To Find You Again (16 page)

Knowing she was only prolonging the inevitable, Emma sat up, hiding her nudity beneath the blanket. "Is the blizzard letting up?" Although she kept the question casual, the urgency she'd awakened with kept prodding at her.

Ridge turned, startled. His gaze slid over her covered breasts then back up to her face. Banked passion flickered in his eyes. "Some. It should quit tonight."

"Which means we can continue on our way tomorrow."

"If the snow ain't too deep for the horses." Ridge gave his attention to the embers. "You'd best get dressed, Emma."

With Ridge's gaze averted, Emma jumped up and tugged on her scattered clothing. The scent of their joining rose around her and embarrassment heated her cheeks. However, she had no regrets for what they'd done.

"I'll make supper," she said.

Ridge straightened and closed the stove. "Good idea." He turned his back to her as he tucked in his undershirt and drew on his wool shirt, then slipped his suspenders back in place. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Emma nodded and sliced salt pork as Ridge donned his boots and warm outer clothing. He slipped outside without another word and the cabin felt empty without his presence. Emma wondered if he regretted his loss of control. Or perhaps now that he had time to think about it, maybe he was repulsed by her marriage to an Indian.

That thought troubled her as she went about finding something to eat. As she was preparing a batch of biscuits, the door swung open and Ridge entered, his head bowed. Snowflakes peppered his hair and shoulders.

"How're the horses?" she asked, anxious to fill the silence.

"Fine." He removed his coat. "The snow's definitely letting up. We should be able to leave tomorrow."

"That's good."

Now that Ridge knew about Enapay, Emma's conscience nudged her to tell him about Chayton. If he could accept that she'd been married to an Indian, wasn't it a small step for him to accept that she had a child? She opened her mouth to confess, but courage deserted her. She wasn't even certain Ridge
was
comfortable with her marriage to one of the People, and Chayton was tangible proof of that union.

Emma continued to prepare their supper and when Ridge acted as polite as he had before they'd made love, she began to relax. Half an hour later, they sat down to eat fresh biscuits with beans and pork.

Ridge swiped his plate clean with the last biscuit. "Thanks. That hit the spot." He gave her a shy smile reminiscent of the first time she'd met the man.

She smiled back. "You're welcome."

After washing and drying the dishes, Emma donned her coat.

"Where're you going?" Ridge sat by the table where he was working on a bridle by the light of two candles. "I want to take a sponge bath."

Ridge rose. "I'll fill the pan."

Before she could argue, he was out the door. He returned less than a minute later.

"Thank you, but you don't have to wait on me." Emma took the kettle from him and placed it on the stove.

"We do for each other. You made supper and did the dishes," he simply said, and then returned to his task at the table.

Emma hadn't considered it that way, and suspected few men were as thoughtful as Ridge. Her admiration for him, already considerable, rose another notch.

Knowing it would take some time before the water heated, she joined Ridge by the table and opened her book. But instead of reading, she watched his fingers work the leather with sure, deft motions. Maybe he couldn't read or write, but he had other talents, such as mapmaking, tracking, and mending leather with infinite patience. Where had he learned those skills?

Frowning, she realized how little she knew about him despite the time they'd spent together. "So you fought in the war, Ridge?"

He nodded.

"Union?"

"That's right."

"You don't like to talk about it."

Ridge's gaze turned to something only he could see; something she suspected he wouldn't want her to see. "War isn't pretty, Emma."

She remembered the night the soldiers came to the People's camp—the screams, the blood, the dead and dying. "You're right, it's not," she said, her voice husky. "War. It's such an ugly word—rhetoric used to defend hatred."

"It's man's nature. To fight for what he believes is righteous."

"Who decides what's righteous and what's not?"

"Each person has to make his own decision."

Emma listened to the sizzle of wood in the fire, an oddly comforting sound. "You made the choice to leave the army. Why?"

His gaze dropped and it was a long moment before he answered. "The war changed and I realized I wasn't fighting for a righteous cause anymore."

