Free Montana Wildfire by Rebecca Sinclair Page A

nerves.
    "Yeah, princess, I'm sure you do. I was just thinking of what happened the last time you waded into a river for water." His grin was slow and wicked. The sight of it made her heart palpitate. "Then again..."
    His gaze seared her from the top of her head, down to the arms she clasped at her waist. She had a feeling he was thinking more of the way her wet skirt and blouse had clung to her body, and not the foot he had freed from the sunken tree trunk.
    Amanda swallowed hard. Her reaction was not so much from his gaze—though that was certainly a part of it—a large part of it—but from the memory of his calloused fingertips and the way he'd boldly explored the wet, slippery curves of her legs. Her skin still burned from the intimacy of his touch, even though it was nothing more than a disturbing memory now. She had an uneasy feeling that she wouldn't be forgetting the branding feel of his hands on her anytime soon.
    "I'll get the food," she said, and turned away from him.
    She hobbled over to the horses with as much dignity as a tired, limping woman could. The cinch strap on the mare's saddle had worked itself tight. It took effort to pry it loose. Her trembling fingers made the chore take longer than it should have.
    Jake, in the meantime, retrieved his coffee pot from the possessions he'd rolled up in the saddle-blanket strapped to the white. Her own coffee pot had, of course, been lost to the river that morning.
    "You start the fire while I'm gone," he said, sparing Amanda only one quick, piercing gaze before he pivoted on his heel and again disappeared into the thick covering of underbrush.
    Amanda listened for the rustle of leaves or snap of twigs that would mark his leaving, but wasn't surprised when she didn't hear any. She hadn't heard him approach before he'd caught her falling off the horse either, but that didn't seem to mean anything. The man was quick, agile, and as silent as a cat.
    Though the observation was unnerving, it did help soothe her conscience. It proved her decision to hire Jake Chandler had been a good one. If anyone could find Roger, that person was Jake. He was strong, mentally and physically. His judgment was sound, even if his sense of honor was warped. Make that nonexistent; the man had no sense of honor that she'd seen. Though he was, by his own admission, not the world's best tracker, he hadn't lost the trail yet, which meant he wasn't bad either.
    She hoisted the saddle off the mare and let it thump to the ground near her feet. When she turned, her gaze fixed on a small stack of firewood scattered sloppily in the center of the clearing. She remembered the clatter of noise just before Jake had caught her. One golden brow arched in contemplation.
    Amanda studied the twigs and branches as though they were the most amusing thing she'd ever seen. Hadn't she told Jake she was out of matches? If not, she'd certainly meant to.

    Arm over arm, Jake's body sliced through the river. The mountain-fed water felt like a sheet of ice lapping at his skin. Bitter cold and invigorating, it was exactly what he needed. Pity it didn't cool off his thoughts a damn bit.
    The turn of his mind was red-hot. The object of his attention? The curve of a certain snobby Bostonian princess's breasts... and the more than enticing way she'd felt when he'd dragged her soft, slender body down his length.
    Lowering Amanda Lennox to her feet like that hadn't been the smartest thing Jake had ever done. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. He'd been bitten by the urge to find out what her luscious curves would feel like sliding against his hardness. Now he knew. In retrospect, it was something he could have lived happily without ever having learned. But it was too late now.
    Plain and simple, the woman made him hot. And she did it so quickly and thoroughly, so effortlessly, that it staggered him. Even after a brisk swim in a river fed by mountain water so cold it numbed and puckered his skin, Jake couldn't stop