Winter's Camp. Jodi ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
to touch her, but she jerked away.
Give her time, he thought. Let her have control over herself. He had a feeling it had been a long time, if ever, that she’d felt she had any say in her own life.
Keeping his voice low, he began to show her how to fish. While he waited for her to accept him, he’d teach her to survive.
The day was warm by the time they’d caught enough for supper. While she watched, he pulled off his shirt and boots then waded into the water to wash his shirt and body.
He knew she’d have to remove the blanket to wash even though that one filthy, ragged blanket was her armor. As long as she held it around her, she had a buffer against the world.
That night, in the light of the campfire, he shaved with his hunting knife, then combed his hair. He offered her the comb.
She tried, but her hair was too matted.
“I guess you’ll just have to cut it off.” He laughed, thinking that her hair looked like a tumbleweed packed with mud.
She gave up after several tries and handed back the comb.
That night, when she moved to his side, he reached across the foot of grass separating them and took her thin hand in his. “Good night, Millie,” he whispered.
“Good night, James,” she answered in a voice that sounded as though she hadn’t used it in years.
“Your mind’s not gone.” He smiled. “Whatever you had to go through didn’t drive you insane. When you come out of this dark place you’re in, I’ll be waiting to help. Just remember, they didn’t break you. You’re not mad.”
* * *
THE NEXT AFTERNOON when James returned to camp, he changed his mind.
Millie sat by the fire, his hunting knife in her hand, her scalp bleeding from a dozen tiny nicks. Almost all of her muddy hair was piled in front of her.
Looking up with those huge eyes, he saw her sorrow. She’d done what he’d suggested. She’d cut off her hair. He wasn’t sure if she thought his words were an order. If she did, this mess was all his fault.
Kneeling beside her, he took the knife from her fist, then walked to the creek and wet his two clean bandannas.
Still sitting by the fire, she didn’t look up when he came near her. She’d gone back to that place inside herself where she must have gone every time she’d been hurt. That safe place where nothing registered, nothing mattered.
“Millie,” he started, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to clean the cuts so they don’t get infected.”
She didn’t move as he carefully cleaned the blood and dirt away from her head. Then, as if he were shaving, he scraped the last few tufts of hair from her scalp.
When he walked to the creek for water to fill the coffeepot, he thought he heard her crying, but he couldn’t be sure. The whole night seemed to whisper sorrow from the lone coyote’s call to the wind whining through the trees.
Without making any effort to talk, he untied the rabbits he’d killed for supper. As he skinned them and roasted them, he was surprised to see her begin to work with the furs, stretching them out on stick frames.
He ate alone, watching her, wondering where she’d gone in her mind as her hands worked.
An hour later she moved toward the roasted rabbit he’d left on their one plate and began to eat like an animal who feared someone would snatch the food away at any moment. The thought occurred to him that maybe, in the tribe, she’d never been allowed to eat until the work was done.
Before he turned in for the night, he built the fire a bit higher, worried that she’d be cold. But, as she had every night, she waited until she thought he was asleep and curled up beside him. She may only be six inches away, he thought, but it might as well be an ocean between them.
He thought of reaching out to touch her hand, but guessed she’d pull away. Silently, he promised he’d keep her safe. Maybe she had family? Maybe one of the missions would take her in.
Silently, James swore he’d not leave her until the fear in her huge eyes was gone.
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