She touched his sleeve lightly, ignoring the spark between them. "For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice."

"I made the only choice I could," he said quietly in his husky timbre. "Just like you did."

Emma nodded, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. Nobody else could understand that—not her parents, and certainly not the townsfolk.

"Shall we start your lessons?" she asked a few minutes later.

Apprehension flitted across Ridge's face, but he set aside the bridle.

Emma moved her chair next to his and tried to ignore his masculine scent and the curve of long eyelashes framing smoky blue eyes. "Did you say you memorized some words when your mother used to read to you?" she asked. "That's right. Just smaller words, like 'the' and 'now.'"

"It sounds like memorization might be the best way for you to learn."

Emma wrote twenty-five words on the back of a poster she'd found in the shack. She read them and spelled them aloud twice, then had Ridge do it. He stumbled more than once, but was persistent.

"Now try writing them as you say them," Emma suggested, handing him the pencil.

He stared down at the list of words. "I ain't going to get them right."

Emma cupped her hand over his. "What matters is that you keep trying, Ridge." She smiled tenderly. "You're not a quitter."

Ridge took a deep breath and nodded gamely.

Emma wanted to hug him, like she'd done to Chayton when he needed reassurance, but settled for giving his hand a gentle squeeze. She rose and removed the large kettle from the stove. The water was just right for a sponge bath. She glanced back at Ridge who was concentrating on his task. She took a moment to simply look at him, to admire the strong slope of his forehead and nose, to remember the softness of his hair, which brushed his shoulders when he turned his head, and to recall the lines of muscle beneath his clothing. But right now, it was his intense concentration that she found most compelling. For a little while, that look had been aimed at her as they'd pleasured one another.

Her heart fluttered in her chest even as liquid heat poured into that place beneath her belly. How could she have thought that lying with him twice would slake her desire for him? That she could forget his protective embrace and his body's coiled strength?

She halted the dangerous line of thought and physically turned away. Clearing her mind, she unbuttoned her blouse, then dipped the cloth in the water and squeezed out the excess. She ran the damp cloth around her neck and across her chest, refusing to dwell on why her puckered nipples were so sensitive.

She rebuttoned her blouse and glanced over her shoulder to see Ridge's attention on the words and not her. She chastised herself for feeling a twinge of disappointment. After removing her stockings, she leaned over and trailed the damp cloth up her left leg, then her right. She bunched the front of her skirt in her free hand and held it up as she carefully washed the juncture of her thighs. She closed her eyes at the unintentional pleasure the gentle friction created.

A tingle at the top of her spine caused her to look over her shoulder... and her gaze collided with Ridge's. His eyes smoldered and Emma welcomed the heat. Without breaking eye contact, Emma dropped the hem of her skirt.

"How's the studying coming?" she asked huskily.

The corners of his lips quirked upward. "Depends on what kinda studying you're talking about, ma'am."

Ridge stood and ambled over to her. The heat from his body was far more intense than the stove, and Emma swayed toward him. He settled his hands on her hips and she braced herself on his arms.

"Seems to me the student needs some more private tutoring," Ridge said, need underlying his rasping voice.

Emma knew she shouldn't, but knowing and doing weren't always the same. "I happen to know a tutor who'd be more than willing to give you private lessons."

Ridge undid the first button of her blouse.

The wolf cuffed her cub playfully, and the youngster yipped and raced around his mother. Lying on her side to soak up the sun, the wolf watched her son as his attention was snatched by a hovering butterfly. The cub dashed toward it, but the butterfly fluttered away. The young wolf chased after it, disappearing into the brush.

The female wolf sat up and listened intently for her cub, her nose twitching nervously. She could hear him padacross the fallen leaves and dry twigs. She scented the air and the hair at her nape lifted.

Danger!

She plunged into the brush after her cub.

A lion roared...

Emma jerked upright, her heart thumping in her throat.

An arm came around her waist. "Easy, Emma."

She blinked and focused on Ridge, who lay beside her in the narrow bed. Caught between her dream and waking, she simply stared at him.

