Read Ride the Fire for Free Online Page B

I’m in . . . no shape to harm... anyone.”
    And then, as if to prove his point, he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
    Bethie knelt beside him, touched his forehead, let out a long sigh of relief to find it still cool. He stirred in his sleep, his brow furrowed as if in response to her touch. Asleep like this, his long lashes dark upon his pale cheeks, his brow relaxed, he seemed harmless, not at all the kind of beast who’d hold a pistol to a woman’s head.
    He lay on the floor much as he had fallen. She could not lift him, or even drag him, without risking harm to her baby. She tucked a pillow beneath his head and draped his heavy buffalo-skin coat over him to keep him warm, but there was little more she could do for him.
    Slowly she stood, one hand held against her lower back, the other stifling a yawn. She had already stoked the fire, paid one last visit to the privy house and drawn in the door string. There was nothing left to do but go to sleep. But how could she sleep with this huge Englishman, this rough and wild stranger, in the same room?
    “He cannae hurt you, Bethie, you silly lass. He cannae even—”
    Her words were interrupted by another yawn. Twas surely near midnight. She needed to sleep. She picked up his pistol from the table where she had left it after she’d primed and loaded it, carried it with her around his prostrate form to the other side of the bedstead. Then she drew down the covers, crawled into their warmth.
    The baby kicked restlessly as Bethie settled onto her pillow. “Quiet now, little one. You wouldna want to keep me awake, would you?”

    But despite her exhaustion, sleep would not come, and the baby was not to blame. Each time she began to drift off something woke her. Several times she abruptly found herself sitting up, pistol in hand and pointed into the darkness. Once it was a log settling on the fire. Then it was the howl of a wolf in the distance. And then the stranger shifted in his sleep, bumped one of the chairs.
    Twice Bethie arose, checked him for fever, made certain the door string was pulled in, added wood to the fire. And when she had to use the chamber pot, as she seemed to have to do constantly these days, she found she could not—not with him in the cabin. Quietly she crept outside and saw to her needs under a cold canopy of stars surrounded by furtive noises and the impenetrable darkness of the forest.
    With unbearable slowness, the hours drifted by. The fire burned down to embers. The silence of the night, filled with dark possibility, deepened around her.

    The first thing Nicholas noticed when he awoke, besides the relentless pain in his right thigh, was the underside of a pinewood table. It took him a moment to remember where he was and why. But how had he come to be on the floor?
    He remembered Mistress Stewart cutting his bonds. He remembered trying to sit. And then?
    Had the little wench drugged him again?
    No. He had passed out.
    He cursed under his breath, felt his tongue stick to the dry roof of his mouth. He needed water. A waterskin full of it. It was then he noticed the pillow. She had placed a pillow beneath his head and had covered him with his buffalo hide coat while he slept. The thoughtfulness of her gesture left him feeling annoyed. He didn’t need her compassion.
    Slowly he sat, waited to catch his breath, his heart drumming.
    Although the sun had risen, she was still asleep. Even in the dim light, he could see dark circles beneath her eyes, and he knew she’d slept poorly out of fear of him. If his gut hadn’t told him this, the pistol she clutched tightly in her hand—his pistol—certainly would have.
    She looked helpless, very young and utterly innocent. Her smoky lashes rested on her creamy cheeks. Her long braid had come unbound, leaving her hair to tangle in thick, honey-colored coils against her pillow. She had slept fully clothed, as if to be ready for anything at any moment. Her blankets were twisted in disarray around her