By the time Emma reached the end of the village, she was trembling so much she could hardly draw her horse to a stop. She slid off her mount and her legs wobbled. Her feet were numb in the snug riding boots, which she hadn't worn since she was fifteen, and her thighs beneath the split riding skirt were irritated and chafed. She would've gladly exchanged her civilized garb for moccasins, a deerskin dress, and leggings.
An elderly Indian stepped forward, his shoulders hunched, but his eyes keen.
She faced the old man and bowed her head. "Tunkasila."
Although she couldn't see him, she could feel his surprise at her use of the Sioux word for grandfather.
"Taku eniciyapi hwo?" he asked.
"I am called Winona by the Lakota," she replied, continuing to speak in the language she'd learned. She risked lifting her head and when the old Indian didn't give her a disapproving look, she grew bolder. "I seek my son. Five moons ago my village was attacked by horse soldiers." Emma couldn't control the shudder of horror at the memory of that night.
The elderly man studied her for a long moment, then turned and motioned for her to follow. A young boy materialized beside her and took her horse's reins. Emma gave him a brief smile and allowed the boy to lead the animal away.
Keeping her gaze aimed downward, she followed the old man to his tipi.
"Tima hiyuwo," he said and disappeared inside.
Emma loosened her chinstrap and allowed her hat to slide down her back, to rest between her shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, she accepted his invitation to enter and ducked under the deerskin flap, praying he could give her the information she sought.
Chapter 4
Ridge herded nine cattle into the canyon to join the other fourteen head he'd found that morning. He halted his horse under the miserly shade of a scrub oak growing next to a small stream. He dismounted and allowed Paint to drink.
Although it was early April, the midday sun was comfortably warm on his head and shoulders. Most of the snow had melted, but a few pockets remained, hidden in enclaves steeped in cool shadows.
He hunkered down beside a riffling brook and cupped his hands to drink the icy cold water. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he rose. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since dawn. As he unwrapped some dried venison from the cloth in his saddlebag, he caught a plume of dust to the east. As he chewed the jerky, he squinted at the dust cloud and the horse creating it. The rider rode unerringly toward him and Ridge tensed.
He narrowed his eyes until he could make out the nearing figure. John Hartwell. What the hell was he doing here?
Ridge kept his arms hanging loosely at his sides, but his muscles coiled. Did Emma tell her father about the fight between him and Cullen the night before last? And, if so, was Hartwell planning to thank him or shoot him?
Hartwell halted his horse on the other side of the four-foot wide stream. He didn't wear his usual suit, but typical range gear, although his wool trousers and waistcoat were newer and of better quality than a hired hand's. Hartwell's cheeks were flushed, and sweat mixed with dust streaked his face. He remained in the saddle. Ridge figured the man enjoyed looking down on folks.
Ridge nodded a mute greeting.
"Madoc." There was more hospitality in a rattlesnake's reception. "I've got a job for you."
Anger came directly on the heels of surprise, and Ridge laughed, a cold, harsh sound. "I wasn't good enough to work on your ranch, so what makes me good enough for this job?"
"You were a scout," Hartwell said tersely. "I need you to find my daughter. Emma ran away Saturday night."
The night Ridge had found her alone with Cullen. He ground his teeth and felt the tug of his jaw muscle. "Maybe she ran off with some fella."
Hartwell shook his head impatiently. "My other daughter said she had a nightmare. It upset her but she wouldn't tell Sarah about it." He looked away, embarrassment and a hint of humiliation in his expression. "Sarah thinks she went back to the savages that kidnapped her."
After Emma's confession about trying to hire Cullen to find her adopted tribe, Ridge wasn't surprised. But he wasn't about to confess that to Hartwell. He shrugged. "They're probably scattered seven ways to Sunday."
"I'll give you a hundred dollars to find her and bring her back home," Hartwell offered.
A hundred dollars. That was more than he would make in three months working as a ranch hand, and the balance he needed to purchase the bull. But what about his land— the land Hartwell had practically stolen from Harry Piner.
"On one condition," Ridge said flatly. "You sell me my land back at the same price you paid for it—fifty cents an acre."
Hartwell's mouth gaped and his face reddened, but this time it was with antagonism instead of embarrassment. "That's extortion."
"That's business," Ridge shot back. He lowered his voice and smiled without an ounce of warmth. "You know all about business."
Hartwell's knuckles were white as he gripped his saddle horn and a vein in his forehead pulsed angrily as he glared at Ridge.
"Your daughter for my land. Your choice, Hartwell." An eagle's cry sliced through the tension and Ridge glanced up to spot the mighty bird soaring high above them—a favorable sign.
