To Find You Again (13 page)

Humiliation made her cheeks burn, and she silently scolded herself. Lying so close in the narrow bed had made Ridge's maleness react as nature intended. Any other woman would have produced the same response. Ridge had made no secret of the fact that he was leading her to the Indians only for the money. So why did his businesslike manner disturb her?

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Yes," she simply replied.

"There's some cans on a shelf. We can open one of those."

Emma watched as he looked at each can, then set one filled with tomatoes on a tiny rickety table. "Tomatoes for breakfast?" she asked, frowning at his choice.

Ridge shrugged. "Why don't you pick what you'd like while I check the horses?"

Emma stood and had to wait a moment for a wave of dizziness to pass. She was aware of Ridge's scrutiny and waved a hand at him. "I'm fine."

He didn't say anything, but donned his moccasins and coat. He paused by the door. "There's an empty can under the bed you can use while I'm gone." He left the cabin and cold wind shimmied across the floor.

Emma quickly found the can and did her business, then placed it outside the door. Before checking out the tin goods, she found her only remaining pair of black stockings in her saddlebag. Flushing slightly, she drew them on, along with the now-dry undergarments Ridge had removed and hung up to dry. She also tugged on Ridge's oversize moccasins to keep her feet warm.

Emma brushed her hair and tied it in a ponytail that fell halfway down her back. Now that she was dressed decently, she padded to the corner of the cabin. She picked up the cans and read each label, then picked out two—peaches and hominy—and placed the tomatoes back on the wall shelf. Although she liked tomatoes, she couldn't fathom eating them in the morning.

By the time Ridge returned bearing an armload of wood, Emma had opened the tin cans and had the hominy heating on the stove. She also used water from the canteens to make a pot of coffee.

"Smells good," Ridge commented. "I seen a kettle that I'll use to bring some snow in."

"Does it look like the storm will be ending soon?" Emma asked.

He shook his head, his expression grim. "Not likely, ma'am. Maybe tomorrow."

Emma turned back to the stove so he wouldn't see her disappointment, and began to mash the hominy.

"They won't be able to travel, either," Ridge said, guessing her thoughts.

"I know, but I've been looking for so long."

"Everything will work out the way it's supposed to, Emma."

She knew Ridge couldn't offer her any more reassurances, and was glad he didn't insult her by trying. She wouldn't despair, not after coming all this way.

After Ridge brought in a snow-filled kettle and put it on the stove, they ate the simple meal at the small table. Emma had the only chair, and Ridge sat on an empty cracker keg that had been beside the bed.

As the blizzard continued unabated through the long morning, Emma busied herself by exploring the shack. But there was little to find except for two pairs of wool socks. She donned a pair over her stockings, which made the moccasins fit a tiny bit better.

Ridge finally changed into his own clothes, which relieved Emma. She had found herself eyeing him far too often in the too-small shirt and trousers.

Ridge kept the potbelly stove full of wood. The heat kept the cabin comfortable, but the fierce winds drove through the cracks in the walls. He plugged some of the worst ones with mud he made from melted snow and dirt from the floor, but the room remained drafty.

Near noon, Ridge opened the door to bring in more wood, and a four-foot snowdrift greeted him. They were lucky it didn't cover the door. He hauled in five armloads of wood and Emma carried them from the door to the stove, where she made a neat pile. It gave her something to do, as well as assuaged some of her guilt for being so useless yesterday.

With the last armload, Ridge stomped the snow off his boots and removed them by the door. Emma handed him the other pair of wool socks she'd discovered.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"You're welcome." She crossed to the stove and stirred the contents of a small kettle. "I made some lunch, if you're hungry."

Ridge's stomach growled, eliciting a wry smile from him. "Guess I am, ma'am."

Emma had combined some of her seasonings with the tomatoes to make a decent soup, and had mixed up sourdough biscuits to go with it. It wasn't a feast, but it filled them.

After their lunch, Ridge brought out a folded map and opened it on the table. Emma joined him, leaning close to see the squiggles and lines.

"Where are we?" she asked, pointing at the map.

