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He moved as if he meant to get up but she pushed him back down.
“All right, no more questions, but please don’t get angry again. It’s too nice a day to ruin with anger.” She ran her hands in his hair and began to massage his scalp.
“Do you like being a newspaper reporter?” he asked.
“Yes, at least I did, but I think I’m getting tired of it. I’m twenty-eight years old and I started when I was eighteen. That’s a long time. I think I want…I don’t know what I want but it’s something more.”
“A home and kids?”
She laughed. “You’ve been talking to my father. Did he tell you how he got me back to Washington? How he lied to me? I was working in New York and he sent me a telegram saying he was at death’s door. I cried from one end of the country to the other thinking he was dying and when I arrived home, filthy, tired and terrified, there he was atop a bucking bronco having the time of his life.”
“You’re lucky to have a father.”
“You don’t?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Or mother?”
“She’s dead.”
“Ah,” Chris said. “How long have you been alone?”
“Always. Are you going to look at my feet and get this over with? I need to check the trail ahead to see what’s happened to it over the years.”
Reluctantly, Chris removed her hands from his skin as he turned and sat up. For a moment their eyes locked and held. Chris never wanted to look away but Ty broke the gaze.
“I was safer in jail,” he mumbled. “Here! Take a look at my feet. That should keep you busy for a while.”
With a sigh, Chris turned away from his face to look at his feet—then gasped. There were blisters, and blisters that had been worn away to bloody patches and what wasn’t actually blistered was about to. “New boots and no socks,” she said, taking one foot in her hand. “Did you just put them on and wear them without breaking them in first?”
“I had to. I’d ruined my dancing slippers the night before,” he said solemnly.
She laughed. “I’ll bandage these places and then I’ll see if Mr. Prescott has an extra pair of socks.”
“No!” Ty said quickly. “I don’t take charity.”
Chris looked at him in astonishment. “All right,” she said after a moment. “No charity. But the first town we come to, we buy you socks. My father did pay you for rescuing me, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” he said, watching her as she began to bandage his foot. She ran her hands over his ankles which were as raw as his wrists. “Chains?” she asked.
He acted as if she hadn’t asked. “What made you go after Lanier anyway?”
“I don’t know. Somebody has to. John Anderson will have that story in print by now. People hate the Indians even more than they already do whenever they hear of them killing missionaries. This time they didn’t do it, Hugh Lanier did, and I didn’t think it was fair for the Indians to get the blame.”
“Even though it meant that a white man, a man you knew, would probably lose everything?”
“The missionaries lost everything,” she said softly.
“I’ve never seen a woman who handled being shot at as well as you did yesterday. Had some practice?”
“Some,” she answered.
“I thought women like you wanted to stay home and raise babies.”
“What does that mean, women like me? Besides, I’ve never been in love. Have you?” She held his ankle in her hands and had no idea how her fingers were tightening.
“A few times. Hey! Your little nails are sharp.”
