Читать книгу Winter's Camp - Jodi Thomas - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

JAMES WASN’T SURPRISED to find Two Fingers gone at dawn. He was surprised to find the woman still curled by the fire.

When she looked at him, he patted his chest and said, “James.” Maybe she’d get the hint and give him her name.

No answer. Just those huge blue eyes staring up at him. Fear sparked in her gaze this morning. James wasn’t sure it was an improvement over the dull, dead eyes he’d seen yesterday.

As he began to make coffee, she stood and moved silently toward the stream. Since the horses were in the other direction, he doubted she planned to run. If she did, he’d have no trouble catching up to her. In this part of Texas, he could see for miles in every direction.

He watched her by the water. She wasn’t washing. She was applying a new layer of mud. She disappeared from sight for a while, but he decided he’d give her some room. Even a mud woman needed her privacy.

It was full dawn when she came back. If possible she looked dirtier than when she’d left. Her muddy hands were cupped, carrying something.

She offered him a half dozen eggs.

He’d seen the prairie chickens last night, but had no idea where their nests might be.

“Breakfast.” He smiled and took the eggs. “Thank you.”

She moved away without looking at him. James almost asked how she’d like them cooked, but he knew she wouldn’t answer. He scrambled the eggs while the coffee boiled, then handed half to her on his one plate while he tackled his half from the skillet.

He talked while they ate, wondering if anything he said was getting through to her. As he loaded up the horses, he realized she was watching him, not simply glaring at nothing. Once he was ready, he walked over to her and took her hand. “We’d best be heading out. I’ve got a campsite picked out about twenty miles from here.” He brushed the dirt off her hand as he talked, then he tugged her to the horse and set her up bareback.

When he turned loose of her hand, he patted his chest one more time and said, “James.”

Shyly, in a whisper he barely heard, she said, “Millie.”

“Millie.” He laughed. “Nice to meet you, Millie.” She had gone back into her shell and was not even looking his direction.

They rode hard all day, stopping at noon to let her rest and drink from a canteen he’d insisted she keep and a few times to water the horses. He found a good place to camp before sunset. Taking his time, James studied the land, thinking about where he’d someday build his home. He liked the idea of using the canyon cutting across the land for miles and miles as a natural border. He’d also need a creek or stream for water. Land was almost free, but without a good water supply it would be worthless.

When he lifted her down from the mustang, she didn’t look at him, but she helped build the campfire this second night they shared.

As before, when he handed her dinner, she watched him before she ate. James tried to talk, but it wasn’t easy carrying all the conversation. He finally took her hand and led her down to the water. He washed the dishes and his hands and face, hoping she’d understand what he was trying to teach her.

She watched, looking as though she feared for her life.

He didn’t want to frighten her more, so he simply walked back to the fire. She stayed by the water for a long while. When she returned, she curled on the grass close to where he sat and closed her eyes.

James didn’t move. He studied the muddy woman beside him. “Millie,” he finally whispered, thinking that he was making no progress. Trading for her had seemed a good idea. He’d wanted to help her. Only now, out here a hundred miles from civilization, how could he help her? At least she wouldn’t be beaten, he reasoned. He’d take care of her. Maybe this calm land would allow her to heal. Come spring, he’d get her to people who could help her.

The rise in the ground where they’d camped made a natural wall that hung over them almost like a rocky roof. By building the fire beneath the overhang, the smoke drifted over the roof through tiny openings and disappeared into the night. No one would see their fire or the smoke from it. The rock behind them also offered a break from the wind that constantly blew.

James made his bed on the other side of the fire, facing out into the shadows. He loved the sounds of the night. That’s why he’d come back to this land. Here, he would start fresh.

He drifted to sleep listening to the bubbling sound of the stream, the swish of the tall grass and the rustling of the dead leaves still clinging to the cottonwoods near the water. He relaxed thinking that someday every man for miles around would know this was Kirkland land. His land.

At dawn he woke to a cold fire and blue eyes watching him. Sometime in the night, she’d moved beside him. It crossed his mind that if she’d walked the distance without waking him that she could have easily killed him in his sleep. His hunting knife lay beside the fire where he’d left it.

“Morning, Millie,” he said.

Blue eyes stared at him with less fear than yesterday. They were making progress.

He showed her how to make the coffee, frowning when the coffee beans went into her dirty palm. They ate from the supplies he’d bought at the trading day. He’d bought enough for one. Now, with her to feed, they’d not last the winter. He’d have to take time to hunt more. He’d also have to find more firewood and close off at least one more side of his camp. He didn’t mind waking up to frost covering him, but he didn’t like the thought that Millie’d wake up frozen. She didn’t have enough meat on her bones to keep her from freezing.

Plus, he was getting real tired of the filthy old blanket around her shoulders. Maybe if he could keep the half-cave warm, she’d take the blanket off at least long enough to wash it.

