Teresa Bodwell

by Loving Miranda

Ben inclined his head. “Yes, it’s a terrible thing for a young boy to lose his father.”

  “My oldest was about the same age when her fadder died. She recovers with time.”

  “As I’m certain Jonathan will,” Clarisse said. “Especially with a loving family taking care of him.”

  “Yes, this is certain.” Ingrid smiled at Ben. “Now, I will go. Pleasant meeting you, Mr. Lansing. I hope you enjoy your stay in Fort Victory.”

  “With so many lovely ladies here, I can’t imagine how my stay could be anything less than enjoyable.” Ben was pleased his words elicited a bright pink blush from the widow. He was out of practice in flirting. What he needed was a new start, to consider all the women around him as possible partners in fun. Widows could be especially amenable. He’d met several who were not interested in another marriage, but did miss certain of the delights a man could bring to them.

  “I hope I will see you again before you leave.” Mrs. Hansen nodded at Ben, then turned and walked out the door.

  Mrs. Hansen or the lovely Rita Diaz. Plenty of women who might satisfy his newly kindled desires. Yet, even as the thought came to him, he knew it was untrue. The only woman he desired was the one he must avoid at all cost. Best to take care of his business, get the hell out of Fort Victory, and forget about Miranda Chase. He’d find some exotic beauty on his island, and all memories of the pretty young blonde would soon be gone.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Lansing?” Clarisse’s words brought Ben back to the present.

  “I’ve come to see whether you might be willing to purchase these paintings.”

  He unrolled the canvases over the counter so that Clarisse could view them. She gasped.

  “Mr. Lansing, you are an artist.”

  “Not any longer,” he said before he could stop himself.

  “Why ever not?” Clarisse held the corners flat and bent to examine the top painting more carefully. “A man of your obvious talent—”

  Ben laid the maimed hand on the counter for her to see. “It’s useless.”

  Clarisse looked at his hand, then up to his face. “I’m sorry,” she said. And he was certain she meant it. She looked back at the canvas, then lifted it to see the one underneath. “The horses remind me of. . . Your brother had a painting of a foxhunt.”

  “I gave that to him. It was a wedding present.”

  “That was your work?”

  Ben smiled. It wasn’t one of his better pieces, but he’d been proud of it at the time. And his sister-in-law had pronounced it lovely. “Yes, I did that when I was in school.”

  “I can see some similarity. The way the animals seem so real, as though they could run right off the canvas.”

  “Do you think you could sell them?”

  Clarisse nodded. “I’ve no doubt of it. I’ll give you fifty dollars for the pair of them.”

  Fifty dollars. It was more than he’d hoped to get here in the middle of nowhere. “They are yours, then.”

  Clarisse smiled at him. “If you have any others—”

  “No,” Ben said, “these are the last.” He thought for a moment. “I guess my foxhunt was lost in the fire.” That single blaze had taken everything he’d come to Fort Victory to find.

  “Yes.” Clarisse met his gaze. “Mercy and Thad told me it was all they could do to escape before the building collapsed. No time to salvage anything.”

  “I’m surprised the hired men didn’t help.”

  “Hired men?”

  “My brother’s letters mentioned several men working for him.”

  Clarisse busied herself wrapping the paintings back into their leather cover. “He did have at one time. The last of them left more than a month before . . . the fire.”

  Ben scowled.

  “The rumor was he hadn’t paid them. As a matter of fact, he tried to borrow money from us to meet his payroll, but . . .” Clarisse looked up at Ben. “Thank you for these paintings. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen art as fine as this.”

  “If you need help stretching and framing them—”

  “Oh, no.” Clarisse grinned up at him. “I have plans for these.”

  Ben concluded his business with Clarisse and strolled back to Rita’s with money in his pocket. At least he had accomplished something. He considered stopping for a celebratory drink, but thought better of it and ran up the back stairs instead. He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off his tie and collar before slipping out of his boots.

