Read Online To Find You Again by Maureen McKade - Free Book Online
Authors: Maureen McKade
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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 sleeping."
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.
"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
"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 sleeping."
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.
"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
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