Ridge pretended to consider her suggestion while inwardly amused at her tart words. "That ain't a bad idea."
"My father would probably appreciate it."
Ridge glanced sharply at the woman and found her lips curled into a cynical scowl. "I told you I'd feed you."
"And I'm supposed to take your word for that?"
"My word's good."
He glared at her when she looked like she was going to continue arguing, and she lapsed into silence.
Ridge finished eating though he hardly tasted it. How had he ever thought Emma demure and retiring? She had the uncanny ability to both fluster and anger him in the same breath. It was at least a four-day ride back to Hartwell's ranch. If he had to, he'd gag her for the entire trip.
He straightened to refill the plate for Emma, and barely stifled a groan. Between the knife wound and his achy muscles, he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.
After carrying the food to Emma, he sat cross-legged beside her. "Hungry?"
"No."
"Eat anyhow. I don't want you swooning."
"I've never swooned in my life."
Ridge rested his hands on his knees and held the plate between them. "Not even when the Indians got you?"
"Not even then," she replied quietly.
"Most women would've."
"So I've heard." She paused. "I also heard most women would've killed themselves rather than stay with them."
Ridge met Emma's amber eyes. "I never could understand that. I figure living is the important thing."
"Then you're not like most white people."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Better eat afore it gets cold." He raised a spoonful of stew.
Emma, her gaze never wavering from Ridge, opened her mouth and he stuck the spoon inside. He watched as her lips closed around it, and he drew the spoon out. The full lips remained together and she chewed almost daintily.
Suddenly realizing he was staring, he looked back at the plate as he refilled the spoon. He kept a tight rein on his thoughts, concentrating on his injured arm's ache instead of Emma's tantalizing lips. He lifted his gaze to her eyes once, only to find her cheeks flushed beneath the grime, and he glanced downward again.
Some minutes later he scraped the plate clean. "More?"
She shook her head. "But I would appreciate some water."
Nodding, he found her canteen and held it up so she could drink. When she was done, he placed it back on her saddle, which rested on the ground not far from the fire, along with her bedroll.
Night cloaked them in darkness except for the glow of the fire. All Ridge wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep, but he had to clean up the camp, change the dressing on his arm, and decide what to do with Emma.
"If you let me loose, I'll wash the dishes," Emma volunteered, and added with an accusatory tone, "Besides, I'd like to clean up and change my clothes."
"A little dirt never killed anyone."
"I give you my word I won't try anything."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because my word's good," she threw his earlier declaration back at him.
"I got no reason to trust you, ma'am."
"I never gave you my word last night." Then she added quietly, "If I had, I wouldn't have run out on you."
Despite his previous objections, he considered her request. He didn't like the idea of her sleeping in damp, muddy clothes. She could catch a cough or worse. He'd seen it happen too often.
As if reading his mind, Emma sneezed once, then a second time.
He knelt behind her. "Don't give me any grief, Emma. I'm not in the mood," he said, leaning close to her ear.
"I won't," she replied, her voice husky.
He untied her wrists, but had her release her own ankles. Standing, he leaned a shoulder against the tree she'd been sitting against. "No dallying."
Emma nodded, but didn't meet his gaze.
She cleaned the kettle, plate, and spoon with practiced ease, and Ridge knew she hadn't learned that living in Hartwell's fancy house either. Once the kettle was spotless, she refilled it with water to heat over the fire.
"I'm going to change my clothes," she said.
Ridge's first impulse was to turn around and give her privacy. But he suspected if he did that, he wouldn't see her again. He kept his stance relaxed, but his breath came in shorter bursts as he resisted the images that invaded his thoughts. "Go ahead."
"That's hardly proper, Mr. Madoc."
Ridge barked a sharp laugh. "If you haven't noticed, ma'am, nothing about this is proper."
"You can't expect me to undress in front of you."
"That's exactly what I expect." He could see evidence of Emma's inner battle in her frown and wrinkled brow. "We don't have all night."
