wouldn't fall down overnight, he knew Emma Hartwell was hiding something.
He only hoped her secret wouldn't get them both killed.
The spring day warmed as the sun rose higher in the endless blue sky. Emma opened her jacket and loosened the wool scarf from her head so that it draped around her neck. Before they'd hit the trail that morning, she'd pinned her hair into a bun at her nape to keep the strands out of her face.
Content to bask in the uncommonly warm rays, she didn't attempt to speak with her former captor. She also suspected Ridge was a man who didn't tolerate empty conversation, which suited her fine. However, her gaze often strayed to his easy rocking motion, which belied the thin slash of his lips and clenched jaw. She wondered if his memories of this area were pleasant or something he preferred to forget. She opened her mouth to ask, but abruptly chose silence. It would be discourteous—in both white and Indian societies—to ask such a personal question.
"They aren't there," Ridge announced in the late morning.
Startled by his voice's intrusion after hours of silence, Emma glanced at him. "What?"
A minute shift of the reins and Ridge halted his pinto pony. Emma drew up beside him, their stirrups brushing.
"One of the places I thought they might be holed up." He pointed to a line of trees a mile or two away. "If they were there, I'd've seen some sign by now."
Disappointment weighed heavily on Emma as she slumped. She knew it was unrealistic to think finding them would be so simple after just a week of searching, but she'd hoped that with Ridge's knowledge it would be easier. However, the people she'd lived with were desperate and wouldn't settle for a traditional camp location. Food wouldn't even be their major consideration—concealment and security would be until they found a larger group to join.
Ridge's gloved hand settled on hers as it rested on the pommel.
"We'll find them, Emma," he assured.
The weight of his hand was comforting and something else—something that dipped into her belly and lay there warm and tingly. She lifted her gaze to meet sincere midnight blue eyes and managed a smile. "I know you'll do your best."
Ridge searched her face and Emma's cheeks heated. He abruptly removed his hand and his attention drifted forward again. Emma's mare followed without urging.
While she'd lived with the People, they'd ranged for miles in the wilderness, following the food supply. She kept hoping to spy something that looked familiar. Instead, her attention kept wandering to Ridge and the way he set the saddle and the keen eyes that saw so much more than even her own. It was obvious he was comfortable in the untamed land. Perhaps even more so than so-called civilized towns. He was a man she could admire and respect, but it saddened her to think his thoughts weren't nearly as charitable of her.
Emma took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then inhaled again, filling her lungs with fresh air. Clearing her thoughts like the shaman had taught her, she pictured the bright, pure air swirling through her body, illuminating the dark, stale places. She imagined the life pulsing around her, from the most insignificant ant to the greatest buffalo. All were connected as one through Mother Earth, each an integral part of the cycle of life and death; of rebirth and transformation.
An increasingly familiar scent intruded—Ridge's unique blend of deerhide, woodsmoke, and honest labor. His masculine essence triggered a new awareness to her body that she tacitly ignored.
Emma placed her unwelcome attraction to Ridge into the far recesses of her thoughts. She couldn't afford to be sidetracked from her mission by long-denied needs, especially with a decent man like Ridge Madoc. But then, it was his very decency that attracted her even more powerfully than his muscular body, smooth-shaven features, and clean scent.
Ridge slowed and Emma's horse came abreast so they rode side-by-side.
"I've missed this,"
He only hoped her secret wouldn't get them both killed.
The spring day warmed as the sun rose higher in the endless blue sky. Emma opened her jacket and loosened the wool scarf from her head so that it draped around her neck. Before they'd hit the trail that morning, she'd pinned her hair into a bun at her nape to keep the strands out of her face.
Content to bask in the uncommonly warm rays, she didn't attempt to speak with her former captor. She also suspected Ridge was a man who didn't tolerate empty conversation, which suited her fine. However, her gaze often strayed to his easy rocking motion, which belied the thin slash of his lips and clenched jaw. She wondered if his memories of this area were pleasant or something he preferred to forget. She opened her mouth to ask, but abruptly chose silence. It would be discourteous—in both white and Indian societies—to ask such a personal question.
"They aren't there," Ridge announced in the late morning.
Startled by his voice's intrusion after hours of silence, Emma glanced at him. "What?"
A minute shift of the reins and Ridge halted his pinto pony. Emma drew up beside him, their stirrups brushing.
"One of the places I thought they might be holed up." He pointed to a line of trees a mile or two away. "If they were there, I'd've seen some sign by now."
Disappointment weighed heavily on Emma as she slumped. She knew it was unrealistic to think finding them would be so simple after just a week of searching, but she'd hoped that with Ridge's knowledge it would be easier. However, the people she'd lived with were desperate and wouldn't settle for a traditional camp location. Food wouldn't even be their major consideration—concealment and security would be until they found a larger group to join.
Ridge's gloved hand settled on hers as it rested on the pommel.
"We'll find them, Emma," he assured.
The weight of his hand was comforting and something else—something that dipped into her belly and lay there warm and tingly. She lifted her gaze to meet sincere midnight blue eyes and managed a smile. "I know you'll do your best."
Ridge searched her face and Emma's cheeks heated. He abruptly removed his hand and his attention drifted forward again. Emma's mare followed without urging.
While she'd lived with the People, they'd ranged for miles in the wilderness, following the food supply. She kept hoping to spy something that looked familiar. Instead, her attention kept wandering to Ridge and the way he set the saddle and the keen eyes that saw so much more than even her own. It was obvious he was comfortable in the untamed land. Perhaps even more so than so-called civilized towns. He was a man she could admire and respect, but it saddened her to think his thoughts weren't nearly as charitable of her.
Emma took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then inhaled again, filling her lungs with fresh air. Clearing her thoughts like the shaman had taught her, she pictured the bright, pure air swirling through her body, illuminating the dark, stale places. She imagined the life pulsing around her, from the most insignificant ant to the greatest buffalo. All were connected as one through Mother Earth, each an integral part of the cycle of life and death; of rebirth and transformation.
An increasingly familiar scent intruded—Ridge's unique blend of deerhide, woodsmoke, and honest labor. His masculine essence triggered a new awareness to her body that she tacitly ignored.
Emma placed her unwelcome attraction to Ridge into the far recesses of her thoughts. She couldn't afford to be sidetracked from her mission by long-denied needs, especially with a decent man like Ridge Madoc. But then, it was his very decency that attracted her even more powerfully than his muscular body, smooth-shaven features, and clean scent.
Ridge slowed and Emma's horse came abreast so they rode side-by-side.
"I've missed this,"
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