Joan Johnston

“I hurt my hip, too.”
“Let me see.”
She made a face and yelped when her cheek protested even that slight movement. “You don’t need to see my hip. It’s fine.”
“If the skin’s broken, it’ll need cleaning, too,” he said, unbuckling her belt.
“Stop that.”
“Think of me as your doctor,” he said, as he unsnapped and then unzipped her jeans.
“My doctor doesn’t usually undress me,” she snapped. “And my patients already come undressed.”
He laughed. “Life your hips,” he said. “Up!” he ordered, when she hesitated.
She put her one good hand on his shoulder to brace herself and lifted her hips as he pulled her torn jeans down. To her surprise, her bikini underwear was shredded, and the skin underneath was bloody. “Uh-oh.”
She was still staring at the injury on her hip when she felt him pulling off her boots. She started to protest, saw the warning look in his eyes, and shut her mouth. He pulled her jeans off, leaving her legs bare above her white boot socks. “Was that really necessary?”
“You’re decent,” he said, straightening the tails of her Western shirt over her shredded bikini underwear. “I can put your boots back on if you like.”
Bay shook her head and laughed. “Just get the first-aid kit, and let me take care of myself.”
He grimaced. “If I’m not mistaken, you packed the first-aid kit in your saddlebags.”
Bay winced. “You’re right.” She stared down the canyon as far as she could see. There was no sign of her horse. “How long do you think it’ll take him to stop running?”
“He won’t have gone far. But I need to set up camp before it gets dark. And I’m not hunting for your horse in the dark, for the same reason I’m not hunting for your brother in the dark.”
“Where am I supposed to sleep? My bedroll and tent are with my horse.”
“You should have thought of that before you started that little striptease of yours.”
“You’re the one who shouted and scared me half to death. I was only trying to cool off.”
“And heating me up in the process!”
“I can’t help it if you have a vivid imagination.”
“It didn’t take much to imagine to see your breasts,” he shot back. “You opened your blouse right up and bent over and flapped your shirt like you were waving a red flag at a bull”
“I was getting some air!”
“You slid your butt around that saddle like you were sitting right on my lap.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Then you lifted your arms to hold your hair up and those perfect little breasts of yours—”
“That’s enough,” she interrupted. “You’re crazy if you think—”
“You mean you weren’t inviting me to kiss my way around those wispy curls at your nape?”
“I most certainly was not!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She searched for the worst insult she could think of to sling at him. “You—you—Bullying Blackthorne!”
“Damned contentious Creed!”
― Joan Johnston, The Texan