To Find You Again

by Maureen McKade

  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.

  Generations of nomadic living had given the Lakota the skills and tools to disassemble their homes and be ready to journey in less than an hour. The first time Emma had witnessed the entire village preparing to abandon a site, she'd been terrified that the Indians would kill her and leave her body behind. After being reassured she wouldn't be harmed nor abandoned, Emma had resolved to do her share rather than to be a hindrance. It had been the beginning of her acceptance, and she had grown to have an abiding respect for their ways.

  Emma halted her horse with a slight draw on the reins and gazed out across the vast expanse of land. North and east covered a wide swath of territory. Would she ever find them in the sprawling wilderness?

  If only she'd been able to convince Ridge Madoc to help her. However, that option was lost to her, especially after what she'd done to him. Wounding him with her knife and then putting sleeping herbs in his tea hadn't been enough. She'd also taken his horse. He wouldn't be happy, but she hoped her note convinced him she wasn't going back until she attained her goal.

  A chill slipped inside her jacket and goose bumps danced across her arms. She glanced up at the clouds, dark and swollen with rain, and worry sent another shiver through her. What if Ridge didn't find shelter? He was already injured. What if the wound became infected? She had cleaned it well, but infection was common even with minor cuts.

  She turned in the saddle, resting one hand on her horse's rump as she studied her back trail in the fading light, and was pleased to see
no evidence of her passage. She'd left a trail a child could follow when she'd taken his horse because of her guilt-stricken conscience. Surely he had found the animal by now, read her note, and headed home.

  After she left his horse, she'd circled around and resorted to covering her tracks once more in case he was pigheaded enough to follow her. She suspected he wasn't a man to give up easily, which would've been an admirable quality under different circumstances.

  Clementine snorted and stamped her front hooves. It was time to quit woolgathering and continue her search. She urged her mare northeast and prayed she was moving closer to her son.

  A cold drizzle started at dusk, forcing Ridge to push Paint harder. Rain would wash away the faint signs of Emma's trail. She'd returned to covering her tracks, which told him she meant for him to find Paint. He didn't know whether to be grateful for her thoughtfulness, or annoyed for giving him cause to feel guilty for taking her back home.

  After hours of following the almost-nonexistent trail, he caught sight of a small flickering fire. He was too far away to tell if the body moving around it was Emma's, but he suspected it was.

  He dismounted and tied Paint in some sparse shelter. Stepping carefully onto the wet ground, he drew closer to the flames until he recognized the figure. He'd found his prey. Again.

  His attention on Emma, he accidentally kicked a stone and it skittered across the hard ground. As quiet as the sound was, the woman must've heard it. She froze and lifted her head to peer into the darkness.

  His heart pounding, Ridge remained still, ignoring the light rain that continued to fall. Her wary gaze skipped across him and she finally gave her attention back to whatever she was preparing over the tiny fire. He'd do well to remember her keen senses in the future, as well as her uncanny vigilance.

  Letting out his pent-up breath, he sidled closer until he stood only ten feet away, hidden by a tree trunk. With no intention of taking a chance this time, he withdrew his revolver, but didn't cock it. As furious as he was, he recoiled at the thought of even shooting a warning shot if she tried to escape. He only hoped she didn't know that.

  He stepped into the slight clearing.

  Emma froze.

  "Miss Hartwell," Ridge said, his voice a cool parody of politeness.

  Emma stared at him, her expression revealing nothing. Then she leaned over and deliberately stirred the contents of a small kettle hanging over the fire. "Mr. Madoc. Would you like some stew?"

  Ridge caught his smile before it could grow. The woman definitely had spunk. "What'd you put in it?"

  She glanced up at him and her eyes held the hint of a twinkle. "I didn't know I'd be having company."

  "Then I reckon you'd best step away from the food until I'm done eating." He motioned with the barrel of his gun. "Move back."

  "What're you going to do?"

  "Something I should've done last night. It would've saved me a mess of trouble." He motioned with his chin. "Back."

  Her eyes flickered to his revolver. "Are you going to shoot me if I don't?"

  This time he did smile, but it was without warmth or amusement. "Don't worry. I'd just graze you, ma'am."

  Her lips thinned, her humor fleeing. "I doubt my father would appreciate you bringing me back with a bullet wound."

  Ridge snorted. "Your father could barely choose between his precious land and you."

  Emma flinched and her gaze fell, but not before Ridge spotted her humiliation at the plainspoken truth. It was as if she'd suspected all along, and his words confirmed her father's opinion of her. Suddenly he felt like the lowest vermin for hurting her with his rash words.

  "Step back, ma'am," he said, gentling his voice slightly.

  She left her improvised spoon, a stripped twig as thick as her thumb, in the kettle and did as he ordered.

  "That's good enough," Ridge said when she was some feet from the fire. "Now put your hands on your head and leave 'em there."

  She glared at him, her eyes sparking with fury and helplessness, and Ridge was relieved to see the bleak anguish had vanished. He could handle an angry woman, but a teary-eyed one scared the hell out of him.

