The water in the lowest pool was a pale turquoise Mariah had seen only on postcards of tropical islands. The water in the next pool was a luminous aquamarine. The water in the last pool shaded from turquoise to aquamarine to a clear, very dark blue that was the exact shade of Cash's eyes. At the far end of the highest pool, the water was so deep it appeared black but for swirls of shimmering indigo where liquid welled up from the depths of the earth in silent, inexhaustible pulses that had begun long before man ever walked the western lands and would continue long after man left.
Slowly Mariah sank to her knees and extended her hand toward the jeweled beauty of the pool. Before she could touch the water, Cash snatched her hand back.
"I've cooked trout at this end of Black Springs. Sometimes the downstream end of the pool is cool enough to bear touching for a few moments. Most often it isn't. It depends."
"On what?"
Cash didn't answer her directly. "You get hot springs when groundwater sinks down until it reaches a body of magma and then flashes into superheated steam," he said, absently running his thumb over Mariah's palm as he looked at the slowly twisting depth of Black Springs. "The steam slams up through cracks in the country rock until the water bursts through to the surface of the land in a geyser or a hot spring. Most often the water never breaks the surface. It simply cools and sinks back down the cracks until it encounters magma, flashes to steam and surges upward again."
Mariah made a small sound, reflection of the sensations that were radiating up from her captive hand. Cash looked away from the water and realized that his thumb was caressing Mariah's palm in the rhythm of the water pulsing deep within the springs. With a muttered word, he released her hand.
"I can tell you how a hot spring works, but I can't tell you why some days Black Springs is too hot and other days it's bearable. So be careful every day. Even on its best behavior, Black Springs is dangerously hot a foot beneath the surface."
"Is the water drinkable?" she asked.
"Once it cools off the trout love it. So do I. It has a flavor better than wine."
Mariah stared wistfully at the beautiful, intensely clear, searingly hot water. "It looks so wonderful."
"Come on," Cash said, taking pity on her. "I'll show you the best place to soak out the aches." He led her back to the middle pool. "The closer you are to the spring, the hotter the water. Start at the lower end and work your way up until you're comfortable." He started to turn away, then stopped. "You do swim, don't you?"
Mariah glanced at the pool. "Sure, but that water is hardly deep enough for me to get wet sitting down."
"The pool is so clear it fools your eyes. At the far end, the water is over my head." Cash turned away. "If you're not back in an hour, I'll come back and drag you out. I'm hungry."
"You don't have to wait for me," she said, setting shoes and socks aside.
"The hell I don't. You're the cook, remember?"
7
On the fourth day, Mariah didn't have to be awakened by the sound of the front door creaking as Cash walked out to check on the horses. She woke up as soon as sunrise brightened the undraped windows. Silently she struggled out of her tangle of blankets. Although she still ached in odd places and she wished that she had brought a few more blankets to cushion the rough wood floor, she no longer woke up feeling as though she had been beaten and left out in the rain. Shivering in the shack's chill air, Mariah knelt between her blankets and Cash's still-occupied sleeping bag as she worked over the ashes of last night's fire. As always, she had slept fully clothed, for the high mountain nights were cold even in summer. Yet as soon as the sun shone over the broken ramparts of Devil's Peak, the temperature rose swiftly, sometimes reaching the eighties by noon. So while Mariah slept wearing everything she had brought except her shoes, she shed layers throughout the morning, adding them again as the sun began its downward curve across the sky.
Enough coals remained in the hearth to make a handful of dry pine needles burst into flames after only a few instants. Mariah fed twigs into the fire, then bigger pieces, and finally stove-length wood. Despite the fireplace's sooty front, little smoke crept out into the room this morning. The chimney drew quite well so long as there wasn't a hard wind from the northeast.
When she was satisfied with the fire's progress, Mariah turned to the camp stove that she privately referred to as Beelzebub. It was the most perverse piece of machinery she had ever encountered. No matter how hard or how often she pumped up the pressure, the flame wobbled and sputtered and was barely hot enough to warm skin. When Cash pumped up the stove, however, it put out a flame that could cut through steel.
With a muttered prayer, Mariah reached for the camp stove. A tanned, rather hairy hand shot out of Cash's sleeping bag and wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from touching the stove.
"I'll take care of it."
"Thanks. The thing hates me."
There was muffled laughter as a flap of the partially zipped sleeping bag was shoved aside, revealing Cash's head and bare shoulders. Another big hand closed over Mariah's. He rubbed her hand lightly between his own warm palms. Long, strong, randomly scarred fingers moved almost caressingly over her skin. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature in the cabin.
"You really are cold," he said in a deep voice.
"You're not. You're like fire."
"No, I mean it," Cash said. He propped himself up on one elbow and pulled Mariah's hands toward himself. "Your fingers are like ice. No wonder you thrash around half the night. Why didn't you tell me you were cold?"
"Sorry." Mariah tugged discreetly at her hands. They remained captive to Cash's enticing warmth. "I didn't mean to keep you awake."
"To hell with that. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was afraid you'd use it as an excuse to make me go back."
Cash hissed a single harsh word and sat up straight. The sleeping bag slithered down his torso. If he was wearing anything besides the bag, it didn't show. Although Mariah had seen Cash at Black Springs dressed in only cutoff jeans, somehow it just wasn't the same as seeing him rising half-naked from the warm folds of a sleeping bag. A curling, masculine pelt went in a ragged wedge from Cash's collarbones to a hand span above his navel. Below the navel a dark line no thicker than her finger descended into the undiscovered territory concealed by the sleeping bag.
"It's not worth getting upset about," Mariah said quickly, looking away. "Any extra calories I burn at night I replace at breakfast, and then some. Speaking of which, do you want pancakes again? Or do you want biscuits and bacon? Or do you just want to grab some trail mix and go prospecting? I'm going with you today. I'm not stiff anymore. I won't be a drag on you. I promise."
There was a long silence while Cash looked at Mariah and she looked at the fire that was struggling to burn cold wood. Deliberately he cupped her hands in his own, brought them to his mouth, and blew warm air over her chilled skin. Before she had recovered from the shock of feeling his lips brushing over her palms, he was rubbing her hands against his chest, holding her between his palms and the heat of his big body. It was like being toasted between two fires.
"Better?" he asked quietly after a minute.
Mariah nodded, afraid to trust her voice.
With a squeeze so gentle that she might have imagined it, Cash released her hands and began dressing.
For a few moments Mariah couldn't move. When she went to measure ingredients for biscuits, her hands were warm, but trembling. She was glad Cash was too busy dressing to notice.
The front door creaked as he went outside. A few minutes later it creaked again when he returned. The smell of dew and evergreen resin came back inside with him.