Two Brothers

by Linda Lael Miller

  Still, the pull of home and husband, not to mention the prospect of a brood of children, was strong. She couldn’t help picturing herself going to church of a Sunday, wearing a crisp frock and a fine bonnet, or chatting with the other women of the town at a quilting bee or an afternoon social. Her need for those things was almost as compelling as the beat of her heart and the steady flow of her breath. Almost.

  “I don’t even know you,” she protested, full of sweet misery.

  Tristan cupped her chin in his hand, raised it slightly, and looked deeply into her eyes. “This is who I am,” he said, and then he bent his head and brushed her lips with his own. Gradually, the contact deepened, until it was forceful and, at the same time, heartbreakingly gentle.

  Fire shot through her; she felt her knees wobble, and her heart threatened to fly away like a frightened bird, but she stepped into the kiss, instead of drawing back, as a more sensible woman might have done. When it ended, she swayed on her feet, utterly dazed, and to her profound embarrassment Tristan steadied her by taking her upper arms in his hands. His grin was wicked, insufferable and totally irresistible.

  “Well?” he prompted. “Are we getting married or not?”

  She flushed. “I suppose we could,” she said.

  His eyes laughed, and his mouth seemed to hover on the edge of another grin, but somehow he contrived to look—well—polite. “When?”

  “There are so many things we haven’t settled. The sheep—”

  “Never mind the damn sheep. We’ll deal with the problem somehow.” He guided her to the table, sat her down, and straddled the bench beside her. His being so near affected her almost as much as the kiss had done. She touched her temple, feeling dizzy; then she drew a deep breath, expelled it. “There’s something else. I have to know if you expect—if you will require—” Another breath, another exhalation. “Conjugal relations. Right away, I mean.”

  There was a tender quality to his smile, which made the mischief dancing in his eyes a little easier to forgive. “I’m not planning to fling you down in the tall grass the minute you say ‘I do,’ if that’s what you mean.”

  How had this insane conversation begun? Emily began to rub both temples, and she was blushing furiously. “I will—would—need time. To get acquainted.”

  He grew pensive, considering his options no doubt, and then beamed another one of his grins at her. The impact nearly sent her spinning. “I want a real wife, Emily. But I’ll give you a while to settle in.”

  “How long?” She could barely squeeze the words past her heart, which had lodged itself in her throat.

  He made a magnanimous gesture with one hand. “Until I seduce you,” he answered.

  “Until you what?”

  “Until I make you want to share my bed.” There was that confidence again. That damnable certainty. “Fair enough?”

  “You won’t force me?”

  He frowned. “I’ll thank you not to insult me.”

  “You won’t shoot my sheep?”

  He raised a hand, like a man offering an oath. “Before God, I will not do those miserable creatures willful injury.”

  Emily wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and the memory of Tristan’s kiss pulsed in every nerve of her body, like an echo. “You’d better keep your promises,” she warned, sustained by bravado and hope. “If you ever lay a hand on me or those sheep, I’ll sew you up in the bedclothes while you’re sleeping and beat you black and blue with a broom handle. And when those animals are sheared, come spring, and the wool and mutton has been sold, you’ll be wise to leave my money be. If you try to steal it, you’d do well to take to the trail, because I’ll shoot you for a thief if I catch up with you.”

  Tristan drew back in mock horror. “Those are mighty imaginative threats, Miss Emily. Methinks you either keep fast company or read too many dime novels.”

  Emily blushed again. In truth, she’d read about just such a stitching episode in a penny dreadful, and the image, vividly drawn, had stuck in her mind. “Nonetheless, I mean what I say.”

  “I believe you do.” He put out his hand. “I will treat you as honorably as you treat me. Do we have a bargain?”

  Emily could barely hear over the pounding of her pulses. She hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then placed her palm against his. It was like being struck by lightning, but she managed not to flinch. “We do,” she said, and could not believe her own ears.

  “You’re doing what?” Shay demanded. He was mounted, while Tristan worked at mending another broken fence. The boy, Fletcher, who had arrived at dawn, with his bedroll, was using his gelding to round up the cattle for a head count.

