What if during the night Nicholas had ridden away? What if he’d left her?
She grabbed her water bucket, lifted the bar from the door, threw it open, took one step into the morning sunlight.
“Stay inside, Bethie.”
She whirled toward the sound of his voice, relief warm in her veins. He stood in the shadows, leaning against the corner of the cabin, his arms crossed over his bare chest. Both pistols were still tucked in the waistband of his breeches, the knife in its sheath.
He glanced at the water bucket in her hand, strode toward her. He hadn’t shaven, the day’s growth of beard dark on his face. The half-moon shadows beneath his eyes were proof he hadn’t yet slept, either. He reached for the bucket. “I’ll take that. I want you and Belle behind closed doors today.”
She looked up at him, confused. “But you said he was injured, that he had fled.”
He met her gaze for a moment. Then he looked at the dark wall of forest beyond the barn, his lips a grim line. “I can feel him out there. He must be more seriously injured than I realized. Otherwise, he would have either attacked us already or moved on.”
“If he’s injured, then I’ve naught to fear.” She reached for the bucket.
“Even a dying man can throw a knife or fire an arrow from the shadows. I won’t give him that chance. Go back inside, Bethie, and stay there.”
Nicholas brought water, firewood, and fresh eggs and did the morning milking while Bethie prepared a quick breakfast. Neither spoke as they worked. Bethie half expected to see the Indian man’s shadow in her doorway at any moment.
She had just poured tea into Nicholas’s cup when she noticed the strip of old cloth he’d tied around his left forearm. “You’ve been injured!”
“It’s nothing, Bethie.”
“I’ll be the one decidin’ that.” She set the teapot aside, took his muscular arm in her hands, began to unbind the wound.
“It’s little more than a nick.”
Beneath the cloth was not a nick, but a deep cut. He had already washed it and spread his special ointment on it. There was little more she could do. She looked up, saw an amused grin on his face that left her both cross and a wee bit breathless.
“Will I live?”
“If it festers, who can say?” She let his arm fall to the table with a thud and, ignoring his chuckle, walked to the cupboard, took out a strip of clean linen and her little crock of violet-leaf salve. “The least I can do is bind it in a clean cloth.”
Aware his gaze was upon her, she worked quickly, trying to ignore the way that touching him made her heart beat faster and her blood grow warm. Still, she was painfully aware of even the smallest details beneath her fingers—the rasp of dark hair against smooth, sun-browned skin, the outline of veins, the firmness of his muscles.
“He meant to plunge his blade into my chest. Bad luck for him I chose that moment to turn and fire.” He said it lightly, as if he were talking about a game of cards and not a life-and-death struggle.
“His knife did this?” She secured the bandage with a little knot, looked into his eyes. “I dinnae know how to thank you, Nicholas. You saved us.”
Nicholas wanted to pull her close, to kiss her, to lift any shadow of lingering fear from her heart, but he held himself back. “I promised to protect you.”
She looked away, covered the little crock of salve with a scrap of cowhide. “So you were just keepin’ your promise?”
What would she have him say? That he cared for her more deeply than he would have thought possible? That he would sooner tear his own heart out and stomp it into the dirt than see either her or little Isabelle harmed? That he had never experienced such fear as when he’d seen her and Belle in the hands of Wyandot men?
It might be true, but he could not tell her this—for her sake. What a damned fool he’d been! How could he have imagined even for a moment that he could help her forget her past when he would never escape his own? He’d come so close, so dangerously close, to seducing her. But Mattootuk had shown up in time to remind him, to stop him.
He braced himself for the pain he knew he would cause her. “Aye, keeping my promise. What else would it be?”
And there it was—shards of hurt in her violet eyes. She swallowed, bit her lower lip. “You told me you were taken prisoner, no’ that you had lived among the Indians with your Indian wife.”
“Iwastheir prisoner.” Because he hated himself for hurting her, the words came out harsh and angry. “Think no more on it. You’ll be rid of me soon enough, and then what I told you or failed to tell you will no longer matter.”
He willed himself to stand, willed himself to walk away from her, leaving that stricken look on her face.
He had a dead man to bury.
***
