Ride With Me (A Quaking Heart Novel - Book One)

  Chapter 13

  Clint leaned in, nearing Jessie's mouth.

  "Oh!" She jumped. "Oh no, don't pass out Clint." She patted both cheeks in concern.

  He felt heat rise under those hands. "Jess—"

  "Put your head between your legs." She tried to push his head over.

  He resisted. "I'm not—"

  Her eyes widened with worry, and she pushed at the back of his head again.

  He gave in. Holding back a smile over her misguided concern for him, he braced his forearms against his knees, and hung his head between them. And then, like the springing cougar had done, truth smacked him dead center. A near blunder, for the second time. He'd almost kissed her. And, she'd innocently misunderstood. A heavy, dark gratitude seeped in as he contemplated how he would have ever explained away a kiss.

  It was absurd, but he still wanted that kiss. Craved it, in fact.

  "I'm okay," he said into the dirt. He raised his head enough to risk a quick glance into those eyes again. He'd been fine, minding his own thoughts, harmlessly looking over her curvy body, flawless skin, and shiny hair as she'd fixed his arm. That was all. Then those eyes, like chameleons, had taken on the color of the surrounding pines; wide with wonder and sheer purity. But the final draw had been those lips. And then he was lost.

  So, was he happy she misunderstood, or not?

  "I need to get that wheel on now," he said. "A little help up and I can manage it."

  She frowned. "I'm not a delicate little flower, Clint. I can help."

  Jessie placed her feet under her in a squat. She swung his good arm around her shoulders and heaved upward. Clint strained to his feet, surprised he needed to lean so hard against her. He swayed from the effects of his light headedness, yet at the same time was acutely aware of the warmth of her supple body pressed against his side. He liked the scent of her—lilac, woman, and fresh air. But she was all business now—seriously trying to help him back to the wagon. Worried he would faint. He growled under his breath over that.

  When he'd stood without swaying for long enough to satisfy her, she let go. Bereft of the feel of her, but thankful, remembering his resolve to stay away from her, he ambled off to the wagon to evaluate what was needed.

  "You can help place the wheel once we get the wagon lifted, okay?"

  She nodded. "How're we going to lift it?"

  "I have a screw jack in the back." He stretched his good arm down the back of the wagon and retrieved it. He squatted, positioned it under the wagon and began the slow process of twisting, experiencing a stab of pain in his arm even while trying to protect it. They watched the wagon rise inch by inch. Moving the wheel to the spot it would need to go, he looked over at her. "Now, Jessie, ready?"

  Again she nodded.

  They lifted and placed the wheel. Clint worked at securing the linchpin then pushed to his feet and stretched. He glanced at Jessie. Worry etched her face. He must look pretty haggard by now, and she probably noticed how he'd begun to favor the injured arm. He walked over to lift his hat from the ground, to prove he was right as rain, but he had to fight not to show how dizzy he got standing upright again. He slapped the hat twice against his thigh, lifted a shoulder to wipe the sweat from his jaw, then stuffed it on his head.

  "Okay, little one, let's get back to camp and get some grub going." Wanting to distract her from her worry, he mustered up a grin. "I'd be enjoying one of your great meals about now if we were back at the ranch." One more enticement this woman offered. She was a good cook. Beat Mabel hands down.

  Jessie blushed at his compliment. "Are you okay? Do you need to lean on me to get back to the camp?"

  Clint tilted his head down at her. This time he growled for effect, making her giggle. He liked the sound of that—like tinkling bells—and the smile accompanying it.

  "It's not a sign of unmanliness for you to ask for help, you know. The truth is they don't come any manlier than you." A scarlet flush flew into her cheeks, and her eyes went wide. She turned brusquely and marched off toward the campsite.

  Clint couldn't hold back a chuckle, thinking of how she always seemed to blanket people with words before she thought them through. More often than not she caused trouble for herself with this habit. Still, it was so refreshing, so innocent. It was one of her most endearing qualities. Most wouldn't call it that. He did.

  "Thanks, Jessie—" he hollered after her through a huge grin "—but I think I can manage." Nevertheless, he was glad he hadn't kissed her. It was best for him to keep his distance from this sweet girl. For a while now he'd been noticing the way she looked at him, suspecting she had more than a passing interest. He'd seen unbridled passions, for him, from many women. The only difference now—hers was bridled.

  Back at the camp Clint got busy preparing everything for the night, happy to see the dark clouds had passed them by. Jessie did all he asked her to do, and by the time the sun slid to the horizon, they were ready. Clint's strength returned a bit as he munched on beef jerky. He found a can of beans and opened it, gripping the portion of the lid that he'd left on to scoot it into the fire.

  They had both been pretty quiet up until now. "I'll have to go out a ways and bury the garbage. Don't want to attract any unwanted guests tonight."

  Jessie's face paled. "Grizzly?"

  Clint could see the fear in her eyes. He nodded.

  "Oh." She seemed to go paler. "I'll be praying it doesn't visit, but, do you think . . .?

  "Do I think, what?"

