Authors: Brenda Joyce
Innocent Fire (11 page)
“Sun’s coming up, Miranda,” Bragg said cheerfully. “Up and at ’em, princess.”
Miranda groaned as she tried to stretch, and opened her eyes to see him staring down at her with a strange look. The look disappeared, and he grinned, then sauntered off. She felt a rush of relief. He was apparently in good humor. She couldn’t have taken another day of his coldness, which was practically cruel. She sat up and moaned.
She knew she couldn’t ride. Every muscle in her body ached. Just sitting up hurt. The only places that didn’t hurt, and were merely sore, were her neck and shoulders. Cautiously she rose to her feet, gasping as pain knifed through her hips and legs.
“You’re in pretty bad shape, huh?” Bragg said, sounding sympathetic as he approached and handed her coffee. He was smiling.
“It’s not funny,” Miranda said, taking the foul brew and sipping it. She wondered if John would have tea at the house. She had not had coffee in the convent and hated it. But Bragg’s brew made Welsh’s seem like beans roasted for the queen. It was like sipping thick, bitter mud.
“You’re too weak, Miranda, woman or not,” Bragg said with a frown. “A woman has to be strong in this territory to survive.”
“Oh, go away,” she grumbled, then was instantly shocked at her lack of manners.
He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “That bad, huh? Look, I’ve been thinking. If we ride hard, we can make John’s ranch in two and a half days.”
Miranda stared, devastated by the idea. “I can’t even sit to a trot,” she cried.
He waved at her impatiently. “I’m talking about the way we were riding before. And when I say hard, I mean hard. We only stop for a few hours of sleep.”
Miranda stared, debating this idea. He wanted her to sit on his lap. What if he kissed her again? He did not seem too good at controlling his male appetites. What if…
“I can read your thoughts,” he growled.
“Can’t we take the day off and sleep late and rest?” she asked hopefully.
“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. “Rest?” He said the word as if it were foreign. Miranda realized that it probably was, to him.
“Look. If we go on like this, it’ll take a week. If we ride hard, believe me, there’s not going to be the kind of distraction between us that there was yesterday. And even though we’ll ride half the night, you can sleep in my arms.” His gaze held her. “We might as well get this over with, Miranda.”
She felt a funny kind of sadness at his last words. He disliked taking her across the country, she thought, hurt. “All right,” she said, looking up. But he had walked away, silently, as usual.
Miranda understood quickly what Bragg meant by riding hard. At first she was frightened. They rode at a canter or a trot, up and down gullies and ridges, splashing through creeks, over rocky trails, across stretches of flat valley. Bragg kept his arm tightly around her, and she soon realized that she was secure. He had cut off strips of the loincloth and bandaged her knees, for she had to ride astride in front of him, he told her. Now she knew why. He never slowed the horse—and he was right. Her concentration, instinctively, was on her seat, while his was on the horse, the terrain—both underfoot and all around them—and on holding her.
Once his grip seemed precariously loose, and she cried out. “Captain Bragg! You’re going to drop me!”
The chestnut had settled into a loping canter. Bragg chuckled. “Never, princess. Relax. You’re too stiff. Try and go with the rhythm. Move your body a bit. Like this.”
He exaggerated the movement his own hips made with the horse, back and forth, but Miranda wasn’t ready to try it. In fact, for some reason, her awareness of the movement of his body with the horse, pressing back and forth against her, caused her color to rise and her pulse to race.
“I guess that wasn’t a good idea,” he said in her ear, his hold on her tightening as if he could feel her reaction.
It was past midday when Bragg pulled the chestnut to a complete halt. Miranda thought they might have been riding for five or six hours. She was thrilled that they were stopping. “Oh, thank God!”
Bragg urged the chestnut over the rise. “Don’t thank Him yet,” he said quietly.
“But aren’t we stopping? Just for a bit?”
“For ten minutes, to rest the horse,” he said curtly, and then Miranda saw why.
Her heart lurched. Below them a swollen river raced furiously. “No,” she said with true fear. “We’re not going to cross that!”
Bragg dismounted, then pulled her down. “We are. Don’t worry. Walk around a bit and stretch your legs. I’m going to scout a better crossing.”
