From chapter 35
The
honesty Del hoped for didn't happen the next day, or the several days that
followed. Moving at a hard pace over rugged terrain, a distance he estimated at
near a hundred miles, they were both too weary to do more than exchange
occasional sarcastic remarks or belligerent glares.
Summer
in the high country meant crisp nights and hot days, the heat intensifying
whenever they descended into a protected valley. Despite the rigorous schedule,
Del took time every third morning to shave, and every evening to wash layers of
sweaty grime from his face, neck, and chest. Diana watched with her customary
tight-lipped defiance. The dirt growing on her clothes and face, the pine
needles and bits of grass webbing her hair, the mud on her boots--these were
symbols of her independence, her freedom. What a monumental trial she was!
"I'm
tired, Del. Can we stop and rest?"
He
stopped and turned. Bathed in sweat, she drooped in the saddle, silent pleading
in her eyes. Her bandanna hung at her throat like a limp rag, her stained shirt
clung to her body, molding to her breasts.
They
had spent hours in scalding sunlight on a difficult descent down a bare
escarpment, and now the trail threaded through a shadowy forest. Dense young
pines and shrubs muted the splashing sounds of nearby water. It was early
afternoon, too soon to stop for the day, but in a shady clearing, Del
dismounted and trudged through a row of aspens toward the sound.
A
stream slid over a smooth rock bank and formed a gentle current around the
perimeter of a small shimmering lake. A sandy delta fanned out below the rocks;
on the other end the stream continued on its restless way. The margins bristled
with cattails and reeds, beyond which orange marsh flowers dotted the green.
A
lush corner of paradise. Del dropped his hat, rubbed grit from his eyes, and
released his hair from a rawhide cord. Diana tossed her hat next to his, tugged
off her boots and, rolling her breeches to her knees, waded into the water. Del
shed moccasins and shirt and ran, lifted her by the waist and plunged into
deeper water. They fell beneath the surface.
She
rose gasping, streaming water, and batted at him. "You son of a--"
His
laughter startled a flock of shorebirds into flight. "Even savages take
baths." He returned to shore, shook himself, and squeezed water from his
hair. She swam out, turned to stare at him. He bunched up his shirt and tossed
it to her. "Wash this, will you?" The shirt floated in the water and
sank. "I'll make camp in the clearing. You took a hell of a chance sleeping
beside a stream. Where there's water, there's wild animals. Or wild mountain men
interested in more than food." He paused. She had assumed a blank
expression, her way of looking at a person that diminished everything he said
and did.
Damn
woman, crazy woman. What was she trying to prove? Why couldn't she once--just
once--bend a bit? Why couldn't she--hell. If one of them had to crack, it
wasn't going to be him.
He
found her rolled blanket and returned to the lake, tossing it onto the shore.
She watched him and turned away. Some gratitude would be nice.
--Cat
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