silence. Emma volunteered to make their supper, which consisted of rabbit, biscuits, and gravy. A jackrabbit had jumped out of a patch of brush in front of them that afternoon, and Ridge's shot had been true.
By the time the meal was ready, Ridge's stomach was grumbling. He accepted a tin plate with three biscuits slathered with gravy and a large portion of the roasted rabbit. Emma had used some of her dried plants to spice up the meat, giving it a rich flavor.
"That was real good, ma'am," Ridge commented after he mopped off his plate with the last biscuit.
He volunteered to clean their plates; Emma didn't argue. When he returned from the stream, she was sitting near the fire, her legs to one side and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. If not for her light skin and honey-brown hair, Ridge would've thought she was an Indian.
As he approached her, he noticed an open book held in her hands.
"Thank you," Emma said quietly as she looked up. The fire's glow glossed her face with warm tints. "I hope you don't mind if I read for a little while."
Ridge shook his head. "You don't need my approval, ma'am."
She tucked a finger in the book to hold her place and closed it, then rested her chin on her fist to simply look at him. Ridge tried to ignore her steady gaze, but his body felt it all the way down to his marrow. He lowered himself to a nearby log and opened his saddlebags to slide the clean plates and forks back into them.
"I know I don't need it," she said. "But it would be rude of me to ignore you all evening."
Ridge barked a short laugh. "We aren't at some icecream social, Emma, so there's no need for you to be so polite-like." He finished fastening the saddlebags' straps. "You don't owe me anything but one hundred dollars once I get you home."
Her mouth pursed, like she just bit into a rotten apple. "You'll get your money."
"I know."
The fire crackled between them, occasionally snapping and shooting sparks into the air.
"Would you like me to read aloud?" Emma asked quietly.
He kept his gaze aimed downward, afraid she'd see how much her simple offer touched him. He cleared his throat. "If you'd like. It won't bother me."
"I hope you like humorous stories." She smiled and mischief glittered in her eyes, along with the firelight. She dipped her head and began. "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain."
Ridge watched the movement of her bow-shaped lips as she formed the words effortlessly. The sight mesmerized him, and tempted him to run a gentle finger along the full lower lip. He could imagine the softness, like a wild rose petal.
He closed his eyes, afraid temptation would overwhelm his common sense, and merely listened. He liked Emma's mellow voice as it rose and fell in a pleasant cadence. The only other woman who'd read to him had been his mother, and her voice hadn't been as easy on the ears. Emma had a way of making the story sound like something special and magical.
The story was about some gambler who trained a frog named Daniel Webster to jump. To Ridge, training a frog to jump seemed a useless thing to do, but the Twain fella had written it in such a way that it made Ridge chuckle and shake his head.
Of course, Ridge wasn't certain it was the story or Emma's way of reading it that made it so amusing.
Some minutes later Emma stopped and rubbed her eyes. "I thought I could finish it this evening, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait for another time."
Although disappointed, Ridge shrugged.
A breeze kicked up, stirring the fire and sending sparks swirling upward. Emma shivered and closed the book. "Winter's reminding us it's still here."
"Feels like it," Ridge murmured.
"Did my reading aloud bother you?"
He jerked his head up. "No. You've got a pretty voice." He suddenly realized what he'd said and snapped his mouth shut.
Emma smiled and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. Despite the clothing between them, Ridge fancied he could feel the warmth of her delicate fingers. "Thank
By the time the meal was ready, Ridge's stomach was grumbling. He accepted a tin plate with three biscuits slathered with gravy and a large portion of the roasted rabbit. Emma had used some of her dried plants to spice up the meat, giving it a rich flavor.
"That was real good, ma'am," Ridge commented after he mopped off his plate with the last biscuit.
He volunteered to clean their plates; Emma didn't argue. When he returned from the stream, she was sitting near the fire, her legs to one side and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. If not for her light skin and honey-brown hair, Ridge would've thought she was an Indian.
As he approached her, he noticed an open book held in her hands.
"Thank you," Emma said quietly as she looked up. The fire's glow glossed her face with warm tints. "I hope you don't mind if I read for a little while."
Ridge shook his head. "You don't need my approval, ma'am."
She tucked a finger in the book to hold her place and closed it, then rested her chin on her fist to simply look at him. Ridge tried to ignore her steady gaze, but his body felt it all the way down to his marrow. He lowered himself to a nearby log and opened his saddlebags to slide the clean plates and forks back into them.
"I know I don't need it," she said. "But it would be rude of me to ignore you all evening."
Ridge barked a short laugh. "We aren't at some icecream social, Emma, so there's no need for you to be so polite-like." He finished fastening the saddlebags' straps. "You don't owe me anything but one hundred dollars once I get you home."
Her mouth pursed, like she just bit into a rotten apple. "You'll get your money."
"I know."
The fire crackled between them, occasionally snapping and shooting sparks into the air.
"Would you like me to read aloud?" Emma asked quietly.
He kept his gaze aimed downward, afraid she'd see how much her simple offer touched him. He cleared his throat. "If you'd like. It won't bother me."
"I hope you like humorous stories." She smiled and mischief glittered in her eyes, along with the firelight. She dipped her head and began. "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain."
Ridge watched the movement of her bow-shaped lips as she formed the words effortlessly. The sight mesmerized him, and tempted him to run a gentle finger along the full lower lip. He could imagine the softness, like a wild rose petal.
He closed his eyes, afraid temptation would overwhelm his common sense, and merely listened. He liked Emma's mellow voice as it rose and fell in a pleasant cadence. The only other woman who'd read to him had been his mother, and her voice hadn't been as easy on the ears. Emma had a way of making the story sound like something special and magical.
The story was about some gambler who trained a frog named Daniel Webster to jump. To Ridge, training a frog to jump seemed a useless thing to do, but the Twain fella had written it in such a way that it made Ridge chuckle and shake his head.
Of course, Ridge wasn't certain it was the story or Emma's way of reading it that made it so amusing.
Some minutes later Emma stopped and rubbed her eyes. "I thought I could finish it this evening, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait for another time."
Although disappointed, Ridge shrugged.
A breeze kicked up, stirring the fire and sending sparks swirling upward. Emma shivered and closed the book. "Winter's reminding us it's still here."
"Feels like it," Ridge murmured.
"Did my reading aloud bother you?"
He jerked his head up. "No. You've got a pretty voice." He suddenly realized what he'd said and snapped his mouth shut.
Emma smiled and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. Despite the clothing between them, Ridge fancied he could feel the warmth of her delicate fingers. "Thank
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