“Hmmm. It smells delicious, but I don’t think I could eat one of those entirely by myself.” She glanced at the chickens, which were sizzling, blackened by the fire, the aroma of them enticing beyond belief. Her stomach growled. “Are they almost ready?”
“They are. Are you hungry?”
“Very much.”
“Eat as much as you like. We will save the rest, for it might make a good soup.”
“But what will I eat the chicken with? We have no utensils, no plates, nothing. And the meat looks very hot.”
He took one of the chickens from the fire, smoke rising as the juices fell into the flame, and scooting the chicken from the stick that held it, he placed it on a slab of wood in front of her. Glancing at her, he slanted her a smile. “Fingers will do, I think.”
She grinned back at him. “Oh yes. Of course.” Delicious.She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the meal was set before her. Truth be told, it seemed the most savory of feasts she had ever eaten. Juicy, succulent, cooked to perfection, the meat almost fell from the bone, while juices ran down her chin.
She wiped at that chin. After a moment, she held up greasy fingers. “Mr. Hawk, I have no napkins, I’m afraid.”
He looked around her. “The grass, your blanket, are best for this. Although a wise Indian will wipe the grease in his hair—it is known to be good.”
“In his hair?”
He nodded. “Makes it healthy.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. The next time I run my hands through your hair, I’ll…think…about…” Her words trailed away as her eyes grew big. Dear Lord, why had she said that?
Instantly, his gaze met hers, and they stared at one another for what seemed an eternity, the air practically steaming around them.
At last, he turned his face away from her.
She bit her lower lip. “Mr. Hawk, I’m sorry I said that.”
He remained silent.
“Actually,” she went on to say, “I’m sorry I said all those things to you the other day. I know I hurt you, but I didn’t know how else to impress upon you how precarious our situation is.”
Swift Hawk prodded the fire with a stick. “What does this word ‘precarious’ mean?”
“It means risky, not on solid ground, uncertain, dependent on the favor of others.”
He jerked his head to the left, his eyes still withheld from her. “You do not need to apologize. I understand why you did what you did. You were protecting me, as well as your brother.”
“And myself, as well. Yes, that’s right. But I should have…”
Silence reigned. He glanced at her. “Yes?” A single eyebrow lifted.
She pressed her lips together. Should she tell him the truth? If she did, it would strike a blow to all her well-thought-out plans. But what good had all those plans done her, except to give her more heartache?
Perhaps the truth, well stated, was a better idea. Besides, she could feel his hurt, even now.
Drawing in a deep sigh for courage, she squared her shoulders and plunged in. “I wasn’t quite truthful with you, I fear. Well, I was truthful, in a way, but…well, no I wasn’t, but… What I mean to say is that…” She paused, and he didn’t utter a word. Just looked at her.
Angelia beheld that stare and caught her breath. “The truth is, I meant to…to give you the wrong impression. I did it purposely…so as to discourage you. But in doing so I…well, I left out a few things. Maybe they’re important things.”
Again, he remained silent, though his eyes were trained on her.
Defensively, she drew the blanket around her and dropped her glance to the ground. “That day, that morning, when we made love, it was true that I wanted to do something good for you, but…well, what wasn’t true was that…that this was…the only reason…that I acted…as I did.”
A very long silence followed. After a time, he said, “I know. As soon as my anger left me, I realized this was true.”
“You did?”