  "Can I sleep close to you, in case?"

  "Of course." After all, keeping her safe was what he was here for.

  "Thank you." She seemed to relax as something caught her attention at the horizon through a small gap in the trees. "Look at the sky God painted for us tonight, Clint. All those amazing colors; light blues, pinks, and reds all swirled together with spatters of tiny clouds. You can almost picture God using a paint brush to make little dabs of color on His own canvas, can't you?" She demonstrated, using her gathered fingertips as if they were a brush. "It looks different every morning and every night. Have you ever noticed that?" She smiled, though she never looked away from the beauty.

  The corners of his mouth lifted in spite of his weariness. He watched her intently. How her face practically shone with wonder. Her real appreciation of nature never ceased to amaze him, though he was too tired to fight her about God's part in it. "Love the sunrises and sunsets. My favorite time of day," he finally imparted.

  Clint settled back against a rock and tucked the rifle against his side. He watched the fire dancing, listened to it crackle as it sent small bursts of light into the oncoming darkness. It had been a long, strenuous day. He knew the night would be even tougher if that grizzly decided to forage through their wagon. The big creature was out there. He'd seen its tracks nearby.

  His arm throbbed in beat with his heart. Every muscle in his body ached from their ordeal. If Roy only knew how close they'd come . . .

  He shook off that image, not bearing the thought of what the outcome could've been. Sighing deeply he watched Jessie prepare their coffee and clean up the mess for him to bury. She was so different from other women. He tried to imagine Veronica at this scene. She would never have come. But if she'd found herself in this situation it was laughable how she would've acted—whiny, complaining, hating everything about it, and hating him for getting her into it. What made him continue to choose women like her? He shook his head. How shallow he had become, to never take the time to know a woman like Jessica Harper—someone worth knowing.

  When Jessie finished filling the coffee pot and carefully nestling it into the fire to perk, she glanced at Clint. He was studying her with what he knew was an unfamiliar expression on his face, and she had picked up on that. Smart too.

  "What?" she asked.

  He gave her a lazy grin. "I was thinking how at ease you are cooking over an open fire. You've done this before."

  Jessie matched his smile. "Well, sure. There've been many times we camped out when
we irrigated the ranch at night, or even just for fun. I love camping."

  "Interesting that you call the farm a ranch."

  "I guess it wouldn't make much sense unless you knew the history. It's 700 acres of mostly farm land—row crops to be exact—except for the front five acres or so. Dad kept cattle there for years, hence the name ranch. Eventually he sold off the cattle, but the name stuck. We do still have animals: horses, sheep, dogs, unwanted jack rabbits . . . mosquitoes." She laughed.

  Her enthusiasm stirred him. She truly loved the outdoors. He could really get used to a woman like that—someone who liked what he liked. "Why do you love camping? Thought you'd hate sleeping outside with the bugs, the cold, no bathrooms."

  Jessie stopped to consider it. "I've always liked the outdoors. In fact, when I was younger I think I spent more days in a tree than on the ground."

  He chuckled.

  "I love the smells and sounds of God's beautiful creation. You already know that I love sunrises and sunsets. I love eating food cooked over an open fire; in fact, I love cooking over an open fire. I love sleeping under the stars, watching them twinkle." She looked up into the black sky blanketed with blinking white lights. "The stars are so bright up here. And they look bigger. Or, maybe it's just what Montana does to the soul."

  She stared into the sky and began to sing, "O Holy night, the stars are brightly shining, it is the night of our dear Saviors birth'. . . "

  He grinned. "Isn't that a Christmas song?"

  She nodded, but kept singing around a mischievous smile.

  Clint arched an eyebrow but closed his eyes and settled in, captivated by her sweet singing voice.

  And then it happened. Swarms of feelings coming from all sides, like wasps disturbed from their hive. He tried to stop the unbidden thoughts. Thoughts like: She's a woman fit to make a man like him happy for a lifetime.

  In the next instant, his chest seized and he struggled for breath. Where had the restraints to his brain gone? Shocked at his own thoughts, he stiffened and sat up. "I've got to go bury the garbage." He rose stiffly to his feet, groaning in discomfort. "I'll be right back. You'll be fine by the fire."

  He grabbed the trowel and the small sack Jessie had so carefully placed their trash in and ambled off into the night. He didn't turn on the flashlight. He needed the solace of the darkness to sort out his feelings, using the light of the half-moon to find his way. In the distance the howl of a lone coyote pierced the night.

  I shouldn't have been so short with her. It wasn't her fault she nudged his heart on a regular basis. He rubbed his chest. His heart actually hurt. It was unlike anything he'd experienced in his thirty-one years on this earth. Painful, yet wonderful; compelling, yet terrifying. He wanted to run and wanted to draw close, all at the same time. His emotions were in a jumbled mess, each doing battle with the other. It was what he'd experienced every day since Jessie arrived.

