“I don’t want to be married to the next secretary of the interior,” she snapped. “But if one of you won’t climb into the bedroll with Mikhail, then I will.”
“You can’t.” The tips of her father’s ears turned red. “It will ruin you.”
“Watch me.” She opened up her parka and unfastened the top button of her shirt, then moved her hand to the next button. “Perhaps word of my impropriety will spread back to Washington, DC, and ruin any chance you two have of marrying me off to your next boss.”
“I’ll warm him up, Miss Wetherby.” Dr. Ottingford cleared his throat and sat up in the bedroll he’d been sharing with Heath, the covers pressed tightly to his chest.
Dr. Ottingford. Of course he’d be the one willing to help. He was kind that way—when he wasn’t busy with the long list of things her father was always giving him to do.
She’d forgotten he was there, listening in on a conversation she would have much rather kept within her family. But then, the man had overheard a lot of their private family conversations over the years, and he’d never breathed a word of them to anyone.
“Thank you.” She sent him a smile, even though it felt a bit tight. “I appreciate it, but I’m sure Mikhail will appreciate it more.”
“Do you mind turning around, Miss Wetherby? So you don’t... er, that is...” Dr. Ottingford’s face turned red. “I’m not dressed appropriately.”
Bryony felt her own cheeks flush, which was strange, because they hadn’t been hot when she’d threatened to climb into the sleep sack with Mikhail herself.
But the thought of Dr. Ottingford being undressed caused instant embarrassment to course through her.
She promptly turned her back, listening for the rustling of the bedroll behind her before Dr. Ottingford said, “It’s all right now, Miss Wetherby.”
She turned around to find Dr. Ottingford stuffed into the bedroll with Mikhail. “How does he feel? Is more than just his face and neck cold?”
“Yes. He’s quite cold. It’s a good thing you noticed. Perhaps you can warm some rocks by the fire, and we can use those to bring up his body temperature as well.”
Rocks by the fire. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She bent to pick up a few of the round river rocks littering their campsite.
“When are you going to start lunch?” Heath snapped. “I’m famished.”
She was hungry too, but warming up Mikhail was more important. “I’ll start on that as soon as I’ve finished gathering rocks.”
“Since we have some extra time, I’m going to take some notes about the flora along the river here.” Her father headed back to the canoe, where he likely intended to grab one of his journals from the trunk.
Bryony followed him to the shoreline, gathering as many rocks as she could carry. She didn’t know how many she’d end up using, but she’d rather have too many than not enough.
After she set them near the fire to warm, she started on the biscuits. Her hands worked methodically as she mixed the flour and water and lard, then plopped the misshapen blobs into the frying pan.
She’d made biscuits beside a fire so many times that she didn’t even need to think about her actions. But that only gave her mind more time to wander back to Mikhail and recall how his strong arms had wrapped around her at the very moment she’d been sure the river current was going to pull her under for a final time.
To remember the hard look in his eyes as he negotiated her release with the Tlingit warriors in the forest the day before.
To remember the way he’d held her against his chest when she’d wanted to cry afterward.
He had saved her life not once but twice in less than twenty-four hours.
And yet now he lay beside the fire cold and unresponsive.
It was time for someone to care for him the way that he was always trying to care for everyone else. She was more than happy to do it.
As long as she didn’t have to think about how they’d both go their separate ways after they returned to Sitka.
23
Burning. His entire body was burning up. Mikhail woke with a start, his eyes flinging open to find himself staring at an ear. A rather large ear that was attached to a partially bald head and sporting a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.
Dr. Ottingford turned his head and blinked at him. “Mr. Amos, you’re awake.”
“It’s Mikhail,” he grunted, his voice corroded with sleep. “Why are you in my bedroll? And why does my back feel like it’s on fire?”
