The Runaway Read online

  “You shouldn’t be up,” he said.

  His gruff voice reminded Delilah that she was not safe with this man. She tried to straighten up and he relaxed his hold to permit this. His hands took no liberties with her body. He just eased his grip and allowed her to take responsibility for her own weight again.

  A flash of pain shot up her injured foot the moment it touched the earth. A small cry escaped her lips and she dropped right back into the man’s arms. This time he was less accommodating of her feelings. He scooped her up and carried her like a small child back to his pallet. There he laid her down on the blanket, leaving her to tug her smock down more firmly over her legs as he backed away.

  “If we fix that foot, you’ll be walking in a day or two,” he said.

  Delilah wanted to ask him why he cared, but then she realized it would help him if she could walk when he brought her back to the Colonel for his reward.

  “It will hurt a mite,” the man told her, “but it’s the only way you’re ever gonna walk again.”

  Delilah pulled her injured foot into her lap and examined its sole. The swollen flesh beneath the toes was dark with infection and an oozing wound at the center of the pain. No wonder she couldn’t stand on it—just looking at it hurt. Touching it with her fingers made her eyes tear.

  The man drew his knife drawing Delilah’s eyes back to him. “It’s an Arkansas Toothpick,” he said. “Sharp blade—it won’t take long to cut the splinter out.”

  Delilah cringed at the thought. She didn’t want to hurt anymore. She looked again at the oozing sore. Even in the dim light of the fire, she could see the end of a bramble peaking out of her flesh. He was right, she realized. It had to come out.

  She met the man’s blue eyes and extended her hand. “Could I do it?” she asked. She didn’t want to dig through her tender flesh with that blade but surely it would be better than letting someone else do it.

  “Best if I do it for you,” the man said. “I’ve a steady hand.”

  Delilah’s eyes settled on the knife again. The man and his little hovel were both filthy, but that blade gleamed in the firelight. He took better care of it than he did himself.

  “Roll over on your stomach,” the man said.

  She hesitated. She couldn’t let him do it without watching, could she?

  “Go on!” he said. For the first time she heard impatience in his voice. She reacted to the tone without thinking, rolling on to her stomach and extending her leg straight out behind her.

  “Good!” the man said. He placed his shin on the back of her ankle just above her heel and let his weight come to bear. Then he pressed down on the uninfected part of her foot, just below the heel to lock her in place.

  Almost before Delilah knew what was happening he pressed the knife into her tortured flesh.

  She screamed. “Lordy! No! Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

  He dug about inside her foot without apparent concern for her agony. Delilah thrashed back and forth, trying to dislodge him. Her free foot caught him a sharp kick across the cheek knocking him to the side and letting her pull the injured limb tight up against her body. Blood welled in the cut, almost drowning the piece of bramble that his efforts had pulled mostly free.

  The man was back up and in her face, pushing her down and grabbing hold of the foot with both hands. “Stay still!” he told her. He trapped the injured foot with one hand against his chest and held it there. Looking back over her shoulder, Delilah could see him pinching with the fingers of his free hand, trying to grip the mighty bramble that had caused all of this pain.

  He let her go. “Here it is,” he said. “It’s an awful little thing to cause so much trouble.”

  He handed the bit of wood to Delilah. She couldn’t believe it. Inside her foot it felt six inches long. Outside, it wasn’t half as long as her thumbnail. “Is that all of it?” she asked.

  “Think so,” the man told her. “Let’s take another look.”

  Before acting on his suggestion, he got the bucket from the door. Some of the water had sloshed out when he dropped it but most was still in the container. He carried it back over to her, dipped some out with his hand and splashed it on her feverish foot. The cool liquid felt good, but it hurt when he wiped the blood away with his fingers.

  “You’re not screaming,” the man said. “I think we got it all.”

  He let go of her. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ve got work to do.”

  Delilah watched the man stand and walk toward the door. She didn’t know what to make of him. He hadn’t touched her yet—not really. Now he appeared to be leaving her alone. “Mister,” she called out before she could stop herself. “You got a name?”

  The man paused to look at her, the intensity of his stare unsettling Delilah. “Carson,” he grunted, then turned and left the shack.

  Chapter Three

  Yearning

  Carson’s heart pounded in his chest as he walked away from his home toward the barn. The woman had asked him his name. He’d held her in his arms—carried her cradled against his chest. He never remembered feeling this excited. He wished he could turn around right now, go back to her, and discover what it meant to be with a woman. He wanted to feel her again, crush her against his body, and explore her flesh with his hands. She was twenty feet away. Why couldn’t he turn around and go make her understand he was a man?

  The answer to that question gleamed as vividly in his memory as the tantalizing feel of her soft breast against his chest. She’d been frightened of him when she first woke up—absolutely terrified he’d take advantage of her weakness—and Carson would do anything not to bring that fear back into her beautiful eyes. She was all alone like him, but worse than that, he knew that men had to be looking for her. No wealthy southern planter was going to let a fine looking filly like that escape his herd.

