Sweet Sarah Ross

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, as if from far off, came the answer, “All day…and day before. All night, too. I’ve covered…maybe fifty miles…barefoot.”

She reassessed the gravity of his physical condition and wondered if he’d survive the night.

“I’m mortal thirsty. The river tempts me…but I’ll not risk an arrow through my heart…after all I’ve done…to stay alive.”

“You didn’t drink when you, were running through the river?”

“Didn’t want to waste time…. Stuck my tongue out and caught what drops I could…splashing along.”

“But that’s nonsensical to run through water and come out of it dying of thirst!”

“I chose the water route…to lose my scent. Not to drink.”

“I suppose you’ve learned your lesson now,” she said primly, trying not to feel sorry for him, since he was the immediate cause of her misfortune.

“You could…fetch me water. It might be…worth the risk…to be rid…of your fool conversation…for a few minutes…or forever.”

She gasped at the insult and thought it mighty cheeky of a man-beast on his last legs who, now that she came to think of it, might just have to depend on her for survival—that is, if she was of a mind to help him survive, which, at the moment, she was not.

“And if you’re thinking…of leaving me…to my own devices…I’ll ask you…two questions.”

Since she was thinking just that, she swerved her head and found herself looking into a pair of blue eyes no longer glazed, but still rimed with red and shot with blood.

“Can you…kill and skin…a rabbit?”

“No, but—”

“And do you know…how to start a fire…with two sticks?”

“Well, I’ve never had occasion to try, but how hard could—”

“Then the scissors…in the bag…you’re wearing…just might save…the both of us.”

Surprised, she stared openmouthed at him until she recalled that when he had pressed her to him, he must have felt against his bare thigh the small metal shape in the reticule hanging from her waist. She flushed with embarrassment at the thought of that intimate contact, then turned back around. There was absolutely nothing to say to that, so she resolutely closed her mouth, until it occurred to her that his objective had been to shut her up. But when she opened her mouth again, no words came. So she sat there, speechless, her thoughts colliding so violently and her emotions roiling so precipitously that she was beginning to feel seasick.

The sun shifted. The shadows lengthened in the minuscule glade. The man-beast didn’t move from his seated position at the base of the tree. He might have dozed off. He might have died. Her first thought was that it would serve him right. Her second thought was that she would be without someone who knew how to make a fire and find food. She scooted over to him on all fours to see whether or not he was still breathing.

She peered into his face, which was streaked with dirt and sweat. His eyes were closed and lined with fatigue. His jaw was slack and stubbled with several days’ dark growth, as was his chin. His lips were so parched they were cracked and white in places. She couldn’t risk a glance down the length of his body to check out the feet wrapped in pieces of her shawl, but he was breathing. Definitely breathing.

He was also alert. She had hardly completed her inspection of his face when his hand shot out and grasped her forearm so hard that she yelped involuntarily.

“Don’t,” he said softly, without opening his eyes, “do that again.”

She wriggled her arm, and he let it go. She withdrew to her tree. “Don’t make sure you’re breathing?” she whispered in return. “Or don’t cry out?”

“Both.”

“I’m going to get you some water,” she said. Sioux or no Sioux, she was pretty sure that his body needed water desperately, and she saw the wisdom of keeping alive the means of her possible salvation. She began to rise.

“Not yet,” he said.

Thinking she had not heard him aright, she glanced over her shoulder and craned her neck to see that his eyes were open. He looked up at the sky, around their hiding place, over at the river. “Still too early,” he pronounced.

“But you’re dying of thirst,” she protested.

“I wasn’t kidding…about Sioux arrows.” He lolled his head on his shoulder and looked at her. His expression bordered on the grimly humorous. “I might need you…as much as you…need me.”

“It’s something that you admit it,” she replied, sitting back down.

He grunted. “Just…my luck.”

