The Cowboy’s Hidden Agenda

Thunder was rolling around and bouncing off the mountain peaks by the time they’d left the last of the tall timber behind. Bronco knew by his watch there ought to have been at least a couple of hours left before sundown, but the thick overcast had brought a premature twilight-heavy, purple and oppressive. His moments of temporary insanity this afternoon had put them behind schedule; he knew there was no way in hell they were going to make it to his grandmother Rose’s before nightfall, or a cloudburst, caught up with them. And from the looks of those clouds and the sound of that thunder, it was even money which one was going to get there first.

One way or another, he was going to have to find them some kind of shelter. He had a place in mind, but it was still some distance away. The question was could they get to it in time. He thought about it, looking around to judge the terrain, which had flattened out considerably and was forested now mostly with juniper and sagebrush. Then he turned his head and said to Lauren, “Feel like a run?”

He felt her start, as if she’d jerked herself awake. He knew she’d been quiet back there, but brooding, he’d have thought, rather than dozing. “Sure,” she said, her voice slurred and thick.

“Hang on.” And he felt an undeniable pang of regret when she grabbed hold of the back of the saddle, instead of wrapping her arms around his waist.

She’d been careful to keep her distance from him after they’d left the spring, maintaining those torturing inches between them as if she thought he had thorns. Not surprising, he supposed, after the way it had ended. What did surprise him was how much he missed her now, how much he longed for the feel of her body against his. Somewhere along the line, his body had developed a craving for her, a need he felt in his muscles and bones, in his skin and pores. He was already wondering what he was going to do for the rest of his life without her.

The rain hit as they were climbing the last of the gently sloping foothills that undulated away from the base of the huge pile of boulders he and his friends had always called, without much imagination, the Rocky Hill. It hit hard, with great stinging drops that almost instantly became a suffocating curtain that left little room for air.

Bronco heard Lauren give a shocked little cry. “Hang on!” he yelled, and grabbed her hand and yanked it around him as he urged Cochise Red into a flat-out gallop that carried them the rest of the way to the foot of the hill.

Drenched and half-blinded by the water streaming into his eyes, he led the stallion with Lauren now in the saddle, up the zigzagging path that wound between the rocks. His destination was a single wedge-shaped boulder that stood out from the side of the mountain like an airplane wing-or, according to Grandmother Rose, an ironing board. Clucking and cajoling, he managed to coax the lathered-up horse in under the overhang. Lauren slid out of the saddle and dove for deeper shelter while he got Red calmed down and tethered to a boulder. Then he, too, headed for cover.

Then, for a few minutes all they could seem to do was gasp and swear and brush the water out of their eyes, while the rain poured all around them with a roar like a freight train, and lightning flickered and flashed and the thunder boomed so loudly and so near they could feel its vibrations in the ground beneath their feet.

“God!” Lauren gasped when she was able to speak. “What is this? I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”

“Indians call this a male rain,” said Bronco with a half smile. “All sound and fury and not much use to anybody.”

She smiled her appreciation. “What’s a female rain?”

“Gentle,” he said. “Nurturing. It feeds the earth and makes things grow.”

“Ah.” For a long lingering moment her eyes rested on his face, and then she pulled them abruptly away. Even without touching her he felt her begin to shiver.

“Better get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.” He untied the poncho from the back of the saddle and gave it a shake. “Put this on. We’ll lay your clothes out on the rocks. Back in here where it’s dry there’s enough heat left in ’em-they’ll probably be dry by morning.”

She nodded, and he started to drop the poncho over her head-then stopped when they both realized her T-shirt was going to have to come off first. She hesitated for one awkward moment, then swiftly yanked the sodden thing up and off. “Okay.” It was a breathless whisper, felt rather than heard.

Proud of his stoicism, Bronco gazed silently at the hard tips of her breasts as he lifted the poncho and let it fall onto her bare shoulders.

“But,” she said in a jerky voice he could barely hear above the noise of the slackening rain, “you’re wet, too.”

“I’m fine,” he said, as gruff and macho as he could make it, valiantly suppressing his own shivers.

Apparently not well enough. Because the next thing he heard was, “You’re freezing.” And then, with shivers bumping the words, “I’m…c-cold.” He turned slowly to look at her. In the waning light beneath the overhang her face looked small and drowned, her eyes huge. “There’s room for both of us,” she said.

He held his breath as she tossed the T-shirt toward the nearest rock, then slowly bent and pulled off one of her boots. After a moment, almost in imitation, he pulled one off, too.

Then suddenly it seemed as if they couldn’t get their clothes off fast enough-either of them. Her breath came in desperate whimpers, his in soft grunts, and their shivers seemed to intensify even as the storm around them slackened. When they were both naked, she lifted the poncho and he ducked under it and came up with his mouth hard on hers, his arms wrapped around her chilled body and her breasts firm and cold against his chest.

What happened then he didn’t expect-could never have even imagined, much less prepared for. He felt something inside him, some fragile vessel of sanity and self-control, break, shatter, burst or simply disintegrate. And suddenly set free were all the feelings, all the passion, all the emotions he’d been keeping there, locked safe inside, set free to pour through him in a raging, devastating, terrifying flood. What was he to do with such feelings? He couldn’t possibly contain such emotions, control such passion. Not since he was a child had he been called upon to try.

Fear and longing tore through him and erupted in a gut- wrenching groan. Her body was so strong and vibrant, so soft and fragile in his arms. He couldn’t hold her tightly enough, touch her completely enough. Oh, how he wanted her. Wanted to be inside her, wanted her inside him, wanted her with a wild and desperate hunger. But how could he bear it if he hurt her now?

Her breath gushed in helpless whimpers as he reached for her, cupped her with his hand, felt with his fingers for her wet yielding softness. He drank in her whimpers with a growl of masculine triumph as he pushed deep, deep inside her, aching inside himself, needing to be inside her, needing…needing…

Her whimpers became a high continuous keening, and he felt her body come apart in his hands. He would have used those same hands, then, to hold her together and comfort her while she collapsed against him with soul- stirring sobs. That’s what he would have done. But the next thing he knew her arms were twined around his neck and her legs clasped around his hips, and her warm and still-pulsating feminine softness was pressed against his hot and throbbing shaft, and he desperately feared, was utterly certain, that he was lost.

No! With one wild anguished cry he summoned all his strength, all the tattered remains of his will and his honor. Throwing his head back until the cords of his neck felt like cast iron, he wrenched himself away from that sweet comfort and raised her high in his arms, lifting her onto a chest-high boulder and pulling her legs over his shoulders. Holding her open to him, he sank into her softness, buried himself in her, his face, his mouth, his tongue.

He held her while her body bucked and writhed, arched and tightened like a drawn bow. And then she screamed, a cry of feminine terror, total surrender and a wild and savage joy.

Shaken, he clutched her to him, rocking her and murmuring words of comfort and contrition into her hair. But sobbing, she slithered out of his grasp and downward along his body, and he felt the coolness of her tears on his fevered flesh-and then her mouth. And with a groan he gave himself up to her, knowing his only salvation lay in a quick and cataclysmic release.

Bronco watched the first rays of the sun streak across the shoulders of the Sacred Mountain and tried to think whether he’d ever done such a thing before-ever slept all night with a woman in his arms and watched the sunrise with the sweet scent of her in his nostrils and her warm breath pooling on his skin. He didn’t think so; if he had, he’d have surely remembered it.

He wasn’t aware of having made any noise, but Lauren stirred and gave a vocal yawn, a good-humored waking-up sound. She raised her head and looked at him with the untroubled gaze of a small child, and then casually, as if it was something she did every day of her life, leaned down and kissed him.