by D McEntire
Bri tried to rein in her hunger enough to let her mind think. What was he up to? Why would he bring food to the creek? Was he trying to coax her out of hiding? Grasping the branches tightly in her hands, she willed herself to ignore the aroma filing her nostrils. Bri grit her teeth and felt somewhat insulted. Did he think she would fall for the trap like a hungry animal?
When the man walked nearer to where Bri hid, and she found herself able to discern his features, her heart skipped a beat. Long, wavy hair spilled from under his hat over his shoulders and muscular thighs strained the fabric of his trousers as he made long, purposeful strides toward the creek.
A familiar scent hit her, and for a few moments she forgot about the food and its enticing aroma. The man with the gun. Bri's eyes went wide at the realization. What is he doing here?
He placed the items on a tall rock before straightening, and then took a long look around the area. Bri knew who he searched for: her.
After a few moments he moved nearer the water's edge, where he sat on the ground and pulled off his boots and socks. Standing once more, he unbuttoned his shirt and placed it on top of his boots. His trousers soon followed, letting them pool at his ankles before stepping out the legs and setting them on top his shirt.
Bri gasped. Her hand quickly covered her mouth to stifle the sound as she watched the man undress. She teetered between relief and disappointment when she noticed he didn't remove his undergarment. The improper thought both shocked and thrilled her.
After he stepped into the water, he waded deeper before going under, then resurfaced a few moments later. Bri's grasp on the branch in front of her tightened; desire to leap from her perch, strip off her clothes, and join him grew stronger with each passing moment. What would it be like to play in the water with someone? To laugh with someone again? Loneliness made her chest ache and tears begin to pool in her eyes once again, but she pushed them back.
Bri settled herself as comfortably as she could while the man swam. After several minutes he waded to the shore and his clothes. As he stood with his back to her and used his shirt to dry himself, Bri could see every curve and line of his taut backside through the material of his wet unmentionables, which clung to him indecently.
His movements were slow and fluid. Muscles rippled and bunched as he ran his shirt over his skin like a towel. Bri's mouth went dry, and her fingers itched to feel them bunch and flex under her fingertips. Too soon, he was dry and pulling on his trousers before he sat and donned his socks and boots.
Dressed from the waist down, the man stood and surveyed the area once more. After what she thought to be a slight shrug of his shoulders, he disappeared into the trees.
Bri closed her eyes. Though she had not interacted with the man, she felt the loss of his presence nonetheless. Just as she shifted to leave the sanctum of the tree, another scent wafted on the night breeze -- one that froze her in place and sent chills down her spine.
A man, her senses told her, but there was more. Danger and malevolence mingled. This kept Bri rooted in place. Whoever he was, she told herself, he hid within the shadows, blending among the trees. She had no doubt he waited for her to show herself.
Keeping as still as possible, Bri remained on her perch, hoping the man would grow impatient. Finally, he did. Seeming to give up, he began walking in the opposite direction of where she hid in the tree. Booted steps heralded his departure.
When she could no longer sense or hear him, Bri dropped lightly from the tree and landed in a crouch. Cautiously, she remained still a few moments before making her move to retrieve the tin and canteen resting on the rock.
Her first thought was of the food's contents. Was it safe to eat? She had no idea if the man who brought it intended her harm, but holding back was killing her more surely. Deciding to take her chances, she grabbed the tin and canteen and bolted in the direction of her hidden shelter.
* * * *
Brody entered camp and ignored the questioning expression on Frank's face. The man was stretched out not far from his own spot. He knew it grew late, leaving not many hours until dawn, when it would be time to get a move on once again.
After yanking on his damp shirt with aggravated tugs, he unrolled his tarp and spread it out on the grass, then laid his bedroll on top for what cushioning it could provide. Stretching out his legs, he propped his head on his saddle and gazed up at the black sky and its myriad of stars.
