moccasins, he entered her camp. Her horse raised its head and snorted, but was too accustomed to being around people to raise an alarm.
Miss Hartwell slept on her side, facing the fire's remains, and her blanket was tugged up to her chin. The orange glow of the embers reflected reddish-gold strands in her honey-brown hair and illuminated her winged brows and slightly upturned nose. Her lips were pressed together, with the lower one slightly fuller than the upper, giving the impression she was pouting.
Suddenly, Ridge wanted to discover if her lips were as soft and sweet-tasting as they appeared. Before his mind could offer an argument, he was drawing nearer to her.
The woman threw off her blanket and charged upward. Orange glinted off silver metal and Ridge felt a blow, followed by a sharp burn across his forearm. He reacted without thought, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the knife and wrapping his other arm around her waist. He squeezed her wrist until the knife thudded dully on the ground.
She fought in his arms, flailing arms and legs, and they rolled across the dirt, ending up with Ridge straddling Emma's waist. He locked his ankles down on her lower legs and imprisoned her hands on the ground above her head. Lying atop her, Ridge could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest and his body reacted instinctively to her feminine curves.
Ridge gnashed his teeth and willed his blood to cool. "Settle down, Miss Hartwell. It's Ridge Madoc."
The moment he said his name, she ceased struggling.
"Mr. Madoc?" she asked.
"Yeah," he answered curtly, sitting up so she wouldn't feel him so intimately against her belly. "You gonna behave?"
Her stiff muscles relaxed beneath him. "Yes."
Releasing her hands, he shifted off her, kneeling to her side. With the fight drained from both of them, Ridge could now feel the blood soaking his sleeve and dripping onto the ground. The throbbing in the gash told him it wasn't a mere flesh wound.
Damn.
"I'm surprised it was you," she said quietly as she sat up.
"What?"
"I knew my father would send someone. I didn't think it would be you."
Ridge shrugged, then hissed when the movement sent an arrow of pain through his wounded arm.
Miss Hartwell scrambled to her knees and gazed down at his injury. "Your arm. How bad is it?"
"Could be better."
Her annoyance disappeared, replaced by concern. "I'll build up the fire so I can take care of it."
Ridge didn't argue, knowing it needed to be cleaned and maybe sewn, too. She completed her tasks quickly without speaking. Although Ridge wasn't accustomed to being around a woman, he felt little awkwardness with Miss Hartwell. She didn't prattle on and on about this and that, but worked efficiently with a minimum of commotion.
"Move closer to the fire, Mr. Madoc," she ordered.
Ridge did so and worked to remove his jacket and shirt so she wouldn't have to cut the sleeves off. The woman assisted him, easing the two pieces of clothing off the wounded arm.
Without any sign of embarrassment, she ripped a camisole dug out of her saddlebag into three pieces. Upending her canteen, she wet one and began to clean away the blood around the wound.
Although Ridge usually preferred silence, he found he wanted to hear Miss Hartwell's voice. "Where'd you learn to use a knife?" he asked.
"Fast Elk, the husband of Talutah. I lived with them." Her brow furrowed, but she didn't look up. "There were a handful of young Indian men who felt the same way as Cullen, only it was because I had white skin."
Ridge wasn't shocked by her matter-of-fact statement. It didn't matter what color a man was, there were always some who enjoyed hurting folks. "You must've been a good student."
She glanced up. "Fear is a good motivator." She returned her attention to the wound.
The night's silence surrounded them with only the fire's crackling and the occasional coyote's yipping disturbing the serenity. Ridge kept his gaze on Miss Hartwell's bowed head as she
Miss Hartwell slept on her side, facing the fire's remains, and her blanket was tugged up to her chin. The orange glow of the embers reflected reddish-gold strands in her honey-brown hair and illuminated her winged brows and slightly upturned nose. Her lips were pressed together, with the lower one slightly fuller than the upper, giving the impression she was pouting.
Suddenly, Ridge wanted to discover if her lips were as soft and sweet-tasting as they appeared. Before his mind could offer an argument, he was drawing nearer to her.
The woman threw off her blanket and charged upward. Orange glinted off silver metal and Ridge felt a blow, followed by a sharp burn across his forearm. He reacted without thought, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the knife and wrapping his other arm around her waist. He squeezed her wrist until the knife thudded dully on the ground.
She fought in his arms, flailing arms and legs, and they rolled across the dirt, ending up with Ridge straddling Emma's waist. He locked his ankles down on her lower legs and imprisoned her hands on the ground above her head. Lying atop her, Ridge could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest and his body reacted instinctively to her feminine curves.
Ridge gnashed his teeth and willed his blood to cool. "Settle down, Miss Hartwell. It's Ridge Madoc."
The moment he said his name, she ceased struggling.
"Mr. Madoc?" she asked.
"Yeah," he answered curtly, sitting up so she wouldn't feel him so intimately against her belly. "You gonna behave?"
Her stiff muscles relaxed beneath him. "Yes."
Releasing her hands, he shifted off her, kneeling to her side. With the fight drained from both of them, Ridge could now feel the blood soaking his sleeve and dripping onto the ground. The throbbing in the gash told him it wasn't a mere flesh wound.
Damn.
"I'm surprised it was you," she said quietly as she sat up.
"What?"
"I knew my father would send someone. I didn't think it would be you."
Ridge shrugged, then hissed when the movement sent an arrow of pain through his wounded arm.
Miss Hartwell scrambled to her knees and gazed down at his injury. "Your arm. How bad is it?"
"Could be better."
Her annoyance disappeared, replaced by concern. "I'll build up the fire so I can take care of it."
Ridge didn't argue, knowing it needed to be cleaned and maybe sewn, too. She completed her tasks quickly without speaking. Although Ridge wasn't accustomed to being around a woman, he felt little awkwardness with Miss Hartwell. She didn't prattle on and on about this and that, but worked efficiently with a minimum of commotion.
"Move closer to the fire, Mr. Madoc," she ordered.
Ridge did so and worked to remove his jacket and shirt so she wouldn't have to cut the sleeves off. The woman assisted him, easing the two pieces of clothing off the wounded arm.
Without any sign of embarrassment, she ripped a camisole dug out of her saddlebag into three pieces. Upending her canteen, she wet one and began to clean away the blood around the wound.
Although Ridge usually preferred silence, he found he wanted to hear Miss Hartwell's voice. "Where'd you learn to use a knife?" he asked.
"Fast Elk, the husband of Talutah. I lived with them." Her brow furrowed, but she didn't look up. "There were a handful of young Indian men who felt the same way as Cullen, only it was because I had white skin."
Ridge wasn't shocked by her matter-of-fact statement. It didn't matter what color a man was, there were always some who enjoyed hurting folks. "You must've been a good student."
She glanced up. "Fear is a good motivator." She returned her attention to the wound.
The night's silence surrounded them with only the fire's crackling and the occasional coyote's yipping disturbing the serenity. Ridge kept his gaze on Miss Hartwell's bowed head as she
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