Daniel took his rifle in a bar of lye soap and headed down to the sheltered bend in the creek where the water pulled deeper. He told himself he was going to hunt, but he left Tyen at the cabin. He needed a moment alone, away from her presence. The water was so cold it stole his breath. He stripped and waited in, his body rebelling at the shock.
He scrubbed himself quickly, the harsh soap biting his skin. He was washing his hair, his head dunked under the water when he surfaced and found her standing on the bank. She was holding his towel. "Jesus," he yelled, stumbling back into the deeper water, dunking himself to his shoulders. "Tyen, what are you doing here?
Get back to the cabin." "You hunt," she said, her voice calm. "But you bring soap," he felt the blood rush to his face, a heat that had nothing to do with the icy water. "Go now." She did not go.
She sat on a rock, her back to him, and waited. He was trapped. He could not get out without exposseng himself. He stayed in the freezing water until his teeth were chattering and his feet were numb. Damn it, woman.
Turn around all the way. He heard her shift. He waited. "I am turned." He climbed out, his skin blue, and grabbed the towel, wrapping it around his waist.
He was shaking as much from anger as from cold. "You can't do that. You can't just follow me. You must give a man his privacy." She stood and faced him.
She looked at the towel, then at his chest, then at his face. You were dirty. Now you are clean. I do not understand privacy. It means alone, he said through chattering teeth.
It means where people can't see you. "I see you every day," she said. "Why is this water different?" He had no answer. He dressed quickly, his fingers clumsy on the buttons.
As he was pulling on his boots, she came closer. She knelt, her eyes fixed on his leg. He had forgotten about the scar. It was on his left thigh. A puckered, ugly knot of tissue where a Confederate Minié ball had torn through the muscle.
Before he could react, she reached out and touched it. Her finger traced the edge of the wound. "This one was bad," she whispered. It was a long time ago, he said, his voice tight. He tried to pull his leg back, but she held it fast.
She leaned down. Her black hair fell forward, brushing against his skin. She pressed her lips softly to the scar. It was not a kiss of passion. It was like her question about his chest.
It was an act of acknowledgement, a reverence for the wound, for the fact that he had survived it. but it ripped through him like a bolt of lightning. He jerked his leg back so fast he almost kicked her. "No, don't—don't ever do that." He stood, grabbing his rifle. He stalked back to the cabin, leaving her by the creek.