Chapter 6
Chapter Six
F or an Eastener, T.R. was handling himself pretty well, Freddy thought as she collected wood for a fire.
She’d expected him to be in a nasty mood by now, but the whiskey and the sunset over the valley had mellowed him considerably.
She’d left him on the log with the flask of whiskey while she completed the routine chores of setting up camp.
In short order she’d unsaddled the horses, draped the pads over the saddles to dry and hobbled Mikey and Maureen in a nearby clearing where they could graze.
The altitude and lack of sun was cooling the dry air quickly.
Greenhorns like T.R. didn’t realize a drop of nearly forty degrees was common in the desert at night.
He’d need that jacket he’d been reluctant to bring, and the warmth of a fire, as well.
And the Bag Balm and liniment. Considering the lack of privacy the camp provided, she wondered if T.R.
would have the nerve to take off his clothes and apply the remedies.
As she crouched next to the fire and stirred the packet of dried stew into a small pot of water, the sound of shuffling footsteps announced his arrival behind her.
“Smells pretty good,” said a voice tight with pain.
She glanced over her shoulder. He stood a few feet away, his legs braced and his expression grim beneath the shadow of his hat.
He’d finished about half the flask, which probably explained how he’d managed to walk at all.
Her heart swelled with remorse. Dammit, she should have known she was too softhearted to pull this off, especially when her target was taking his punishment with such good grace.
“If you’ll tell me where the medication is, I’ll get it.”
“No, let me.” She laid the spoon on a piece of aluminum foil, stood and walked over to the pile of gear.
After rummaging through the saddlebag, she found the tin of Bag Balm and the liniment bottle.
“Here,” she said, walking toward him. “It won’t work miracles, but it might make the ride out tomorrow more bearable. ”
He flinched at the reminder that he’d be remounting Mikey in the morning. “Thanks.” Keeping the flask in one hand, he cradled the tin and bottle in his other arm while he hobbled back toward the fallen tree.
She watched him go and knew he’d never be able to manage the therapy alone. What had she been thinking? “T.R.,” she called, going after him. “Maybe I should ride for help. We could bring a helicopter in here, maybe even tonight if I hurry.”
He turned, his expression incredulous. “A helicopter? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Look, you’ve proved you can take a beating, so why?—”
“Not on your life.” Teeth clenched, he eased back to the log and set the flask, the liniment and the Bag Balm on the ground next to him. “Would any self-respecting cowboy call Search and Rescue?” He took off his hat and mopped his damp forehead with his shirtsleeve.
“You’re not a cowboy. You’re a commodities trader from New York.”
He glanced up. “Even commodities traders have their pride, Freddy,” he said quietly. “Don’t take that away from me.”
“But you didn’t know what you were getting into! You don’t have to tough it out like some stereotypical cowboy. This is my fault, not yours!”
A smile flickered across his face. “I was wondering when you’d admit you deliberately ambushed me.”
She averted her eyes. “I wanted to discourage you from buying the ranch.”
“Why? Somebody will, sooner or later, and you don’t own it now, anyway.”
She mustered her composure and faced him. “Eb Whitlock wants it, but he doesn’t have the kind of money you do. Eb’s a neighbor and a friend. He’ll let me keep running the ranch.”
“And you thought I’d fire you? After you’ve proved how valuable you are to the whole operation?”
“You’re an Easterner. Who knows what you would do?”
“Never trust anybody who comes from east of the Mississippi, is that it?”
She lifted her chin. “Works for me.”
With a sigh, he settled his hat on the log beside him.
“But I’m sorry I’ve crippled you,” she added. “You didn’t really deserve that.”
“What if this experience sours me on the True Love and I decide against buying it, just like you planned? Will you be sorry then?”
She looked into his blue eyes, sharp with pain. “Yes, I’ll still be sorry. It was a dirty trick and I apologize. Why don’t you let me ride down and arrange for a helicopter?”
“No.” He took a swig from the flask and contemplated his boots.
“I don’t think you can get those off by yourself.”
“Of course I can.” He leaned slowly forward. “I— augh !” He straightened and passed a hand over his face. “And to think only this morning I could tie my own shoes.”
“Here.” Freddy straddled his leg, her backside to him, and took hold of his boot heel. “Resist me on the count of three.”
“In this condition, I’ll be able to resist you no matter how long you count.”