Miranda stared miserably after him as he set out in a steady trot, running parallel to the river. They had crossed rivers like this before—the Mississippi, the Red, the Sabine—but there had always been a ferry. Was he crazy?
He appeared ten minutes later, running like a deer, easy and loose-limbed, barely breathing harder than normal. He had stripped off his shirt, and sweat made his chest gleam. He stopped in front of her. “Looks like we’ll do it upriver about a mile,” he said easily.
Miranda realized that she was staring at his chest. The muscles were like huge, hard slabs, the heavy fur between his nipples trailing into a delicate vee before disappearing into his waistband. She flushed and looked at his face.
Bragg didn’t laugh. His eyes glowed like embers, then
he turned and walked away. He began to put some things in a watertight oilskin: his Colt, his rifle, and other water-damageable items. Miranda realized what was about to happen and ran to him as he tied the parcel to the saddle.
“No! You’re crazy! How are we going to cross?” There was panic in her voice. “I can’t swim!”
He turned to her slowly. “You’re not going to swim, the horse is. You’re not going to drown, Miranda, I give you my word.”
“Like you gave John your word I wouldn’t be harmed?” she cried hysterically, not thinking.
He stiffened, hurt coming into his eyes, until a dark mask covered his pain.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, grabbing his arm. “I…I didn’t mean that! Oh! I can’t!”
“Don’t start crying, dammit!” Bragg glared. “Show some of that spine I know you have, Miranda.” He grabbed her hand roughly, and she had no choice but to follow as he led the horse.
She knew that crying wasn’t going to help, and she fought the tears of terror. Her life was in God’s hands. Hadn’t she been taught that long ago? Trust in the Lord. He would protect her. Unless this was her final punishment…
Miranda realized they had stopped. Bragg had his hands on her waist and was about to lift her into the saddle. “Wait!” she cried, panic-stricken. “I want to pray.”
He swore. “You’re not going to drown. You don’t—All right. Hurry up.”
Miranda sank to her knees, wishing she’d been to Mass and confession since Natchez. That was the first thing she’d do when she got to John’s ranch. There was a mission in San Antonio, thank God! She knelt, closed her eyes, and prayed.
Bragg stood and watched her. He was truly annoyed that she trusted him so little that she had to get down on her knees and pray. He was even angry. But then, why should she trust him? Hadn’t she hit the nail on the head just a moment ago? He had failed her once. Little did she know that he had no intention of failing her again. He watched her rise unsteadily, her face white beneath the sombrero.
He placed her firmly upon the chestnut, then took the rawhide lariat off the pommel, unwinding it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trembling.
He slipped the lariat around her waist. “I’m tying you to the saddle, princess.”
“But…why?”
He looked up into her huge violet eyes as he secured her to the horse. “Do you think I trust you to keep your seat while the horse swims?” There was a teasing note in his voice.
“But…” She was breathless. “But you’re going to hold me!”
He tightened the knot and clasped her hand. “No, Miranda. I’m going to swim alongside.”
“No!” It was a scream. “No, Derek, no!”
“Stop it,” he said calmly. “I want you to sit still and hold on to the horse’s mane and the saddle, like so.” He placed her hands where he wanted them. “And you don’t let go, no matter what.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No!
Non! Sale bête! Je vous en pries
. Please, Derek, please, Derek…”
She was shaking uncontrollably. Derek smacked her across the face, and the tirade stopped. A pink mark marred her cheek. He was angry that he’d had to hit her, even though it had been the weakest of slaps. “Grip with your legs. Hold on like you’re doing now. Don’t let go. Lean forward, like so.” He pushed her over the horse’s withers. She didn’t move.
“Good.” He slipped his knife out of the sheath and placed it between his teeth. The odds of the horse losing his footing were minuscule. But if it happened, he would have Miranda cut free in a second. He led the horse into the river, and the water rose quickly from his toes to his ankles to his shins.
Miranda wasn’t breathing. She was terrified. He wished that he could speak to her, but of course he couldn’t, because of how he was carrying the knife. He patted her knee as the water rose to his hips, his waist, his chest. The horse lunged forward, swimming, and Bragg placed one hand on the saddle and let himself be pulled alongside.
