To Find You Again (4 page)

Ridge studied her a moment, then a slow smile stole across his lips. "My pleasure, ma'am."

Although Emma knew he was only being polite, she liked his diffident smile and the sound of his husky voice. She started down the porch steps and heard Ridge follow. As they walked across the yard, he kept half a step behind her, which made conversing difficult. She slowed her pace so he could catch up, but he slowed accordingly and continued following her.

At least he didn't mind being seen with her. Most respectable people did.

"Were you in the army, too?" she asked, turning her head to glance back at him.

"Yes, ma'am."

"When did you get out?"

"Last year."

She'd slowed even more while they'd talked, and Ridge finally ended up walking beside her.

"Why did you get out?" she asked.

"You sure ask a lot questions, ma'am."

Chagrined, Emma risked a glance at him and instead of irritation or anger, she spotted a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. It made her feel only marginally less guilty about asking such personal questions. "I'm sorry. It's really none of my business."

His humor disappeared. "It's all right, ma'am. I'm just not used to talking about myself."

"I can understand that." Emma had found the less said about her life with the People, the better.

She increased her pace, but Ridge remained beside her instead of fading back again.

"I fought in the War Between the States," he finally said in his husky timbre. "After my enlistment was up, I signed back on as an army scout and stuck with that until—" He angled a look at the blue-capped sky, then settled on the buttes in the distance. "Until it didn't seem right anymore."

Emma's stomach knotted. "Were you the one who led them—" The knot moved up and threatened to strangle her.

"No." His answer was immediate, telling Emma he knew what she was trying to ask. "I quit last fall."

Relief flowed through Emma like a swift-running river. It was important to her, knowing he hadn't been involved in the butchery; her instincts weren't wrong about the soft-spoken man. They arrived at the barn and Emma said, "Mr. Tucker's probably in here."

"Thank you, ma'am." Without another word, Ridge slipped inside the building.

Emma was tempted to follow, but her upbringing stopped her. Proper young ladies did not get involved in men's discussions. She laughed without humor. Nobody saw her as proper any longer, although her father insisted on continuing the charade for appearance's sake.

She trudged back to the house, hoping her father hadn't noticed her absence, but if he had, did it matter? Passing by Ridge's horse tied to the hitching post in front of the house, Emma paused to pat the horse's neck. She slipped off a glove and ran her palm over his velvety nose.

She tipped back her head to gaze at the blueness unbroken by clouds, and to breathe in the fresh scent of the awakening earth. It was the Moon of the Greening Grass and soon the countryside would be filled with infant wild-flowers and leafing trees.

And what of her son? Was Chayton playing with the rest of the children? Was he scampering after butterflies among the blooming flowers and laughing in delight?

Or had Chayton been struck down like so many others the night the soldiers had come to the village? The pain struck her then, like a knife twisting in her belly and she breathed in short pants to stem the tears.

She had refused to think about the possibility of her son's death, unwilling to open her heart to the overwhelming grief. But now, she could no longer bury the soul-deep anguish. Her arms ached to hold her son and her ears kept searching for the sound of his voice. He'd been such a happy child, eager to explore, his pudgy legs propelling him from one adventure to another.

Burning tears stung her eyes and she swiped her arm across her face. Crying wouldn't help her—she'd done enough of it the past five months and it had achieved nothing but a one-way trip away from everything she held dear, especially Chayton. Her baby...

Emma sensed someone approaching and glanced back to see Ridge Madoc returning. The stiff set of his shoulders and the tight lines in his face told her the outcome of his talk with the foreman hadn't been favorable.

She stepped away from his horse, pulled her glove back on, and waited until he drew even with her. "He didn't hire you," she stated.

"That's right." The clipped words were a sharp contrast to his usual drawl.

He jumped onto his horse's back and fitted his toes into the stirrups.

Emma grabbed the reins before he could escape and placed a hand against the horse's neck as she gazed up at Ridge. "I'm sorry."

He stared down at her and his eyes softened beneath his hat brim. "I'll find a job."

"Couldn't you go back to scouting for the army?"

His mouth twisted up again. "No, ma'am. I've had a bellyful of killing."

