To Find You Again (7 page)

Miss Hartwell slept on her side, facing the fire's remains, and her blanket was tugged up to her chin. The orange glow of the embers reflected reddish-gold strands in her honey-brown hair and illuminated her winged brows and slightly upturned nose. Her lips were pressed together, with the lower one slightly fuller than the upper, giving the impression she was pouting.

Suddenly, Ridge wanted to discover if her lips were as soft and sweet-tasting as they appeared. Before his mind could offer an argument, he was drawing nearer to her.

The woman threw off her blanket and charged upward. Orange glinted off silver metal and Ridge felt a blow, followed by a sharp burn across his forearm. He reacted without thought, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the knife and wrapping his other arm around her waist. He squeezed her wrist until the knife thudded dully on the ground.

She fought in his arms, flailing arms and legs, and they rolled across the dirt, ending up with Ridge straddling Emma's waist. He locked his ankles down on her lower legs and imprisoned her hands on the ground above her head. Lying atop her, Ridge could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest and his body reacted instinctively to her feminine curves.

Ridge gnashed his teeth and willed his blood to cool. "Settle down, Miss Hartwell. It's Ridge Madoc."

The moment he said his name, she ceased struggling.

"Mr. Madoc?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered curtly, sitting up so she wouldn't feel him so intimately against her belly. "You gonna behave?"

Her stiff muscles relaxed beneath him. "Yes."

Releasing her hands, he shifted off her, kneeling to her side. With the fight drained from both of them, Ridge could now feel the blood soaking his sleeve and dripping onto the ground. The throbbing in the gash told him it wasn't a mere flesh wound.

Damn.

"I'm surprised it was you," she said quietly as she sat up.

"What?"

"I knew my father would send someone. I didn't think it would be you."

Ridge shrugged, then hissed when the movement sent an arrow of pain through his wounded arm.

Miss Hartwell scrambled to her knees and gazed down at his injury. "Your arm. How bad is it?"

"Could be better."

Her annoyance disappeared, replaced by concern. "I'll build up the fire so I can take care of it."

Ridge didn't argue, knowing it needed to be cleaned and maybe sewn, too. She completed her tasks quickly without speaking. Although Ridge wasn't accustomed to being around a woman, he felt little awkwardness with Miss Hartwell. She didn't prattle on and on about this and that, but worked efficiently with a minimum of commotion.

"Move closer to the fire, Mr. Madoc," she ordered.

Ridge did so and worked to remove his jacket and shirt so she wouldn't have to cut the sleeves off. The woman assisted him, easing the two pieces of clothing off the wounded arm.

Without any sign of embarrassment, she ripped a camisole dug out of her saddlebag into three pieces. Upending her canteen, she wet one and began to clean away the blood around the wound.

Although Ridge usually preferred silence, he found he wanted to hear Miss Hartwell's voice. "Where'd you learn to use a knife?" he asked.

"Fast Elk, the husband of Talutah. I lived with them." Her brow furrowed, but she didn't look up. "There were a handful of young Indian men who felt the same way as Cullen, only it was because I had white skin."

Ridge wasn't shocked by her matter-of-fact statement. It didn't matter what color a man was, there were always some who enjoyed hurting folks. "You must've been a good student."

She glanced up. "Fear is a good motivator." She returned her attention to the wound.

The night's silence surrounded them with only the fire's crackling and the occasional coyote's yipping disturbing the serenity. Ridge kept his gaze on Miss Hartwell's bowed head as she cared for the injury with surprising expertise. He had an idea this was another thing she'd learned when she was with the People.

"I'm going to have to stitch it," she announced.

"Figured."

"It's going to hurt."

"I've been cut before," Ridge said. "I've got a bottle of whiskey in my saddlebags. You can use that to soak the needle and thread in."

She nodded and rose gracefully to disappear into the darkness. It wasn't long before she reappeared leading Paint. After tying his reins to a low-slung branch, she retrieved the bottle.

Kneeling by the fire, Miss Hartwell dribbled some of the liquor across the needle and thread. She recapped the bottle and was about to set it to the side.

Ridge reached for it with his good hand. "I could use some before you start."

