Courting the Corporal

by Heather McCorkle

  Having no idea how to respond to that, she set about gathering the items she would need from her pack. Lincoln trotted to her side, thrusting his nose in her way, investigating the contents of her pack. Next to them, Rick piled the tinder and wood, pulled out a box of lucifers, and started the fire, all while keeping his coat over him for the most part. She knew because she watched out of the corner of her eyes. Occasionally, a flash of skin drew her eye. To her surprise, he rigged branches to hold her pot of water over the burgeoning flames.

  Mostly to distract both herself and him, she couldn’t resist pushing him a bit as she hung the pot of water over the fire. “Are you not going to tell me how foolish it is to bother boiling the water?”

  Attention turning to his blood-encrusted wound, she knelt on the ground beside him. Her stomach churned at the discomfort of being in a position where he had power over her. She had to remind herself that he was not her husband. Despite being a bit of an arse, he seemed unlike Michael in every other way.

  “No. Your sister-in-law was me doctor after all. Her practices kept many of the men in me regiment alive,” he said in a tone that was so hollow it nearly echoed out into the twilight.

  Pain of such a depth that it threatened to suck her in and swallow her whole flashed within his eyes. But he blinked and it was gone, replaced by the reflection of firelight. She turned to drop a small cloth in the warming water because she simply had to look away.

  “You were wounded in the war?” she asked.

  Leaning back against a rock, he let out a long sigh. “Weren’t we all?” The words were barely a whisper.

  Such vulnerability, especially from him, made her uncomfortable. He was supposed to be a pompous ass. She preferred him that way. He was easier to deal with than this glimpse of a man who struck something tender deep inside her. With a Herculean amount of effort, she focused on his wound rather than allowing her gaze to travel to his face. Hearing the vulnerability in his voice was one thing, but she couldn’t bear to see it in his features. If she did, she feared he may creep like a mist through the mortar lines of the wall that protected her from all things masculine.

  Stitches wouldn’t do much for the ragged cut, and it wasn’t quite deep enough for them anyway. They’d have to make sure it stayed clean so infection didn’t set in was all. Using a fork from her pack, she retrieved the rag from the boiling water and returned to Rick’s side. The moment it cooled enough, she began wiping the blood away. Even when she went over the deepest part of the cut, Rick didn’t wince. Her gaze lifted to find him watching her with something akin to longing. The moment their eyes met it disappeared. Hardening her own expression, she lifted the small bottle Ashlinn had insisted she bring.

  “This part is going to hurt,” she warned.

  Upon seeing the bottle, his eyes widened into a deeply furrowed brow.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  She looked back to the wound, hiding a grin behind the loose strands of her hair. So he knew what it was. To save the precious iodine, she dabbed a bit of it onto a clean portion of the cloth rather than pour it straight onto his wound. Squeezing the cloth to push the liquid out, she pressed it to the worst parts of the wound. Though he didn’t flinch, Rick muttered a soft curse word in Gaelic that made her smile all the wider. So he could feel after all.

  “We cannot have this getting infected,” she said.

  He didn’t respond until she retreated to her pack to put her things away. “No, we can’t. Thank you.”

  The sincerity in his words surprised her. “You’re welcome.”

  As she dug in her pack, she heard fabric rustling behind her. Part of her wanted desperately to turn around and catch a glimpse of him in his drawers, but she resisted. A lady didn’t do such things, and she was trying very hard to be a lady, despite her past. Or rather, because of it. That was the old Cat, the one who had gotten herself into a heap of trouble and pain she had yet to dig out of. Much as she liked and missed the old Cat, she couldn’t allow her to resurface. Alone in the wild with a handsome man made her want to oh so badly. But she didn’t dare. Once the rustling stopped, she turned back around with bandages in hand.

  Rick lay mostly hidden within his bedroll, wounded leg out and propped up on a rock. Curled into the crook of one arm lay Lincoln, sound asleep. The lack of anger he showed toward the pup spoke volumes about his character. Such things could be deceiving, though. She refused to drop her guard.

