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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
GERARD
I wake early the next morning and she’s still sleeping soundly. Rolling to my side, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t stir, even when I peel back the covers to reveal her bloody thighs. Maybe she needs more rest when she bleeds.
I fill up a hot water bottle, wrap it in flannel, and lay it over her lower belly. She stays still, her breathing even as I part her thighs and tuck a folded towel between them.
Then I write a note and leave the cabin. I know exactly where the horses are, so I tack up Shadow and we take the main trail over the mountains. They’ve been less than a five minutes ride from the cabin this entire time. I see their backs huddled in the three sided shelter near a round hay bale.
I rope them, one by one, and bring them to the paddock. It’s crowded, but we won’t be here long and they’ll fit in the open barn tonight. When I return to the cabin, she’s still upstairs. I climb the stairs to find her standing in the shower, steam clouding thick between us.
“You alright?” I ask.
She turns, her arms wrapped around her body. “Yeah, I just…um, I forgot to bring pads. I didn’t think about it.”
I lean against the sink and cross my arms. “There’s extra flannel sheets, but that’s about it. We don’t get too many women up here at the cabin so you won’t find pads.”
“I think I can make flannel work,” she says. Her gaze darts over me and fixes on the shower wall. “I’m not feeling great. I don’t know how much use I’ll be in rounding up the horses.”
“Already done,” I tell her.
She brightens. “Are they all okay?”
“They’re fine, I put them in the barn. And they have enough space to wait until you’re ready to leave.”
“Maybe I’ll go out to see them.”
I shake my head. “No, you’re getting back in bed.”
She’s not used to being taken care of. I see her struggle to accept my words, but finally she nods. I linger while she dries off and runs a comb through her hair. It takes her a while, but she finally gets her hair hanging in a wet curtain down her back.
She goes to braid it over her shoulder and I stop her.
“Let me,” I say.
She watches me in the mirror, eyes wary. Gently, I gather her hair and braid it down her back, tying it off with the rubber band she hands me. When I’m done, she turns to inspect my handiwork.
“I’ve never met a man who can braid hair,” she says. “Why did you learn how to do that?”
I take the braid in my fist, wrapping it twice around my grip. Immobilizing her head. Her breasts heave and our eyes meet in the mirror.
“Okay, I see,” she whispers.
I release her and she lays back down in the bedroom. I feel her curious eyes on me as I rip strips of flannel to fold and put between her legs. When I refill the hot water bottle and place it on her lower belly, her lids flutter and sink down.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I kiss her forehead and leave her resting while I find breakfast. When I return to the bedroom, she’s sitting upright with her back against the pillows. I lay the tray of reheated biscuits, jam, and coffee on the end of the bed and sit down at her side. My boot catches on her coat on the floor by the bed and something tumbles from the pocket.
It’s the little painted mare she hides from me.
I pick it up and her eyes widen, her hand darting out to snatch it up, but I hold it back.
“Why do you carry this with you?” I ask.
“I don’t,” she says.
I give her a stern look. “No lying, redbird.”