  With her damp hair straggling in clumps about her face and her clothes limp from moisture, Emma should've looked like a drowned rat. However, the rain made her long skirt cling to the curve of her legs, and her jacket hugged the fullness of her breasts. Her wrath only made her more breathtaking.

  Clearing his throat and mind, Ridge concentrated on the task at hand. He retrieved the pieces of rope he'd brought with him and approached her warily. Her narrowed gaze followed him and he was reminded of a trapped animal.

  "Sit down, but keep your hands on your head," he ordered.

  Emma remained mute as she lowered herself to the ground. Without the use of her hands, she plopped clumsily onto the wet, unforgiving ground.

  "Now roll over onto your belly and put your hands behind you," he said.

  Her mouth fell open with indignation.

  "Just do it, ma'am," Ridge said before she could speak. After his lousy day, he wasn't up to any verbal sparring.

  Pressing her lips together, Emma laid flat on the ground. After a moment's hesitation, she placed her hands at the small of her back.

  Ridge closed in behind her and squatted down. "Easy, ma'am. I'm not going to hurt you unless you force me to."

  She lifted her head and glared at him over her shoulder. "But only a flesh wound."

  Ridge smiled, knowing full well she could see him. "That's right, ma'am."

  Despite his injured arm, he made quick work of tying her wrists. He could feel the tension in her shoulders and arms, and wished he didn't have to resort to old bounty-hunting methods. But she'd already proven herself untrustworthy, and he couldn't chance losing her again. Her return meant a prized bull and the beginning of a cattle herd.

  He shifted around to straddle her hips and grasped her ankles, pulling them upward like he was tying a calf. She twisted like an eel, trying to dislodge him or make him lose his grip on her.

  "Damn it, woman, stop fighting or I'm gonna hurt you," he warned.

  Emma struggled even more.

  Ridge leaned back, placing more of his weight on her hips, and wrapped his good arm around her calves. Her dress draped down to reveal heavy stockings with black lace-up boots beneath the single petticoat. The boots weren't made for hard riding, and the kid leather was almost worn through where the stirrups had rubbed. He suspected she had her share of blisters, too, but also figured she'd chew glass before admitting it.

  Because of his injured arm and her resistance, it took longer to truss her. Once done, he released her legs and pushed himself upright, barely containing a groan. "I'm going to get my horse and bring him on into the camp."

  "You can't leave me like this." Emma rolled onto her side to stare up at him accusingly.

  "Yes, ma'am, I can. I'm tired, sore, and hungry, and I don't want to have to be watching out for your tricks."

  "Fine." Her tone said just the opposite.

  Ridge adjusted his hat. Every fiber in his body rebelled against leaving a woman tied up and on the wet ground, but she'd brought the situation on herself. If she'd agreed to go back with him without any fuss, they could be sharing a meal instead of acting like two cats fighting over the same piece of dirt.

  He spun around and strode off to retrieve Paint. Returning five minutes later, he noticed the woman had managed to wriggle over to a tree and sat crookedly against the bole. Her clothes were smudged with dirt and mud, as was her face.

  "That doesn't look too comfortable," he commented, working the saddle's girth loose.

  "It's better than lying facedown in the mud," she retorted, her grimy chin out-thrust.

  Ridge laid the saddle on a rock. "You do look a mite dirty there, ma'am."

  If her eyes could shoot bullets, he'd be six feet under. He turned his attention to removing Paint's bridle. "What's so dang important about finding them?"

  Emma remained mute. Ridge
figured he'd have an easier time coaxing a rattler off a warm rock than getting Emma to talk. Not that it mattered to him why she wanted to go gallivanting around the country looking for people who didn't want to be found.

  Ridge hobbled Paint and then concentrated on rubbing down the horse with the saddle blanket. Once that chore was done, he stepped over to the small fire and added branches from the pile Emma had gathered to feed the hungry flames. He leaned over to sniff the kettle's contents, and everything blurred. Dizziness swirled through him and he nearly pitched forward into the fire. Bracing his legs, he waited for the light-headedness to disappear. His wound's blood loss and his long trek were catching up to him.

  "Are you all right?" Emma asked.

  "Yeah," Ridge lied. He wasn't about to admit to Miss Hartwell any weakness. "What's in the kettle?"

  "Rattlesnake."

  "Kin of yours?"

  An unladylike snort met his ears. Miss Hartwell had more than her share of starch in her ladylike backbone. "More likely yours."

  "At least you haven't lost your sense of humor," Ridge said dryly. "I'm going to have some stew, then I'll feed you."

  "I can feed myself if you untie me."

  "That's not going to happen, ma'am. I don't take kindly to folks who knife me, then drug me." He dug out a tin plate and spoon from his saddlebag. "Makes me mad and when I get mad I get stubborn."

  "Ornery," Emma corrected.

  Ridge shrugged. "I reckon that, too, but you gave me reason enough." He returned to the cookfire and spooned some stew onto his plate, always keeping one eye on the woman. He sat on the ground as he shoveled a bite of food into his mouth. It was better than anything he could've thrown together. "It's good, ma'am."

  "I'm glad you find it to your liking." Emma's voice could've frozen water. "I hope you're going to leave some for me, or is that part of your plan—starve me so I'm too weak to cause any trouble."