  “Best save that for something worse than a scratch,” he said, nodding toward the bandage in her hands.

  The words sent a chill deep into her bones, but she nodded and put it away. She gathered a few things from her pack and started for the encroaching darkness—and privacy—the woods offered.

  “Go, watch over her,” Rick said so softly she almost didn’t catch it.

  Paws padded against grass and leaves. A moment later Lincoln stood at her side, arched tail wagging, big eyes watching her dutifully. Sentinel at her side, she went only far enough into the trees to be concealed to conduct her evening routine and change into something easier to sleep in. The snorts and sounds of the horses settling helped her find her way back to camp in the near dark. The scent of smoke drew her gaze to the cold fire pit where not so much as a coal smoldered. Her heart sank. So much for the idea of a warm meal. But the threat of someone following them held her protests. Today’s wild flight shouldn’t be for naught. If it could help them disappear, it was worth losing out on a warm meal. Lincoln trotted back to the mound of shadows that were Rick.

  “You did good today,” Rick said.

  Knowing he couldn’t see her expression in the spreading darkness, she allowed herself a smile. “Thank you, but all I did was cling to the back of my horse.”

  An alluring sort of grunt sounded from Rick. “Well, you did that quite well. Where others would have panicked, you kept your head.”

  It aggravated her to no end that she found his little noises and the tone of his voice attractive, but his words worked like a balm on that aggravation. Her attraction to men couldn’t be trusted. Not after how her late husband had turned out. Besides, she had to stay focused, especially with someone pursuing them. Still…

  “Thank you. But, you were the one who saved the day. Quite literally for young Lincoln there,” she said.

  He laughed, yet another of his sounds that made muscles low in her abdomen, which hadn’t gotten exercise in years, tighten.

  “Couldn’t leave me dog in peril. Best get some sleep now. We’ve got a long few days ahead of us,” he said.

  Dangerous as it had been, it had felt amazing to run with those wild beasts. Something of her old, reckless self had awakened. Past mistakes made her want to suppress that part of her, but it wasn’t as though she would make them again. The naïve part of her was gone forever. What stirred today was more like her spirit reawakening. As much as her head spun with all the possibilities and problems that presented, slumber still managed to wrap her in an all-consuming embrace the moment her head rested on her makeshift pillow.

  Chapter 9

  Day Four

  Catriona had been gone for too long. With someone on their tail, he shouldn’t have let her go off on her own. Dropping an armload of firewood beside the pit he had dug, his eyes strayed to the opening in the trees through which she had disappeared. It had gone against every instinct he had to allow her to go off into the woods alone. But her insistence on needing a moment for privy business had been difficult to argue with. He had barely let her out of his sight since the buffalo herd incident two days ago. Though uneventful, today had been a long, hard day in the saddle and he hadn’t been about to begrudge her the chance to stretch her legs.

  That had been at least a quarter of an hour ago. Pink tinged the edge of the horizon. Now he was willing to begrudge her all manner of things. Eyes flicking to where the horses hung their heads in slumber beneath an oak tree, he hesitated
. Grass and underbrush rustled at the tree line a moment before Lincoln shot out, fluffy tail wagging. Catriona followed not far behind. She had untucked her tunic and was using it as a makeshift basket. Greens and carrots poked up from within the bundle. All that bright red hair sat in a loose bun atop her head, held together by what looked like twigs thrust through it. Either exertion or the day’s sun added a nice shade of pink to her sculpted cheekbones.

  Realizing he was staring, he shifted his attention to the food she carried. “Where did you pilfer that from?”

  Her brows drew together and her eyes widened as if to counter the movement. “I did no such thing. I found them in an overgrown garden that clearly had been left to go wild. The rundown shack nearby was half collapsed and clearly not inhabited.”

  The tension that had been building in him eased and he moved his hand away from his gun. “Probably an old dwelling of those who kept the Pony Express horses.”