  Clint hurried through his task and trudged back to camp. The campfire crackled its greeting, creating a red haze with flickers that licked the darkness. Jessie sat crossed-legged near the flames and had her hands outstretched, warming her palms. When he stepped in close she looked up at him. The flicker of light from the fire danced across her sweet face and gave a fiery sheen to her dark hair. His heart flipped at the adoring expression and small smile.

  He cleared his throat. "You should try and get some sleep. I'll keep the fire going. You can sack out right here." He gestured toward the space next to him. Thankfully, they'd brought a supply of blankets for Mary. He laid one out for her, folded a second for under her head, and held a third to cover her body.

  "Thank you." She stretched out on the gray woolen blanket. He carefully covered her, her back to him. "Clint?"

  "Uh huh?"

  "What happened to you when you were a boy?"

  He stiffened in surprise. He couldn't do this. Not this.

  Jessie turned over slowly to face him. The firelight framed her face. The image softened him, tore at his resolve. For a moment the memories of that long ago time tried to scratch a path to his conscious mind. He quickly stuffed them back into the dark recesses, ignoring the concern he saw in her eyes. Instead, he forced his mind to shift directions, to study the silken beauty of her skin and the fullness of her lips.

  She propped herself up on one elbow to wait for him to respond. The blanket slid down to her waist and her shiny hair caught the breeze and whipped over her shoulder into a dark fan across her chest. She lifted a hand to flip her hair back. The movement was innocently provocative. His mouth went dry.

  "Maybe it would help if you talked about it," she said, breaking the tense silence.

  "Get some sleep, Jessie," he said in a voice he hardly recognized.

  She hesitated, studying him. At last she said, "Okay . . . good night, Clint."

  He sighed in relief. "Goodnight, little one."

  Silence fell between them and soon he could hear Jessie's steady breathing and knew she'd slipped into a comfortable slumber.

  Clint sat unmoving, listening to the sounds of the night. Jessie's compassion, like a well-placed shovel, had scooped out a healthy section of the all too painful catacomb of his past. It couldn't be dug up and viewed nonchalantly. He guarded it, barely able to cope when an unwelcome memory nudged him. He couldn't fathom a full-on examination of it. He wondered if there would ever be a time when he'd share his past with someone. If he did, it could only be someone like Jessie.

  He angled his weight onto one hip, then shifted to the other, resettled his hat. His body ached from hat to boots. But the fears in his mind were worse. That grizzly attacking, Jessie's prying . . .

  Jessie.

  Something unrecognizable yet potent was drawing him to her. Like a calf roper dragged along with muscles locked and heels dug in, yet unable to stop the draw. When he was alone with Jessie, like on this trip, his insides were in constant motion—stirred and questioned and checked. It exhausted him. The women of his past had never gained a stronghold—had never even found the path to his heart. Heck, he hadn't even known before now that his heart was in any kind of working order.

  He ran a hand down his face and tried not to let the groan slip out. Forget about her. She's Roy's niece, that's all that's important. He pressed his back into the rock and shifted enough to cross his feet the other way, checked his rifle, and rested his arms across his chest. He tried to think of other things—the needs of Mary's cabin, the ranch hands, the cattle . . .

  His mind didn't adhere to the plan.

  Jessie wasn't outwardly striking, or outgoing— Ah, but she was outgoing, in her own way, like none of the others had been. Oh, they had pretended to be, in hopes of convincing him they liked what he liked. But sooner or later their true colors became evident. He knew their natures better than they did, and he would eventually pick out the phonies. And, to his consternation, all his choices had been phonies. But then, was he any different? No. No one could trust their heart to him either. Who was he and what had he become?

  Clint glanced over at Jessie. The blanket had fallen into the curve of her waist. Jessie—so down-home appealing it made him ache. She was the real deal, and his desire for her was fast becoming an unshakable need.

  He remembered the point at which plain awareness of her had grown into that need—at the barn dance. Jessie had gone near the rowdy bunch. His dormant protective nature had erupted like a guard dog against a predator when he saw Brad Turner's hand clamp around Jessie's arm.

  The rage had been a blast of furnace heat inside. And the only thing that kept Clint from pummeling Brad then and there was the lost lamb expression on Jess's face. What could he do but pull her into his arms . . . to dance—and change the entire course of his life?

  The crucial point-of-access to his heart and soul had been tapped that night. And, since then, she'd been prying it open, inch by frightening inch.

  A shrill whinny and snap of leather ripped him out of his thoughts. Then something loud crashed back at the wagon. Clin
t jumped to his feet, and Jessie rocketed to hers a heartbeat later.

  "Is that the bear?" Jessie's voice sounded an octave higher. She staggered a bit, probably from shocking her body out of sleep.

  "I'm afraid so." He picked up the rifle in one hand and the flashlight in the other, clicked it on, and turned to Jessie. "You stay here. I don't want you hurt." He turned to leave.

  Frantically she leaped forward to grab his arm, turning him back to her. "I don't want you hurt either. Can't you let it take what it wants and go on its way?

  Her eyes pleaded more than her words, twisting his gut. "I don't want it to get our supplies. They're too hard to come by, and Mary needs them. I'll be fine. Stay close to the fire."