Although her actions were of surrender, her clenched teeth and blazing eyes told Ridge another story.
Keeping his face blank, he watched her remove her jacket. Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped the soiled shirt from her smooth shoulders. The firelight cast flickering shadows across her slender neck and the slope of her breasts, disappearing beneath her white camisole. When her hands went to her skirt, Ridge's heart stepped up its pace even more. Once she'd undone the hooks, she skimmed the skirt down her slender hips and legs. She gracefully lifted one dainty foot, then the other as she stepped out of the pool of cloth.
His breathing grew rougher. It'd been a long time since he'd been with a woman and his body wasn't shy about reminding him.
Emma glanced up and her gaze ensnared his. The black circles in her eyes nearly covered all of the light brown, inviting him to dive into their depths and never come out. Her lips parted as if she too were having a hard time finding air.
Ridge's blood pounded sluggishly in his ears, drowning out everything else. The night faded until only Emma remained. Emma, lit by firelight and resembling a beautiful wild creature with her full lips parted and her breasts straining against the thin-clothed camisole.
A soft whimper escaped her, startling Ridge back to cold reality. He dropped his gaze and tried to ignore the throbbing in his groin, which far surpassed the discomfort of his arm.
He listened to Emma as she donned clean, dry clothes and when he thought she was done, he finally raised his head. Emma was kneeling by the fire, her back to him. She dunked a cloth into the warm water, wrung it out, and wiped her face.
Ridge joined her and removed his jacket.
Emma's eyes widened and although she tried to hide her fear, he found it in her white-knuckled grip of the damp rag.
"I'm only going to change the dressing on my arm," Ridge reassured her, annoyed that she thought so little of him.
Her fingers eased their pressure on the wet rag. "I'll do it"
He tilted his head in question.
"I won't try anything." For the first time since he'd caught her, her smile was genuine. "I promise."
Ridge unbuttoned his shirt and slipped the injured limb from his sleeve. He extended his arm to her.
Emma unwound the dressing, which had dried blood on the inner layers. "You broke open the wound," she scolded.
"It happened while I was walking."
Emma darted a glance at him as her cheeks reddened, but she didn't apologize. They both knew she wouldn't have meant it.
"Some of the skin around it feels hot," Emma said. "It doesn't look like it's infected, but I'd like to put something on it that'll draw out the bad blood."
"It won't knock me out?" he asked warily.
"No."
He nodded. "Go ahead."
Emma retrieved a buckskin bag from her saddlebags and opened it to dig out some dried plants. Cupping the herbs in one hand, she dribbled some water over them with the other. Once the mixture held together, she daubed it on the stitched gash.
Ridge sucked in his breath at the stinging sensation.
"It only hurts for a minute or so, then it'll start to tingle," Emma explained.
By the time Emma finished rebanda
ging his forearm, even the tingle was nearly gone.
"I could make you some tea for the fever."
"No tea."
"Suit yourself."
Ridge redonned his shirt and jacket. The camp was in order and Emma was dressed in dry clothes. He moved Emma's bedroll and saddle to the other side of the fire, then picked up the two lengths of rope he'd used to bind her. "Come here," he ordered Emma.
"What?"
"You heard me."
She didn't move. "What if I promise not to try to escape overnight?"
Ridge smiled. "My faith only goes so far, ma'am."
She continued to stare at him. "So does mine. How do I know you're not planning to—to use me?"
Ridge scowled. He didn't like her thinking he was the same as Cullen. "Because if I planned on using you, I would've done it by now."
She crossed her arms. "But maybe you've thought about it."
"Don't be calling the kettle black, Emma," Ridge said, his patience fast disappearing. "I wasn't the only one thinking."
Emma attempted to hold his stare, but surrendered with a barely discernible murmur. She walked over to her bedroll and lowered herself like a lady sitting down to afternoon tea. Her spine ramrod straight, she placed her hands at the base of her spine.