Emma released his horse's bridle and crossed her arms, hoping to hide her sudden trembling. "I'm glad," she said softly. "Goodbye, Mr. Madoc."

Ridge touched the brim of his hat with two fingers and nodded. "Ma'am."

Emma watched the former scout ride away.
He
would know how to find the remnants of her tribe, but convincing him to help her would be difficult. It would entail her having to tell him about her son and late husband, and she wasn't strong enough for that.

Although the sun was warm, the ever-present wind was cutting and she reluctantly returned to the house. To her stupid needlework and her useless existence.

Emma shadowed corner of the town hall, trying to remain inconspicuous. She had fought a long battle with her parents to allow her to attend this dance, and won only because they believed she'd be leaving for St. Paul in a few days. If they suspected she only wanted an opportunity to speak to Ridge Madoc, their permission would've never been granted.

She closed her eyes to block out the expected, but still hurtful, snubs and listened to the music, which was overlaid by children's laughter and the buzz of conversation. The sounds carried her back, to before her life with the People. She used to love attending socials, pretending she was the belle of the ball. She'd slip outside and, in the shadows, dance with an imaginary beau. In her pretend world, she'd been graceful and coquettish, knowing the right words and expressions to charm a man.

No matter how hard she tried, Emma couldn't return to her make-believe world. It, like so many other things, had been lost to her.

At least her sister Sarah still had her dreams and the possibility of them coming true. She'd danced twice with William Lyndon, the banker's son; Sarah had confessed her pining for him to Emma.

"Marybeth told me he was an army scout."

Startled, Emma's eyes flew open. Two women stood about six feet away, their heads close together as they conversed behind their palms.

"His name is Pony Cullen," the other woman said to her companion, as if imparting a deep dark secret. "Colonel Nyes says he's his finest scout."

Emma followed their gazes to a tall, rail-thin man wearing a well-worn pair of uniform trousers and a brown shirt. When he turned to refill his cup from the men's punch bowl, she saw his face was pockmarked and sharply angled.

Suddenly, he lifted his head and stared straight at her, as if he knew she was studying him. Emma should've dropped her gaze, but his caught her, held her, like a cat toying with a baby bird.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two gossiping women now had their sights on her. Idly, she wondered what the scandalmongers could come up with which hadn't already been whispered behind her back.

Cullen finally turned away, freeing Emma. She searched the room, hoping Mr. Madoc had shown up, but she couldn't spot him. The women had said Pony Cullen was a scout—would he work for her? Or should she stick to her original plan of asking Ridge Madoc?

Before she could decide, Cullen ambled out the back door. Emma figured he had to answer the call of nature after drinking so much "punch." Now would be an ideal chance to talk to him in private.

Ignoring the two gossiping women, Emma followed after the scout. The evening air nipped at her cheeks and she shivered from both the chill and nervousness.

After waiting a few minutes in the cool darkness, she spotted Cullen returning from behind the building. Before her courage escaped her, Emma strode purposefully toward him, hoping to intersect his path in the relative privacy beside an ancient oak tree.

"Mr. Cullen," she called.

He stopped and raised his head. From her distance, Emma couldn't read his expression. As she neared him, a knot began to form in her belly. "My name's Emma Hart—"

"I know who you are," Cullen interrupted.

Emma's cheeks burned. Of course, everyone knew her. "I heard you were a scout."

She was close enough to see Cullen's gaze rake over her, and the knot expanded.

"You heard right," he said.

"I'd like to hire your services," Emma stated, imitating her father's no-nonsense business voice.

"What kind of services ya lookin' for?" He licked his thin, dry lips.

Emma's fingernails bit into her palms. "I'd like to hire you to find some Indians."

Startled surprise was followed closely by cruel chuckles. "Got so you liked them bucks, huh?"

"What?"

Cullen stepped closer, leaving less than a foot between their bodies. "You don't need to go lookin' for one of them. I can give you what you need right here."

Emma recoiled, bile rising in her throat as his meaning became clear. "That's not why—"

Cullen grabbed her wrist and yanked her against his chest. The stink of tobacco and sweat made Emma's stomach roll. "You're no better'n a whore now, Miz Hartwell." He deliberately slurred her name.

