13

Sigrid waited for him at the door of the little hut. Beside the door were two hooks with what looked like soft, large pieces of flannel hanging from them. She left him puzzling at the frozen-over pond, and Slocum began to get an inkling of what she had in mind for him. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the full extent of her plans. He was about ready to head back up the trail to the house when she popped open the door and a cloud of cedar-smelling steam billowed out around her.

“Come on in,” she said, holding an arm out for him to take. He refused it and stepped into the hut on his own. She shut the door behind them.

Inside there was only the light from a small iron potbelly stove in the corner, the front door of the stove open to reveal a warm cherry glow. Already he could feel himself beginning to sweat. The back wall was man-length and spotted a knee-height bench, deep enough to stretch out on in comfort. It was lined with fresh-cut cedar boughs, giving off a fine natural aroma.

Atop the stove, steam rose from the rocks in the large metal pan over which Sigrid ladled water. Slocum didn’t know whether to run outside and roll in the snow or lie right down and enjoy the odd sensation he was feeling.

“You like it?”

He looked at her through the steam. “I guess so. Feels kind of good, but . . . it’s awful hot, Sigrid.”

She laughed, a sound he was very much beginning to enjoy. He wished it were lighter in there so he could get a good look at her face. For such a pretty woman, it would be nice to see her face light up when she smiled.

“That is the entire point, John.” Then she began unbuttoning her shirt.

“What are you doing?”

She paused. “Well, I am going to take off my clothes and hang them outside. And you are, too. Otherwise they will be wet from the steam.”

“But I’m—”

“Put away your little boy thoughts, John Slocum. We are here to sauna.”

And before he could protest further, she had slipped out of her clothes and had them draped over her arm. Even in the half-light from the stove, he could see she was all woman, well muscled but soft in all the right places, too. He tried not to stare, and wondered just what he should do about this increasingly odd situation when she made a disgusted sighing sound. She tossed her bundle of clothes onto the boughs and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Here now, Sigrid . . .”

But she didn’t stop. “John, I have seen everything there is to see of you since rolling that grizzly off you. Don’t think you are going to surprise me at this time.”

“Oh,” he said weakly.

“Hurry. We are wasting precious sauna time. I will be back in a moment.”

She left, with her clothes, and he heard her bare feet padding down the long dock. Presently a scraping sound reached him. By the time she came back, he was down to his longhandles.

“Those, too.” She held out a hand and beckoned for them. He sighed and peeled them off as well. It took him longer than he was used to, because his wounds kept him moving at an old man’s pace. He had to admit, though, that the steam felt damn good. Already he was feeling more limber and clear of head than he had in many long days.

He handed her the longhandles and she scooped up the rest of his clothes, then hung them outdoors, with his boots beneath on the steps.

She came back in and doused the rocks with water again. The effect was immediate—he pulled in a deep breath as if urged by the steam. It seemed to fill his entire body with a deep, scorching feeling. Not entirely unpleasant, just damn hot.

“Now what do we do?” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. Didn’t matter, it built right up again, ran down his cheeks and nose.

Again she laughed. “We sit and—”

“Sweat,” he said, trying to sound excited about it.

“Yes, exactly. Soon it will feel just right.”

And so they sat, side by side, on the soft boughs. She got up after a few minutes and tossed in another chunk of firewood, doused the rocks with water. The steam pulled Slocum’s breath from his lungs once again.

He was about to cry uncle when he noticed he did feel better, different, but better somehow. All over, sort of like the feeling he’d get after a long day of setting posts or tracking a deer. A sense of wholeness, of satisfaction. He turned to find her seated beside him again, staring at him.

“You like it?

“I will admit I do like it, yes.” He leaned back, allowing himself for the first time since they got there to fully relax. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

“I can tell you like it just fine,” she said, giggling.

He opened his eyes and through the steam saw her looking down at his belly. Not really at that, though. And he saw what she was looking at—he was fully aroused and making a fine showing of it.

“That’s not what one would expect from such steam,” she said, not quite taking her eyes from him there.

“Well, I told you . . . you insisted.”

She said nothing, so he blundered on. “You’re . . . a beautiful woman. I can’t help it. No man could.”

“I am glad to hear that. Now just relax.”

He did, leaning back once again and closing his eyes. He supposed he should show more gentlemanly decorum, as he’d heard such manners once described, but he figured if she didn’t mind, why should he?

He barely flinched when he felt her hands on his legs, on either side of him, gently but firmly massaging his knees, then up his thighs, his waist—her hands kept traveling up his body. He didn’t open his eyes, but sat relaxed beyond any feeling he had ever known. All the way up, slowly as she traveled, she was working his body in a skillful massage that served only to deepen his feeling of deep relaxation. He wasn’t asleep, just calm in a way he’d not known in a long time, if ever.

Her hands massaged his upper arms, gently along his wounds, just barely touching him there, but her fingertips dancing along his slick skin nonetheless. He raised his hands and rested them on her waist—he knew it would be there, without even looking.