"In front," Ridge corrected. "Or you'll never get any sleep."
Puzzled, she held out her hands. Ridge forced himself to tie her wrists, tight enough that she couldn't wriggle free, but loose enough that they wouldn't cut into her tender skin.
"Take off your boots," Ridge said.
Using her tied hands, she removed her boots awkwardly. He set them beside his bedroll.
He plucked his lariat from his saddle and wove one end around the rope binding her wrists. Stringing out the rope, he tied it to the tree Emma had been sitting against.
"What're you doing?" Emma demanded.
"Making sure you don't go anywhere."
Once he had her secured, Ridge returned to his own blanket and saddle on the far side of the fire. "This way you can't reach me or any of the supplies. You can't even get close enough to the fire to burn the rope off." He laid down on his side, facing Emma. "Go to sleep."
She remained sitting up, her shoulders stiff.
Ridge closed his eyes, but kept his hearing focused on Emma. It was a long time before she finally settled into her bedroll amidst some muttered Lakota curses.
Only when he heard her breathing even out did he allow himself to find sleep.
Chapter 6
Coral and red filaments twined through the eastern sky, announcing the sun's return. Winona allowed herself a few moments to enjoy the gentle flow of life beginning to circulate around her. An owl hooted quietly, as if recognizing the reverence of a new day, and wings rustled as the creature left its perch.
A child whimpered and Winona cocked her head toward her own shelter, but a mother's hush came from a tipi twenty feet away. It wasn't Winona's son; he remained sleeping soundly.
She picked up a basket from beside her tipi and walked the path leading to the river. Her toes struck a soft object and she bent down to pick up a small moccasin. Smiling, Winona realized it was the one her son had been missing last night. Chayton hated to have his feet covered, and always tugged his moccasins off and left them on the ground. She tucked the tiny leather shoe into the belt where she carried her healing herbs.
Following the narrow game trail to the river, Winona enjoyed the freedom of this life. She still remembered her old home and the girl she'd been, but it was like someone else's past, no longer hers. Her clearest memories were those of her husband and the child they'd created. Winona's footsteps faltered. She missed Enapay and had mourned her husband's death nearly two years past, but she had Chayton to care for and love. Although she'd received marriage offers after she became a widow, she'd declined them. Perhaps later, but for now she lived for her son and the joy he brought her.
The vibration of the earth startled Winona and she froze. The tremors grew more distinct until they became thunder—the thunder of horses' hooves. Gunshots rang out in quick succession, followed by horrific cries and screams of terror. The colorful woven basket slipped from Winona's fingers and bounced lightly on the ground, forgotten.
"Chayton!" Winona raced toward the village, oblivious to the thorns that scratched her arms and legs, leaving tiny blood trails in their wake. Breaking through the brush, she barely noticed the horse soldiers with their guns and sharp sabers. Pushing through panicked people and horses, Winona didn't see the blade arc toward her. Nor did she feel the blow or the blood that immediately welled from the wound between her breasts.
She had to find Chayton!
Struggling to her feet, Winona couldn't figure out why her legs wouldn't obey her or why her eyes became blurry. A horse's foreleg struck her shoulder and she lifted her head to gaze into a white man's shocked face.
He leaned down, grasped her wrist, and dragged her up onto the saddle in front of him. She cried out, struck at him with her fists but the iron band wrapped around her waist didn't loosen. Her chest burned and it hurt to breathe. Her limbs grew heavy.
No! She had to stay awake. Had to find Chayton.
As consciousness receded, a mountain lion's scream rent the air....
Emma jerked upright, but something tugged at her wrists, sending her back to the ground. Did her captor tie her onto his horse? No, she wasn't riding. She lay panting, struggling to separate dream from reality. Opening her eyes, she focused on the dim form of a sleeping man on the other side of orange embers.
Ridge Madoc.