“Very funny. Now get ready. One, two, three!” She yanked and he yelled, but the boot came off. “Now the other one.” She repeated the procedure, then turned to face him, looking directly into his eyes. “Now the pants.”
Defiance flashed in the blue depths. “I can do?—”
“It’ll be faster and easier if I help you.” A heavy load of guilt pushed her to press on in this mission of mercy. “This is no time to be modest, T.R. You need that Bag Balm applied as soon as possible. Imagine yourself as a patient in the emergency room of a hospital.”
“I usually try to avoid the hospital if I can help it.”
“And no woman has ever taken off your pants?”
He took another drink from the flask and impaled her with a look. “I didn’t say that.”
To her dismay, she flushed, which completely destroyed the air of sophistication she’d been striving to maintain, but she barreled on, just the same. “Take off your belt and unbutton your jeans. I’ll work them off from the ankles.”
He held her gaze while he complied, and she met his challenge for as long as she could before looking away.
She suspected the liquor he’d imbibed accounted for the bold stare.
The trail ride had been a dumb idea, she decided.
She’d thought that by tomorrow she’d be celebrating her victory over the briefcase-carrying businessman who had tried to steal her ranch.
Except that T.R. was no longer an impersonal enemy, but a vulnerable man in pain.
A sexy man in pain. And that was the crux of the problem.
“I’m ready.” He was still regarding her with the same intensity. Only now his jeans were unfastened and his hands were braced on either side of him in what had to be an unconscious gesture of invitation, considering his condition. “Got a bullet for me to bite down on?”
“You’ve seen too many movies.” Taking a deep breath, she squatted between his ankles. As she tugged on the stiff denim, breath hissed between his teeth. She paused.
“Just keep going.”
Trying to remain focused on his ankles, she worked the material down.
His socks came with the jeans, and finally she was forced to grasp the waistband and pull it past his calves.
The job couldn’t be done without touching him, but she tried to minimize contact.
In spite of her efforts, her fingers encountered firm muscle and the tantalizing brush of hair.
She swallowed and wrenched the jeans over his feet with more force than was necessary.
He gasped, but didn’t cry out.
“There.” With a sigh of relief, she got to her feet.
Her relief was short-lived. One glimpse and she realized that a half-clothed T.R.
McGuinnes, even put out of commission by an all-day ride, was a sight to triple the heart rate of any normal female.
From the looks of his powerful legs, he was well acquainted with the inside of a gym.
With a new pang of conscience, she realized he’d make a good rider someday, if she hadn’t just ruined the experience for him.
He took a glob of Bag Balm from the tin and began dabbing it over the inside of his thighs.
“Not like that,” she said before she could stop herself.
He glanced up, a devilish look in his eyes, a crooked smile on his mouth. “You want to show me how?” he said softly.
Now she’d really done it.
“Think of this as a hospital emergency room,” he added, holding out the tin of cream.
She’d come this far in her rescue, and if he didn’t apply the Bag Balm correctly, it wouldn’t do much good. With grave misgivings, she accepted the tin. Kneeling beside him, she smoothed the ointment over the inside of his chafed thigh, applying enough pressure to work it into his skin.
He groaned.
“I have to massage it in a little or it won’t penetrate,” she apologized. “I know the muscles underneath are sore, too.”
“If this didn’t hurt so much,” he said with obvious effort, “I think it would be lots of fun.”
Freddy wasn’t about to comment. Instead, she concentrated on covering the reddened area with the ointment.
Not far from her circling fingertips, his briefs enclosed an impressive bulge of manhood.
She tried to ignore it as she spread ointment on his other thigh.
As she settled into her massaging motion, he groaned again.
She recognized it as the sound of pain, not ecstasy, but her capricious imagination transformed the low, husky protest into a moan of desire.
The image of T.R. making love to her sent tendrils of heat curling through her body.
She looked up into his face. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back, his jaw rigid in response to the pain.
But the expression wasn’t unlike that of a man in the throes of orgasm.
Her pulse quickened. She remembered the effect he’d had on her when he’d stepped into the living room of the ranch house dressed in jeans, shirt, boots and hat.
There had been an air of command about him then.
She’d robbed him of that in the past few hours, but if it ever reasserted itself, T.R.
McGuinnes would be a man to reckon with.