  His sleepless night had left him exhausted. The white sheets of the bed looked inviting, but Ben had work to do. He pulled out his journal and a pencil to finish compiling the facts he’d gathered. The puzzle was beginning to look quite clear now, and it was becoming difficult to imagine his brother as an innocent victim.

  A quarter of an hour later, he studied his list. Damn. Not that he was surprised. The moment he’d learned O’Reilly claimed to be Arthur’s ally, he knew something was wrong. A light rap on the door startled Ben and he dropped the pencil. He bent to pick it up and set it next to the journal. There was another knock at the door.

  He walked across the floor in his stockinged feet, hesitated for a moment, then opened the door. Miranda stood in the hall, looking up at him with her wide blue eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her shone on her fair hair, making a glow over her like an angel in a Renaissance painting. Except that the view of an angel had never caused heat to radiate through Ben’s groin as it did now. He was grateful the door was between them, because he was certain his physical response would be apparent right through his trousers.

  “I come to talk, Mr. Lansing. Ben.” She blinked, and he noticed her lashes, a golden color a shade darker than her hair. Her eyes opened wide again, pools of warm liquid.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs. We’ll sit in the saloon. We could have some . . .” He couldn’t very well offer the young lady whiskey. “Coffee?”

  She shook her head and took a step forward. “I think it’d be best if we talk privately.” She leaned toward him, but he didn’t move. “Could I come in?”

  If he had any sense he would refuse. Didn’t this sweet young thing realize how dangerous it was for a girl like her to be alone with a man like him? Once again, he studied her eyes and wondered whether they held innocence or knowledge. He stepped back, pulling the door open and allowing her to enter. She turned and pushed the door closed behind her.

  “You can’t take Jonathan.” She glared up defiantly.

  “Is that what this is about?”

  Miranda stepped up to him, taking his large hand between her small ones. “Please, you need to understand how much he means to my sister. Even before Arthur died, Mercy always had time for Jonathan. She spent hours with him, played with him, taught him to play the piano and ride a horse, and she always had a story for him. His father never did those things for Jonathan, but Mercy did.”

  “I . . .” He studied her face, those wide eyes so full of worry. He was tempted to reassure her, but he had some unfinished business with O’Reilly. “I can’t leave town just yet.”

  “Even if the money is gone as Mercy says?”

  “There are some things I need to find out for myself.”

  “You want to count the cows? Jonathan will have his cattle, I promise you.”

  “Miranda . . .” Ben took a deep breath. “I don’t believe your sister intends to cheat my nephew.”

  Miranda threw her arms around him and squeezed tight, though that wasn’t the reason Ben found it difficult to breathe. “Thank you.”

  She stepped back and smiled up at him. It wasn’t the desire to drive himself into her that nearly overpowered him—he could control that—it was the need to taste the lip that she now held between her teeth that had his mind wandering in circles so that he had difficulty understanding what Miranda said, let alone conceiving how he should reply.

  “I haven’t promised to leave,” he managed to say, though his voice cracked.

  “They love him. My sister and
her husband.” Though she no longer touched him, she didn’t back away either.

  “Even with another baby coming, their own blood?” he asked.

  “Most parents have it in their hearts to love more than one child.”

  Ben wondered. He’d never been certain his father loved him. Though he wasn’t sure his father had really loved his brothers either.

  “I don’t know whether that’s true.”

  Miranda smiled. “Course, I don’t have a lot of experience. But I know my pa loves me and my sister. Don’t think me coming changed the way he felt about Mercy. Nor did I ever think he couldn’t love me ’cause he already cared for her.”

  Ben pondered her words. Hell, it made a lot of sense. That was how things were in a family. “But your mother was there to help—”

  “If you mean to say that Mercy and I had the same ma to love us both like Pa does—no, we didn’t. We had different mamas. They both died, leavin’ Pa to raise the two of us.” Miranda shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Different as we are, we both love our pa and each other. It’s the one thing I know for certain I can count on in my life. That and the fact that my sister loves Jonathan like he’s her own flesh and blood.”