She was about to respond in kind when she recalled the fifty miles he had covered barefoot. With great restraint, she said, “I’m willing to allow that it is extreme dehydration that makes you disagreeable, so I’ll overlook that remark. About the Sioux, though, I judge it to be a few hours ago already that they came through here. They haven’t been down to the river, at least, not to this part of it, so it seems safe enough to venture out to get you some water and see the damage that has been done at the wagon train.”

“Might have gone…to higher ground…about a half mile away. They have eagle eyes.”

She wasn’t a complete dolt. “They certainly couldn’t shoot me at a range of a half mile.”

He regarded her balefully. “Don’t want them to discover…our hiding place.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “I didn’t know you meant that the arrow through the heart would come sometime after the trip to the river.” At her most proper, she intoned, “You will let me know, sir, when it is time.”

“Until then, quiet. Just be…quiet.”

She was thirsty and irritable herself and mighty anxious about what lay beyond the grassy slope. But she held her tongue, although the effort nearly killed her. In truth, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of speaking. He wouldn’t have to tell her twice to shut up, but then she remembered that he had, in so many words, told her twice to shut up.

Thereafter her brain was so busy picking the sore of her lacerated dignity—which another part of her brain knew full well was happily keeping her from contemplating worse thoughts—that she didn’t hear him the first time he said softly, “It’s time.” When he repeated it loud enough for her to register it, she looked around her to see that evening was stealing through their hiding place and veiling their surroundings in moving shadows.

It wasn’t until she was at the river’s edge that she wondered how she would transport water back to him. She looked around for some kind of hollowed-out vessel but no appropriate object caught her eye. She considered filling her bonnet but figured the water would drain out before she could make it back to him. So she settled on her ankle boots, figuring he was too thirsty to be picky. Sure enough, when she handed him two shoefuls of water, he accepted them gratefully and even seemed to acknowledge her resourcefulness with an approving nod.

It was less embarrassing being next to him in the gathering darkness, so she knelt beside him and noted that he didn’t gulp the water down. Rather he restrained himself to take it in measured sips. When he paused at some length, she asked, “Can I go over the slope now?”

He took another spare sip, shuddered with relief. He cleared his throat, then uttered his first full sentence. “It’s best to go before the moon and stars come out.” His voice was deeper and more resonant than she had expected. She moved away from him, and he said, “Crawl, don’t walk.” When she was at the edge of their hiding place, he added, “Watch out for rattlesnakes.”

She squeaked in horror and got down on her hands and knees to crawl through the cover of the grasses and the shifting twilight. The afternoon’s wait had been unbearable, but this last crawl up and over the slope was excruciating. She was hoping against hope that when she judged herself close enough to the scene and lifted her head above the grasses, she would find that—

All was well.

Her heart leapt with joy. The spot where her family’s wagon had been was empty. Meaning that they, and most of the others, had had time to flee. Her joy turned to sorrow as she recognized the one who had not been so lucky.

She had been traveling with her family in a train of ten wagons. Only one was left at the site, broken beyond repair, and the Widower Reynolds lay facedown on the ground next to the wagon, an arrow in his back. She went over to the dead man, bit her lip to stifle her sob, then did what she had to do.

She crawled back down the slope to the shelter of the trees. She made her way over to the man-beast, who had not moved from his seated position, and announced, “I’ve brought you some trousers.”

Chapter Two (#ulink_4a1978d3-778e-58e6-83c0-c2d7ad38b560)

Powell woke from fitful dreams of being chased by white-skinned women and red-skinned women around drawing rooms in Washington, D.C., and over the open prairie.

He cracked his eyes, his chest heaving from dream effort. His bone-dry eyes were soothed to perceive cool, blue moonlight after days of red-seared sunlight. He swallowed once over a painful knot in his throat, but he knew he had had water in the past few hours, and the pain in his throat this night was not as bad as it had been the night before. He figured he was ready for more water now without putting his battered body into shock. He needed a prolonged watering. Mmm. A thorough soaking would be nice.