Ridge stabbed a point. "Here. About fifty miles southwest of the Yellowstone River."

"So that crooked line is the Yellowstone River?"

He nodded. "And this one here is the Tongue and this one the Powder." He dragged his finger upward. "I'm thinking the Lakota group went this way."

Emma nodded, hoping he was right. She leaned closer. "Where's the fort?"

"Fort Fetterman, where we came from, is back here." He pointed to a square south of their location, and then motioned to another square almost due west. "That's Fort Logan."

She straightened. "Why don't you write the names on the map? It'd be easier to follow."

Ridge refolded the map. "I know where everything is."

"But—"

"It's my map, Emma, and I like it the way it is," he said curtly.

He collected his revolver and rifle, along with his cleaning supplies and brought them to the table.

Sighing, Emma went in search of something to do and retrieved her book. She sat at the table across from Ridge.

"You can read out loud, if you'd like," he offered.

"It won't bother you?"

He shook his head. "It's better than listening to the wind howling." He grinned boyishly. "Besides, I want to find out what happened to Daniel Webster."

She smiled, inordinately pleased. "So you were listening."

His eyes twinkled. "I told you I was. Go on."

Amused by his eagerness, she began to read. As she did, the blizzard disappeared from her thoughts and only Ridge's occasional snort of laughter drew her out of the imaginary world of Jim Smiley, Daniel Webster, and Simon Wheeler. Half an hour later, she closed the book.

"That Twain fella sure knows how to spin a yarn," Ridge remarked. He'd finished cleaning his weapons while she read, and had leaned back in his chair for the remainder of the tale.

Emma gazed into his twinkling eyes and nodded. "Last month I read his first book that related his journey to Nevada to look for gold. I enjoy his humorous slant on his fellow human beings."

Ridge eyed her with something akin to awe. "You sound like you've read a lot of books."

She shrugged, embarrassed. "I suppose I have. Before I lived with the Indians, I used to read all the time." She gazed unseeingly at the stove, her mind going back to the day her life was irrevocably changed.

"Why'd you fall off your horse, Emma?" Ridge asked curiously.

She blinked at the unexpected question. "She stopped fast and I went over her head."

Ridge's eyes were somber. "You're a good rider. What's the real reason?"

Emma stared down at her book, debating whether to tell him or not. She took a deep breath and raised her head. "I'm terrified of crossing rivers."

"Why?"

"I was fifteen years old. I'd ridden to my secret place so I could read without Mother or Sarah bothering me. There was this huge oak tree beside a river. We'd gotten a lot of rain and the water was higher than usual and it was moving fast, just like the river we crossed yesterday. I was walking along the bank when the ground gave way under my feet. I fell in."

She shuddered, remembering too well how the fast-flowing water bore her downstream, and how exhausted she became trying to break away and swim to shore.

"My dress was so heavy, it kept dragging me down. It took everything I had to keep my head above the water. I don't know how far the current carried me until it began to slow and I managed to crawl out. The next thing I remember is waking up to find an Indian standing over me." In her mind's eye, she pictured the savage warrior who became her adopted father.

"I'm sorry." Ridge laid his hand on hers.

She gazed down at the veins that textured the back of his hand and the long slender fingers more fitting of an artist than an army scout. "Don't be," she said softly. "He and his wife treated me like their own child." She traced one of the narrow white scars that crisscrossed his knuckles. "How'd you get these?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Got them when I was a kid."

Her fingers found another scar on his palm. "How about this one?"

A corner of his lips quirked upward. "Made the mistake of sticking my nose in where it didn't belong. The man who did it ended up teaching a stupid boy how to survive in the wilderness. Tracking, hunting, trapping, and anything else involved in staying alive."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen." He drew his hand out from between hers. "Are you going to read some more?"

"I need to give my voice a rest." Grinning, she pushed the book toward him. "But I wouldn't mind listening to your voice."

Ridge shook his head and rose so abruptly his chair almost tipped over. "No, ma'am. You don't want to listen to this croaky voice."

Emma rested her cheek on her propped up hand. "You have a beautiful voice, Ridge."