She eyed him mutely as he took three long swallows and shut his eyes to enjoy the burn and growing numbness that followed. A small hand took the bottle from him and set it aside.

"Do you often drink whiskey?" she asked.

Ridge opened his eyes to find the lips he'd been admiring earlier thinned with irritation. "Only when a crazy woman attacks me with a knife."

She bent over his arm and pushed the needle through a flap of skin on one side of the gash and tugged the thread through the bead of blood welling from the tiny hole. Ridge averted his gaze and ground his teeth.

"I'm sorry," she finally said when she was half done. "i didn't know it was you."

"Who'd you think it was?"

"I didn't think. I only reacted."

"That'll get you killed," Ridge said, studying the fiery hues of red and gold in her hair as she stitched the wound.

"Or the person who's foolish enough to try sneaking up on me when I'm sleeping."

In spite of the situation, Ridge grinned. "Yes, ma'am. That, too."

He felt rather than saw her reluctant smile.

Long, graceful fingers moved the needle cleanly through skin. There was no hesitation in her movements, only a steady economy of motion. He wondered if she'd been so calm and quiet before she'd been taken, or if she'd learned patience with the Lakota, just as he had.

She finished and tied off the thread. As she reached for a piece of the torn-up camisole, he looked down at the neat black stitches that held the cut together.

"You do good work, ma'am," he said.

"The wound or the stitching?"

He spotted a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Both."

She wrapped the cloth around his arm, smoothing the material with an experienced hand. It'd been a long time since Ridge had been near enough to a woman to smell her and he savored Miss Hartwell's musky feminine scent, overlaid by trail dust and sweat.

"I'm going to make some tea that will help with the pain," she announced as she tied off the makeshift bandage.

"You don't have to—"

"I know, but I feel bad enough that I was the one who injured you."

While she poured water into a battered pan, Ridge stood to care for Paint.

Miss Hartwell rose and halted him with a touch on his wrist. "What're you doing?"

"Gotta unsaddle my horse."

"I can do it."

"No, ma'am. A man takes care of his own horse unless he's dead or dying."

She glared at him. "Fine. But don't be surprised when your wound starts bleeding again."

"I'll be careful," Ridge groused.

Miss Hartwell didn't say anything more but settled down to ready the tea leaves to steep once the water was hot. Using his uninjured left hand, Ridge took three times as long to unsaddle and rub down Paint. By the time he finished, he was exhausted and the tea was ready.

Miss Hartwell handed him a steaming cup as he lowered himself to his saddle, which lay on the ground by the fire. "Thank you, ma'am." Although he wasn't a tea drinker, he took a sip and swallowed, enjoying the warmth and slight bitterness as it flowed down his throat.

"I'm not going back, Mr. Madoc," she said quietly, but with an edge of steel.

"Your family wants you home."

Anguish flashed in her eyes. "I miss them, but I can't go back. Not yet."

"Why?" Ridge finished his tea.

She stared into the flames. "I have something I have to do first."

"What's so important that you'd abandon your own family?"

She laughed, but it was a raw, hurtful sound. "Abandoning family. That's what this is all about, Mr. Madoc."

"I don't understand, Miss Hartwell." Ridge peered at the woman and her figure blurred. He squinted and managed to clear up the picture for only a second. His eyelids flickered downward and he fought to keep them open.

"You should get some rest, Mr. Madoc. You lost a lot of blood."

"Home. In the morning," Ridge slurred.

"Yes, Mr. Madoc. In the morning you can go home."

He felt a gentle pressure on his arm, guiding him to lie down. A blanket settled over him, and small, competent hands tucked the material around him. "Thank you, ma'am," he murmured.

His last memory before dropping off was that of a woman's tender touch feathering across his brow.

When Ridge awakened the next morning, groggy and confused, the sun was high above the horizon. And Emma Hartwell was gone.

Chapter 5

Adjusting the canteen and bedroll straps crisscrossing his chest, Ridge followed the suspiciously distinct trail Emma had left behind. He knew her skill at hiding her tracks firsthand, yet she wasn't making any effort to hide the two sets of hoofprints now. Why?