  Her blue eyes lit up like sparks had gone off in them. It tugged at him in a way he was completely unprepared for. “Do you really think so? It appeared so rundown.”

  Nodding, he began stacking wood for the fire. “Aye. The elements and natives are slowly destroying them.”

  Lincoln bounded around him in a circle, leaping up to lick the back of his hand. He gave the pup a quick scratch behind the ears before returning to work on the fire.

  “Is it not dangerous to follow too closely to such a known trail? What about Ainsworth’s man?”

  The concern in her voice made him look up from his task. Fear had replaced the excited spark in her eyes. Something compelled him to rekindle that excitement. “We’re far enough off it to be safe, no worries, lass.” He regretted his easy tone and familiarity the moment the words left his lips, but it was too late now.

  Her cheeks darkened, sending a delicious line of heat that he was powerless to stop straight to his groin. After a long, hard blink, he turned his focus to the flint and steel in his hands. It was not lost on him that starting one fire wasn’t likely to extinguish another. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her dump the vegetables onto her blanket. He removed the knife from the sheath at his waist and handed it to her. Those lovely blue eyes widened as they traveled the length of the blade, but she accepted it.

  Once a spark ignited the tinder well enough, he left the growing flame to dig around in his saddlebags. He dug out the small cooking pot from within. The sound of Catriona humming an old Irish tune stopped him in his tracks. The chop, chop, chop of the knife cutting through the thick orange carrots punctuated the beats of the tune. How she could make humming sound so lovely, he had no idea. But then, watching her red head bob to the rhythm and her slender shoulders sway ever so slightly, it became clear.

  Never in all his life had he imagined he would see a high society lady kneeling in the grass chopping vegetables she’d just pulled from the ground with a bowie knife, and looking so…content. She handled the knife like she knew what she was doing. One of her means surely had cooks to do the work for her. So what if she was the hands-on type? That didn’t disprove his first impression of her. After four days on the trail, he had imagined she would be a sniveling wreck, ready to turn back and wait for the wagons. Especially after the incident with the bison herd, and knowing they were being followed by Ainsworth’s man, who no doubt intended them harm. Neither had so much as riled her. It grew harder and harder to hang onto that first impression. And that wasn’t the only thing growing harder.

  He sat the pot beside her and turned quickly away.

  “My thanks, Rick,” she said, casting him a quick smile.

  God save him, but he liked the sound of his name rolling off her tongue, especially when she sounded so happy. “You’re welcome,” he managed without sounding too strangled.

  This was the first time he had seen her so carefree, so open. With her hair all up in a messy bun and a smudge of dirt on her face, she looked wild and beautiful. But he knew better. She was still a lady of high society.

  Albeit, one who wore breeches and rode a horse like a man.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enjoying this,” he said.

  Her smile grew. “I am. It has been a long time since I’ve felt this free.”

  The statement frayed at the rough edges of the proper tapestry he had formed in his mind of her life. This was quickly going south of his intentions in starting the conversation.

  “You don’t miss your fine dresses and tea parties?” he asked.

  She looked up, fixing eyes filled with wonder and anticipation on him. “I actually don’t.” She sounded surprised, but pleased at the realization. Her humming resumed.

  “You are an enigma, woman,” he muttered to himself.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, something must drive you to do this. What do you plan to do with the land?”

  The chopping ceased and she glanced up at him from beneath her long lashes and hunkered down, almost as if she were cringing. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Afraid I will steal your idea?” he teased.

  This time she didn’t look up. Several carrots plunked into the pot before she answered. “No. I would just rather not be ridiculed.”

  Compelled by the mixture of sadness and pain in her voice, he placed a hand upon hers. “I would never ridicule you. If I’ve given you that impression, I offer my most sincere apologies.”

  She flinched almost imperceptibly at his touch, but covered it with a shrug. “’Twas not an impression you gave me, but rather a response I have come to expect of those I tell of my dream.”

