Chapter 18

Most women would have blushed and scrambled away. Not Melanie. She just glared at Wyatt as if he’d somehow done this on purpose, then slowly levered herself onto her hands and knees, still planted between his legs.

“If you’re gonna scare the shit out of me, you should at least be bleeding.” She eyed him balefully. “How bad are you hurt?”

Not as bad as it could have been, considering he’d fallen off a cliff. Well, slid, mostly. He’d managed to throw his upper body onto the edge, scrabbling at enough handholds to slow his fall, but he’d still hit pretty damn hard.

Despite that, he could barely keep from grinning at her irritated reaction to his possible injuries. She was such a cowgirl.

He took a careful breath, the first normal one he’d managed since the log had slammed the air out of his lungs. His side stung, but he’d broken ribs before, and this wasn’t that kind of pain. “Just banged up a little.”

“Says the guy who worked three more performances at Salinas after dislocating his shoulder. Be more specific.”

She remembered his injury from four years ago? Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d been paying attention. “It knocked the air out of me, I’ve got a knot on back of my skull, and I turned my ankle. What about you?”

She rocked back onto her haunches and shoved her hair out of her face. “Scrapes and bruises. Can you sit up?”

“Yes.”

She held out a hand. He paused a beat, then took it, her grip firm, steady…and all too brief. Once seated, he pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them.

“Which ankle?” Melanie asked, grimacing as she lowered herself to sit facing him.

“The same as always.” He lifted his toes, and a hot shaft of pain shot up his leg. Shit. That wasn’t good. “I usually wear a brace when I’m hiking, but I didn’t take the time to put it on tonight.”

He’d been too busy chasing after a woman.

Melanie’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “Are you going to be able to climb out of here?”

“No.”

She took a few beats to absorb that, then nodded. “I’ll climb up and—”

“No, you won’t.” He pointed at the cliff. “I explored this canyon last summer. That band of rock runs the full length without a break. I had to go all the way back around the point.”

“How long did it take?”

“Over two hours to get to the main trail on the other side of the ridge.” Scrambling along the creek the whole way, over deadfall and boulders.

She tipped her head back to gaze at the narrow slice of visible sky, where the last rays of the sun speared through a wispy layer of clouds. In another half an hour, they’d be in complete darkness in the depths of the canyon. “Well…shit.”

“Yep.”

He studied their surroundings. Below the log that had broken their fall—and he wasn’t sure it had done him any favors—towering pines marched down to the creek, the glimmer of water visible between their trunks.

“Looks like tough going,” Melanie said, following his gaze. “We probably shouldn’t risk it in the dark, especially with you having a bad wheel.”

“Nope.”

She squinted into the dusk, weighing their options. The ground they would have to traverse to get down to the creek was steep, littered with moss-coated rocks and rotting logs. His ankle throbbed at the sight. The descent was going to be a killer.

“What happens if you don’t get home tonight?” she asked.

“No one is expecting me until the eight o’clock practice session tomorrow morning.”

Her chin dropped, and she stared down between her knees. “It could be days before anyone realized I was gone.”

“I’d miss you.” When her head jerked up, he hastily added, “If you didn’t wander into the bar some time tomorrow, Louie and I would notice.”

Her mouth twisted. “Well, that warms the old cockles. Can you walk?”

“I’ll manage.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, then eased to her feet and over the rocks to where her pack had fallen. Wyatt’s was still on his back. He shrugged it off and unzipped the main compartment, cursing when he reached inside and found cold slime. The leftover sandwiches had cushioned some of his fall, but the plastic tubs of mayonnaise and mustard had exploded. The lens on the flashlight in the side pocket was shattered. His aluminum water bottle had survived with only a dent.

He opened one of the side compartments to pull out the ever-present roll of self-adherent bandage. Before he could hitch up the leg of his jeans to inspect the damage, Melanie returned.

She dropped her pack and plucked the bandage out of his hand. “I’ve got this.”

“You know how?”

“In four years of varsity basketball and volleyball you sprain a few ankles, and we didn’t exactly have a crack sports medicine team on hand at good ol’ Earnest High School.”

She grabbed the cuff of his jeans and swung his leg around to prop it on a rock. He had to resist the urge to yank it away, not accustomed to being managed.

Instead, he asked, “You played varsity as a ninth grader?”

“The competition for starting spots isn’t that stiff when there’s only twenty kids in your grade.” She carefully peeled off his sock, then applied an expert figure-eight wrap around his ankle.

“Violet said you could have played basketball in college.”

“I got a couple of offers.” She finished the wrap, tore off the excess bandage with a practiced twist of her wrist, and smoothed the loose end so it stuck down. “They wouldn’t let me rodeo if I was playing ball. And Colorado and Arizona were too far away.”

From what? Home? Friends? Or…

“Afraid to let Hank out of your sight?” Then he grimaced. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“So was that crack I made about you saving everyone else. Let’s just call it even, okay?” Her face was in shadow, her voice neutral as she stood. “If you soak that in the creek, it’ll keep the swelling down.”

When she held out her hand, he took it, letting her pull him to his feet. Upright, he tested his theory and found that yes, it hurt like a bitch. He’d fought bulls with worse, but he’d also had it both taped and braced and was working on a groomed surface.

