Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 by Jennifer Blake

probably the thorn. I don’t suppose you have a needle?”
    “No.” Her answer was short.
    “I can take it out with my knife point.” Ignoring her immediate denial and her attempts to wrench her foot from his hand, he went on, “But I have another bargain for you. I’ll remove yours if you will do the same for me.”
    She was still. “You have a thorn?”
    He released her, swinging to show her his right hand. That the skin was not torn was due to its toughness, for the thorn that had been driven into him was thick and vicious. Over an inch in length, it was imbedded in the side between his wrist and little finger. She could see at owe that it would be difficult for him to remove it with his left hand.
    “I don’t know if I can.”
    “You’ll enjoy it,” he said with a brief, hard smile.
    That was entirely possible. She frowned to cover the thought. “I’ll try.”
    “Good.”
    He took up her foot again and, almost before she was set, drew his knife and sliced quickly into her foot with the razor-sharp point.
    “Ouch,” she said on a quickly drawn breath of pain.
    “Stop wriggling.”
    “Just you wait,” she said through clenched teeth.
    He did not comment. A moment later he removed the knife point and pressed his thumb to the place it had been to stop the tiny trickle of blood. “There’s your thorn.”
    “Let me see,” she said darkly, by no means sure there had ever been such a thing.
    But it was there, a quarter of an inch long and shining blackly in the firelight as he rubbed it off the knife point into the palm of his hand. When she nodded, he brushed it away and stood. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
    She watched him disappear into the woods, moving as if it were broadest daylight. She looked down at her foot, expecting to see a deep slit, but there was only a small, clean cut no deeper than the original scratch. The bleeding had stopped and so had the throbbing that had made her remove her shoe and stocking in the first place.
    There was a faint sound, then he dropped down beside her once more. He leaned toward the pot of water that simmered beside the fire and dropped what appeared to be a handful of trash into it. Seeing her puzzled glance, he said, “Red oak, the inner bark, to prevent blood poisoning. You will soak your foot in it.”
    “That was my bath water!”
    “I’ll bring more. In the meantime … “
    He unsheathed his knife once more and presented it to her, then turned his hand so that the right side was uppermost and placed it on her drawn-up knee.
    She took the knife gingerly, holding it near the tip as she reached with her left hand to grasp his fingers. Staring at the ridged skin where the thorn lay, she tried to decide the best way to cut it out. She moistened her lips, catching the inner skin of the bottom one in her teeth. Where had her anger and thirst for revenge gone now that she needed them?
    She sent a quick glance at Reynaud. He was watching her, his gray eyes dark and intent. For an instant she felt herself ensnared, unable to look away. Her heartbeat quickened and she lowered her lashes swiftly.
    If she tried to cut through the tough, hornlike skin that bulged over the thorn, it would roll from under the blade. She needed more purchase. She released his fingers to grasp the flesh of his palm, pinching it to hold it steady. Taking a deep breath, she touched the knife to his skin, increasing the pressure, harder, harder, until she saw it break beneath the edge, then she sliced along the ridge quickly. As the shiny black thorn was exposed, she dropped the knife and, using her nails, lifted the stiff base and pulled it from its bed. Blood welled up, dark red and rich, from the small wound, but she scarcely regarded it. A breathless gasp very like a laugh escaped her, and holding the thorn in triumph, she looked up at the half-breed.
    It was only then that she realized he had neither moved nor made a sound. The thorn was no major thing, of course, and yet