  Carson entered the barn and pulled the door closed. This building was better built than his house—sturdier and larger. In the winter, he slept here with his burro and his chickens, now he leaned his back against the door and tried to catch his breath in the deep shadows. He couldn’t believe there was a woman in his house—a beautiful dark-skinned gift from God staying under his roof. He couldn’t seem to make his pulse stop pounding. He’d had her in his arms! Why hadn’t he done something about it? He could have run his hand over her rear when he set her down or at the very least innocently run his fingers up her leg.

  There was a woman in his house! Why was he out here in his barn clutching his thick cock in his hands, massaging himself through his pants? Why was he fumbling with the knot of his belt instead of going back into the house and pulling Delilah up against him? She had to be grateful he had saved her life. Wouldn’t she want to reward him?

  The rope came loose and his pants dropped down to his knees. His cock was hard, jutting out in front of him through the circle of his fingers. His balls ached with need. His heart raced faster than any horse he’d ever seen.

  He stroked his rigid flesh up and down in the darkness wishing it was Delilah’s fingers touching him. He paused to lick his hand remembering his brief glimpse of the woman’s dark thighs, wishing her dress had hitched higher—that he’d had the courage to push it up about her waist and see what a woman hid between her legs.

  His hand moved easier now, squeezing hard on his thick shaft as he pumped his hand up and down his length. His pulse throbbed beneath his jaw and sweat beaded on his forehead. It just wasn’t right. A woman had finally come to him and he was out here in the dark like always while she—what was she doing in his house? Was she thinking of him? Was she wishing he’d come back inside like a man and teach her how to be a woman?

  He was on the very edge of spitting now—his dick harder than he ever remembered. She’d actually touched him with her breast, pressing it against his body when she’d fallen against him. He wished he’d had the courage to cover it with his hand—pull back her dress, expose the dark tit and…

  “Uhhn, uhhn, uhhn,” he grunted.
/>   In the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the walls, Carson could see his cock spitting seed into the darkness. His knees weakened and he slipped down until his ass hit the dirt. His breaths grew deeper and the sticky mess began to coat his hand while he continued to stroke himself.

  “It’s not right,” he repeated—audibly this time. “You got yourself a woman in your house, but you don’t have her. You ain’t never going to have her. She may be a runaway, but you’re a dirt poor sodbuster. You ain’t got nothing to offer her.”

  He wiped his hand on the ground, unable to fully clean himself, then hitched up his pants and left the barn.

  Chapter Four

  Worry

  Delilah watched the door swing closed behind Carson unable to believe that he had really left. Her foot hurt something fierce, but her fear of the man overrode the pain. Not that he had given her any reason to fear him yet—but he was a man. She knew what he was thinking. She knew what he was planning. All men were like the Colonel. He’d come back through that door when he was ready, throw her on to the floor, beat her if she resisted, and ram that evil prick between her legs…

  Her hands shook with fear entwined with fury, but Carson didn’t come back inside. He’d really walked away. Perplexed, still unable to truly relax, Delilah pulled her foot back into her lap and examined the cut he had made. It had stopped oozing blood but the surrounding flesh was still filled with puss and fluid. She squeezed it. The pain was nowhere near as intense as it had been when the bramble was lodged inside her. Disgusting fluids oozed from the gash and she wiped at them with the hem of her smock. Then she spied a damp piece of cloth near the pallet and cleaned her foot more carefully. It looked as if he’d gotten the entire offending splinter.

  Despite her fears of the man, Delilah began to relax. Sure he was probably just getting her fit to walk so he could turn her back over to the Colonel, but once she was fit she’d be able to run again. She’d been running a long time now—fifteen or twenty days. Once her foot had healed she’d be fit to run some more. No one could catch her when she was able to run.

  If only she knew how much time she had. Was the Colonel right behind her, or did she have a few days to get well?

  Her mama always told her not to fret over things she couldn’t help, so she tried to put the fear out of her mind and concentrate on restoring her strength. She crawled over to the little fire in the middle of the floor and dished out the remains of the soup the man had made there. It had gotten hot since her first bowl—steaming hot—but that just made it taste better.

  She ate the soup, drank more water, and thought about the gun above the door. Should she get it now and kill Carson? Or should she bide her time with him, get what she could from him, and then run again.

  She’d probably have to kill him before she fled. If she left him alive he might come after her for the reward or point the Colonel toward her trail. She didn’t want to kill anyone, but she refused to go back to Arkansas. She wasn’t going to be the Colonel’s slave no more!

  Chapter Five

  Conversation

  Carson returned to his house at sundown. He’d spent the day weeding his fields and watering his poor garden. He was tired and hungry and very curious about the runaway he’d left in his house. He’d half expected her to try and move on despite her hobbled foot but there’d been no sign of movement from his little shack.

  He pushed his door open and peered inside. The woman sprang up from the pallet as if startled from a deep sleep. She made the mistake of putting weight on her bad foot and cried out with pain, lurching against the wall of his home and shaking the whole structure. Carson resisted the impulse to rush to her assistance choosing instead to remain framed in the door unmoving.

  She hugged the wall for several seconds before she remembered where she was and calmed down.

  “Evening, Miss,” Carson said.

  She straightened up, careful not to place any weight on her bad foot. “Evening,” she said.