  Tristan knew his grin was the ingenuous, smart-ass reflection of Shay’s own, and it pleased him to see his brother scowl in irritation. “I told you. I’m taking a wife. I figure we’ll tie the knot on Sunday morning, after church.”

  Shay leaned down a little, his voice a harsh whisper, though no one was close enough to hear the exchange. “You don’t know this woman from Adam’s great-aunt!”

  “I have an opinion or two where she’s concerned,” Tristan replied easily. He stroked the long neck of his brother’s horse with a gloved hand.

  “Do you love her?”

  “I don’t know,” Tristan answered. “I think I could.”

  “Suppose you’re wrong?”

  “Suppose I’m right? I want what you have, Shay. You ought to understand that better than anybody.”

  The mirror image softened a little. “I hope this isn’t a mistake,” Shay said.

  “Believe me, so do I. Now. What brings you out here on this fine day?”

  Shay swept his hat off and resettled it. “Two things,” he replied. “I got a wire from the Warden at the state penitentiary today, saying Kyle took sick last month and died two days ago. If you want to buy the Powder Creek spread, you ought to talk to his lawyer, Tom Rutledge.”

  “And the other thing?” Tristan prompted, when the silence had stretched on for a while.

  “It’s those sheep of Miss Emily’s. Word’s gotten around that they’re here, and there’s some fretting among the ranchers. Folks want to drive them out before they ruin the grazing land.”

  Although Tristan himself had no particular fondness for sheep, and although he wasn’t the least bit surprised, had even predicted the problem, the bald-faced presumption of it got his back up. “They needn’t vex themselves,” he said, with a calmness that was only partly genuine. “It’s my grass those bleating woollies are cropping off at the dirt. My cattle that could go hungry.”

  Shay leaned forward, bracing one arm on the pommel of his saddle, and sighed. “You know damn well it isn’t that simple,” he said. “The reasoning goes that if they let in one sheep farmer, there’ll soon be a plague of them. There’s been some pretty crazy talk already, and while most of those windbags are just jawing, a few of them have fallen on hard times lately, and they sound real bitter. You’re going to have trouble if you don’t get that flock back on the trail, pronto.”

  Nothing would have pleased him more, but if the sheep went, Miss Emily Starbuck would surely go with them. He could not, would not, let that happen. Furthermore, he’d given his word that the greasy beasts would meet with no ill fortune while in his keeping, which pretty much meant he had to look after them as if they were as good as cattle.

  “I appreciate the warning. How’s Aislinn? That baby on the way yet?”

  Shay paled at the mention of the impending birth, though the light of joy and pride shone in his eyes. “Time’s getting close,” he said. “She stayed home from the store this morning to sit in the parlor with a pillow plumped behind her back.”

  For the ambitious Aislinn, that was unusual behavior indeed. “You send word when it happens. I’ve never been an uncle before.”

  Shay swallowed. “I’ve never been a father. As far as I know, anyway.”

  “You’ll do just fine,” Tristan answered. For him, that was sloppy sentiment.

 
“You look out for yourself, and that woman of yours,” Shay said, reining his horse away. A moment later, he was riding back toward town.

  Tristan went back to his work, but his mind was elsewhere.

  The sheep were quiet, enjoying the sweet grass and the plenitude of water flowing from the spring, and the scene was so pastoral that Emily, keeping watch on the hillside, let down her guard and drifted off to sleep. Mr. Polymarr was somewhere far afield, hunting rabbits for supper, so it was Spud that warned her of the approaching riders. If it hadn’t been for him, they might have trampled her, streaming over the knoll behind her the way they did.

  She was on her feet in a trice, the aged .38 shaking in her hand and aimed for the middle of the lead man’s chest. The sheep, startled, began to mill and cry, and Emily spoke quietly to the dog. “Keep them together, boy.”

  Spud was reluctant to leave her side, but at her command he darted off to drive the splintering sheep back into the band. There were six riders, and though the brands on the flanks of their horses were varied ones, Emily supposed they’d come from the Powder Creek place.

