McKade, Maureen

by To Find You Again

  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.

  "I'm ready," she announced. Her gaze traveled around the small cabin, paused a moment on the bed, then continued on, and finally settled on Ridge. The intensity of her soft brown eyes stirred his blood. "I'll remember this place fondly."

  Ridge knew he'd never forget this shack and its cramped bed either. "We'd best move out. The going'll be slow and I want to put in at least thirty-five miles today."

  Emma carried her saddlebags in the crook of her arm as she marched to the door, Ridge's oversize moccasins slapping lightly on the dirt floor. "I'm ready."

  Ridge tossed his own bag over his shoulder and picked up the cloth sack that held the remains of their foodstuffs. He ushered Emma onto the porch and took one last look at their refuge, then followed her to the horses.

  Ridge made a cradle with his hands and gave Emma a boost into the saddle. She smiled her thanks and he tried to squelch the foolish grin that kept creeping across his face.

  After mounting Paint, Ridge led the way north, allowing his horse to pick his path across the snow. They wouldn't cover a lot of ground today but they were back on the trail and away from the cabin.

  And that damned tempting narrow bed.

  By dusk, Emma was more than ready to call it a day and set up camp. She'd gotten through the initial stiffness of traveling soon after she'd left her father's ranch, but riding after the interlude in the cabin had given her a different kind of ache. Making love with Ridge had been thrilling, but sitting on a horse for ten hours the next day was downright unpleasant.

  A few times during the day she'd tried starting a conversation with Ridge to divert her discomfort, but it was obvious he didn't want to talk. Not about reading lessons, not about where they were headed, and definitely not about what had transpired between them in that deserted line shack.

  Ridge had been wary all day, his gaze constantly moving from side to side, and dropping to the ground occasionally. But they'd seen nothing but a herd of pronghorns, two mule deer, four squirrels, one waddling skunk they'd steered clear of, and an assortment of birds. However, Emma was well aware of how Indians could seemingly rise out of nowhere. If she and Ridge came across a raiding party or a group of angry braves, she wasn't sure how they would be treated.

  It was nearly dark when Ridge finally called a halt for the day
. "We'll stay here tonight."

  Later, after they'd eaten more beans and biscuits for supper, Emma glanced at Ridge, but he seemed more relaxed than he had been during the day. A twig snapped and her head swung around sharply, her gaze trying to pierce the darkness beyond their circle of light.

  "Rabbit, maybe a squirrel," Ridge said quietly.

  Emma drew her attention back to the flames, but the hairs at her nape prickled. To take her mind off her unaccountable jumpiness, she asked, "Would you like another lesson?" The dark blue eyes that caught hers flared and her cheeks flamed. "A reading lesson?"

  The heat in his eyes disappeared and after a moment's hesitation, he answered, "All right."

  Emma dug her book out of her saddlebags and motioned for Ridge to join her on the log. Then, with her leg touching his, she began to read as he followed along.

  Ridge swayed to Paint's rocking gait and fought the sun's lure to close his eyes. He'd slept little last night after enduring Emma's proximity as she'd read from her cherished book. He shouldn't have agreed to another lesson, but the temptation had been too powerful. He truly did want to learn, but to be so close to Emma and not touch her was pure torture.

  He'd known once they were back on the trail, they couldn't repeat their cabin tryst. But he'd spent too much time thinking about how he wanted to stroke Emma's softness and taste her sweetness. His physical ache had only increased as he'd sat next to her in the evening, listening to her honey-smooth voice and remembering that same voice hoarse with desire as she'd welcomed him into her body.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. It had been hell lying there last night with Emma little more than an arm's length away. He'd listened to her soft steady breathing, imagining her tucked in his arms like she'd been the night before.

  A hawk's cry startled him out of his lusty musings and he sharpened his gaze, searching the panorama. Most of the snow had melted, leaving puddles scattered here and there among the brown scrub and sparse grass. Up ahead lay rocky slopes with canyons tucked into them—perfect camps for a people who didn't want to be found.

  "This looks familiar," Emma said quietly, staring at the pockmarked land stretched out before them.

  "I got a feeling we're getting close, but whether they're your band or not—" Ridge shrugged. "That's hard to say."

  An indistinct movement far ahead caught Ridge's attention, and he narrowed his eyes, but he couldn't see anything amiss. He knew they were being watched, but when he searched the horizon for a plume of smoke or anything that might give away a village or a group's approach, he could spot nothing.

  "What is it?" Emma asked.

  He tugged his slouch hat lower on his brow, to hide his eyes. "Stay close, Emma. I got a feeling—"

  Horses' hooves and bloodcurdling screams suddenly erupted around them. A dozen or so Indians raced toward them from the cover of huge boulders along a hill's slope. Ridge's first reaction was to turn tail and run, but he doubted they'd be able to outrun the expert horsemen.

  "Stay where you are and keep your hands in plain view," Ridge ordered Emma.

  Although her face paled, she nodded resolutely. She kept Clementine under a tight rein as the mare tugged at the bit. Ridge found Paint just as anxious as the bronzed riders thundered toward them and he focused on keeping calm. Why the hell had he agreed to this fool plan of Emma's? A man couldn't use an extra hundred dollars if he was dead.

  Ridge glanced at Emma and was surprised to see her relaxed features. He'd thought she'd be terrified, but then Emma never reacted the way he expected.

  Atop their sturdy ponies, the warriors surrounded Emma and Ridge. Their long black hair was divided into two braids with a scalp lock festooned with feathers and quills. Many of them wore necklaces made of animal claws and teeth. Deerhide breechclouts and leggings with moccasins covered their legs and feet, and a few men wore an incongruous gingham shirt. Every warrior carried a bow and arrow; half of them displayed recently obtained scalps.