  He loved the sound of her voice.

  “Thought I’d cook some dinner,” Carson said.

  The woman considered his suggestion for a moment. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  Carson entered slowly, bringing a few tufts of long grass and a dried buffalo pie with him. He knelt down in the center of the room, placed the grass on the cold ashes and blew across them. The embers flared instantly to life, suggesting that Delilah had added some wood to the original fire. He fed some twigs into the sudden flame, and then slowly built the blaze with larger sticks. When the fire was sufficient to ignite it, Carson placed the buffalo pie on top and waited while it began to burn.

  “Tomorrow I’ll try and catch us some meat,” he said. “Tonight we’ll have more potatoes.” He put the water on to boil and laid out a motley collection of vegetables—carrots and turnip in addition to the spuds.

  Delilah watched him—eyes following his movements as if she expected some trick to take away the food.

  Carson cut the vegetables, dropping the pieces into his pot. Meat would help the flavor but he didn’t have any more. Tomorrow he’d check his traps and take the big rifle out to see if he could find something.

  “How long have you been out here?” Delilah asked him.

  The question so surprised Carson that he almost dropped his knife. The little woman had spoken to him! He felt so excited that for a few moments he couldn’t think of an answer. He just lifted his eyes to look at her. The dark brown face was mostly hidden behind her tangle of hair but he could make out the curve of her cheek and the darker brown of her beautiful eyes.

  He remembered her question. “It’s been years,” he said. “I moved on when my ma died, found this place, and started farming.”

  “It was just here?”

  Carson nodded, “Just sitting here with a scraggly crop dying in the fields. I don’t know if the owner died or gave up and moved on. I never found no sign of him ‘cept a bucket and a couple pots. I figure he died, but there weren’t no body and no animals in the barn so maybe not.”

  That was the longest speech Carson had made since he found this place and the effort drained him. Delilah took her time absorbing his words—so much time that Carson went back to slicing his vegetables. He wasn’t prepared for it when she spoke again.

  “And there are no other people?”

  Carson dropped the last of the vegetables into the pot, wishing again he had some meat to flavor the soup. “Sweet Water’s about three days walk to the east,” he told her. “It’s got some people. Times Injuns pass by—it’s their country, so they tell me. Then there’s you.”

  The woman straightened her back as Carson talked. It didn’t look like fear to him. It seemed like she liked what he had told her. That was good. Carson wanted her to like it here.

  He stirred the pot with his spoon and wondered how to get her to talk some more. He couldn’t ask about her home, she was a runaway slave girl. Could he tell her she was safe with him? He’d never hurt her, but how could she know that? He decided to keep silent.

  “Is it hard,” she asked, “being all by yourself?”

  “Not so you’d notice,” Carson told her. “Got a mite lonely at first, but I got used to it.”

  “Why do you stay?” Delilah asked, then sucked in her breath like she wished she could take back the question.

  Carson’s shoulders sagged. She wasn’t impressed with him at all. “It’s my place,” he told her. “Where would I go?”

  “I just meant,” Delilah started, but her words trailed off without completing the thought.

  Carson stirred the pot again. Even a runaway could see how little he’d made for himself taking over another man’s failing farm and acting like it was his own. He wanted to get up and leave, but the food wasn’t ready yet and he was hungry.

  Chapter Six

  Dishes

  Delilah wished she could bite the words back and swallow them. She hadn’t meant to insult Carson. While she still didn’t trust him, he�
��d been kind to her so far, leaving her mostly in peace and feeding her. She’d just risked turning that inside out and unleashing the beast that white men held inside them. She didn’t know why he’d left her alone this long and she didn’t want to do anything to raise his interest. She wasn’t going to be used again—not no way, no how would she lay back and let the Colonel or anyone like him force his way between her legs.

  But Carson, despite the hurt she’d given his pride, didn’t look to be getting angry. He stirred that pot with a frown creasing his brow and sad thoughtful eyes staring into the soup. They were pretty blue eyes—not like the Colonel’s squinty brown ones. And where the Colonel had that God-awful black beard jutting far below his chin, Carson had only a scruff of dirty blond whiskers two shades darker than the tangled mess of his hair.

  Delilah’s eyes widened with sudden concern. Carson wasn’t handsome! Thinking about him like that would get her turned back over to the Colonel. She couldn’t afford to think of him as anything other than a tool to use for her escape—someone to help her heal enough to run again. He wasn’t someone who could be liked or trusted. White men were too dangerous to think of like that.

  The silence grew uncomfortably long but Delilah didn’t know how to break it. What do you talk about with a man who’s completely cut off from the world? She couldn’t imagine such a fate. On the plantation in the slave quarters there had always been plenty of people. She hadn’t liked all of them but she’d never been lonely. Out here in the middle of nowhere there was nothing to hear but the wind running through the long grass and nothing to see but the sun over head. She didn’t understand how anyone could choose to live out here.

  Abruptly, Carson dropped the spoon into the pot, picked up the lone bowl and cup, and stalked out of the small house leaving Delilah alone again. His departure caught Delilah by surprise and she didn’t know what to do. Should she call out? Should she go after him? When would he return?