  Ben only wished he knew how to recognize a parent’s love as easily as he could identify the simple love of a child. “Jonathan loves them, I’m certain of that.”

  Miranda smiled. “You’re right about that, Ben. There just might be some hope for you yet.”

  He couldn’t help himself—he returned her smile.

  “I’m beginning to believe that’s true, but I still have some questions.”

  She blinked up at him, and he ached at the thought that she might cry. “You’re still worried . . . about the money,” she said.

  He turned away from her and glanced out the window to the dusty street below. “Yes, I want to know what happened to my money. I can’t believe my brother . . . simply lost it all.” He turned back to Miranda.

  “My sister would not have taken it.”

  “No.” Ben stared into the depths of Miranda’s eyes. “No, I don’t believe she did.” O’Reilly was the more likely culprit. “I have some other suspicions, though. I’m not leaving here until I find out what happened.”

  She bit her lip, then looked up at him. “But you will be going?”

  Ben nodded and took a step closer. “I want to be on my way before winter comes. You can stop worrying about Jonathan. I don’t intend to take him.”

  She smiled, a slight, shy smile. “I just have one more thing to ask.” She drew her tongue slowly across her lip. “Will you? Would you kiss me, again?”

  Ben took another step toward her and leaned down until his lips brushed over hers. His hands settled on her hips and he pulled her close. Their lips met again, this time with more force, and he allowed one hand to roam slowly up her back until his fingers tangled into her hair. Her tongue teased its way inside of him, fanning flames already dangerously hot. His mind fought every part of his body, forcing him to pull away.

  She smiled up at him, her lips trembling a little. He caressed her soft cheek, brushing his finger back over the ear he would have liked to nibble. He swallowed hard, reminding himself that he was a gentleman and Miranda was too young to understand what she was doing to him.

  Ben’s eyes went to her hands as she worked down the front of her shirt. “No one knows I’m here,” she said.

  “Wait.” Ben stared at her. “Stop,” he heard himself say, although it was the last thing he wanted her to do. “Miranda, what are you doing?”

  “You want me, I think.” She frowned up at him, intensely serious.

  “No,” he snapped, “I—” But he couldn’t force the words from his lips, because the fact was she was right. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first seen her swirling her spoon through her soup.

  Her eyes dropped to the floor, and he reached a finger under her chin, lifting her face so that he could see tears pooling in her eyes. His resolve vanished like a cool mist under the heat of the morning sun. “You can’t know how much I want you,” he whispered.

  She pulled her shirt away, revealing the curve of her breasts against the white cotton of her chemise; her nipples stood out like small pearls against the thin fabric. “Then, please . . .”

  He forced himself back a step. “How . . . old are you?”

  “I’m twenty years old. Did you think I was a child?”

  “No.” Ben’s response was nearly a groan. “I can see that you’re no child.”

  “Then show me.” She lifted her chin and favored him with a timid smile. “Please. Show me what it feels like to be a woman.”

  It took one long stride before he had her in his arms, pulled tight against him; her supple breasts pressed against his ribs. He covered her mouth with his and drank of her soft, full lips. His hand found the hem of her chemise and skimmed up, under the fabric over her warm skin; he traced her ribs until he found her small, firm breast. He ached with pleasure at the weight of that gem against his palm. Fire burned through him with an unexpected fury.

  He groaned with need and ripped her chemise up and over her head, bending to suckle her breast. He lifted her easily in his arms. She was weightless, lighter than air—this beautiful nymph of a girl, and he wanted her as he could not remember wanting anything.

  He set her on his bed, naked from the waist up, her hair flying in every direction and her lips and cheeks rosy from his caresses. She sprawled out, opening to him, pulling her skirt up to ready herself for him. Her legs were bare from the top of her boots to the tangle of yellow curls that protected her womanly places.