The current was fast. But as he’d known, the horse was
a strong swimmer, and had no interest in floating endlessly downstream. Bragg was on the downstream side anyway, using his body to guide the horse at an angle to the opposite shore. He’d swum alongside a horse hundreds of times, and there was nothing to it. He glanced at Miranda and smiled. She didn’t even notice. She was hanging on for her life, her face buried against the horse’s neck.
The horse hit the riverbed first, stumbling slightly. Bragg found his footing next, released the saddle and grabbed the reins. Now running, he and the chestnut lunged out of the water and up the bank.
“Whoa, steady up,” Bragg said, throwing his hip into the excited horse’s chest while he pulled on the reins. He was in no danger of being stepped on. Instinctively, he knew exactly where each lethal hoof was—it was as natural as knowing where his own next footfall would be.
The horse quieted, snorting and blowing. Bragg dropped his reins and went to Miranda. She was in the same position, her face pressed to the horse’s neck, clutching his mane and saddle, frozen stiff.
Bragg untied her rapidly. “Good girl, Miranda. See? Nothing to it!” Wait until she finds out there’s two more like this to cross, he thought. “Miranda?” She hadn’t moved, and he pulled her off the horse.
She clung to him. He enfolded her in his embrace as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “It’s all over now, princess,” he murmured. “You did just fine. Just fine.” His hands immediately slid over her slim back, caressingly. Then he became aware of her body, warm against his, and her hair, teasing his chin; her softness and her musky, feminine scent. A dull roar swept through his veins. He pried her arms away.
Miranda gazed up at him and started to breathe.
“You did fine,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm.
She smiled.
“I’m proud of you,” he added.
Her smile widened. “I did it! I crossed the river!”
He grinned. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
The smile disappeared, and she stared at him aghast. “It
was awful, awful! I never want to have to go through that again!”
“I think we’ll take a rest,” he said easily. “I have a feeling you just spent more energy in ten minutes than you did all morning.”
The Promise
“That’s it,” Bragg said casually as the horse shifted beneath them.
Miranda stared down at the valley. The slopes were forested with juniper and pinyon and oak. The land was rocky, but lush and green. A lake sparkled across the valley, bounded by flat, green grazing land on one side and pine-covered slopes on the other. At the far end of the valley, and across the rolling slopes, brown cattle flecked the countryside. And directly below the ridge where they stood was the JB ranch. Her fiancé’s ranch. She was tense with anticipation and anxiety.
“The whole valley is John’s,” Bragg said, lifting his arm from her waist to gesture.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, no longer afraid when Bragg didn’t hold her. After the past two days of riding, she thought she could ride alone if she had to—and yes, even swim a horse across a raging river!
“God’s country.”
“I didn’t know you believed in the Lord, Mr. Bragg,” she said pertly, twisting around to glance at him over her shoulder. It was impossible. The brim of her sombrero caught his jaw, even though he had long ago taken his knife to it and trimmed it down.
He chuckled. “Your Lord? No, I don’t think so.”
“He’s the only Lord there is,” she said primly.
He placed his hand back on her waist, guiding the horse forward. At his touch she became blind to the panorama spread before them, momentarily forgetting her apprehension at meeting the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Her belly knotted, a sweet pain flooding her.
Miranda didn’t know why the warm, hard feel of this man, his scent, his voice, caused such an ache, a physical yearning she didn’t understand. This sensation, while new, had occurred with more and more frequency during the past few days—in fact, the more she got used to riding, it seemed, the more she became aware of him. She had never in her whole life spent so much time with a man, any man. In fact, Bragg was the first man who had ever touched her, and other than her father and a priest, the first man she had ever had a conversation of any length with. She blushed, just thinking about the intimacies they had shared.
Fortunately, they had ridden hard for the past two and a half days, so hard that he had been right. He had not shown the least interest in kissing her again. She wondered why she remembered his kiss so vividly. They rode so long each day that she had spent half of the past two nights asleep in the saddle, the other half asleep on the ground, too exhausted to awaken even when he stopped and wrapped her in the bedroll. And now it was over. No, now it was actually beginning! What did the future hold in store? As the horse scrambled down the stony slope, her body stiffened, and Bragg increased the pressure of his hold.
“I thought you were getting used to this, princess,” he said with amusement.