Ridge pushed himself to a sitting position and the moonlight gilded his face and long, thick hair. "Nightmare?" he guessed softly.

She gulped air. "Yes."

"Want to talk about it?"

Emma merely shook her head. Hanging onto one of the blankets, she swung her feet to the floor to stand by the window. She gazed out into the pale night. A three quarter moon hung amidst a sky filled with diamond-like stars, and their light reflected off the fresh white snow. She shuddered at the otherworldly scene, half expecting a mountain lion to charge out from the wavering shadows.

Ridge rose and joined her. He stood quietly, offering silent support. The lump in Emma's throat wasn't all due to her nightmare.

"I dreamt of a mountain lion," she finally confessed.

"We did hear one a couple days back," Ridge said.

Emma shook her head. "That wasn't the first time I've dreamed of a mountain lion."

Ridge turned his head and one side of his face held an ethereal glow from the night's luminescence. "People dream about things that scare them."

Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the blanket between her breasts. "The People say dreams are the spirits talking to you." She studied his steady eyes. "What do you dream about?"

His jaw muscle jumped into his cheek. "I don't dream."

"I envy you."

"Don't." Ridge crossed his arms. "I don't have dreams; I have nightmares."

She leaned against his side, offering him comfort. "I'm sorry."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she rested her head against his chest. Did she dare ignore her visions? To do so might cause death or harm to befall her son, and that she could never live with.

Cold air eddied across her bare feet and she shivered.

"I'd add more wood, but we're running low," Ridge said quietly. "We'll have to make due with our body heat."

Emma stared up at his profile, at the shadows that painted his cheekbones and jaw. She'd never met a man so beautiful both inside and out. She traced his lips with a light fingertip, surprising herself by her audacity.

Ridge's nostrils flared and he caught her hand, then kissed the center of her palm. "Let's go back to bed."

When Ridge slid into her body for the fourth time in less than twenty-four hours, Emma promised herself it would be the last.

A chinook wind had blown down from the mountains overnight, and the snow was already melting when Ridge went out to saddle the horses. He paused on the porch, squinted at the rising sun, and listened to the plink-plink of melting snow dripping off the roof.

He stretched, relishing his body's satisfaction. He went weeks, oftentimes months, without female companionship. Stuck one day in a cabin with Emma Hartwell and he lost the iron control he'd always possessed—and not just once. Even thinking about the things they'd done brought a surge of blood to his groin.

But what of the future? What about when he returned Emma to her father's ranch? Would she tell Hartwell that Ridge Madoc had his way with his daughter?

No, Emma wasn't like that. She wouldn't demand marriage and she would keep their secret, just as she'd kept an even more dangerous secret all this time. A white woman married to a Lakota. Just like a chinook wind, it was unexpected.

He wasn't certain about his own feelings toward her confession. He'd known many Indians, had even lain with a few of the pretty sloe-eyed women, and he'd never disrespected them afterward either. They'd come to him and he'd been encouraged by his newfound friends to accept what was offered. He'd been young and full of wild oats to sow. Hell, hadn't he considered marrying a Sioux maiden years ago? So who was he to judge Emma?

No, he didn't begrudge Emma her marriage. So why did his gut twist up like a mad rattler every time he thought about Emma and her Enapay?

Paint whinnied, snapping Ridge out of his thoughts. Ridge settled his slouch hat on his head more firmly and went to ready the horses. He had a job to do and two hundred dollars waiting at the end of it. One hundred from Hartwell, and one hundred from Emma, whom he'd taken to bed without thinking out the consequences of his actions. But he wasn't a man to waste time worrying about what he'd done. He could, however, ensure he didn't take advantage of her passionate, generous nature again.

Ridge saddled the horses and led them across the damp snow to the front of the line shack, where he loosely tied their reins to a porch post. He took a deep breath and entered the cabin.

Emma was checking the straps on her saddlebags and she glanced up, startled by his entrance. Then she smiled that part shy, part seductive smile and he damned near forgot all his noble intentions.