Wyoming Woman. Elizabeth Lane
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to feel some give when he heard Rachel scream, “Stop!”
Only then did he realize what was happening. The front wheels were so firmly stuck that the pull of the horse was threatening to rip them loose from the axle.
Turning, Luke saw that Rachel had fallen to her knees and was slumped against the dash, one hand massaging her left shoulder. “We’ll have to dig the wheels free,” she said between clenched teeth. “Don’t you have a shovel?”
Did the woman think he kept a blasted tool chest on the horse? “Hold on, I’ll find something,” Luke muttered, sliding out of the saddle. The rain was coming down in torrents and he was getting worried about the sheep. If the skittish animals panicked, even the dogs wouldn’t be able to hold them.
The ground had become a sea of spattering mud that concealed any stick or rock that might be used for digging. Luke was twisting at a dead clump of sage, try to break it loose, when he heard a distant rushing sound—so faint at first that it was barely distinguishable from the drone of the rain. Only as it neared and grew did he realize, with blood-chilling certainty, what it was.
“Flood!” he shouted, wheeling back toward the wash. “Get the hell out of there!” He raced for the bank, ready to grab her hands and help her climb the muddy slope.
“No!” she shouted, clinging stubbornly to the frame of the buggy. “Get back to your horse! The water will wash the wheels loose! If we time it right, we can pull the buggy out! It’s our only chance!”
“Don’t be a fool! Come on!” Luke plunged down the bank, seized her left arm and wrenched her toward him. Rachel yelped in sudden agony. Only then did he realize she was hurt.
With a muttered curse, he scooped her up in his arms and charged for the bank—too late. The flash flood slammed into them like a buffalo stampede. Luke fought to keep his footing as muddy water, thick with silt and debris, swirled chest-deep around them.
Glancing uphill, Luke saw a gnarled tree trunk sweeping downstream at murderous speed, its sharp roots thrusting toward them like tangled daggers. Rachel gasped as he swung her into the protecting lee of the buggy. The tree trunk hurtled past, missing them by inches. But their safety was short-lived. Lifted free by the water, the buggy began to move downstream.
From the bank of the wash, the horse screamed in terror as the moving vehicle’s momentum dragged it toward the torrent below. Luke’s heart sank as he saw what was happening. “Hang on tight!” he shouted at Rachel.
Her uninjured arm locked around his neck, freeing his hand to yank the hunting knife from the sheath that hung at his belt. With the strength of desperation, Luke hacked at the rope. One by one the tough fibers parted—slowly, too slowly. Weakened by the flood, the rim of the wash was already crumbling beneath the buckskin’s rear hooves. The horse squealed as its hindquarters went down. Then, with one last cut, the rope separated and the animal was free. Its forefeet found solid earth, and it wrenched itself upward to safety.
With the last of his strength, Luke shoved Rachel clear of the moving buggy. The buggy washed away from them and went crashing downstream. It wouldn’t go far, Luke knew. But by the time the flood passed, the rented vehicle would be nothing but a battered, waterlogged piece of junk.
He wondered if the fool woman knew how lucky she was to be alive.
The brunt of the storm had already passed over the mountains. Ebbing now, the floodwater gushed between the banks in a waist-high, taffy-colored stream.
Rachel groaned as Luke Vincente heaved her onto the bank and scrambled for his own foothold on the muddy, crumbling slope. Fifty yards downstream she could see the buggy. It was sharply tilted out of the water as if it had run up on some high object, perhaps a boulder.
“There it is!” she cried, pointing. “We can still get it out! Hurry!”
“No.”
Rachel stared up at him. He had gained the bank, and now he loomed above her, coated with mud from head to toe. His face was an expressionless stone mask.
“No?” she asked incredulously.
“You heard me.” His lip curled in a contemptuous snarl. “Hasn’t anybody ever said that word to you before, Miss Rachel Tolliver? If you want the damned buggy back, get it yourself, or send some moonstruck cowboy from the ranch to fetch it for you. I’ve got sheep to move.”
Without another word, he turned his back and walked away from her, toward his waiting horse. Rachel glared at his arrogant back, her temper igniting like kerosene spilled on a red-hot stove.
“Come back here!” She ground out the words between clenched teeth. “This was your fault! If your blasted sheep hadn’t been in the road, I’d be on my way home!”
Luke Vincente did not even glance back at her. He had set out to be a gentleman, but Rachel Tolliver had pushed him beyond his limits. She could wait for her family to come, or she could damned well walk home. Either way, he was washing his hands of her.
“I’m all alone out here!” she stormed. “I have nothing to eat, no shelter, no dry clothes! What’s more, my shoulder hurts! You can’t just walk away and leave me!”
This time he paused and looked back at her. His dark eyes glinted like chips of granite. “I can and I will,” he said. “Unless, of course, you want to come with me.”
“Come where?” Rachel struggled to her feet. “Take me home, and I’ll see that my father rewards you.”
“I told you, I don’t want your father’s money,” he said coldly. “I’ve got sheep to get back to my ranch for shearing. Once we’re safely there, if you want to hang around, we’ll see about getting you warmed up and fed. Then we’ll talk about taking you home. That’s the best I can offer you, Rachel Tolliver. Take it or leave it.”
Torn, she watched him walk away. Pride demanded that she let him go. But once he left her, she would be stranded. Her family was not expecting her at the ranch for another week. No one would miss her. No one would come looking for her.
“Luke!” Her voice stopped him. It was the first time she had called him by name. Slowly he turned around.
“I’ll take it,” she said. “Your offer, I mean. After all, I can hardly stay out here alone.”
His expression did not even flicker. “Climb aboard then,” he said, indicating the horse with a nod of his head. “We’ve got sheep to move.”
Chapter Three
R achel sat behind the saddle, her legs straddling the buckskin’s slippery rump. Her waterlogged skirts were bunched above her knees, showing mud-streaked silk stockings and soaked, misshapen kidskin boots. Her gabardine suit was stained with floodwater, and her tangled hair hung down her back like a filthy string mop.
But Rachel was long past the point of caring about appearances. What she wanted most right now was a solid meal and a steaming, gardenia-scented bath. And then she wanted the blasted buggy back on the road, loaded with the bags she had so carefully packed for her journey west.
Most of her clothes would be ruined. That in itself was a crying shame, but at least clothes could be replaced. It was her precious supply of paints, brushes and canvases that worried Rachel most. She had persuaded Luke to help her carry the trunk that contained her painting supplies into some rocks above the wash, where people passing on the road would not see it, but everything else remained stacked near the mired buggy, at the mercy of weather and thieves. Rachel could only hope it would be safe until she could send someone to bring everything safely back to the ranch.
Her arms tightened around the sheep man’s ribs as the horse swerved to avoid a badger hole. At the sudden pressure, Luke’s sinewy body went taut with resistance. In the hour they had been riding together, he had scarcely linked one syllable with another. His silence told her in no uncertain terms that he was not pleased to have her along. Well, fine. She wasn’t exactly happy to be here, herself. By rights