To Find You Again (14 page)

"The scars on your knuckles." Her face paled. "I'm sorry, Ridge."

"It wasn't you who did the deed."

She laid a soft hand on his knee. "I'm sorry you were punished for something that wasn't your fault."

Ridge shrugged aside her concern. "The teacher tried. He'd make me write letters over and over until my hand hurt so bad, I couldn't write anymore, but I still couldn't get it right."

"What about your mother and father?"

"Ma used to read to me and I'd try to follow along. And my stepfather—" He peered out the window beside the bed. Snowflakes dashed by, chasing one another as they raced to the earth. "He thought I was lazy and stupid."

And beat the hell out of me with his leather belt.

"Will you let me try?" she asked softly. "I promise we'll stop whenever you want."

No, Ridge didn't want her witnessing his humiliation. Besides, she'd just think he wasn't trying, just like everybody else.

He stalked to the door and shrugged into his sheepskin coat. "I'm going out to check on the horses and bring in more wood."

He plunged outside before Emma could speak. The wind stole his breath, and he turned his back to it, struggling to breathe against the assault of frigid air. He punched his hands into his pockets and lowered his head against the brittle sheet. He trudged through the drifts, most of which were higher than his knees.

In his haste to escape Emma and the memories she evoked, he'd forgotten his gloves and a scarf to wrap around his face. He wouldn't be able to stay outside long without risking frostbite. He checked the horses and found them huddled together, their backsides to the wind that tore around the corner of the cabin. There was little snow buildup on the lee side so the animals could forage. The horses had drunk the melted snow Ridge had brought earlier, and he picked up the battered tin pan to refill. The metal was so cold it seemed to burn Ridge's fingers and he dropped it, cussing. The horses skittered away.

"Easy," Ridge soothed, running a hand along Paint's neck, then along Clementine's withers. Once the animals were resettled, he tugged his jacket cuff over his hand and picked up the pan, silently cursing his idiocy in leaving his gloves in the cabin.

Idiot.

That was one of those words that had sent him out here like a dog with its tail tucked between its hind legs. Even now, almost twenty-five years later, the remembered jeers made his gut tighten with bottled-up anger and hopelessness. He knew Emma would never taunt him, but if he accepted her offer to try to teach him, she would soon realize the truth.

He was stupid.

Chapter 9

His ears began to grow numb and Ridge tramped back to the cabin, pausing by the door to fill the pan with clean snow. With a ball of dread in his belly Ridge entered the cabin, and warmth and peacefulness surrounded him.

Emma was standing by the stove and turned to face him as he set the metal pan on the floor beside the door. He removed his coat, prolonging the moment before he would say no to her generous, but misguided, offer.

"More water for the horses?" she asked, her chin motioning to the pan.

Ridge nodded.

She crossed the floor to pick it up and set it on the stove-top. The snow on the bottom of the pan sizzled and crackled on the hot surface, unusually loud in the cabin's silence.

"I could've done that," Ridge said, unaccountably irritated.

"I know."

She remained by the stove and stared into the pan. Ridge couldn't read her expression, except that she seemed thoughtful. He joined her, standing on the opposite side, and held his chilled hands over the rising heat.

"When I lived with the Indians, my adopted father brought back a horse from a raid," Emma began conversationally.

Ridge lifted his head, but found her gaze aimed at the melting snow.

"The horse tried to bite anyone who came near it. It also had these horrible scars on its back and withers." Emma hugged herself. "Fast Elk said it had been beaten for so long, it had forgotten how to trust. So when anyone came near the poor animal, it expected pain. Fast Elk worked with that horse every day for weeks to get it to trust him."

She paused and worried her lower lip between her teeth.

Ridge knew where she was headed with her story and sighed impatiently. "So your adopted father finally got the horse to trust him and the animal became his favorite pony."

Emma lifted her head and her eyes revealed sadness. "No. The horse never learned to trust and we used him for meat that winter."