He spent the morning building a corral for his horses then decided to go exploring. If he went a different direction every day, he’d know the land before long.

It was almost dark when he returned.

She’d started a fire and had made a soup out of a potato and jerky the way he’d showed her the night before.

James took care of his horse and sat across the fire from her. She didn’t look at him when he praised her but he noticed her hands were clean. Maybe the coffee wouldn’t taste like mud tonight. A dozen eggs sat next to the supplies. She’d done her share of the hunting for food it seemed.

She wasn’t mad as Two Fingers thought her to be. She wanted to stay alive, but she didn’t want to communicate with him.

He talked to her as they ate, telling her all about what he’d seen that day. She fell asleep without giving any hint that she was listening to him. James leaned back on his saddle and relaxed. Just before he dozed off, he watched her move near him and curl deep into her old blanket. Maybe she wanted to be near him, he thought, or more likely she was simply afraid of the dark.

Smiling, he decided Millie might not like him, but she felt safer close to him.

The next morning when he washed his hands and face, she did the same. The sight of her face, clean of mud, angered him. Deep bruises ran along one jaw and under her left eye. Along her throat were signs of rope burns.

For the first time he was thankful for the blanket because James knew it covered more bruises and scars. If he could have, he would have gone back to Ransom Canyon and made every one of the Apache pay. Only, deep down he knew wrongs were done on both sides, just as they had been committed during the War Between the States. Maybe Millie was more like him than James had thought. She might just want to get away from people for a while.

He reached to touch her, but she jerked away.

Give her time, he thought. Let her have control over herself. He had a feeling it had been a long time, if ever, that she’d felt she had any say in her own life.

Keeping his voice low, he began to show her how to fish. While he waited for her to accept him, he’d teach her to survive.

The day was warm by the time they’d caught enough for supper. While she watched, he pulled off his shirt and boots then waded into the water to wash his shirt and body.

He knew she’d have to remove the blanket to wash even though that one filthy, ragged blanket was her armor. As long as she held it around her, she had a buffer against the world.

That night, in the light of the campfire, he shaved with his hunting knife, then combed his hair. He offered her the comb.

She tried, but her hair was too matted.

“I guess you’ll just have to cut it off.” He laughed, thinking that her hair looked like a tumbleweed packed with mud.

She gave up after several tries and handed back the comb.

That night, when she moved to his side, he reached across the foot of grass separating them and took her thin hand in his. “Good night, Millie,” he whispered.

“Good night, James,” she answered in a voice that sounded as though she hadn’t used it in years.

“Your mind’s not gone.” He smiled. “Whatever you had to go through didn’t drive you insane. When you come out of this dark place you’re in, I’ll be waiting to help. Just remember, they didn’t break you. You’re not mad.”

* * *

THE NEXT AFTERNOON when James returned to camp, he changed his mind.

Millie sat by the fire, his hunting knife in her hand, her scalp bleeding from a dozen tiny nicks. Almost all of her muddy hair was piled in front of her.

Looking up with those huge eyes, he saw her sorrow. She’d done what he’d suggested. She’d cut off her hair. He wasn’t sure if she thought his words were an order. If she did, this mess was all his fault.

Kneeling beside her, he took the knife from her fist, then walked to the creek and wet his two clean bandannas.

Still sitting by the fire, she didn’t look up when he came near her. She’d gone back to that place inside herself where she must have gone every time she’d been hurt. That safe place where nothing registered, nothing mattered.

“Millie,” he started, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to clean the cuts so they don’t get infected.”

She didn’t move as he carefully cleaned the blood and dirt away from her head. Then, as if he were shaving, he scraped the last few tufts of hair from her scalp.

When he walked to the creek for water to fill the coffeepot, he thought he heard her crying, but he couldn’t be sure. The whole night seemed to whisper sorrow from the lone coyote’s call to the wind whining through the trees.

Without making any effort to talk, he untied the rabbits he’d killed for supper. As he skinned them and roasted them, he was surprised to see her begin to work with the furs, stretching them out on stick frames.

He ate alone, watching her, wondering where she’d gone in her mind as her hands worked.

An hour later she moved toward the roasted rabbit he’d left on their one plate and began to eat like an animal who feared someone would snatch the food away at any moment. The thought occurred to him that maybe, in the tribe, she’d never been allowed to eat until the work was done.

Before he turned in for the night, he built the fire a bit higher, worried that she’d be cold. But, as she had every night, she waited until she thought he was asleep and curled up beside him. She may only be six inches away, he thought, but it might as well be an ocean between them.

He thought of reaching out to touch her hand, but guessed she’d pull away. Silently, he promised he’d keep her safe. Maybe she had family? Maybe one of the missions would take her in.

Silently, James swore he’d not leave her until the fear in her huge eyes was gone.