Free Cowboy's Kiss by Victoria Pade Page A

into her pocket before they’d left.
    And still she was dirtier than she’d ever been in her life. Which was no doubt exactly what Jackson had had in mind.
    â€œWhat the hell is all this?” he demanded as he started to unload the saddlebags of the food she’d packed.
    Ally hiked from the stream to the shade of a huge tree where they were sitting to eat. “I believe those are the sandwiches you told me to make,” she answered him evenly rather than allowing a hint of how awful she felt.
    â€œWith the crusts cut off?” he asked incredulously.
    â€œTrimmed, yes.”
    Jackson rolled his eyes. “Froufrou food, boys. She’s packed us froufrou food.”
    â€œOh, stuff it, hard case,” she heard herself shout back before she even realized she was going to. “If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.”
    That brought a few smiles and at least one laugh disguised as a cough from the other men, who accepted their sandwiches without comment.
    Ally took over from there, explaining what everything was as she opened each container.
    Besides the cucumber pinwheels there were marinated green beans, chick peas and carrot curls; crackers she’d seasoned and toasted, and a vegetable pâté to go with them; and a flour tortilla torte layered with refried beans, onions, olives, peppers, tomatoes, spicy sour cream and cheese, and cut into triangles that sent Jackson into another muttering of “froufrou.”
    But everyone—including Jackson—ate heartily. The ranch hands were effusive in their praise of the picnic, wanting to know what the special flavor on the ham and turkey club sandwiches was, and arguing over who got the last of each dish as it disappeared.
    Jackson, on the other hand, grumbled between mouthfuls about the ridiculousness of having food like that on a cattle drive, as if she’d ruined some centuries-old tradition.
    Once they’d all finished eating and drinking, it was back to work.
    The ranch hands headed for the horses where they grazed near the stream, but Jackson held back, handing Ally a handkerchief scarf. “Tie it around your nose and mouth. It’ll block out some of the dust,” he advised as if he were doing it against his will.
    â€œThanks,” she said, accepting it and wondering if froufrou food had won her the concession or if his conscience was just getting the better of him. But either way, she’d take what help she could get.
    â€œCome on, let’s get going,” he ordered then.
    The afternoon was more punishing than the morning, mainly because the temperature climbed and, besides the heat and dust, Ally’s backside began to protest the abuse of the saddle. Half-hour joyrides at camp had not prepared her posterior for the kind of prolonged punishment it was getting.
    Of course, none of the men seemed disturbed, but then clearly they were all accustomed to it. For Ally, as the hours passed, that saddle became a private torture all its own.
    And then the call of nature struck, too.
    For a while she tried to ignore it, but she’d had more to drink than to eat at lunch and ignoring it became less and less possible until she finally accepted the fact that she was going to have to slip away from her dusty position at the back of the herd and find a discreet bush. Fast.
    No one would miss her, she thought, since the cows were a cooperative lot and, besides having to urge on a few laggers periodically, she really didn’t do much.
    So when she spotted a likely clump of bushes amid a stand of trees, she steered her horse off in that direction.
    By then she was so stiff and sore that getting out of the saddle was more a fall than a dismount. Not that she cared at that point. She was less concerned with gracefulness than with just hitting the ground and running for the foliage.
    It was hardly a luxurious accommodation but she got the job done and then hurried back out of the bush as quickly as she