white woman.
But he had found her.
He jerked when he heard a rustling at the door. When it opened and Ella appeared, his heart lurched. She carried a blanket and a basket made of straw.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice chipper and pleasant as she set down the blanket and basket. “I’ll return in a moment. I need to draw a pail of water from the well. For your wound.” She walked briskly out the door, leaving him feeling empty inside.
Though the sun still shone, Raven could tell dusk was imminent. The thought of Ella out alone after dark concerned him. But this was her home. The women of his band were safe on their land after dark. His face furrowed into a frown. He did not trust the white man. Not even Ella’s father, the preacher. He sat, tense, until she returned.
She set down the bucket of water, splashing some onto the soft dirt floor of the dugout. “Oops,” she said. “Well, no harm done. It will dry.” She rummaged in her basket, pulled out a tin cup, and dipped it into the pail of water.
“Now, first things first,” she said, approaching him and holding the cup to his lips. “Drink.”
The cold liquid tasted like nectar in his parched mouth. He downed all the water within seconds.
“More?”
He nodded, and she brought him another cupful and held it to his lips again. He didn’t need her to hold the cup for him, yet he made no effort to discourage her. Her nearness soothed him.
When he had finished his second cup, Ella reached into her basket again and pulled out a few slices of brown bread. “I’m sorry. This is all I could manage. We had stew for supper, and I could hardly bring some of that out without my mother wondering what I was up to. As it was, I sneaked the bread into my apron during dinner. Oh!” She reached into her apron pocket. “I did manage to save you some of the blackberries I picked this afternoon.” She giggled. “They stained my pocket horribly, I’m afraid. We couldn’t eat them with cream. I never did finish milking Sukie, and most of what I got I fed to you.” She pulled out a handful of crushed berries. “Here”—she held one to his mouth—“they’re nice and ripe. Very sweet.”
He ate the berry from her hand. The warm juice burst onto his tongue and trickled down his throat. Yes, sweet. All the sweeter because she had fed him.
“Another?” Her fingers, stained purple from the berries, touched his lips. They were warm and smooth, like the smoothest hide after tanning.
“Good.” She grabbed his hand and dropped the remaining berries into it. “But you’ll have to feed yourself now. I can’t let your wound fester any longer. It needs cleaning.” She turned to his thigh. “The bleeding has stopped, which is good. It doesn’t appear to be too deep. But still we need to watch for infection.” She reached into her basket and withdrew a pocketknife. “I’ll need to cut the leg of your buckskins off. I’m sorry.”
“It’s…fine.” The first words he had spoken since she entered the dugout.
He winced, hoping she knew how to use the knife. He knew little about white women, but he did know that they did not usually work with knives such as this one. Ella proved agile with the blade, however, and soon the leather of his buckskin sat crumpled in the corner of the dugout, his bare leg exposed.
Ella closed her eyes, clearly uncomfortable with his nakedness. Although his lower body was still mostly covered, his chest was bare. He silently thanked the Great Spirit the bear had not attacked him there.
Ella opened her eyes and let out a shallow sigh. She took a cloth out of her basket, wet it in the water, and gently cleansed his wound. The ache in his thigh had dulled, but the soft cloth stirred the sharp pain again. He sucked in a breath and groaned.
“I’m so sorry,” Ella said. “I know it hurts. But I must cleanse it.”
“I am…fine.”
She looked at him and then darted her gaze away. “Eat your blackberries. It will give you something to focus on while I do this.”
His stomach rumbled, and he stuffed the remaining blackberries into his mouth. Ella looked up as juice trickled down his chin.
“Goodness, there’s no need to make a hog of yourself. I’ll bring you more berries tomorrow.” She finished cleaning the wound and covered it in a sharp-smelling salve.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Beeswax. With a little oil of peppermint. It will help stave off infection and keep the air out of the wound while it heals. I’m sorry if the smell bothers you.”
“Does not…bother me. Just different.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it is. What do you use for healing in your…culture?”
“Herbs and flowers. I do not know the white man names. My mother is…a medicine woman.”
“Oh. Well, she likely knows more than I do. But this salve has healed many a wound in its day.” Her gaze rose to his lips. She grabbed a fresh cloth from the basket, wet it, and gently cleansed his face of the sweat and grime that had built up since the attack. She chuckled when she came to his chin. “My, you’re like a child with that purple chin. You do love your berries, don’t you?”
“Just…hungry.”