Julie Tetel - Sweet Sarah Ross

“I’ve roasted meat on a stick for you,” Mr. Powell said to her at one point, “and placed it away from the fire on these rocks. You can have it when you’re hungry.”

“I’m hungry now,” she said, still not looking up.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, “but you’re right not to hurry, since we can’t move out of here for quite a few hours yet.”

She was in her black threads now and began to place the beak. “Just like yesterday, then?”

He grunted his assent “The terrain in these parts doesn’t provide enough cover for us to travel during the day. I’ll do what I can to sniff out the trail of the wagons over the next few hours, but I’m limited in my movements because of that prairie wolf and my lack of a knife. Not to mention the Sioux.”

“I’ve got a bit of work left to do on your shirt,” she said, “and could probably spend the day embroidering, if I had enough thread.” She held his shirt away from her and regarded it critically. She turned the shirt toward him, then finally looked up. “You see—” she began, and got no further.

He was squatting down before the fire and balanced on his heels just as he had when she had last seen him, but there the resemblance between the Mr. Powell of last night and the Mr. Powell of this morning ended, and she wouldn’t have known him for the same man if she had not already heard his voice. When she looked up, he met her regard, and her overall impression of him now was that he was much younger than she had guessed, although she had not previously considered him old. She was frankly astounded to discover how thoroughly a shave could transform a man. His face wasn’t handsome—she wouldn’t go so far as to say that —but it was…compelling, in a masculine sort of way, all flat planes and clean angles.

His eyes were blue. She had noticed that right away, along with the fact that he was unusually sharp-sighted. But now that his blue, sharp-sighted eyes were focused on her in inquiry and no longer bloodshot, they had a quite distinctive effect. His hair was different, too. She wouldn’t call it precisely tamed, but he had evidently washed it, and it was still slicked back from his face and only just beginning to curl as it dried. Then there were his broad shoulders and his muscular chest, which tapered down to a washboard stomach. She had already discovered how strong he was, but she couldn’t quite understand why she hadn’t made a connection between that strength and the physique that matched it This lack of connection was all the more curious given the fact that when she had first laid eyes on him he had been naked.

At that she blushed and had the presence of mind to hold the shirt in her hands up in front of her face. She cleared her throat. “You see what I’ve been doing,” she tried again. “What do you think so far?”

He did not immediately respond. In fact, the silence was prolonged enough to give her time to recover her complexion and to peek around the side of the shirt.

He was staring open mouthed in amazement, but his expression was not that of pleasant surprise, nor did he seem particularly impressed with her unexpected skill with a needle.

“I asked you what you think, Mr. Powell.”

He closed his mouth, then opened it to say, “It’s a bird.”

“An oriole, yes. I told you so last night.”

“I didn’t think you were serious about putting it on the shirt.”

Any trace of embarrassment vanished. This was the Mr. Powell she knew. “It’s a rather fine start I’ve made, if I do say so myself,” she said sweetly, and fixed him with a well-practiced gaze that blended mild puzzlement with entreaty. “Do I take it that you have some objection to the improvement that I’m making?”

He might have predicted that the beautiful idiot would end up doing something idiotic while he was gone from the campsite. She was an irritating woman, no doubt about it. A tricky one, too, and he didn’t want even to begin to respond to the look in her big brown eyes, no sir, or imagine how many men had fallen victim to it. And although he was able to recognize the not-so-subtle manipulative intention of that look, its effect on him was in no way lessened. It reminded him that a year in the field was a long time—

He shook his head to clear it. “I object to wearing a shirt with a bird that belongs on a sewing sampler.”

“I think you should know, sir, that this pattern represents a skill level well beyond that of the sampler. It is found on parlor pillows in the best houses and on napkins, linen napkins.”

“Especially a bird that’s surrounded by all those curlicues.”

“Those are to become mimosa flowers,” she informed him. “I have hardly had time to finish the entire pattern, so perhaps it’s premature of you to judge it at this stage. The pink of the flowers will nicely complement the golden orange of the bird’s body, while the brown of the branch balances out the white and black of its head and wing feathers.”

“Does it have to be so big?”

“Well, this is about the size of the design as it figures on parlor pillows.”

“Ah, but I suppose that on napkins, it would be—” He broke off.

There it was again, that look. “You were saying, sir?” That voice, too. Sweet enough to melt a foolish man. “Something about napkins?”

This was a ridiculous conversation, and he wasn’t going to pursue it. He needed a shirt, and it looked as if he was going to have one with an orange bird, surrounded by pink flowers, poised to chirp its silent song across several square inches of his upper left breast. He exhaled gustily, slipped the suspenders hanging down at his sides over his shoulders and rose to his tender bare feet.

“Let me know when the shirt’s ready,” he said. “You can eat whenever you want.”

He retrieved his moccasins and was at the edge of the campsite when she stopped him with the words, precisely enunciated, “Do you mind telling me where you are going, sir?”

Yes, I do mind. “Is there a specific reason why you need to know, ma’am?”

“Since I wish to bathe at the spring, I would like to be assured that we do not get in each other’s way.”

He should have guessed. “I’m going to check out possible wagon tracks and trails. Since I can’t move out in the open for any considerable length of time, I’ll be gone several hours at least, but won’t be able to cover much more than a mile or so.”

“And if the prairie wolf comes, should I chip stones again?”

He nodded. “Keep the fire going, too, or start another one for practice. Remember never to make two fires in one place. That will make it easier to cover our tracks before we move on out of here later today.”

As he was leaving the campsite in a direction away from the spring, he heard her say, “If you’re worried about not quite striking the right fashion note with a beautiful oriole on your shirt, I might remind you that your present outfit is far more stylish than the one you were wearing when I first saw you.”

He crunched his way through the trees, grumbling to himself. This was hardly the best start to a day that was sure to be as grueling as the one before. He was in better shape, though, much better shape. After the beautiful idiot had fallen asleep the night before, he had boiled some water and put some snakeweed in it. Then he had soaked his feet in the concoction and slept with his soles wrapped in sage leaves. This morning, although his feet were far from healed, they were no longer stabbing him with pain. Since he wouldn’t be doing much walking today, mostly waiting, he figured his feet would be even better by the time of the evening’s trek.