“I am,” she replied quietly. “I was thinking about my fiancé.”
Bragg was silent behind her.
Her heart had started to pound the moment he told her this was it, and now perspiration began to collect on her brow. She was about to meet the man who would be her husband for the rest of her life. She prayed he was kind and good. She prayed he would not hate her for what had happened, that he would not be a brute like her father, or a man with appetites like Chavez…like Bragg.
But above all, Miranda wondered how she could face
him looking as she did. She was wearing Bragg’s huge buckskin shirt tucked into his loincloth, which was draped around her like a skirt. It reached to her ankles, but her small feet were bare and black with dirt. Her hair was pulled into one snarled braid. Her face was dusty, and she hadn’t bathed since she had tried to scour Chavez’s touch from her skin. The hat on her head was a bashed, decrepit version of its original self.
“Stop!” she cried, suddenly panicking, yanking on Bragg’s hand as he held the reins.
He slowed the horse, the hand on her waist giving her a soft squeeze. He said, “You can’t put it off, Miranda.”
“I’m filthy,” she said brokenly. “I can’t face him like this.”
Bragg took the sombrero from her head and tossed it to the ground. “You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice a painful caress. “And John will be devastated by your beauty, I promise you.” He wasn’t lying.
“I need to at least wash my face and rebraid my hair,” Miranda cried, twisting to look at him. Her panic and anxiety were written all over her face. “There’s a stream back there, I remember seeing it! Please!” Her eyes held his urgently. Bragg nodded, turned the chestnut, and urged him into a trot.
The stream was clean and fresh, running deeply. Bragg helped her down and sucked on a blade of grass, watching her. Miranda washed her hands and her face very carefully, then her feet. She smoothed down the skirt and shirt, then swung her long braid, almost as thick as a man’s forearm, over her shoulder and unbound it. Bragg watched impassively, his pulsebeat rising as she combed the shining ebony locks with her fingers, again and again. She had not combed her hair since he had braided it for her after Chavez, and he watched, mesmerized. He noted that her fingers were trembling as she rebraided it, but finally she completed the task. She raised a tremulous gaze to his.
“You’re not going to your funeral,” he said brusquely. He wanted to kiss her—one last time. Of course he wouldn’t—it was out of the question. It made him angry.
At his cruel tone of voice tears welled up in her eyes. He felt rotten and mean, but he didn’t care. He’d had
enough of this torture. He wished he’d never set eyes on her. As soon as he dropped her off at the ranch house, he was going to ride into San Antonio and bed a lusty wench. He’d wipe her image out of his mind.
“Let’s go,” he said harshly, and he lifted her onto the saddle, leaping up behind her. He wheeled the chestnut around and urged him forward, into a canter. The horse scrambled down the slope surefootedly, and the ranch buildings grew larger and larger.
The ranch house was made of rough-hewn logs, but it was one of the finer homes in the vicinity. The chinks were plastered, the fireplace was stone, the roof was steep and shingled. It was two-storied and had four bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, living room, and study. It was a large home for a bachelor, but John had always known he would marry and have children one day. Bragg had a fleeting vision of riding up to the door some years hence and being greeted by John, his arm around Miranda, three children tugging at her skirts. The image made him unreasonably surly.
There were two large barns, a large bunkhouse, and a smokehouse at some distance from the house. It was unusual that John had the kitchen in the house itself, for most settlers had a separate cookhouse. Oaks and pine were clustered everywhere, and wildflowers, pink and blue, grew in the meadows beyond the barns. A well stood between the ranch house and the cluster of other buildings. Grass grew right up to the veranda, except for a wide dirt path lined with stones, that all visitors and hands had learned was the sole means of approaching the house. John wanted a lawn for his wife.
Bragg reined in at the front of the veranda and slipped down, then he turned and easily lifted Miranda down. Her anxiety was apparent in her tense body and her fearful eyes. He felt sorry for her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and they walked up the porch. Bragg banged on the front door, opening it with casual familiarity.
“John Barrington,” he shouted. “Come out and greet your fiancée!”
Miranda hung a bit behind him, chewing on her lower lip, afraid, yet wanting to see him—ready to get it over
with once and for all. They heard limping footsteps, and John appeared, an incredulous expression on his face. “Derek! You’re here!” His eyes went eagerly to Miranda.