They crawled over the log, and then Melanie grabbed his wrist, ducked under his arm, and wrapped it around her shoulders, cinching her other arm firmly around his waist. “Lean on me as much as you need.”

His mind blanked out at the unexpected press of her body against his, the wildflower scent of her hair filling his head. He closed his eyes and breathed in even deeper. Maybe they could just stay like this…

She nudged him with her hip. “Ready?”

No, but he took a step…and hissed involuntarily.

Melanie yanked on his wrist. “What part of Lean on me do you not understand?”

The part where he had to relax enough to let at least some of his weight settle on her shoulders? He gritted his teeth and took another tentative step. His foot skidded on the slick layer of pine needles, and he swore again. By the tenth step he forgot about pride and lust—mostly—and leaned heavily against her.

They managed half a dozen more steps before she tripped over a rock and pitched forward. Wyatt threw an arm around a smallish tree to stop them both from tumbling face-first down the hill. Grunting from the effort, he hauled her around—and smack up against him. Her startled eyes registered the fact that one of her palms was plastered to his chest, his arm locked behind her shoulders and his hand dangerously close to cupping her breast.

For a few beats they remained motionless, their combined breath a hot cloud between them. He let his hand slide down to her waist, his head bowing in an irresistible urge to taste…

She eased away a few inches. “Whew. That was close.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant the near-fall or how he’d very nearly kissed her. This was why he’d been insane to bring her here. Well, not specifically this, because who in their right mind would have guessed they’d end up trapped in a freaking canyon together?

She angled around, repositioning herself under his arm, and they started again. They were both sweating and panting when they staggered to a stop at the side of the creek. Melanie helped him ease down onto a flat rock, then lowered herself onto a log with a thankful groan. “Are you sure you can walk out of here tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He would manage somehow. He’d crawl out on his hands and knees before he sent her ahead for a rescue squad and became one of those idiot hikers. Wyatt eased off his shoe to run his fingers lightly over the bubble of swelling around his anklebone.

“How bad is it?” she asked. “Honestly.”

“About a four out of ten. I’ll soak it off and on all night, plus I have these.” He unzipped another small pocket in his backpack, retrieved a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen, and gave it a shake. “Need some?”

“God, yes. I’m gonna have a bruise on my ass the size of Fort Worth.” She held out her hand to let him tap a couple of tablets into her palm, then pulled the remainder of a bottle of tea from her pack to wash them down. “You chill…literally.” She flashed a quick smile at her own joke. “I’ll make camp.”

He pulled one of the empty plastic sandwich bags over his foot to keep the wrap dry, scooted over, and lowered his foot into the biting cold mountain water. Ahhh! People thought bullfighters were addicted to adrenaline. In reality, they were hooked on ice—the cure for everything that ached.

Beside him, Melanie rustled around in her pack, taking inventory. “I’ve got another full bottle of tea and a bag of cookies. You’ve got water and sandwiches. It might not be exactly balmy tonight, but we’re not gonna die of hypothermia.”

He had nothing to add, so he just nodded.

She pulled something out of her little pack and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. Then she dug around some more and came out with a set of car keys that jingled and flashed silver in the gloom. An instant later, Wyatt had to scrunch his eyes against a bright pinpoint of LED light.

“Key chain flashlight,” she said. “We gave them away to clients at Christmas, and I snagged one for myself.”

The beam was small, but allowed her to prowl the immediate area. Twigs snapped under her feet as she pushed through a patch of brush to move down the creek bank. “Anything useful in your pack?” she asked.

“A plastic rain poncho and a butane lighter, but it’s full of mayonnaise.”

“Damn. A fire would’ve been—” She stopped abruptly, then the light shot into the air, clutched in her triumphant fist. “God bless you, Gordon. I still have that book of matches in my pocket.”

She disappeared for a few moments, then the flashlight swung back toward him. “There’s a better spot over here. Nice and flat, and there’s even an old fire ring from other campers. I’ll gather what wood I can break off those dead trees. You should be good and numb by the time I’m done.”

Not to mention exploding from frustration. He’d rarely felt so useless. Worse—a liability. He ground his teeth, swallowing the helpful suggestions that were the only contribution he could make, certain they would not be appreciated.

So Wyatt just sat there, one more lump in the dark while Melanie crashed around in the underbrush, her light bobbing like a firefly among the trees. And dammit, now that the pain in his ankle was ebbing, his body had decided to replay every sensation of rubbing up against Melanie, and the baser parts of his brain were chiming in with all the ways he could keep her warm tonight.

He dumped out his pack and began rinsing mayonnaise and mustard off the contents. Melanie passed by three times, her arms loaded, then returned to squat beside him, propping the light so it illuminated the space between them. “Had enough?”

And more. He pulled his foot out the water and peeled off the plastic bag. She picked up his sock and reached for his foot.

He snatched both out of her grasp. “I can dress myself,” he snapped, sounding peevish and ungrateful.

“Fine.” She shot to her feet, and for an instant he thought she might kick him. And that he deserved it. “I assume you can also get your cranky ass over to the campsite.”

She left him to try. But she also, intentionally or not, left the little flashlight.