Page 9 of Wellspring

ERICK PONDERED Webster’s words as they continued their journey westward.

Time would acclimate him to his new surroundings, he knew.

The question was whether he knew any longer who he was.

He had prided himself in doing the best for his estate and the tenants and servants he held responsibility for.

While being responsible for no one but himself had seemed appealing, he was honest enough to admit that at present he was dependent on Webster, and it left him unsettled.

Of what value was his ability to manage an estate, to keep books, to blend in to society, in this new life?

He could only hope that once they reached their destination, he would have absorbed enough skills from observing Webster to earn a place for himself.

Not for the first time, Erick marveled at his good fortune at falling in with Webster.

The cowboy was everything that appealed to Erick—handsome, strongly built, capable, and kind enough to share his skills and experience with a stranger.

Surely most men wouldn’t spend time showing him how to form a lasso and practice roping tree stumps with it.

At times Erick thought he saw a hint of returned interest from Webster, but that could just be his reading what he wished to see into Webster’s innate friendliness.

If he were to give in to the fantasy of tangling his fingers in Webster’s long hair and pulling him close, he could find himself abandoned far from anywhere or, worse, staring down the barrel of Webster’s gun.

A sudden scream tore Erick from his thoughts.

Zephyr bucked beneath him, knocking Erick forward in the saddle.

He tightened the reins automatically, but that only made Zephyr rear up instead.

Erick leaned forward, gripping hard with his thighs, but the Western saddle wasn’t made that way, and the change in position pulled Erick’s boots from the stirrups.

A second buck shook him loose from the saddle completely and he went flying through the air to land on the dusty ground with a hard thump.

Feeling foolish—he hadn’t been thrown from a horse since he was a green youth—he rolled to his side to push up onto his elbow when he found himself face-to-face with a coiled snake at least as thick as his arm.

The snake reared up, its forked tongue flickering out and a rattle sounding as it shook its tail.

Webster had warned him of venomous snakes, but he’d thought to confront them in the underbrush, not the middle of a road.

He reached slowly for the pistol at his belt, but the snake swayed ominously and he froze.

At the angle he lay on the ground, he had little hope of drawing, aiming, and firing faster than the snake could strike, and if it bit his face, he would surely die from it.

He could only hope if he stayed motionless, the snake would decide he was no threat and slither off.

The constant rattle suggested the likelihood of that was indeed small.

Crack!

The report of a pistol rent the air and the snake’s head exploded, surely no more than an inch from his face, showering Erick in blood and gore.

Erick collapsed onto his back, trying to slow his pulse and breathing.

Only now that the danger was past did the full impact of his peril grip him, and he had to breathe deeply through ribs bruised by his fall to stop from shaking. Webster had surely saved his life.

Webster knelt beside him, breathing almost as heavily as Erick was, and Erick accepted his hand to help him to his feet.

Fighting the urge to throw himself into Webster’s strong arms, a lifetime of training forced him to rein in his racing emotions.

“Again, a most impressive shot,” he managed before pulling out his kerchief to wipe his face.

“I couldn’t let the damn thing kill you.

” Webster glanced down and rubbed the back of his neck, obviously uncomfortable with the praise.

It was a good thing he hadn’t said everything he wanted to, Erick thought, because he would never wish to make Webster uncomfortable.

But it also made him determined to look for more instances to let him know how much Erick admired his skills.

Surely there could be no harm in that. “Sorry about the mess. An arrow wouldn’t have splattered like that, but I couldn’t reach my bow in time.

We’ll find a stream or a pond or somewhere and make camp early tonight so you can wash up properly.

And maybe wash your jacket and shirt too. I’m afraid the blood got everywhere.”

Erick couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “You saved my life—a little blood is a small consequence. It is I who should apologize to you for letting my attention lapse. I do little to recommend myself as a horse trainer, I fear.”

“Everyone gets thrown sometimes, and anyone who says otherwise either hasn’t ridden a horse or is lying through his teeth,” Webster replied. “Although getting distracted out here probably ain’t the best idea. And you’d have done the same for me if the situation had been reversed.”

“I would certainly try, though I could not have made the shot you did.” Webster flushed again, but there was no denying his skill, however thrilling Erick found it. “Let us continue on. I find the prospect of cleaning myself appealing.”

Webster stooped to pick up the snake carcass and toss it into the wagon. “Can’t let this go to waste—rattlesnake makes good eating.”

In his panic over the snake, Zephyr had bolted down the road, Erick saw now. “Come on,” Cade said. “Climb up and we’ll get him as we drive by. No use chasing him on foot.”

Erick climbed onto the seat of the wagon, keenly aware of the heat of Cade’s body next to him.

Fortunately Zephyr didn’t seem inclined to keep running once he was safely away from the snake, and they caught up to him within a few minutes.

He mounted Zephyr and guided him to keep step with the draft horses.

After his scare, he preferred to stay close for now.

They didn’t talk as they continued, but the silence was easy between them.

He didn’t know what Webster was thinking, but Erick kept reliving the moment after Webster’s incredible shot, when the cowboy sank to the ground beside him, nearly as shaken as Erick himself.

What would have happened if he’d turned and kissed Webster as his emotions had screamed at him to do?

Probably nothing good, especially when his face was covered with snake gore, his rational side insisted.

Webster hadn’t done anything he wouldn’t have done for anyone.

Erick needed to keep reminding himself of that.

That afternoon—around four if Erick could judge the time from the height of the sun—they came across a shallow river. “Let’s make camp here,” Webster said. “You can wash up and I’ll get a fire started for dinner.”

Erick unsaddled Zephyr and left him to graze before walking to the river.

He kept an eye out for any more snakes as he unbuttoned his shirt—he would not risk losing Webster’s opinion any more than he already had—but the grass gave way to a bare, rocky bank.

He knelt to gauge the water’s temperature, far warmer than a Prussian river would be at this time of year.

For a moment he debated stripping completely.

He would give much to feel fully clean, but the channel didn’t look deep enough to submerge even to his waist. He pulled off his boots—they were too new to ruin the leather—and hung his hat from an overhanging branch.

Wading into the water, he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, opened the top several buttons of his union suit, and bent to splash the cool water over his face and chest. Even that much was refreshing.

“Heller,” Webster, already hatless, called from behind him. When Erick straightened and turned, Webster grinned. “Catch.”

Erick lifted his hands automatically and caught a thin cake of soap.

“You didn’t buy any for yourself in Galveston, and since it’s my fault you’re all bloody, I figure the least I can do is share.” As he spoke, Webster peeled off his jacket, pulled his shirt over his head, and started to unbuckle his belt.

Feeling his face heat, Erick quickly turned back to the water and worked the soap to a lather.

He’d imagined what Webster’s body might look like beneath his work clothes, of course, but he couldn’t risk betraying his body’s reaction to the planes of strong muscle that defined Webster’s chest through the thin fabric of his undergarment.

Wishing the river were colder, he dunked his head below the surface, holding his breath as long as he could before straightening to shake the water from his hair.

He could—he would—master his impulses. He couldn’t risk Webster’s revulsion, or worse, if he discovered the truth.

“I didn’t save you from that snake for you to go drowning yourself,” Webster joked when Erick reached for his shirt.