Soon he felt her breath on his face, squinted his eyes open to see her luscious mouth an inch from his, her eyelids closed. And what’s more, despite the heat of the room, he felt an even more intense heat at the head of his member. And then that heat wrapped itself around him, and as it descended on him, he knew he was deep inside her.

Sigrid’s breath came out in a gentle rush, smelling of mint and sweat, and her lips barely grazed his, their sweat droplets touching, mingling. Her parted lips rested on his above, and she pulled gently on his bottom lip with her mouth, her breath clouding his senses. She held his shoulder and elbow and guided him down until he was flat on his back on the boughs and she above him, straddling him.

She sat up on him, careful not to hurt him, as if she were trying to touch him without touching him. She moved up and down on him as slowly as any woman ever had, and the effect, given that he was so full and throbbing and ready, was as a glass of water to a parched wanderer in the desert.

He opened his eyes and saw her sweat-shining body arched above him, her strong hands resting on the tops of her bent legs. Her breasts, large and firm, swayed, her nipples like ripe raspberries. He reached up to them, mashed them, and squeezed them with his hands. She moaned almost in silence, her moans coming out as sighs, as breezes at the tail end of a workday in late summer when nothing more is expected of you and you’re enjoying a tall, cool drink of water.

Soon, though, he tried to speed up the motion. But she was having none of it and kept on with her steady, measured pace. The only thing giving away that she’d understood his intention was a slow smile at the corners of her mouth. And he was glad she’d kept him in check, because it seemed to last twenty minutes or more, and every second of it was pure heavenly delight. He felt as if he were floating.

The end came when the steam began to dissipate and the air grew slightly cooler, though it was still as hot as an oven in the little hut. She sped up, barely, and with a powerful grip that had nothing to do with her hands, he felt them both reach a peak of enjoyment together that was entirely her doing.

If this is what injury means, he thought, I’ll take such a recovery every single time I find myself at the far end of a scrape.

She leaned down to his face, kissed his lips lightly, then slowly stepped off him, lifting free, and walking directly to the door. She swung it wide, letting in a blast of raw, cold air. And then she ran. He heard her feet pound along the short dock, heard her offer up a sound between a scream and a shout—and then he heard more screams.

Oh my God, he thought, doing his best to sit upright and instinctively reaching for a Colt, which was not there. He struggled to the door, stronger than he had been when they began the sauna, but still not in top shape.

He heard her shouting, whooping, and laughing as she pulled herself up the ladder to stand before him, bright red skinned and smiling, her naked body glistening. She had piled up snow on the top of the pond at the base of the ladder, and had jumped into the snow pile. That’s what the scraping sound had been.

“I thought you’d hurt yourself,” he said, chest pounding and standing at the door of the sauna.

She shook her head and said, “Your turn, John. Hurry, before your skin loses its urge to remain relaxed.”

He wanted to say no, but seeing her looking so happy and radiant—he’d not seen her smile so widely and fully—he found himself nodding in agreement. He strode to the end of the dock.

“Use the ladder. Lie in the snow and pull it onto yourself, roll around in it.”

He nodded and, still feeling pretty limber from the sauna, gently descended the ladder’s few steps to the pond’s surface. Without giving himself time to think about it, he collapsed into the snow pile, feeling as though it would stop his heart at any second. He forced himself to roll in it—he kept thinking of how good he was sure to feel. This was something she had just done, after all, and he was tired of feeling doted on and not able to do anything. He would do this, dammit.

But it was almost impossible. Almost. And then he found just his head above the snow. His entire body pounded and throbbed and it felt as though he were burning and freezing in the snow pile, all at once. It was agony and ecstasy, and his lungs screamed.

He forced himself up the ladder, and before he knew it, he was standing on the dock. Sigrid was wrapped in one of the large pieces of flannel, had one held open for him, too. He walked into it and felt instant relief as it wrapped around him. And despite himself, he was smiling. “Whoo!” he shouted. This was something he could get used to.

She smiled, said nothing, but clutching the flannel tight, she made sure everything in the shack was arranged so that the fire would go out of its own accord. Then she pulled on her own boots, tucked her clothes under her arm, and waited for him to do the same. They walked back to the house, the river noise slowly fading behind them.

She walked ahead of him, but was looking down at the path. He saw she still wore a smile. He was glad—so did he. Maybe he would stay awhile longer and heal up fully before deciding what to do. Surely she could use his help with something. But he knew he was wrong about that. She was the most independent woman he’d ever met, and other than what they’d just done, he doubted very much she needed anyone else in her life.

From ahead, her voice broke his reverie. “There is a storm coming,” she said softly.

“How can you tell?”

“Can’t you smell it? It’s in the air, all around us.” She smiled at him over her shoulder, the flannel sliding down to reveal just enough of her neck under her pinned-up hair and her bare, freckled shoulder. God, but she was beautiful, he thought. And then he saw movement over her shoulder, beyond the house.

He grabbed her arm. “Hold up there, Sigrid.” He nodded. “You’ve got company.”

In the middle of the clearing before the house, a dozen Indian warriors stood fanned in a semicircle. They wore furs, blankets, and snowshoes. Some carried lances, the others cradled rifles. Decorative feathers wagged and danced in the light breeze.