Oh, yeah. You ‘re one of the Einsteins of the Old West.
After that scintillating conversation, Rafe concentrated on his riding. Along the way, Helen constantly called his attention to the wild beauty of the shallow ravines and gullies, which merged into glorious fields of chaparral and wildflowers. They passed only a few people in the distance — shy foothill Indians at work in the fields, scruffy men in miners’ duds riding mules, pioneers on the occasional wagon, moving slowly in the searing heat.
Sightseeing was not a top priority for Rafe; he was too busy holding on tight to F. Lee Horse.
“You’re doing just great,” Helen encouraged, “but try moving the horse with your inner thighs.”
“Oh, I get it. Like riding a woman,” he observed with wide-eyed innocence. She looked too damn competent on her horse, while he stumbled along like the fourth stooge.
“Sometimes you gotta let a woman know who’s in the saddle.”
She honored him with one of those all-men-are-scum scowls, but didn’t comment on his tasteless remark. Instead, she continued to offer advice. “Avoid bouncing up and down in the saddle, or else you’ll end up with a sore bottom. And blisters.”
Oh, yeah, blisters! Rafe thought four hours later when they dismounted and prepared to make camp for the night. He felt like his backside had been paddled with a wooden mallet, every muscle in his body screamed with pain, and he could swear he had a blister on his right cheek, just below his tattoo.
They released Helen’s bindings, but not his. “She ees just a harmless woman, after all,” Ignacio explained.
Idiot! There isn’t a woman alive who’s harmless.
Now would probably be a good time to escape, Rafe thought. Helen could untie his hands, and they’d be out of here. But he hesitated, still intrigued by the puzzling events. Maybe he’d wait a little longer to make his move. See what the hell was going on. Crack a few skulls.
Helen was expertly helping to unsaddle her horse — and his, as well. Her competence was beginning to rankle. She put a blade of grass in her mouth and startling whistling contentedly.
He hated whistling.
“Helen?”
“Hmmm?”
“Ah… Helen… honey…?”
She looked up suspiciously.
“How would you feel about –?”
“Spit it out, Rafe. You were never shy before.”
Yep, she is really starting to yank my chain. “How’d you like to look at my ass?”
Chapter Four
Helen stopped whistling and almost swallowed her blade of grass. “I beg your pardon,” she choked out. Surely — surely — she’d heard wrong. Rafe couldn’t possibly have asked her to look at his behind!
Even with his dark skin, Helen could see a slight pink tone of embarrassment flush Rate’s neck and face. But he lifted his chin arrogantly and demanded, “Look at my ass, damn it.”
“No, thank you.” She hoped her voice sounded cool and disinterested, not hot and very interested, like she was, unfortunately. With forced casualness, she put a new blade of grass in her mouth and began whistling again.
“Aaaaarrgh! Do it!” The pink flush on his face turned purple.
“No.”
“Undo my zipper and pull my pants down,” he said in a steely voice that, no doubt, caused his courtroom adversaries to quake in their Gucci boots. But not Helen. She just kept on whistling. No, she wouldn’t let him intimidate her. She whistled louder.
“Quick. Before those yo-yo’s come back and decide to mark another part of my body for a kick-boxing target.”
Helen raised her eyes to see the three bandits making a campsite, keeping a watchful eye on them the entire time.
“C’mon.”
Geez, talk about a lack of finesse. Helen felt somewhat disappointed. She’d expected Rafe to be a smoother, more persuasive lover. Heck, he probably didn’t consider her worth the effort. Or else, he figured she was easy. Trying to remain calm, she stuck another blade of grass in her mouth and resumed whistling.
“I swear, the minute I get free, I’m gonna shake you till you swallow that weed. Then I’m gonna twist your tongue so you can’t ever whistle again.”
“Don’t be so cranky.”
“Cranky? Cranky?” he sputtered. “I’m dying here. Pull down my pants.”