Page 58 of A Rugged Beauty
Behind her, she could sense Hollis sitting up in his bedroll with a deep, sleepy inhale.
For a moment, she squeezed her eyes closed again, wanting his arm around her.
The wagon was behind him, their camp on the front edge of the company. When the wagons left their circle later this morning, hers would be second in line.
At another movement behind her, she sat up, working to untangle her feet from the bedroll.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Hollis whispered, his breath on her jaw. He must've bent close to say the words so quietly.
By the time she glanced up, he'd scooted back, a larger shadow against the darkness.
"How late did you come to bed?" she whispered, keenly aware of other travelers only yards away, still asleep. One loud snore possibly belonged to their neighbor, Mr. Schaefer.
She'd lain awake for a long time after the camp had quieted, children's voices had faded, movement had stopped, fires had slowly burned down. She didn't know what time she'd finally drifted off, only that it'd been far past the time when Hollis should've been abed.
His hesitation before he returned a quiet, "Late," told her more than the word itself.
Had he delayed his rest simply because of the arrangement of their bedrolls?
The cool morning air chilled her exposed arms and she drew her shawl out of the bedroll—a trick she'd learned early on the journey, one meant to bring the warmth of her bedroll into the chilly spring mornings—and slipped it around her shoulders.
As she pulled on her boots and made to stand, Hollis protested, "It's early yet. Stay abed."
She shook her head, even though he couldn't see it, and whispered, "I'm already up."
They must've both thought to stir the fire, because she bumped into his brawny shoulder as she crossed right and he moved left. One big hand steadied her waist, dropping away quickly as if the touch had burned him.
After being momentarily frozen, he moved past her to squat near the ashes and embers. One stir with a long stick and hotcoals were unearthed, sending warm light to illuminate his stony expression.
She fetched the coffeepot from the back of the wagon, where she'd left it filled with water and ready for the morning.
He'd grown the fire to a small flame that licked and crackled with each new twig he fed it. She joined him at the fire, earning a there-and-gone glance before he returned his attention to the flames. She held the coffeepot, waiting for the fire to burn bigger.
"How are your ribs?" she asked quietly.
A flash of surprise crossed his face, quickly hidden. He twisted his torso in both directions, widening his shoulders and opening his chest as he did. She saw only a tiny tightening of his mouth when he twisted to the left.
"Better. Bruises fading."
The fire was hot enough to start the coffee, so she nudged the pot into the coals at its edge. She was determined to have his breakfast finished before he left camp this morning. She returned to the wagon to mix up another pan of biscuits and rubbed one hand over her cheek in frustration.
"Something the matter?"
She jumped at Hollis's voice from just beside her. She hadn't realized he had come to join her.
"I'm tired of biscuits," she admitted.
"Me too." It was too dark here, with her back turned to the fire, but she imagined that the tenor of his voice meant he'd smiled with one corner of his mouth.
He reached for something inside the wagon. It must've been out of reach, because his side bumped her arm as he shifted, grunted, and strained to get whatever it was he was after. When he moved, he turned, but he turned toward her instead of away, so that her shoulders brushed his chest.
For a single moment, they stayed like that. Close enough that she could smell the soap he must've washed with last night, the man beneath. Close enough that he could tip her chin up—with an abrupt movement, he left, cool air flowing in to the space he’d vacated.
She'd known things would be different between them, especially with the marriage forcing them into closer proximity. But she hadn't expected it would feel so awkward.
If she was feeling this way, he had to be as well. Her thoughts spun as she mixed the biscuits in the dark, formed the dough by touch, wiped sticky fingers on a cloth. When she returned to the fire, he had his logbook tipped toward the flames, using the scant light to read.
She slid the pan of biscuits on a tripod in the fire, where they'd cook, careful to keep her skirts out of the way of a flying spark.
