Free The Western Dare (Harlequin Heartwarming) by Roz Denny Fox

“Those pioneers must have been one big callus by the end of a trip,” he gnashed between grunts and moans. He’d thought he was in fair physical condition from all the manual labor he did on his house! Wrong. And if he had this kind of trouble, imagine how the women must feel.
    Lumbering like a giant sloth, Camp crept to the front of his wagon. There, after two attempts, he managed to heave himself onto the slab seat. Yesterday’s aches were minor by comparison.
    This was an indecent hour to get up. No respectable rooster even crowed before dawn. “Tell yourself this is fun, Campbell,” he chanted, recalling the pointed observation on Gina’s data sheet. Uncorking his canteen, he poured cold water over his head. “Brr.” His teeth chattered so hard, he clung to the canvas water bag, wondering how long till he could safely lather up and use a razor blade without danger of draining his life’s blood.
    “You sure look scummy today. Didn’t you bring clean clothes?”
    Camp set the canteen aside and scowled down at Mark Benton, who wore saggy pants that ended midcalf and a shirt five sizes too big. “Someone who buys his clothes at the Salvation Army reject store has no room to talk.” Seeing his remark hadn’t fazed the kid, Camp said, “A lot of pioneers only owned one set of clothes, you know.”
    “Gross. It probably still stinks in Santa Fe. Me and Mom hauled water from the river about an hour ago so we could wash. So did your sister and the others.”
    Camp refused to be baited. “What’s on the morning agenda? More chores?”
    “Nope. Mom says we have half an hour to fix and eat breakfast and fifteen minutes to hitch teams and roll.”
    Shapes began to materialize around fires that sprang to life along the meadow. A whiff of coffee and something cinnamony drifted in on the cool breeze, sending Camp’s stomach into a cramped tailspin. He should have buried his pride last night and begged Emily for the rest of her biscuits. Hunched over the canteen, Camp sincerely doubted the truth of what he’d read about Kit Carson—that he’d survived a week on two slices of beef jerky. “Get lost, kid. I think I hear your mother calling.”
    Mark shook a mahogany sweep of hair from in front of coolly assessing eyes. “Mom said to ask if you needed help starting your fire.”
    “Certainly not!” Camp jumped down from the wagon, and nearly collapsed when he landed hard. “But...” he gritted his teeth. “It’s nice of her to ask.”
    “Her asking don’t mean nothing, understand,” Mark informed Camp. “She’s always helping strays.”
    Camp declined comment. Whether aware of it or not, Emily Benton was partly responsible for his condition this morning. After they parted last night, he couldn’t seem to stop dreaming about her. He hadn’t slept two hours straight. At first he’d tried to write, but her name cropped up far more often than the others in his study. He’d tossed the tablet aside in disgust and crawled into his sleeping bag. He’d continued to dwell on the things she’d let slip about her marriage. Half the night he’d mulled over why a woman with two academic degrees had stayed married to the piece of work she’d described. Surely no judge would give child custody to a sleazebag like that.
    Automatically, his eyes sought Emily’s dark shape. Sometime before sleep had claimed him, he’d begun to realize she possessed more strength than he’d first given her credit for. So why hadn’t she flown the coop with her kids? Money? The way Mark and Megan talked, they didn’t have any. “Hmm,” he muttered to himself. “With her earning potential?” There had to be more to it. Some piece he’d missed.
    “Here.” Mark extended several scraps of paper. The raucous tune on his mp3 player assaulted Camp’s ears. Did that kid have an endless supply of batteries?
    “Well, take ’em,” Mark drawled. “They won’t bite. Mom wrote down her biscuit recipe, and one for potato soup.