Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (31 page)

   
“That’s how you got all those thistles in your feet.” She winced thinking of running across a field of the tough spiny weeds barefooted.

   
“That was the least of my problems, believe me.” Briefly he outlined the rest of his escape, the fight with Man Whipper and his subsequent blackouts and wandering until he found the Osage village.

   
When he had finished the tale and the broth, his small reserve of strength was spent. Olivia could see his eyelids growing heavy. Just as she started to rise from the bed, Micajah walked into the cabin. His big frame filled the doorway as he peered at Shelby and his Sparky sitting so cozily by his side.

   
“So, our soldier boy finally waked up.” He noticed how quickly she scooted off the bed, making a big production of washing the bowl and spoon in the pan of water sitting on the kitchen table.

   
“He won’t be awake for long. He’s still too weak to hold his head up,” she said matter-of-factly, not expressing the relief she felt that he had at last awakened.

   
Samuel stared at the great grizzly of a man looming over him. Good lord, he was old enough to be Olivia’s father—her grandfather! At once his snide words came back to haunt him. Damn, why did he blurt out such tomfool stupid things around that woman? “You must be Micajah Johnstone. I’m greatly obliged for the hospitality. You’ve saved my life.”

   
“Warn’t me. Sparky here’s th’ one whut took keer o’ yew.”

   
Sparky?

   
Micajah continued on, “She sat up ever’ night sinc’t we come home from th’ Osage town. Acted plumb skittish ever’ time thet litter we wuz carryin’ yew on took a leetle bump. She sewed up thet cut on yer side. Didn’t want ta do hit neither, till I held up one o’ these.” He gestured with his huge meaty hand. “This here’s more o’ a bar paw than hit is anythin’ human. I ‘spect if I wuz ta try stitchin’ up yer side yew’d o’ felt like yew’d been mauled. Onc’t she seen my drift, Sparky here took thet needle ‘n did a right proper job of hit. Course, she wuz real worried ‘bout—”

   
“Micajah, I think Colonel Shelby needs to rest,” Olivia interrupted, mortified to have him recount the way she had fussed over that arrogant ingrate.

   
Samuel’s curiosity was burning, but his mind began to grow fuzzy with weariness as he looked from the loquacious old man to the tense young woman. He moved his left shoulder experimentally and was rewarded with a tight stab of pain from his side.

   
At his hiss of agony, she quickly rushed back to the bedside before even thinking about it. “Don’t roll around so or you’ll break the dry stitches. They’ll need to come out in a few days, I think.” She fought the urge to run her hands over his body as she had done so often in the past days while bathing him and treating his hurts. Now she knew every inch of that splendidly male anatomy, knew it so well she had but to close her eyes to see it, to conjure the touch, smell and texture of him. Damn, what was wrong with her!

   
Micajah watched Olivia hovering over Shelby as the injured man’s eyelids flickered closed. She looked pale and had smudges of fatigue beneath her vivid green eyes from staying awake nights, ready to jump up and tend him if he made the slightest sound in his feverish sleep. Now his Sparky was a sweet loving girl who felt anyone’s pain—man or critter—he knew that, but what she felt for the handsome soldier went beyond the compassion of her woman’s soft heart. He was as sure of that as he was of sunrise.

   
Was Shelby worthy of her love? Judiciously he decided to take the man’s measure before passing judgment. After all, he had only heard her version of what passed between the two of them. She had a fierce temper and pride enough for an Osage war chief. And the soldier fellow had to be tough as a boiled owl to survive what he had. Micajah could imagine the two of them striking sparks off each other, he thought with an inner chuckle. Time would tell. He had the whole winter to study on the matter...

* * * *

   
Samuel awakened to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baking corn bread. His stomach growled and he was salivating as he blinked a few times and gingerly raised his head to look around the cabin.