  Though he enjoyed the warmth of her skin beneath his palm, he drew his hand away to make her more comfortable. “No one should scoff at the dreams of another, no matter what they may be,” he said.

  Members of high society could be quite vicious, something he knew all too well.

  From behind a strand of brilliant red hair that had come free of her bun, he thought he saw the hint of a smile. She resumed chopping vegetables.

  He decided he would have to go first. “I myself dreamt of starting a farm that could supply the local markets. Many scoffed at such a dream.”

  One red eyebrow lifted into her hairline. “That’s a good dream, a practical one that helps others.” The tiniest hint of an Irish accent slipped through her tone, a victory in itself.

  A short laugh escaped him. “You sound surprised. So tell me then, ’tis only fair since I shared mine.”

  It was testing the depth of waters he knew he shouldn’t step in, but the journey ahead of them would only feel longer if he didn’t at least get to know her a bit.

  Holding the knife as if readying to use it as a weapon instead of a tool, she finally met his gaze. “I want to start a winery. A place like the wineries of Italy my father used to talk of visiting. It will be a place that employs those who would have difficulty finding work in this war-torn country. ’Tis not an entirely selfless dream, but ’tis mine nonetheless.”

  “You would employ Freemen?” he asked, not hiding the surprise in his voice.

  Her eyes held his and her chin lifted a bit. “I would.”

  Hiring men who had once been slaves was no small thing. Many would look down on her for it. That she was willing to endure such cynicism impressed him. The resolve in both her voice and gaze stirred something in him. Slowly, a soft smile pulled the corners of his lips up. “Sounds like a selfless dream if ever I heard one,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said softly as she put knife to vegetables once again.

  Hands going behind his head, he kicked back against his pack, stretching his legs out before him. “’Tis just that I had no idea me client had such a taste for the spirits,” he teased.

  Eyes going wide, Catriona sat up straighter. “While I do enjoy a glass of particularly nice wine, that’s not the reason at all. Before leaving Ireland,
my family was renowned for the grapes they grew. They were so prized that the common folk couldn’t afford our wine, the English and French courts bought it all up.” Her voice quavered a bit on the last words. “’Tis my dream to make that wine available to all.”

  “Good at growing things, then, are you?”

  Her lips turned up into a secret little smile that she tried to hide behind the locks of her hair that had come loose. “’Tis what I’m best at, truly. I have a knack for plants, my mum always used to say.”

  Seeing her light up like that warmed his insides, but the fact that she had tried to hide her happiness ate at him. Had he really been so uncouth that he’d elicited such a reaction in her?

  He indicated the pot of vegetables with a thrust of his head. “Well, you’re certainly good at finding and picking the best of the lot.”

  Sore muscles protested as he rose to his feet. “I’ll fetch some water for the soup and refill our canteens.”

  As he gathered the canteens, Cat’s back became rigid as an English rider’s. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the knife grew as white as the rings around her wide eyes. She looked to the shadows stretching out from the trees, then back to him. “’Tis almost dark. Is it safe?”

  Taking his time, he bent over her to pick up the pot, reveling in the way her hair still smelled of lilac soap even after four days on the trail. Her shoulders relaxed a bit, as if his nearness comforted her. Surely that couldn’t be the case, though.

  “The stream we passed on the way isn’t far. I’ll be back in two shakes of a badger’s tail,” he said as he tucked the pot under an arm and rose.

  Lincoln leapt to his feet and trotted after him. He gave the pup a stern look and pointed to the ground. “Sit. Stay with Cat.”

  Dust puffed up as the pup sat down with a dissatisfied grunt. A moment later his tail started to beat at the stalks of yellow grass, and he turned his head toward her. Mouth half-opened with a quirky comment sitting on his tongue, Rick froze at the sight of Catriona. Pink tinged her cheeks, darkening until it seemed they might turn the very hue of her hair. His blood stirred. That decided it. He needed to call her Cat more often.