Page 14 of His Texas Claim

We rode until dusk—could’ve gone farther, but Bryn kept wanting to stop and check out the creek. She wasn’t all too pleased when I forced her to wear an oversized waders in the creek, but I didn’t want the damn wound getting infected.

For her part, she was back to walking normally by the time we settled down and made camp for the evening, going about her business putting her tent together, getting a campfire set, and breaking out some food. She even had a nice setup for cooking—fire built in under ten minutes, a small grate set over it, a pot already going before I’d finished picketing the horses.

“You cook in the field a lot?” I asked.

She shrugged. “You learn or you starve.”

I got Rowan and Copper settled, water and feed, checked their hooves for anything they’d picked up on the trail. Buck ate some kibble then flopped down near the fire, close enough that he could catch any scraps Bryn decided to toss him.

“Smells like curry,” I said.

“Dehydrated,” Bryn said. “Add water, wait ten minutes, pretend it’s fresh.” She stirred the pot then glanced up. “Don’t get excited.”

“Do I look excited?”

She peered at me. “You don’t look like you’ve ever been excited in your whole life.”

I snorted, then dropped my pack by the fire and sat down on a log across from her. She’d taken off her shoes and was inspecting her stitches, which…thank goodness, actually looked alright.

“Stitches okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Helps that the wound is higher up toward my ankle too…I think I can start walking on it again⁠—”

I grunted.

She cocked her head at me. “You wanna see? Are you a foot man or something?”

I frowned. “Am I a what?”

“Are you into feet?” she asked. “It’s—it’s a thing.”

“No, I’m not into feet.” I shook my head. “You’re an odd duck, Bryn.”

She laughed. “That’s what my ex always said too.”

“Well, fuck him.” I paused. “Or her. I don’t know.”

“Him,” Bryn said. “Very progressive of you not to assume, though.”

“I try.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes; Bryn put her shoes back on, then went to clean off her hands…then came back to the fire to finish the food. Eventually she dished out two bowls, her eyes darting to the dog.

“I can’t give him curry, can I?”

“Not unless you want him shitting himself all night.”

“Noted.”

She fed Buck kibble from her own hand instead, and he took it like she'd done it his whole life.

We ate. The fire cracked. Somewhere in the dark, water ran over rock.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Foot's fine. I can walk."

"We'll see."

"I'm telling you."