   
While she was unaware of his perusal, he observed Olivia. She was dressed in a pair of old britches, probably one of the ones she had brought with her from St. Louis, along with a soft plaid shirt he had never seen before. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing her slim golden forearms.

   
The clothes, while old and much mended, appeared to fit her better than the ones she wore when she had been disguised as “Ollie.” Odd, but there was something peculiarly tempting about the way a woman filled out a shirt and britches, especially a tall, slim, curvaceous female with yards of fire-colored hair and slanted emerald gypsy’s eyes.

   
Damn, I sound moony as a lovesick schoolboy!

   
She had learned a thing or two from that old bear Johnstone. He watched the efficient way she checked the bubbling coffeepot, moving it away from the flames onto low coals. Then she shoved a big tined fork beneath the golden loaf of corn bread baking on a shallow cast iron pan to check the bottom side for doneness. Satisfied, she sat it on the side of the hearth and turned her attention to the smoked meat sizzling in the skillet. He watched her turn crispy strips of what he judged to be venison.

   
“Looks like Johnstone’s created a culinary miracle.”

   
Olivia turned around quickly, brandishing the big fork in one hand like a weapon. At once she felt a fool under his sardonically amused stare. “Micajah is different than you. I never wanted to poison
him
,” she replied tartly, mocking his raised eyebrow by lifting her own disdainfully.

   
She returned his penetrating stare, studying the gauntness of his face, what she could see of it beneath the thick stubble of black beard once more growing on the lower half. The night they returned to the cabin, she and Micajah had to ascertain the extent of his injuries, which meant they had to wash his hair and shave off his matted curly beard. Now it had all grown back. He was a heavily whiskered man. Remembering the feel of that beard stubble beneath her fingertips made her flush with a warmth that did not come from sitting so near the hearth. She looked away and returned to cooking breakfast.

   
“Poison or not, it smells more than good enough to eat.”

   
“You could use some meat on your bones. Your ribs stick out.” The minute she blurted out the retort, she could have bitten her tongue.

   
Samuel watched her blush to the roots of her hair. “So, what are you waiting for? Come over here and fatten me up,” he said in a low, suggestive voice, taunting her.

   
“The only critters we fatten up around here are the ones we butcher for our winter larder. Not a bad idea in your case, except that you appear to be too tough to kill.”
   
As they exchanged double-edged banter, she dished up some venison, placed a thick slab of corn bread on the plate beside it and drizzled it with honey, then poured a mug of steamy black coffee.

   
“Dare I hope that’s for me?”

   
“It’s for Micajah. You get more broth and a bit of this cornpone soaked in milk.”

   
He made a face.

   
Just then the giant came walking through the cabin door, carrying a rolled-up buffalo hide. “Where do yew want ta work on this? I thought hit’d be cooler beneath th’ cottonwoods by th’ creek, but if’n yew want hit closer ter th’ cabin, I cud peg hit out front.” He held the heavy soft skin on one arm as if it weighed no more than a patchwork quilt, although even dressed and tanned out a full-sized buffalo robe easily went one hundred-fifty pounds.

   
“Why don’t we stretch it down by the creek. I could use some fresh air away from the cabin,” she replied with a scathing glance toward Shelby.

   
“Mornin’, son. Glad ta see yew waked up agin. Reckon yore stomach done thought some Injun’d slit yore throat. Sparky here’s a real fine cook.” He tossed the half-cured robe across one sturdy chair, then took the plate she handed him and walked over to Shelby with it.

   
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to give him solid food so soon,” she countered.

   
“Wal, mebbee not th’ meat, but pone’s th’ staff o’ life,” he averred. “So’s coffee. We got fresh milk ta go with hit?”

   
“Yes. Sukey was balky again. I had to hobble her and she tried to horn me,” Olivia replied.

   
“You have a cow?” Samuel asked, incredulous at the idea of Olivia as a milkmaid.