He looked back at Hartwell to find the man still mulling over his offer. Ridge's lips curled in disdain. A man who had to consider a choice between his daughter and some land was a miserable excuse for a human being.
The rancher's eyes blazed. "All right."
"I want it in writing." Men like Hartwell respected words on paper.
"Damn you, Madoc. My word's good."
Ridge merely stared at him.
Hartwell capitulated with a snarl. "Come to the house and I'll have a contract ready to sign."
Ridge relaxed. "Why didn't you get me yesterday? She's got a day and a half lead now."
Hartwell glanced away and rubbed at a patch of dust on his cheek. "I tried to find her myself, then I went to Colonel Nyes. The son of a bitch said they'd keep an eye out for her during their patrols, but didn't want to expend the manpower to find a—" He clamped his mouth shut, but Ridge knew what he was going to say.
It looked like he and Hartwell had something in common after all: a mutual dislike for Nyes.
"She's not in her right mind, Madoc," Hartwell confessed in a low voice. "But she's still my daughter."
In the few instances Ridge had talked to Emma Hartwell, she hadn't seemed crazy. He also had a feeling the woman had reasons no one but herself knew for wanting to find those she'd lived with. But a hundred dollars and the chance to recover his land at a dirt cheap price was more than reason enough to take the job. Bringing Emma Hartwell back to her own folks was the right thing to do, too, even if Ridge didn't care much for her father.
Ridge mounted his horse. "I have to tell the foreman I'm leaving; then I'll meet you at your house in an hour."
Hartwell nodded, relief in his haggard expression.
Emma patted her mare's neck soothingly as she tracked the progress of a black bear and her cub a hundred yards away. Although she knew a sow with her young could be dangerous, Emma also knew that as long as she didn't make any threatening moves or try to get close to them, the bear would ignore her.
The sow stopped and lifted her nose to scent the air. Fortunately, Emma was downwind. She watched the cub rollick in the clearing, oblivious to the dangers surrounding it. He had his mother—she would take care of him.
Unlike Chayton, whose mother had abandoned him.
No! She hadn't. Not voluntarily. When she'd finally recovered physically, her mind had remained sick from the horrible memories of that night. And even if she'd had the strength to look for Chayton, the winter weather would've denied her the opportunity.
But now, with the arrival of spring and the information she'd gained at the reservation, Emma knew the general location of her people. Or at least those who weren't killed the night of the attack, she thought with a bitter tang.
She'd asked about h
er son, but the old man hadn't known anything about him. If Chayton were still alive, he'd be with the group which was now headed northeast.
Sunlight sprinkled through the trees, dappling the meadow. A droplet on a spider's web captured the sun and wove it into a tiny colorful rainbow. A gift for those who truly saw. The tribe's shaman had taught her that, and
Emma had listened.
As she stared at the water drop, the colors swirled, then coalesced into the image of a brown eagle riding the wind high in the sky. The eagle soared closer and closer until Emma found its keen eyes staring directly into hers.
She gasped and blinked. The image disappeared and only the droplet remained. Someone was searching for her. It shouldn't have surprised her.
Five days had passed since she'd left the reservation. She knew her father would send somebody to find her and bring her back. Shivering despite the warm air, Emma hoped she wasn't leading the army straight to the reservation runaways, only to have the soldiers finish what they started.
The bear and its cub disappeared into the brush, and Emma urged Clementine, her horse, through the meadow. The mare danced nervously, tossing her head at the fresh bear scent, but Emma handled her with a firm hand.
Emma trusted the intuition she'd gained while living with the People. The shaman had said she possessed a second sight, a rarity among the wasicu who did not understand. But Emma embraced her fledgling gift. Now she prayed it would lead her safely to her son.
Ridge knew he was close. After four days of trailing the surprisingly trail-savvy woman, he had come to admire and respect her skills. Few white men, let alone a woman, could travel such distance in such a short amount of time and manage to cover their tracks so well. There'd been times when he'd followed a blind trail, only to have to backtrack and find the real one.
The sun had set two hours ago, but Ridge knew he was near his quarry and had chosen to continue on, hoping to find her that night. He was rewarded for his persistence when he smelled faint woodsmoke on the breeze. Following it led him directly to her.
Ridge surveyed the small camp and spotted her bedroll a few feet from the glowing embers. Her horse was fifteen feet away, hobbled and grazing contentedly. Ridge dismounted and ground-tied Paint. Moving on soundless moccasins, he entered her camp. Her horse raised its head and snorted, but was too accustomed to being around people to raise an alarm.
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 s
leeping."
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.
McKade, Maureen Page 5