He should've been more wary of her willingness to help after she'd knifed him, but he hadn't expected someone like Miss Hartwell to be so treacherous. The woman he'd found stumbling near town nearly two weeks ago wouldn't have attacked him. Nor would she have drugged his tea.

Even as young as he'd been, he remembered his pa's strict lesson on treating women with respect and courtesy. He'd always said it didn't matter if the woman was a lady or a whore, Ridge always tipped his hat and opened doors for her. Emma Hartwell was no whore, despite what many of the townsfolk thought. Yet she hadn't acted like a lady either.

So how should he treat her?

Like a bounty.

Ridge cringed inwardly. She wasn't anything like those men he'd hunted for the price on their heads. Most of them had been more like animals, and when he'd defended himself, it was more like putting down a rabid creature than shooting a man.

After he joined the army, he swore he'd never return to bounty hunting, although he'd been tempted over the last month. The money was a whole lot better than chasing cattle around all day, but tracking down murderers and thieves was a dangerous job. Too dangerous for someone who had a reason to live.

Ridge stumbled over an exposed tree root, jarred his injured arm, and bit back a curse at his uncharacteristic clumsiness. He'd been walking steadily for over three hours, feeding off anger and humiliation. However, his emotions were starting to drain and he couldn't ignore his arm's throbbing or the stinging blisters on his feet.

The ground was littered with boulders jutting out of the earth and Ridge lowered himself to one with a groan. His feet nearly groaned in relief.

He was getting soft. A year ago a little cut wouldn't have taken so much out of him. A year ago he wouldn't have been wounded and left afoot by a gal, either. At least she'd left his saddlebags, canteen, and rifle so he wouldn't starve or be helpless against a wild animal.

He tucked the canteen between his injured arm and his side, then used his other hand to remove the stopper. Raising the canteen to his lips, he took a few sips of the cool liquid. The water helped clear his foggy head, but he didn't dare drink too much. He wasn't certain how far he'd have to walk, but he
would
find Miss Hartwell, even if he had to track the woman halfway to hell. Then he'd haul her crafty little backside back to her daddy's ranch—tied belly down across her horse's saddle, if he had to—and collect the one hundred dollars.

A wolf's bay sounded from nearby and Ridge jerked his head up, searching for the wild animal. The sun slid behind a gunmetal gray cloud and another howl ripped through the stillness. A shiver skidded down Ridge's spine as he rose. It was uncommon for a wolf to howl during the day. He turned slowly, making a full circle, as he sniffed the air and squinted to see around the surrounding rocks and trees. Nothing.

Clutching the rifle more tightly in his good hand, Ridge slung his canteen and saddlebag over a shoulder. Puzzling over the wolf, he continued following the trail, which had grown fainter across the rocky ground.

The horses' tracks became clearer as reddish soil replaced the rough land. Ridge increased his stride. Clouds continued to blot out the blue skies, urging him faster. If it rained, he'd lose the tracks completely, as well as his chance to find Miss Hartwell.

Half an hour later, Ridge rounded a corner and nearly stumbled into Paint. The horse, his reins wrapped loosely around a bush, raised his head as he munched a mouthful of grass.

Ridge grinned and laid a gloved hand on Paint's neck. "You're a sight for sorry eyes, fella."

Paint snorted and tossed his head, then lowered his muzzle to tear up some tender spears of grass. As the animal ate contentedly, Ridge examined him, sliding a hand along his flanks and down his legs, but didn't find anything amiss. It appeared the woman wasn't completely heartless. She probably only wanted to slow Ridge down to make good her escape.

He spotted a piece of paper caught between his saddle and the blanket, and tugged it out. He recognized his name written on the folded sheet, opened the paper, and stared at the letters for a long moment. Swallowing hard, he crumpled the note and tossed it away.

After tightening Paint's cinch and ensuring the bridle was fitted correctly, he shoved his toe into the stirrup and hauled himself up carefully. The stitches in his arm pulled and he clenched his jaw. It was merely another reminder of why he wouldn't return without Emma Hartwell.

The woman owed him.

The Lakota elder had told Emma to ride north and east if she wished to find her adopted people. Although they'd had only a six-day head start and most of the survivors were women and children on foot, Emma wasn't surprised she'd been unable to catch up to them.