Impressive?” Owen echoed as he looked down at her.
“Yes.” She nodded doggedly. She waved her hand in a small circle. “What you just did . . . how you protected yourself.” She paused and moistened her lips. “I wish that I could be like you.”
His expression cracked as he looked down at her, and she knew she had astounded him with her words. A frown pulled at his well-carved lips. “You don’t want to be anything like me.” He moved then, gathering up their things and setting them in the cart.
“Why not? To do what you just did? To be so capable? You’re a hero. You saved me. Twice now, I suspect. To be able to do the things you do . . . that would be . . .” She paused, groping for the words to convey just how tremendous, just how relieved and at peace she would feel to be that strong, that in control.
He shook his head as he bent to lift her in his arms.
She squeezed his shoulder as he moved her toward the cart, her fingers digging into the muscle and sinew beneath the jacket. She tried to finish her earlier words, “That would be— ”
“No,” he bit out, depositing her.
She searched his face, trying to catch his gaze as he draped the blanket over her lap. “No?” He wouldn’t even let her praise him? “Why aren’t you proud—”
“Please. Stop.”
“Maybe if I could comport myself as you just did I could have prevented this from happening . . .” She waved at her body.
He stared hard at her. “You remember what happened to you?”
She inhaled and fought to hold his gaze as the lie tripped off her tongue, “No, but Mirela told me that the bruise on my ribs was from someone hitting me. I don’t think I fell into that river by accident.” She paused for breath, arching an eyebrow. “Do you?”
He held her gaze a moment before looking away, staring off into the horizon where the two ruffians had disappeared. “No. I don’t think it was an accident.”
She leaned forward, reaching over the edge of the cart to seize his arm. She curled her fingers into his forearm. “Then you should understand.”
He glanced down and stared at her hand on his arm.
She continued, “I can’t even walk—”
“In a few more weeks you can get out of bed,” he reminded her.
“But I’ll never be like you.” She felt herself smile and knew it was rueful. Sad even.
He angled his head, surveying her with a bemused expression. “But you’d want that?”
She looked down and plucked at the colorful fringe on the blanket, nodding and feeling foolish admitting such a thing.
“I can teach you that.”
Her head snapped up at his softly worded declaration. “What?”
He was moving around the cart with his usual swift, easy strides to take up the handles again. “I can teach you,” he repeated, the words crisp, succinct.
Her heart pounded in her chest. Her hand trembled on her lap. Had she misunderstood? Did he just offer to teach her to be more like him?
“What . . . how . . . what do you mean precisely?”
“I can show you how to be more self-possessed, more aware. You don’t have to be an easy target, Anna.”
“Yes,” she breathed, awed and eager at the possibility. Questions whirled in her head. Would they remain with Mirela and the others until she could walk again?
“Leave it to me. I’ll handle the arrangements,” he said as though he could read her spinning thoughts. He stared straight ahead, no longer looking at her.
She scooted until her back rested against the wall of the cart and settled in for the ride back to camp, not even minding that he was returning her to the dreaded wagon with its dreaded bed. Imminent boredom didn’t matter anymore. Not with hope looming in her future.
Owen strolled through the camp, searching for Mirela. Night had fallen and most everyone had returned from the village by now. He spotted her near the fire, ladling from a pot set over the crackling nest of flames.
“Hungry?” she inquired when he approached.
“We’ll be leaving in the morning. I’d like to borrow one wagon and one of your men to take us into Town. Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time and services . . .”
She stopped and stared at him. “Decided to keep her, have you?” She cackled then. It was the only word to describe her laughter.
He scowled. His forehead drew tight and he resisted the urge to rub there and ease the sudden tension he felt. “No, of course not.”
Her eyebrows winged high, twin gray birds. “Oh? Not yet then?”
“Not ever,” he quickly snapped. “I merely think she’ll be more comfortable recuperating in Town.” And he’d had enough sleeping on the floor of a wagon. He wanted a bed. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us—”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “You’ve paid for it. No thanks needed.”
“At any rate, she would likely have perished without you.”
Mirela was already turning away. “Luca can take you where you wish to go in the morning.”
He watched the bent old woman walk away, wondering at her conviction that he and Anna were somehow linked. Absurd. It was the stuff superstitious old Gypsy women believed in.
He winced again as he recalled the promise he made her. What possessed him? It was her eyes. He had seen something in them. It was the same thing he had seen when she first opened her eyes atop his mount. The same haunting fear was there, glazing that velvety brown.
He supposed offering to help her didn’t exactly promote the notion that they were unattached—two strangers whose paths were only briefly intersecting. In his mind, he saw that bruise on her ribs, the cuts and scrapes covering her body, the wheeze of her breath, barely there, scarcely alive.
His hands tightened into fists at his sides. She wasn’t a soldier. This wasn’t a war, and yet someone had brutalized her. Something out there terrified her. Whether she remembered or not—and he suspected she remembered more than she revealed—she needed to armor herself.
And he couldn’t deny her the chance to help herself. Not staring into those eyes that seemed to reach inside him and pull at what was left of his soul.
He’d help her heal, teach her to be strong.
Her words from earlier washed over him. You’re a hero.
He sucked a breath inside his suddenly shrinking lungs, reminding himself that she would soon be gone. Before she discovered just how far from a hero he really was.