  Ridge's heart hammered in his chest, but he raised his chin. The Indians respected bravery among all peoples. One of the warriors reached out to pluck Ridge's rifle from its scabbard and his revolver from his holster. Ridge didn't argue.

  The silence was more harrowing than the earlier war cries. They were definitely Lakota, probably a band of Brules, and they were definitely not pleased to see them.

  Ridge easily picked out the leader, a man a few years older than himself with two glossy black braids and a broad face painted with lines and designs of red, black, and yellow. The other warriors, as well as the ponies, were also painted. The leader's piercing brown eyes roamed across Emma, and then Ridge, who met his gaze squarely. The two men parried looks and the horses stamped impatiently as a minute, then two, passed.

  "Tuwe?" the leader finally asked.

  "I am Winona," Emma replied in Lakota. "Adopted daughter of Fast Elk."

  Ridge frowned, irritated by her forthrightness. Within the Sioux society, it was frowned upon for a woman to speak unless directly spoken to.

  The leader's eyes narrowed, but he appeared more startled than insulted. He nodded toward Ridge.

  "Madoc," Ridge answered the unspoken question. "I lived with your people many winters ago."

  The brave scrutinized them, trying to determine if they spoke the truth. Another warrior brought his horse closer to the leader and spoke in a low tone Ridge couldn't distinguish. But when the leader's gaze flickered to Emma, Ridge wondered if maybe she'd been recognized.

  "Ihakob." The leader whirled around and a path was made through the other Indians to allow him through.

  Ridge and Emma exchanged somber looks, then followed the Lakota. The riders closed in around them as they rode.

  "Do you think they're taking us to their camp?" Emma asked Ridge, keeping her voice low.

  "I think so. Do you recognize any of them?"

  Her brow furrowed as she looked at those warriors she could see without turning in the saddle. "I don't know. Maybe one or two, but it's hard to tell with the war paint. How about you?"

  Ridge shook his head.

  Emma lapsed into silence as they journeyed. They rode through noon and on into the afternoon, with the Indians keeping a steady pace. There was no break for lunch or to drink from a canteen. Ridge's mouth grew parched and his tongue felt swollen.

  The sun wasn't far from the western horizon when Ridge and Emma followed the stoic warriors through a twisting narrow trail between rocks. Ridge scanned the ledges high above them and noticed four boys, not more than eleven or twelve years old watching them closely. They stood with their feet planted apart, a bow in their hands and a quiver of arrows slung across their backs. It was a sure bet the entire village knew they were arriving.

  The vista suddenly opened into a valley with a river running through it. Maybe twenty-five buffalo hide lodges were scattered across the greening grass. Dogs raced out from behind the tipis, dancing and barking around the horses' legs. Young and old women wearing deerskin dresses decorated with quills and beads paused in their tasks to gaze at them with impassive features. Groups of children stopped their games and stared at the new arrivals, their dark eyes round with curiosity. Pit fires lent little smoke into the air, but Ridge could smell food cooking and his stomach growled, reminding him it had been a while since they'd eaten a breakfast of cold biscuits and jerky.

  Old men with scraggly gray hair and creased faces sat cross-legged in front of lodges and around fires. There were no other men the age of the raiding party warriors around the camp, but Ridge figured another group might be out hunting. Fresh meat would be needed for the celebration of a successful raiding party.

  Suddenly the warriors began whooping and racing around the village on their ponies, their horsemanship skills never failing to amaze Ridge. Those few with scalps held them up as evidence of their prowess and success. As if a switch had been thrown, the children joined in the merriment, then the women. The older men remained dispassionate, but Ridge could see the past in t
heir eyes as they relived their own youth through their sons and grandsons.

  Situated at the peripheral of the excitement, Emma and Ridge seemed to be forgotten. However, Ridge knew better. If he or Emma tried anything untoward, they'd be surrounded in a matter of seconds.

  He glanced at Emma, standing in her stirrups as she scanned the Indian faces. Since her husband was dead, she couldn't be looking for him. She had also talked about adoptive parents—was she searching for them?

  "Is this your band?" Ridge asked her.

  He could see her frustration in the shake of her head. "I'm not certain. I don't see Talutah or Fast Elk or—" she broke off. "Or anybody else."

  Ridge frowned, certain she was going to say another name. But whose? Had she lied about her husband? Was he still alive? That possibility sent jealousy and possessiveness thundering through him. The intensity of his emotions shocked him, and he shoved them aside. There'd been no words exchanged between him and Emma, only mutual pleasure.

  Emma suddenly stiffened and he followed her wide-eyed gaze to where an older squaw stood with a young boy who wore miniature deerskin leggings and a tunic. His long dark hair was braided into two plaits and his brown eyes were alive with mischief. But there was something about him, something Ridge couldn't put his finger on....

  Emma scrambled off Clementine and scooped up the boy in her arms. Confused, Ridge dismounted and positioned himself in front of the horses with the reins clutched in his hand.

  Emma hugged the older woman, who was less demonstrative, although it was obvious she was pleased to see Emma. As they spoke in rapid Sioux, Ridge tried to puzzle out the riddle. It took him only another minute to detect what was odd about the boy—his skin was the color of watered down whiskey instead of the rich bronze of the Lakota.

  The boy was half white.

  He was Emma's secret.

  Chapter 11

  Emma's vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She held her son close as she breathed in her little boy's familiar scent. She couldn't tell if Chayton remembered her, but at the moment all that mattered was she'd found him, safe and healthy.