The Runaway by Veronica Tower Page B

she was a right pretty woman and that made him uncomfortable. He remembered touching her dress to expose her knees and felt himself stir beneath his rope belt. Had he ever had a woman in this house before?
     She’d been very light when he lifted her on to the old burro. He should cook some food—a soup would be good. He could start by feeding her the broth until she was ready for something heartier. He poked around in his meager supplies filling a pot with a handful of grain and his last scraps of dried meat. Then he went into his garden to find three small potatoes and a couple of stunted carrots. The garden fared better than his fields because he could water it from the seep hole behind the house. But truth be told, neither area was doing well. If he didn’t get at least a little rain soon he’d be moving on even earlier than he feared.
    Carson returned to the house and added some water from the pot to his soup pan, then went back to looking at the woman. He decided he had to clean her torn up flesh.  He didn’t have much that he could bandage her wounds with, especially if his efforts got her bleeding again. He found the old burlap sack with his mother’s clothes in it. He wore his departed father’s things himself and used his mother’s old dresses to patch the holes. He found a scrap of skirt and dunked it in the pot of warming water. Then he knelt down beside the woman and lifted her hand.
    There were calluses and scars beneath the more recent damage, yet the thin little hand still felt delicate. He’d never held a woman’s hand before—least not since he was grown.
    He began by wiping the dust and grit clear then began to pay more serious attention to the dozen little cuts that marred the palm and fingers. The palm was a paler shade than the rest of her skin—a feature Carson had never noticed in colored flesh before—not that he had much experience with slaves or runaways to base an impression upon.
    The woman groaned.
    The sound startled Carson. He wasn’t used to another person making sounds in his house. He didn’t make that many himself. He dropped the woman’s hand, his eyes darting to her face, but there was no sign that his ministrations had awakened her.
    Certain that she remained unconscious, he gently picked up her hand and resumed cleaning it. Three of her cuts bled as he tended them, but none with such force that he feared he’d harmed her.
    When he finished, Carson carefully placed the woman’s hand on her stomach and picked up the other one. Her left hand was less damaged than the right and his efforts didn’t disturb her restless sleep. He set the little hand down atop its mate and repositioned himself near the runaway’s feet.
    The damage was much more severe here—the cuts more numerous and much deeper. Carson wet the cloth again. The water had grown hot enough to make touching it unpleasant but he didn’t let that deter him. He picked up the woman’s right foot, braced it against his thighs, and began to clean the abused sole.
    Never quite waking, the woman tossed and tried to turn in response to his efforts. The hem of her dress slipped higher on her legs showing an expanse of brown thigh that distracted Carson from his task and made his blood surge. He forgot her lacerated foot in the nigh overpowering urge to touch her—to run his fingers up that smooth flesh and discover for himself the differences between man and woman.
    He took a deep breath, shaking his head to help him resist the impulse. It would be so easy. He was already holding her foot, massaging the tortured flesh with the thumbs of both hands. All he had to do was shift his ministrations to her calf, then work his way up past her battered knees. He could pretend he was still cleaning her as he slipped higher—pushing the hem of the dress above him as he went.
    His flesh turned to iron beneath his rope belt. His heart pounded. He could feel the blood pulsing in his throat. His fingers itched to begin the