Emma bit her lip to keep from crying out her despair. Despite the night's coolness, perspiration rolled down her neck, adding more moisture to her sweat-drenched collar. Her heart beat so hard she thought it might jump out of her chest.
The dream-memories faded, but the terror lingered. Her stomach cramped with remembered helplessness. She didn't know if Chayton was alive or dead, and the not knowing tore a hole in her heart.
A tear escaped and slid across her temple and into her hair. When Chayton was learning how to walk, she'd forced herself not to hover like an overprotective mother. Children had to learn from their mistakes or they would never gain wisdom. Harsh lessons, perhaps, but Emma respected the Lakota way and tried not to dishonor her husband's memory. But every bruise Chayton had gained, Emma felt tenfold.
What if Chayton no longer walked on this earth? What if he had been murdered by the soldiers?
Emma's throat thickened and she fought to breathe without weeping. She had survived because she hadn't given in to useless tears. But no matter how hard she fought to hold back the agonized grief, she lost the battle.
Tears flowed and her shoulders shook with long-hidden sorrow. She cried for the fifteen-year-old who had her girlhood stolen. She cried for the young woman who struggled to be accepted and loved in an alien culture. She cried for the wife who lost her husband, and the mother who lost her son.
"Emma?"
Ridge's tentative voice startled her. She'd forgotten she wasn't alone in the night's darkness. She could barely make out his prone figure on the other side of the fire's remains. He was partially upright with his elbows braced on the ground, his head turned toward her.
"Is everything all right, ma'am?" he asked.
She bent over to wipe her tear-streaked face on the coarse blanket, then cleared her throat. "Yes."
Emma held her breath, hoping he would lie back down and leave her alone to grieve. She felt his searching gaze on her and remained still.
"Might help to talk about it," he finally said.
"There's nothing to talk about."
Ridge sat up and crossed his legs beneath him. "My ma always said, 'Ridge, there isn't any shame in having nightmares. It's only your heart telling you to share your problems.'"
Emma tried desperately to keep her emotions bottled inside, but Ridge's compassionate words defeated her. Her breathing hitched, sounding like a strangled sob, but she would
allow no more tears.
She heard a faint "damn" from Ridge and then her hands were enfolded. The rope was unwound from her wrists and callused fingers rubbed them. "It's okay, Emma. Everything's gonna be all right."
Nothing would be all right until she learned of Chayton's fate.
She struggled to escape when Ridge awkwardly patted her back. "Leave me alone." Much to her shame, her voice was as weak as her resolve.
He didn't speak but firm hands settled her against his chest, his legs outstretched with her cradled between them. He wrapped one strong arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist as he held her close. Resting his chin on her crown, he rocked her gently. He crooned words in a language Emma didn't recognize, but the tone was soothing and comforting. She borrowed his strength as she rebuilt the shattered wall around her memories.
For five months she'd kept her secrets, harboring them within her heart. Not even her family—especially not her family—would understand how she could've loved an Indian. A white woman wasn't supposed to submit to heathens, but Emma hadn't submitted—she'd embraced the Lakota way, which was even a greater sin in most people's eyes.
She wouldn't—couldn't—tell Ridge. He might be more open-minded than most folks, but to see pity in his face would be just as humiliating as seeing disgust. However, she was more determined than ever to find those she'd lived with for over six years.
Giving in to temptation, Emma remained in Ridge's capable arms a few moments longer. She relished his warmth and security after months of feeling isolated, despite living with her parents and sister. The steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear helped her relax muscles she hadn't realized were tight with tension. It would be so easy to fall asleep in his arms.
Emma forcibly roused herself and sat up. Ridge immediately released her, but not before she heard his sharp intake of breath. His wound. She'd forgotten about it while she'd wallowed in self-pity.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked, her breath misting in the cold air.
"It's nothing, ma'am."
Although Emma couldn't make out his expression, she sensed the ache was more than "nothing."
"Let me make sure it didn't start bleeding again," she said.
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