  “What do you want?” she asked, squaring her shoulders.

  The desperadoes were tremendously pleased with themselves. “We came to relieve you of them sheep, ma’am,” said one. He carried a shotgun, as did several of his companions, and Emily knew she would be cut down if there was gunplay. She could probably plug the leader easily enough, but in the next moment, she’d be dead, too.

  She raised the pistol, extending her arm to its full length, amazed at how steady her grip had become, when her palm was slippery with sweat, and thumbed back the hammer. Please, she prayed simultaneously, don’t let this thing go off. “You men just turn around and ride out of here,” she said, “and everything will be all right.”

  They looked at each other, amused and quite undaunted. Between them, they could wipe out her flock, leave the sheep to rot; she’d heard of such things happening. She planted her feet and held her ground.

  “You can’t protect these pitiful critters, ma’am,” said the spokesman, with a courtly touch to his hat brim, “if you’ll pardon my sayin’ so. Not by yourself, leastways.”

  It was then that a bullet struck the ground just a foot or so in front of his horse. The animal shrieked and skittered backward, rolling its eyes and tossing its head. Emily turned, expecting to see Tristan sighting in for another shot, but to her disappointment and relief, it was Mr. Polymarr and the boy, Fletcher.

  “Ride out,” Polymarr said. He looked like Methuselah’s grandfather, but he was sprightly with a weapon, and you could tell by his stance and his tone that he meant business. “‘Tween the three of us, we can get every damn one of you ‘fore you so much as wheel them horses towards home.”

  One of the men drew, partly hidden from Mr. Polymarr’s view by the other riders, and before her next heartbeat, Emily had fired. By luck, rather than skill, the shot nicked the assailant’s right wrist and sent his pistol clattering to the ground.

  At that, someone cursed, and Emily watched with disbelief as the barrel of a rifle swung toward her, shining nickel glinting in the cool afternoon sunlight. It seemed to move slowly, as though the air had turned to water, but even before she could pitch herself to the ground, there was a second blast, and her would-be killer flew backward out of the saddle.

  “I told you I’d shoot/’ Mr. Polymarr said, and spat.

  The sheep were in a state of pandemonium by then, and Spud was barking wildly, frantically, torn between defending his mistress and keeping the flock together. In the end, he stayed with his terrified charges.

  After recovering their fallen comrade, the riders turned and fled. Emily, watching them, had no doubt whatsoever that they would return. They’d just be more devious about it the next time, that was all. Bullies, every one of them. And cowards, too.

  Mr. Polymarr and the boy rushed toward her, swung down off the ancient horses Tristan used to pull his buckboard.

  “You all right, miss?” Fletcher demanded. His freckles seemed to stand out an inch from his face, but it was the gentle bleakness in his eyes that moved Emily. Young as he was, he’d experienced suffering firsthand; she could tell that just by looking at him.

  “Yes,” she said. She wanted to reassure the boy somehow, but his physical attitude did not invite familiarity. “Yes, I’m fine.” She caught Mr. Polymarr up in her gaze. “I’m grateful to you both.”

  Fletcher was pale, though his freckles had settled back into place. He glanced nervously in the direction the riders had taken. “Those were Powder Creek men. They’ll be back for certain.”

  Polymarr nodded, his knuckles going white with the strength of his grasp on the rifle he carried. He was red and sweating profusely, and his breathing was shallow and raspy, but Emily knew better than to inquire after his wellbeing. He would not appreciate special concern. “It’s started, then.” He turned his head and met Emily’s eyes. “This here, miss, is just the beginnin’.”

  A weight of sorrow descended upon Emily, momentarily crushing her. She struggled to hold on to her dream. “They were no better than outlaws. Good men don’t enforce their will with guns.” But even as she spoke the words, she was recalling the ranchers all along the trail from Montana, taking grim care that she didn’t settle in their territory. They’d been law-abiding men, husbands and fathers, brothers and sons, but they’d plainly viewed the sheep, and Emily herself, as a threat. For her, the open range had been closed tight.

