Sophia couldn’t fall to her knees fast enough once they reached its banks. She cupped her hands, ready to fill them with that cold, wonderful water when Matthew laid a hand on her arm. She startled at the feel of his grip, strong and sure, just as it had been when he’d saved her from walking straight into that rattlesnake.
“Wait,” he said. “We ought to boil it to keep from getting sick. But we have nothing to contain the water, and nothing with which to start a fire.” His laugh was hollow. “I suppose that means we take our chances.”
As much as Sophia wanted to thrust her face into the river and drink until thirst was a distant memory, she shook her head. She was nothing if not resourceful, and the last few months had proven exactly that. “Give me a moment.”
Gathering her skirts, she rose and threaded her way through the tall grass at the river’s edge, praying there were none of those snakes or any other venomous creatures lurking in the brush.
“What are you searching for?” Matthew asked at the same time her eyes landed on her prize.
“This!” She turned and held out a piece of wide driftwood, washed up by the river and with a perfect bowl-shaped indentation in the middle. Then she felt for the hidden pocket in her skirts, the one that still held what was left of her money—and the small knife Mr. Randall had given her. She’d shoved into the mostly stitched-up pocket before the outlaws noticed it. She pulled it out now and brandished it as if it were made of pure gold.
Matthew’s eyes widened. “You’ve had that the entire time?”
“Yes.” Sophia glanced at the knife. “I’m sorry. I know it would have made getting those ropes off a little easier, but I didn’t know you then. I thought it smarter to keep this to myself.”
Matthew shook his head, but he smiled. “All right. You have a bowl to scoop water, and a knife for . . . ?”
“Fire,” she said triumphantly. “All I need are a few rocks. Dry and a few should be small enough to fit into this makeshift bowl.” She looked down and eyed one of the perfect size and shape. “Like this one.”
A few moments later, Matthew dumped a variety of rocks a few feet away from the bank, and Sophia got to work. Leaning over the little nest of dried twigs and dead grass she’d gathered, she struck the knife against the largest of the rocks.
“I remember my father doing that,” Matthew said as Sophia struck the rock again. “Years ago, when we were on our way west from Illinois. I’d forgotten all about it. How did you learn?”
Sophia smiled as she hit the rock again. She’d impressed him. That was a start, at least. Perhaps that would eventually give way to respect, forgiveness, and, she hoped, trust.
And why exactly his opinion mattered so much to her, she couldn’t put a finger on. Instead of trying to figurethatout, she cast her smile up at him and said, “On the wagon train. Mrs. Randall showed me.”
Matthew nodded, his approval written all over his face. Sophia turned her attention back to her work, and just as she was about to despair, sparks leapt from the rock. She hit it again, and those sparks caught fire. Then, very carefully, she leaned closer to the little flame and blew gently to encourage it to grow.
And grow it did. Before too long, she had a decent little fire. One by one, she set the smaller rocks into the flames, using the larger one to nudge them in without burning herself. Matthew settled himself next to her, watching intently—which was a good thing, because Sophia was certain her cheeks had gone pink again. She could have measured the distance between them in finger lengths. What was it about this man that made her feel overly aware of every movement she made?
“We’ll heat these rocks, and then drop them into our bowl of water. If it works as I think it will, it’ll set the water to boiling—”
“And we can drink it.” The note of awe in Matthew’s voice was unmistakable, and this time Sophia flushed with triumph. Now if only she could convince him that she was someone he could trust—and not a liar intent upon deceiving him.
Her plan worked just as she’d hoped, and it wasn’t long before they were drinking as much water as they could hold. It was time-consuming, going back and forth to the river and boiling another bowl of water, but Sophia thought it the best tasting water she’d ever had.
“I doubt any water will ever taste as good as this,” Matthew said, echoing her thoughts.
“I’m equally as adept with a bowl of dough,” Sophia said as they waited for another bowl to boil. “Biscuits, bread, pie crust, anything.” The moment it was out of her mouth, she wished she could take the words back. He must think her the least humble woman he’d ever met.
But instead of looking irritated, Matthew smiled. “What I’d give for a biscuit or a cookie right now.”
Sophia’s own stomach grumbled, a sensation that seemed to have left her once the thirst had taken over. But now that she’d had enough to drink, she ached for something to eat. “Me too,” she said. “I’ll make you a promise. Once we get to town, I’ll bake you something.”
His smiled lingered a second, and then his brow furrowed, erasing the expression most men would have when a lady offered to cook for him. “You needn’t do that. My mother—”
“Is a wonderful cook, I’m certain. But you rescuedmefrom those awful bandits, and found us a way back to civilization. I think the least I owe you is a loaf of good bread or a custard pie.” She held her breath, hoping he might agree.
Finally, he nodded, although his expression remained tight. “All right, then. I’ve not yet turned down anything that promises to make my stomach happy.”
Sophia bit her lip to keep from smiling as she fished the hot stones from the bowl with the bigger rock to let the water cool. Her mother always said that the best way to win a man over was through good cooking. And while Sophia was perhaps only a moderately decent cook, her baked goods had always drawn compliments. Surely Matthew would think more highly of her then, and if she could also find him a wife . . . well, her work would be done.
But she frowned as she watched the steam rise from the little bowl. Instead of gaining satisfaction from her plans, she just felt . . . empty.
And when she glanced up at Matthew, she knew exactly why.
She didn’t wish to find him another wife.