Ridge drew back, startled by her blunt words. "So what's your point, Emma?"

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "The point is that the horse refused to trust anyone, and it died because of its stubbornness."

"You can't expect an animal to understand, Emma," Ridge said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "If it only knows pain from people, it has no reason to let anyone get close."

"That's right. But we're people, not horses."

Ridge saw only sincerity and compassion in her expression. He knew she wanted to help him, but she didn't know that in doing so, she'd only be hurting him.

"Please let me try to teach you," Emma implored.

"You don't know what you're asking, ma'am."

She stepped around the stove and clasped his hands. There was unexpected strength in her grip. "I'm asking you to trust me, Ridge."

He had no defense against her softly spoken words. Although he suspected she was hiding secrets—secrets involving the very Indians they searched for—he trusted her with his. He ignored the tightening in his chest and nodded slowly. "I'm not holding you to any promises," he assured her. "A lot of folks have tried, including my own ma."

"Then I'll be in good company, won't I?"

Her smile thwarted any other arguments he had, and he wished he had the right to take her in his arms and kiss her. "Yes, ma'am."

Emma rubbed her palms together. "First thing is to find something to write on."

"You want to start now?"

Challenging eyes met his. "Do you have something better to do?"

He fumbled around for an excuse to stall his lessons. "I should take the melted snow out to the horses and bring in more wood."

He expected Emma to argue, but she only said, "We'll start whenever you're ready."

"After I do the chores," Ridge felt obligated to add.

This time Ridge took the time to bundle up warmly and, despite himself, found he was growing excited about Emma's offer. What if she could accomplish what no one else had? What if he could actually learn to read and write?

No!
He wouldn't let himself hope, only to have that hope crushed yet again. So many times he'd thought he could learn. He'd even come to recognize a few words, like his name and some smaller words. But picking up a book and reading it like Emma did was something beyond his abilities.

Half an hour later, he finished the chores and returned to the cabin with the last armload of wood. Emma sat by the table, biting her lower lip between her teeth as she studied the open book before her. Her braid tumbled over her shoulder and draped her left breast. One of the blankets hung like a sack on her, and his too-large moccasins stuck out from beneath her skirt. But her spine was straight and her slender neck curved enticingly, inviting him to kiss the pale skin. She was a fetching woman, her natural beauty made more evident by her lack of a fancy dress and slippers.

Ridge took a steadying breath and joined her.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

She glanced up, startled. "Trying to figure out how to begin. It's been a few years since I attended school and I don't want to do this wrong."

"It's not like anyone else has done it right," Ridge said with an unexpected swell of bitterness.

"Then we'll both figure out the right way."

His reservations returned twofold, and he knew he should back out now while he still could, but hated to be the one to dim the bright enthusiasm in her eyes. It was a sight better than the unhappiness he'd glimpsed in their depths too many times in the past few days.

He lowered himself onto the barrel.

"Can you read or write at all?" Emma asked.

Her question was cautious, like she was tiptoeing around a family of skunks.

"My name and some words. Not much," he admitted.

She turned the open book so it lay in front of him. "I'd like you to see if you can read the title of this story."

Ridge's heart clamored into his throat, just like when Mr. Porter instructed him to read in front of the class. He cursed himself for being so skittish. He wasn't seven years old anymore and Emma wasn't going to rap his knuckles with a ruler when he got it wrong.

He licked his lips and leaned over the page, which was filled with a terrifying mishmash of letters. Focusing on the largest letters on the page, he began. "The s-stier fo the dab—"

He shoved the book across the table in frustration and Emma caught it before it fell off the edge. He should've known it would be like this—feeling like he was that dumb kid again and standing at the front of the class as the other children laughed at him.

A trickle of sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades. He squeezed his fists so tightly they began to cramp. "I'm stupid. I told you," he said hoarsely.

She clasped a clenched hand. "It's all right, Ridge." She scooted her chair nearer to the barrel, so her shoulder touched his arm, and dragged the book back into place. She pointed to the first word he'd stumbled over. "Can you read the letters of the word?"

