She nodded but didn't move to dismount. He should hurry down and around the wagon to help her. But the thought of hurrying anywhere made him want to say a word he'd not spoken in many months.Help me, Lord.
He reached for the wooden bar to give him extra support as he dismounted. "Stay put. I'll come help you."
"I can do it."
His offer seemed to be the push she needed to disembark on her side, and she managed the feat quicker than he.
But as he was still gripping the bar for balance, he could see the way she clutched her belly and slowly straightened. They were a pair, the two of them.
He released the wagon and hobbled to unfasten the traces. "I'm going to water the mules and settle them for the night. Stretch your legs if you like. I'll help with camp when I get back." He'd have better expectations for tonight.
The dog followed along beside the team, a surprise since he'd appeared to desert to the woman the night before. But maybe it wasn't a contest. Barney could wander wherever he wanted, and Aaron could hardly blame him for being charmed by the kindness of that pretty lady. Maybe he joined him now for a drink of water.
Every step made Aaron’s foot burn with the rubbing of the blisters, and he leaned heavily on Abel’s shoulders as they approached the creek. At last, he got the animals hobbled where they could graze through the night, but he could no longer conceal the severity of his limp as he trudged back to camp.
Mrs. Barlow looked up from the crate she rummaged through as he approached. The way her gaze honed on his leg showed she didn't miss the change in his gait. Hopefully she wouldn't say anything though.
She'd laid out the fire but hadn't kindled it yet. It looked like she had the makings of a meal ready also—a kettle and twin plates prepared with the cornbread he'd fried up last night. Hopefully she planned to add meat to that meal. If not, he had jerky he could pull out.
Once he'd lowered himself, his leg burned with relief. He clenched his jaw to keep from groaning while his body adjusted. The pain in his foot seared all the way up to his knee now. He'd have to pull the boot off and see what he could do about those blisters.
But first… He reached for the tinderbox. "Would you like me to teach you how to start a fire?" He tried to keep his tone casual, as though it didn't matter whether she said yes or no. In truth, if she didn't learn this skill soon, she’d never survive in these western territories.
Her regard tickled the fine hairs on his neck, but he didn't look her way. When she spoke, her voice sounded hesitant. "Others have tried to teach me before."
That wasn't quite a no, so maybe he could just talk through his actions. He opened up the tin box. "Not sure if you tried it with charcloth or not, but that makes all the difference for me. Once I have my twine opened up, I just hold the cloth against the flint like this"—he placed the tiny strip of fabric near the edge of the flint where it would catch a spark—"then I strike the steel against the flint. When I get a good spark on the cloth, I blow it a little." He blew a thin stream of air across the spark, then another until the cloth glowed red.
"Now I can place it against the twine threads and wrap them around it like so." He blew another bit of air into the bundle, and the flame leapt to life.
He placed the burning twine in the middle of the kindling Mrs. Barlow had laid in a pile. "You've readied things well. I'm just going to tuck this under the smallest sticks and stand them up over it like an Indian lodge." He sent a glance her way. "Have you ever seen a teepee?"
She was studying his hands with an intense expression as he shifted the twigs around so they'd have the best chance of catching fire. "No, but a man who stopped by our homestead told of living in one when he stayed a winter with the Crow." She spoke the words distractedly, her gaze never straying from his task.
The flame was already licking up the dry twigs, so he moved larger pieces to form a layer around the smaller ones. "I try to always have the driest wood when I'm starting a fire. Later on, we can use fresher logs, but we need wood that will catch easily right now."
She nodded. With the way she hung on every movement, surely she would be able to do this herself. "Tomorrow night, I'll let you strike the flint."
When he glanced her way again, she'd finally moved her gaze from his hands up to his eyes. She looked a bit like a wary horse, not sure if she could trust him not to hurt her. He’d probably pushed far enough for this evening.
He nodded toward the kettle. "We won't have good coals for a while, but you can bring that in next to the flame if you want to start the water heating."
She did as he said. "I've some salted ham to go with our meal. And I have some tea left in my box. A quarter hour should see it ready."
Tea. He'd not tasted any since he last sat at Mrs. Ingrid's table. Normally, he made do with water or coffee in the mornings, but as the notion settled in his mind, the idea of something warm with a rich flavor sounded good about now.
A quarter hour would give him enough time to walk back to the creek and remove his boot to look at the blisters. They could probably use a washing.
"That sounds like a hearty meal. In the meantime, I'll refill our water pouches." Rising to his feet in front of anyone could sometimes lay his pride low, the way he had to struggle for balance with his weak limb. But in front of this woman, what he wouldn't do to be able to push up to standing like any normal man. Once more, he had to grit his teeth to keep from grunting as his shoe leather rubbed the raw places in his flesh.
As before, Mrs. Barlow watched his face far too carefully. He turned away and started toward the water, barely remembering to grab the pouches before he limped away.
At the creek, his body crumpled to the ground now that he didn't have a beautiful lady scrutinizing his movements. He filled the pouches first since he'd likely muddy the water with his foot. Once he'd loosened the laces on his boot, he had to work to get the shoe off. It felt like the leather had shrunk.
Through the three holes in his stockings, angry flesh glared up at him. As he tried to remove the woolen material, the fabric stuck to his feet where the blood had dried. Or perhaps that was liquid from the putrid festering. He peeled the layers off, finally freeing his foot from the confines of the wool.
The bare limb looked worse than he'd expected. The whole foot had swollen, and large patches of red skin surrounded the oozing blisters.
He lowered the foot into the water, his entire body clenching against the mixture of frigid water and searing pain. Finally, his body eased enough that he could draw breath, and the longer he kept the limb in the creek, the more numb the skin became. If only he could sit here all night. If he attempted it, he may lose the toes to frostbite, for the weather had already begun to dip close to freezing.