He was as tall as Bragg, and much bigger. Bragg seemed like a sleek bull, John like a big bear. His hair was curly and unruly, a dark brown; his mouth wide and friendly, his teeth white and even. He was not handsome, but he wasn’t unattractive either. It was his eyes that held her and made her sigh with relief. They were brown and gentle, full of tenderness. He limped forward, using a cane. “Miranda!”
Bragg had told her about the accident, which had occurred while John was breaking horses. He had fractured his leg, but it had been set properly, and there were no complications. Miranda could only wonder how he had found a cane big and strong enough to support even some of his huge bulk.
He stopped, an incredulous expression crossing his face as he saw her garb. “What happened!”
“Easy, John,” Bragg said, smacking his shoulder. “She’s in one piece,” he said significantly.
John shot him a look.
“We had a bit of trouble, which I’ll tell you about over a whiskey, while Miranda bathes.” He kept his hand warningly on his friend’s shoulder.
John turned his full attention to Miranda. “Are you all right?” His voice resonated with genuine concern.
Miranda flushed, casting her eyes down. “Yes. I’m glad to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand and raised her eyes to his.
He smiled. Then, still taut with worry, he took her hand and kissed it. “Miranda, no ‘sirs,’ please. It’s John—we’re not formal over here.” He searched her face.
Miranda lowered her gaze, incredibly shy and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry…I wish to apologize for my dress…”
“There’s no need,” John cried. “Good God, I’m so glad to see you, I’m trying to stop myself from giving you the best hug you ever had! You must be tired and hungry! Bianca!” he shouted.
“A bath,” Miranda murmured, averting her gaze. She glanced at Bragg, who was studying her intently.
“Of course,” John said.
A young, voluptuous Mexican woman appeared. “Señor?”
“Send up bathwater to Miranda’s room. And anything else she needs. And tell Elena, if she doesn’t already know, that my fiancée and Derek are here. Tell her to fix up the best feast she can on such short notice.” He turned back to Miranda, smiling.
Bianca disappeared. Miranda felt doubly awkward in the silence that ensued, especially because both men were now studying her so avidly.
“I’m being rude,” John said. “Come, let me take you up to your room.” He gestured with his hand. Unsure, Miranda followed him. “Derek, you know where the redeye is.”
They went up a curving stairway off the foyer, pine-planked like all the floors and walls in the house. The hallway had six doors leading from it, and John opened the second one on the left. “I know it’s not much,” he said, “compared to England.”
Miranda gasped. The room was a beautiful, sumptuous haven completely unexpected amid the casual rough-hewn style of the rest of the house. The four-poster bed was canopied in beige muslin striped with pink, matching the coverlet, shams, and dust ruffle. The curtains were a dusty rose silk. There was a stone hearth, with a plush, brightly upholstered chair set before it. The bureau and wardrobe were mahogany—European—and they gleamed from many coats of wax. There was a mirror above the bureau. A Chinese screen stood to the side of the fireplace, undoubtedly hiding a tub and chamber pot. A thick Persian rug in a cherry pink covered the entire floor.
Miranda had seen much finer furnishings, even in her father’s home. But she had spent most of her life in the stark convent, and she knew the trouble John had taken to provide her with this touch of home. Tears of gratitude came to her eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly, “thank you so much.”
John beamed. “I’ve been planning on this all year. I didn’t want to hope too much, not after your father said you were too young. I also…well, look.” He opened the armoire. It was half full.
Miranda’s surprise showed. “But you must have expected that I’d have a trousseau! I lost some of it on the way here, but the rest is still in Natchez.”
“I just want to make you happy,” he said, then flushed. “Elena is real good with a needle, and even Bianca’s not bad. These things are all small, but you’re even smaller than I thought.”
“Thank you.” Miranda had been wondering what she was going to do about clothes. Then she noticed the door to her right.
John followed her gaze. “That’s my room.”
She turned crimson.
“You come on down when you feel like it. If you want to nap, why, go right ahead. If you’re hungry, or you want anything, just ask Bianca. Or me.”
After he left, Miranda dropped weakly into the chair in front of the hearth. She was so relieved—he was kind.