  “We’ve gotta move these critters downhill,” Polymarr announced, rubbing his stubbly chin. “Closer to the house and barn.”

  “I don’t work with no sheep,” Fletcher said.

  Emily ignored him. “Tristan won’t like that,” she pointed out to Mr. Polymarr.

  “Well, I don’t reckon he will,” the old man agreed. “But if you want to keep these animals alive till spring, you’ve got to do somethin’.” He gestured toward Powder Creek. “Once it gets dark, miss, those fellers will be back, and they’ll bring their friends and relations. These here sheep will be easy pickin’s then, and it will be next to impossible to protect them, there bein’ no place to dig in for a fight.”

  Before Emily could respond, Spud took to barking again, and she was braced for battle when Tristan came riding out of the brush. She was so startled that she nearly shot him out of pure reflex.

  “What the hell happened here?” he demanded, swinging down off the gelding’s glistening back before it had come to a stop. Clearly, he had heard the shots, probably at some distance, and made haste to discover their source.

  “We’ve had ourselves a social call from the Powder Creek crew, that’s all,” Mr. Polymarr replied, with some relish and another stream of spittle. “Shot two of ‘em—I got one, and the lady here got the other.”

  “Sweet God,” Tristan breathed. It was the first time she had seen him falter, but then, she’d only known him one day, for all that he’d proposed marriage and she’d agreed. Then his jawline hardened and he took an ominous step in Emily’s direction. “Are you willing to get yourself killed for these damned sheep?”

  She didn’t retreat, although she was secretly intimidated.

  “Yes,” she said. “They are every bit as important to me as your cattle are to you.”

  He yanked off his hat and slapped his thigh with it in exasperation, and in a sidelong glance, Emily saw both Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher move back, out of range. Tristan’s hair gleamed like so much spun gold, for all that it was mussed and dusty. “Damnation,” he growled, “but you are a foolish woman!”

  “I want to protect what’s mine. Just like you.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, thrust a hand through his hair. His struggle for patience was obvious. “It was bad enough that you brought sheep into cattle country. God only knows what will happen now.”

  “A range war, that’s what,” put in Polymarr, from a judicious distance.

  “Are you saying I should have stood by and watched while they
scattered or even killed my flock?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then what should I have done? What would you have done?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again without uttering another word. He simply whirled away from her, strode to his horse and mounted.

  “What about these sheep?” Polymarr wanted to know, looking from Emily to Tristan and back again. “We might just as well plug ‘em our own selves as leave ‘em here.”

  “Put them in the lower pasture,” Tristan snapped. His gaze was hot enough to warp hardwood. “I’ll deal with the visitors.”

  Emily sprang forward, before he could ride away, and grasped the gelding’s bridle. “No,” she said. She swallowed, and her pride went down, but not easily, and not without pain. “Please, Tristan. They’ll kill you.”

  Polymarr and Fletcher had begun to argue about moving the sheep, while Spud trotted tirelessly back and forth along the outer edges of the flock.

  Tristan’s eyes were like blue flint. “There’s a good chance of that,” he replied. “But nobody—nobody rides onto my land and makes threats.”

  She laid a hand to his thigh, felt the muscles go taut beneath fabric and flesh. “Don’t go alone. Ride to town and fetch your brother first. Please.”

  “No.”

  “He’s the marshal—it’s his job to settle disputes like this—”

  “He has a wife, a baby on the way. Aislinn’s brothers and Miss Dorrie, they all depend on him. I won’t put him in danger.”

  “Then take me with you.”

  He glowered down at her for a long moment. “Go look after your sheep, Little Bo Peep,” he said, with quiet bitterness. Then, as she watched in misery and fear, he rode off, headed toward Powder Creek.

  Chapter 5

  TRISTAN HADN’T GOTTEN FAR WHEN the gelding came up lame. Maybe it was Providence, maybe it was just plain sorry luck, but there was nothing he could do, for the moment, but turn back. He’d pay his respects at Powder Creek another time, and make a point of doing it soon.