  He tugged at the buttons of his pants, pulling the first two out with so much force the buttons dropped to the floor.

  “Damn,” Ben muttered, feeling like an eager adolescent. Silently admonishing himself to slow down, he bent to unfasten the other buttons more carefully. Holding the waist of his pants up, he looked back to Miranda’s beautiful face. Her bright eyes glowed with fear.

  Ben sucked in a breath and turned his back to her, pulling his pants back up around him. He walked to the window and leaned out, breathing in the cool autumn air, desperately trying to gain control of himself. What in perdition was he doing? What had he nearly done to her?

  “Get out!” His voice was harsh with anger. He pulled in another breath and forced his voice to quiet. “Please, leave.”

  He heard her behind him, gathering her clothing; perhaps she was dressing herself. He dared not look, but continued leaning out the window, breathing, forcing himself not to picture the small pink circles on the peaks of her breasts. How he wanted to kiss those breasts, to taste them and feel their tenderness.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “So sorry.”

  “Please, go.” He fought to keep his voice calm, not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had. He heard her walk to the door and slip quietly into the hall before he turned around, leaned against the wall, and sank to the floor. He closed his eyes.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered, though he knew she was gone.

  Miranda slipped out the back door of Rita’s. She couldn’t go through the saloon or the kitchen, for fear Rita, or someone else she knew, would see her and figure out she’d been up to the guest rooms. There wasn’t a good reason for her to be up there. Whatever they imagined she might have been doing, it would be no worse than what she’d actually done.

  Her hands shook as she checked the buttons of her shirt. She had offered herself to a man thinking he wanted her. Thinking this was her chance to find that magical pleasure Mercy had described to her. After months of promising herself to keep away from men, to stay out of trouble, she’d jumped with both feet right into a kettle of hot water. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She moved down the alley into the shadow of Rita’s storage shed. Again, she checked her buttons and looked down to be sure her skirt was straight. Breathing in and out deliberately, she willed her hands to stop shaking
. Nothing torn, no outward evidence of Ben’s touch. She pulled the blue ribbon off her hair and rearranged it, binding her wild locks tight into the same ribbon. Her fingers brushed over her cheek, which was still tender from rubbing against the stubble on Ben’s face. Likely her face would be pink, but riding in the sun usually left her rosy. No one would notice the difference, she hoped.

  Her index finger moved over her raw lip, remembering his lips on hers. She felt tears pooling in her eyes again. No sense in crying. Miranda cleared her throat. He’d been warm against her—and hard—pressing with the force and fury of desperation. But not desperate enough for the likes of her, apparently. He had wanted her, then something changed. She’d done something to displease him.

  She thought back; everything had been fine until she was on the bed. Lawrence had always urged her to be ready. He hated waiting and blamed her if he didn’t get hard. Sometimes he seemed ready, hard and full of desire, but he’d go soft and that was always her fault, too.

  Ben had still been wearing his trousers, but she could see he was ready to come inside her. She’d done her best to hurry. Had even lifted her skirt so that he didn’t have to. One tear escaped, then another. There was only one explanation. It wasn’t anything she’d done. When he’d looked at her face, he’d been so repulsed he couldn’t even look at her as she left the room.

  Chapter 12

  It seemed strange to Miranda seeing cowboys rounding up cattle for branding without Mercy there bossing them. Her older sister had taken charge every spring and summer since their family had started this ranch. Working with the cattle could be dangerous, so Mercy had decided to stay home rather than risk hurting the baby she was carrying. Miranda was glad to be able to help with the roundup, but she envied her sister, too.

  Miranda watched Thad work with Buck to cut a calf from the herd and head him over to the cowboys who were doing the branding. The roundup was for counting and sorting the beef stock from the breeders. The male animals chosen for meat would also need special treatment. Miranda shuddered thinking about what they would do to that poor calf once they got him down on the ground. At least it was quick. The men thought nothing of it; they even enjoyed eating the . . . male parts they’d removed.