   
“Nope,” Micajah answered. “A she-goat. Bought her off n a Spaniard whut wandered through these parts a couply years ago. She gives good rich milk but she’s a mite tetchy ‘bout hit. All depends on how yew handle her,” he added, looking Shelby directly in the eye.

   
“Aren’t all females,” Samuel muttered as he struggled to sit up.

   
“Here, better let me help yew,” Micajah said affably. He walked over to Shelby and literally scooped him up with surprising ease and gentleness, sitting him against the back of the log bed frame. “Sparky, git some o’ them extry pillers ta put behind his back.”

   
Although sweat beaded his face from the searing pain in his side, Samuel gritted his teeth and said nothing.

   
Olivia hurried over and began to fluff several large corn husk filled pillows which she stuffed behind him. She could see the muscles and tendons standing out on his neck and along his jaw as he suppressed groans of pain.
   
“Stitches burn?” she asked conversationally.

   
“Yes, a little,” he replied through clenched teeth.

   
“Then you’d better eat to build up your strength. It’s time for them to be pulled out today.”

   
She was enjoying his misery, damn her. He could tell it by the smirk in her voice and the dancing light in those green eyes. “And you, I suppose will extract them?” His look was killing.

   
She smiled. “Who better? I sewed them in the first place.”

   
“An’ a right steady hand she’s got, too. Yew never fear,” Micajah interjected, grinning.

   
Olivia brought over a slab of corn bread torn into small pieces, soaked with a mixture of honey and milk. Taking a spoon, she sat down beside him and offered him a bite. “Go slowly. I don’t want you throwing up all over the clean bedding.”

   
In spite of the pain in his side, he felt amazingly rested and stronger than before. He almost offered to feed himself—until he noticed her nervousness as she gingerly positioned herself on the very edge of the bed, careful not to make bodily contact with him. Now it was his turn to grin...wolfishly. He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I’m waiting. And I’m very hungry.”

   
Olivia forced her hand to remain steady and aimed for his mouth, watching as those elegantly sculpted lips closed over the spoon. Those lips had scorched her skin, brushing across her throat, temples, her cheeks, pressing against her mouth, demanding entrance so his tongue could plunder and taste of her. She watched him chew slowly, savoring the honey soaked bread, rolling it around on his tongue, then swallowing. Her eyes followed the sinewy bronzed column of his throat muscles as the food went down. How could the simple act of eating be so sexually charged?

   
She felt his eyes on her and broke the hypnotic trance that seemed to suspend time. “Here. You seem strong enough to feed yourself this morning,” she said, jabbing the bowl at his bare hairy chest until he took it with one hand and secured the spoon with the other. As she stood up and quickly moved away from the bed she thought she heard him murmur very low, “Coward.”

   
The sun was at its apex in the autumn sky as Olivia squatted over the heavy buffalo hide. It had been stretched tightly on a frame Micajah had made especially for the purpose of working a buffalo skin after it had been scraped clean. She smeared the greasy grayish mixture of brains and lye ash across the absorbent hide, then began to work it in to cold cure and soften. After it soaked long enough, she would scrape it completely clean again and let it dry out, then build a very low fire with green wood and let it burn down to smoldering coals. The hide would then be carefully suspended over the dense smoke. Ever after, it would remain soft even if soaked in the rain.

   
Micajah watched her labor, rubbing fiercely with both small fists, elbows stiff, throwing her whole back into the hard task. “Yew ‘pear ta me ta have a wasp in yore britches, Sparky. Hit got anythin’ ta do with thet pretty soldier boy?” There was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked down at her.

   
She straightened up and shoved a loose lock of red hair away from her forehead with the back of her arm. “Samuel Shelby is no boy.”

   
Johnstone seemed to be considering this revelation thoughtfully. “Come ta think on hit, I reckon yore plum right ‘bout thet. He’s got his full growth.” The big man clawed at his chin through the tangle of beard and then added softly, as if thinking aloud. “Shore ‘nough, parts o’ him got full growth.”