Barbara Dunlop - A Cowboy in Manhattan

He bent to fiddle with something on the pump contraption, and the piston came to life with a rhythmic, sloshing sound.

Apparently satisfied, he closed a sheet-metal cover and fastened it. He gathered up the remaining tools, shoving some of them back into his tool belt, putting others in the box and securing the lid.

He stood and looked around at the dark surroundings. “We have to get back.”

He waited for her to stand and start moving, then he took the lead, making his way along the ridge, heading toward the steep trail that led to where they’d parked the truck. Thankfully, he took it slower this time, and Katrina didn’t have to struggle quite so hard to keep up.

But when they came to the top of the trail, Reed stopped abruptly. The top of the bank had sloughed away, and the trail had turned to a rivulet of mud and water, coursing down in the direction of the road.

“I don’t think so,” said Reed, holding out his arm as a block between her and the edge of the bluff.

“What do we do now?” she asked, peering into the gloom of the aspen grove, listening to the whoosh of the water below them.

He set the toolbox down, well back from the edge, and he stripped off the leather tool belt, plunking it on top. “I’m not dragging you through the bush in the dark, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, wondering if it was a lie. Just how difficult would it be to make their way back through the thick woods?

“There’s a line shack about a mile that way.” He gestured with his head in the opposite direction of the well. “We’ll wait it out there.”

That seemed like an only slightly more palatable option.

“It’ll be pitch-dark by the time we get there.” She was already having a hard time picking her way across the uneven meadow. And she was cold and wet and miserable.

“Yes, it will. So, up you go.” He scooped her into his arms.

“Hey!”

“You’d rather walk?”

“Yes!”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got leather boots and long pants, and I’ve been hiking these hills my entire life.” He adjusted her in his arms.

“You can’t carry me a whole mile.”

“I could carry you twenty miles without breaking a sweat. And even if I couldn’t, I’m not letting you risk your ankle.”

“This is ridiculous,” she huffed.

“Welcome to my world, Katrina. It can be cold, wet, dirty and unforgiving.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck in surrender. “This is exactly why I went off to boarding school.”

“You were right to do that.” His tone was gruff. “And you’re right to stay away. Colorado’s a bad place for you.”

Katrina didn’t disagree. But for the first time in her life, it didn’t feel like an insult.

Inside the line shack, Reed set Katrina on her feet, instructing her to hold still while he located a box of matches to light the two oil lamps that would be sitting on the small kitchen table. He knew where everything was in the compact, single-room shack, and he didn’t want her walking into the furniture.

“Will somebody come looking for us?” her voice wafted across the cool room to him.

“What do you mean?”

“When we don’t come back, will they come looking?”

Reed couldn’t help but smile to himself. He struck a match, lifted the glass chamber and lit the lamp’s wick. The idea that Caleb would mount a rescue operation because Reed was a few hours late was laughable.

“I’m old enough to stay out after dark,” he told Katrina. He quickly moved the match to the second lamp and lit it, as well. Warm yellow light filled the small room, highlighting a compact kitchen, two worn armchairs, a bed in one corner, along with the scarred wooden table and four battered kitchen chairs.

“Won’t they worry?” she pressed.

“Not for a day or so.”

“But we could be hurt.”

“We’re not hurt.”

“They don’t know that.”

He took in her bedraggled appearance and tried not to feel guilty, reminding himself that she was the one who’d insisted on coming along. “They’ll know that odds are we’re stuck.”

“But-”

“This kind of thing happens all the time.” Next, Reed went to the small woodstove between the armchairs. There was a cardboard box nearby with old newspapers, dry kindling and split firewood. He opened the glass-fronted stove door.

“Not to me, it doesn’t,” Katrina huffed to his back.

He heard her make her way farther into the shack. “We’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

He crumpled the paper. “So stop worrying.”

“I’m not worried.”

He laid down a few pieces of kindling. “I can tell.”

“I’m not worried. Cold, maybe.”

“It’ll warm up soon.”

“And hungry.”

“You? Hungry? Who’d have guessed.”

“I eat,” she protested.

“About enough to keep a bird alive.” Not that she was skinny. She had a killer compact figure, smooth curves, tight muscle tone. He set a few pieces of firewood on top of the kindling.

“I guess I’m an easy keeper.”

He grinned at her horse reference, striking a match then tossing it into the stove, watching the paper catch and light before closing the door. “Well, I’m definitely not. I’ll see what I can find us to eat.”

“There’s food here?”

“I hope so.” It was going to be a long night if he couldn’t find a can of stew or a jar of peanut butter.

“What can I do?”

It was on the tip of Reed’s tongue to make a joke about how little she could do out here, but before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of her delicate features. Her soaking, stringy hair, those wet, bedraggled clothes, and he didn’t have the heart to tease her.

“Check the bureau beside the bed. Sometimes the cowboys leave dry clothes in it.”

In reaction to his words, she shook water droplets from her fingertips, and took a long look down at her soaking clothes.

Reed could stand to stay wet if he had to, but he’d much rather dry off and warm up.

She headed for the far corner of the shack while he moved one of the lamps to the small countertop and checked the kitchen cupboard. He found a box of pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup. Not exactly gourmet, but it would keep them from going hungry.

“Not much here,” Katrina called to report.

He turned, squinting into the darkened end of the room.

She came toward him, into the lamplight, holding something in each hand. “Tops or bottoms?” She unfurled a pair of gray sweatpants and a large, white T-shirt.

He couldn’t help being reminded of his offer to share his pajamas. He nodded to the sweatpants. “Looks like those might be a bit large for you.”

“Unless I want a blanket.” She tossed them his way, and he snagged them out of midair.

She shook out the T-shirt. “Can I trust you to turn your back while I change?”

“Absolutely,” he vowed. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”

“My auntie raised me to be a bohemian artist.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Her blue eyes danced as she obviously fought a smile. “It means I probably won’t turn my back while you change.”

Reed fought the temptation to tease her in return. But that was a dangerous road to go down. Instead, he forced himself to turn away, concentrating on finding a bowl in the sparsely equipped cupboard. It was already going to be a very long night. “Change your clothes, Katrina.”

While he whipped up the batter and heated a pan on the two-burner propane stove, she rustled her way into the dry T-shirt.

“Your turn,” she told him, moving up beside him at the counter. “That smells good.”