His face reddened. "A man's voice can't be beautiful, Emma."

"Yours is," she insisted. "Read the next story. Please?" He turned away, shaking his head. "I've got to check the fire."

Emma frowned, not understanding his reticence. He obviously enjoyed stories, yet he didn't want to read. Her gaze caught the canned goods on the shelf and recalled how Ridge had chosen tomatoes for breakfast. She thought of his map and how well it was marked, yet no names were written on it.

"Do you know how to read, Ridge?" she asked softly.

Ridge remained squatting in front of the stove, his back to Emma. The silence stretched out until he answered in a voice so soft Emma had to strain to hear him.

"No."

Ridge stared into the stove, at the reddish-orange embers that writhed like a nest of disturbed snakes. His face burned, but the fire wasn't the reason. Memories. All bad. Words he'd buried. Anger he'd swallowed. Pain he'd hidden.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he barely restrained the instinct to jerk away. Her fingertips made small indents in his skin, each one a gentle brand.

"There's no need to be ashamed," Emma said quietly.

Her words reminded him why she stood so close and why he couldn't stay. He straightened and gazed down at the woman's upturned face. Her eyes were wide, filled with sympathy, and he wished he hadn't looked at her.

"I'm not," he lied.

Emma folded her arms across her waist, her stubbornness revealing itself in her bold stance. "Many men and women are illiterate."

Even though Ridge didn't know how to read, he did understand words and illiterate was one he hated. Ignorant was another. However, they weren't as bad as "simpleton" or "idiot" or "half-wit." He'd heard them all, mostly from his stepfather, but also from his classmates and the teacher who hadn't believed him. It was only his mother who had believed him.

He stalked over to his saddlebags, needing something to occupy his hands and thoughts, but found himself idly playing with a strap as he struggled to escape the memories' harsh blows. He heard Emma come up behind him but didn't turn around.

"Schools were scarce in the Territory," she said.

Ridge kept his neck bowed as his fingers stilled their restless motions. "I grew up in Sunset, same as you."

A frown tugged at her pretty hps and questions flashed in her eyes, but she only asked, "Your parents didn't let you attend?"

He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. "Let it be, Emma."

"I only want to help."

It tore at his gut to hear her wounded tone. But all these years he'd hidden his failing from everyone but Colt Rivers, who'd helped him hide his condition from the army. "There's nothing you can do," he said, less gruff now.

"I could teach you letters and how to read," she offered, then smiled. "I used to dream about being a teacher before—" Her smile faltered.

Ridge gripped his saddlebags to keep from hugging this tenderhearted woman whose cheeks pinkened with uncharacteristic shyness. He could see her as a child, pretending to be at the front of a classroom and calling up imaginary students to read or answer a question.

If only it were as simple as she believed.

He closed his eyes, wondering if he had the strength to confess. He owed it to Emma to try. He guided her to the table and held the chair for her. Although her expression was puzzled, she sat with her hands knotted in her lap and remained silent. That was one of the things Ridge liked about her—she didn't badger him with a passel of questions, but let him speak in his own time.

He perched on the barrel, his hands on his knees. "It wasn't that I didn't go to school," he began. "For three years I did. I learned my letters and numbers. It's just that when they were all together, they didn't make any sense."

A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

Frustrated, Ridge dug his fists into his thighs. "Book pages looked like a jumble of letters. I tried sounding the words out like the teacher said, but I never could get them right. And when I tried writing them, I got the letters all mixed up." He shook his head. "The teacher figured I was either lazy or stupid."

"You aren't either," Emma argued, her eyes blazing with indignation. "From what I've seen you aren't afraid to work and you're one of the smartest men I've met."

Although he was warmed by her belief in him, it was misplaced. His mouth was bone-dry and he tried to work up some moisture. "At first the teacher said I was doing them wrong to be contrary." He ran a trembling hand through his long hair and smiled, although amusement was far from his thoughts. "He broke a lot of rulers on me."

Emma's gaze darted to his fists, and Ridge stilled the impulse to tuck his hands behind his back.