Reaper's Justice by Sarah McCarty Page A

his lips. “You’re sitting.”
    “That’s because my feet hurt.” She hitched the pelt up around her shoulders. “It makes sense to sit.”
    A cock of his eyebrow accompanied the motion of his hand toward her foot. “You’re bleeding.”
    She was pretty sure she had a blister, but bleeding? She put her foot in his hand. He unlaced her shoe with deft movements.
    “I don’t think so.”
    His “I know so” was a simple statement of fact.
    He gently slid the boot off her foot. When he slid the stocking down, it stuck. He might just be right. She forgot all about asking how he had been right when air hit her foot.
    “Ow!”
    His thumb rubbed her ankle. “You can’t walk on that tonight.”
    It burned like heck. “Maybe not ever again.”
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    He slid the stocking back on. And then the boot. “Don’t you want to see the other one?”
    “Nope.”
    She did. “Why not?”
    He stopped her before she could reach for the laces. “No need to waste time. We can’t do anything about it until we get back to the lean-to.”
    “And what will we do with them there?”
    “Soak them while I cook the rabbits I caught.”
    Her stomach rumbled at the prospect of food.
    “How many rabbits?” Rabbits were notoriously short on meat.
    He smiled and slid his arm around her back. His scent enveloped her along with his arm. How could he always smell so good? His other arm slid under her knees.
    “Enough to quiet your stomach.”
    He lifted her. She resisted the urge to slide her arm around his neck and turn her face into his chest. She was so tired. He started walking as if she weighed nothing. “How come you don’t get winded up here?” she asked as he began climbing.
    “I’m used to it.”
    Being used to it didn’t begin to cover the exertion carrying her back up the steep slope required. But she was tired, and there was the foreign thrill of being carried. She’d thought that was a luxury reserved for small, vulnerable women. It was revealing to discover, in Isaiah’s arms, she felt small and vulnerable. It was even more revealing to realize she liked feeling that way. The last twenty-four hours had revealed many flaws in her assumptions, and when she had more time, she’d have to examine them. But right now, she could use another nap.
    Adelaide let herself drift as Isaiah carried her back above the tree line, marveling at the strength of his legs as he never faltered, wondering how they’d feel under her hands. She slid her fingertip over his chest. It was hard, with no give. She bet his thighs were harder. The space between the buttons beckoned. She’d never felt a man’s chest, but that slight gap tempted her with the promise of the forbidden. Oh my God! She closed her eyes. She’d turned into a hussy.
    “What’s wrong?”
    She wasn’t answering that question. Honestly anyway. “I just feel so guilty that you have to carry me again.”
    “I don’t mind.”
    He’d probably mind less if he knew the latent hussy who had just emerged. “Still I’m sorry.”
    “I said I didn’t mind.”
    Well, she wasn’t going to apologize again for that anyway. “I’m sorry I left the campsite to get wood.”
    His hair brushed her head. “You were cold.”
    “Yes.”
    “It was smart of you to start a fire.”
    The morning wasn’t a total waste. At least he’d noticed her efforts. “Thank you.”
    “How did you start it?”
    That was a question she didn’t want to answer. She feigned sleep. “I used some stuff.”
    “Gunpowder?”
    It was hard to keep faking it when she was burning with curiosity. “How did you know?”
    “The smell.”
    What kind of nose did the man have? She’d ask but then she didn’t want him discovering her emergency supplies and maybe taking them away. She settled for a simple “Oh.”
    Feigning sleep had the benefit of bringing on reality. It seemed like only seconds before he was setting her down. The drugged feel to her senses told her she’d drifted