front of her bespoke trouble.
He was nearly six feet or so and looked to be in his midtwenties, and Heather wanted to crawl behind the nearest rock and hide. But, of course, it was too late. In one hand he held the reins to his mount, a huge buckskin gelding, in the other, he dangled her clothes off one long, callused finger.
Heather swallowed hard and wondered just how menacing he really was. She didn’t want to find out.
“Lose something?” he asked in a lazy drawl.
She rimmed her lips with her tongue. What could she say? She was obviously naked—the clothes had to belong to her. She decided to take the offensive before things really got out of hand. “Just put them down,” she said, eyeing her shorts swinging from his finger. She treaded water in the deep part of the pool, hoping he couldn’t see too much of her body through the darkening ripples of the river.
“I’m not talking about these.” He tossed her shorts, T-shirt, bra and panties close to the water’s edge—almost within her reach.
He was playing with her! Dear God, why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going? Feeling a fool and very much afraid, Heather swallowed back a lump of fright in her throat and studied him more carefully. A cowboy, no mistaking that. His Stetson was pushed back on his head, displaying a ring of grime that matted brown hair to his forehead. His jean jacket was torn and dirty, his Levi’s faded and tight, his shirt, a plaid cotton that was open to display a dusting of hair on a sun-bronzed chest. He looked hot and tired and disgusted. “Your horse,” he prompted, and her gaze flew to the edge of the forest where she’d left Nutmeg grazing only minutes before. The mare was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, no—”
“She’s halfway back to the stables by now,” he said, and his flinty eyes showed just a flicker of amusement. “Looks like you have to hike or hitch a ride with me.”
For a fleeting instant she thought he was handsome, almost sexy, in a coarse sort of way, but she didn’t dwell on his looks as she was busy trying to keep herself covered.