Emma struggled to escape his grip. "Let me go!"

"Go ahead and yell. Ain't nobody gonna help a squaw woman." He tangled his fingers in the hair bun at the nape of her neck and jerked downward, forcing her head back.

Emma opened her mouth to scream but Cullen's lips smashed down upon hers. Her cry died in her throat as terror and disgust gave her added strength. She shoved at him, but he only tightened his hold on her hair. Her scalp burned and tears of pain trickled down her cheeks.

She hadn't survived a near drowning and seven years with the People only to be beaten, or worse, in the town she grew up in—a place she should've been safe. Anger replaced her fear and she stomped down on his foot with her heel. He muttered an oath and his grip loosened. She pulled away, only to have her arm grabbed. His fingers dug into the tender flesh and Emma had no doubt there'd be bruises.

"So, you like it rough?" Cullen grinned down at her, exposing yellowish-brown stained teeth. "I do, too."

Tendrils of panic snaked around Emma's chest as she struggled to escape. Although the two busybodies had seen her leave, Emma doubted they'd say anything if she didn't return. And even if they did, who would lift a hand to help her?

Emma Hartwell had committed an unforgivable sin seven years ago—she'd chosen to live.

Chapter 3

Originally, Ridge'd had no intention of attending the dance in town that Saturday night. What little he knew of dancing was associated with Indian ceremonies and he didn't figure that type of dance would be looked upon too kindly.

But although he hated politics, he knew how it worked. If he was to become a respectable member of the community which had shunned him as a child, he had to rub elbows with the local folks, even those he didn't like.

He rode down Sunset's main street as his gaze wandered across the numerous buggies, wagons, and saddle horses lined up and down the road. It looked like everyone from a twenty-mile radius had come in for the dance.

A block from the meeting hall, he dismounted and tossed the reins loosely around a post. Even this far from the dance, he could hear voices and the occasional rise of fiddles above the hum of conversation. The sound reminded Ridge of a disturbed beehive.

He tried to swallow, grimaced, and stuck a finger between the paper collar and his neck, and tugged. If the dance didn't kill him, the shirt damned sure would.

Ridge adjusted his hat and trudged across the street like he was headed to a ladies' tea party. Against his better judgment, he sidled into the crowded hall. Removing his hat, he ran a hand over his head, ensuring the leather tie still held his long hair back. He searched the many faces and nodded to those who met his gaze. Many of them returned his nod of greeting.

Howard Freeman, owner of the hardware store, crossed through the mess of people to greet him. Freeman grinned broadly and extended his hand. "Must be some special occasion to get you into town."

Ridge shook his hand and smiled with genuine warmth. "Seeing you dressed up like a Thanksgiving turkey is more than reason enough."

Freeman chuckled, his fleshy chins resembling a turkey's wattle. "Look at you! I almost didn't recognize you wearin' a store-bought suit."

Ridge smoothed a hand over his vest self-consciously and resisted the urge to tug at his collar again. "i reckon you won't see me wearing it very often. Damn thing's gonna choke me."

Freeman laid a fatherly hand on Ridge's shoulder. "i always said it ain't the clothes, but the man wearin' them that counts."

Ridge noticed Hartwell and his wife chatting with Thomas Lyndon, the mayor as well as the bank president. Hartwell caught his eye, scowled, and turned away. Ridge frowned—the two men were probably scheming to force some small farmer into selling out to the mighty rancher.

"Maybe not, but men like Lyndon and Hartwell don't see it that way," Ridge said, his lips curled in distaste.

"They ain't bad men, Ridge, just used to things bein' a certain way." Freeman clapped him on the back. "You shouldn't be standin' around jawin' with me. In fact, I think Grace is just waitin' for some fella with two left feet to ask her to dance."

Ridge followed Freeman's pointing finger to the man's daughter, a red-haired gal with freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. She was standing by the refreshment table, watching the dancers as she swayed to the music. "I don't know anyone with two left feet, but I reckon I could handle her."