He fought the urge to shove both the book and himself away from the table. For Emma, he'd try. He concentrated on the book and not on Emma's clean scent or her soft hair, which was almost close enough to tickle his nose. "S-T-Y-O-R."

Her brows folded downward. "That's S-T-O-R-Y. Story."

"No, it's not."

Her frown grew, and Ridge recognized that look. It was the same one everyone else had right before they told him to stop making things up. But instead, Emma asked, "What about numbers?"

"What?"

"Can you read numbers?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I know numbers but it's the same as the words."

"What do you mean?" She was staring at him like he was a bug she'd never seen before.

Ridge gnashed his teeth. It would work better just to show her. "Tell me a number."

"Four."

"A bigger one."

"Four hundred and thirty-two."

Ridge could clearly see the numbers in his mind's eye and he used his forefinger to write them on the table. Four. Two. Three.

"That's four hundred and twenty-three, Ridge," Emma corrected.

He shook his head stubbornly. "It's four hundred and thirty-two."

Emma nibbled her lower lip. "You changed the numbers around."

"It doesn't look that way to me."

Her expression was more puzzled than disbelieving. "What about if I would write a number?"

Another shrug. "Go ahead."

He watched her finger move across the table. Five. Eight. Seven. "Five hundred and eighty-seven."

"Exactly," Emma said, smiling with victory. "You
can
read numbers."

"Only if I watch you make them." Ridge had been through this before, too.

"Stay here." Emma scurried over to the wood and pried a piece of bark from one of the logs, then knelt on the floor and wrote something in the dirt. "All right. Come here."

Wary, Ridge crossed to her side and leaned over, his hands braced on his thighs. He gazed at the number she'd written. "Nine hundred and twenty-four."

She grabbed his hand and tugged him down beside her, then covered the last two numbers in the dirt. "What number is that?" she asked.

"Nine," he replied, barely restraining his exasperation.

"Now put a picture of the nine in your head," Emma instructed.

Ridge did so.

She put her hands over the first and last number. "This number?"

"Four."

She grinned, but only said, "Now place that one beside the nine in your mind."

Ridge narrowed his eyes as comprehension sank in.

Then she covered the first two numbers with her hands.

"Two," he said without prompting. He looked at the three numbers in his mind. "Nine hundred and forty-two."

Emma clapped her dusty hands. "That's right!"

Ridge sat back on his heels and gazed at the number on the floor. He pointed at it. "But that doesn't match the one in my head."

"Can I tell you another story?" she asked.

"As long as there's not a horse involved."

She grinned. "No horses, I promise." She shifted around so her slender legs were folded sideways beneath her and close enough to Ridge that he could feel her dress against his leg.

"I learned much of the Lakota language from the children because the adults were too busy," Emma began. "Thay'd draw pictures in the dirt and give the Lakota name to the thing or animal. Although they didn't have letters or numbers like we do, they used pictures to tell stories."

Ridge nodded, knowing this already from his own association with the Indians.

"There was a little girl named Sweet Blossom who would draw her story pictures out of sequence. But if you asked her to tell her story, she would do so correctly. But if I drew a story for her, she would 'read' it wrong. She actually saw the pictures in a different order than everyone else."

Ridge felt a kinship with the unknown girl, but kept his voice indifferent. "What happened to her?"

Emma smiled. "The Lakota saw her as gifted. She learned to read picture stories by watching others recite theirs; and everyone else learned hers the same way."

"But I can read and draw maps without doing it backward."

"If someone draws picture stories backward, why isn't it possible that another person could see words and numbers turned around?"

Hope, long dead, stirred to life. "So you believe me?"

Emma motioned toward the number drawn on the dirt floor. "The proof is right in front of us."

He studied the individual numbers, trying to separate them mentally as Emma had done physically. It made his head ache. "Knowing that doesn't mean I can learn to read or write," he stated.