Brody's thoughts kept returning to the woman. Who was she? Where did she come from? And what the Sam Hill was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere? He hoped she found the tin and would have the gumption to come out of hiding. If she did he would do whatever he could to help her and see to it she stayed safe. He'd take her with him to Fort Worth, where she would be a hell of a lot safer than she was out here. If she didn't reveal herself, well, he was at sea at what to do about it.
Dawn's arrival spread streaks of blue, pink, and purple across the eastern sky. Brody grimaced as he stood and attempted to work the kinks from his back. No matter how many years he spent sleeping outdoors with the Earth as his bed, his body never got used to it.
Brody hadn't slept but a few winks through the night. He had even been awake for the watch change. It was going to be one long, hard day, he thought on a groan. Steeling himself to face it, he rolled up his bedroll and the tarp, affixed them to his saddle, and then walked toward the chow wagon for a cup of strong, black coffee, feeling it to be a two or three cup morning.
"You look like hell," Frank said, amusement lacing his voice.
Brody scowled at him, purposely ignoring the gleam in his mentor's eyes. "You don't look so grand yourself," he retorted.
With a chuckle Frank flung the remaining drops of his coffee into the fire and headed for the horses to help the team's wrangler saddle and ready them for another day's work.
As Brody prepared to heft his own saddle, he noticed Cookie walking toward him, looking ready to clean someone's plow. Brody grimaced. He knew exactly who, and what, had Cookie all riled up.
"Brody, we're missin', a tin. What'd ya' do wit yers last evenin'?"
Brody turned and stared at the man, who had one eye narrowed on him as if squinting in the sunlight.
"I left it at the creek. Don't worry about it." Brody walked away from Cookie, ignoring the man's muttered curses. He needed to saddle up and didn't have time to split hairs with Cookie over a tin. Not only that, he was just plain not in the mood.
He had intentionally left the tin and the canteen at the creek in hopes the woman would find it. She'd said she was hungry, and seeing as how it had been him that kept her from getting grub when she'd asked, he'd found it only fitting to make up for his mistake.
* * * *
A sigh escaped Bri's lips as her eyelids fluttered and opened slowly. She could feel the coming of night all around her. She was also alone, once again.
When she settled down in her make-shift shelter just before dawn she'd known the cattle drivers would move on; but facing the reality of it now made her heart ache. Bri looked down at the tin and canteen on the ground beside her. The stranger left it for her at the creek last night -- heaped with food -- and though thankful, she hadn't dared make a trip to his camp to return them.
Once again she found herself the sole person in this vast wilderness, with only the sounds of the night for comfort.
Thoughts of the man from the camp popped into her head yet again. How did he manage to approach her unawares? She must have lost her focus badly to allow such a thing, and a mistake like that could cost her life. He could have been a rapist or killer, and then what would she have done? She didn't doubt she could take care of herself, but at what price? The only way she could escape such a man would be to kill him.
Bri cringed at the thought. She'd never killed anyone, nor did she ever want to. Unlike her brother, Trevor; just thinking about him brought a chill down her spine, and Bri found herself unable to stop the unwelcome memories from surfacing.
As children t
hey'd played together, and watched over one another, until Trevor reached the early stage of manhood. The once joyful gleam in his eyes turned to something else, something she hadn't been able understand, but feared nonetheless. Her father noticed it, too. Father.
Bri shook her head, trying to ease the pain at the remembered loss of her father. He'd always been kind to her and her brother, though his patience and concern for Trevor had worn him down. Bri knew it had been mixture of that and the fact they'd had to move from place to place, never able to settle in one spot for very long, making him so tired.
In an effort to ease her mind from the sad memories, Bri picked up the tin and canteen and carried them to the creek. While washing the tin she took the time to study more on the man who it seemed had stolen into her thoughts and made a place for himself there. Even as she slept she dreamed about him; standing in the shadows, just far enough away for her not to be able to see his face clearly.
A breeze rippled across the water of the creek and whistled through the trees. Bri closed her eyes and listened. The sounds around her were all she had to keep her company in this strange place; too much idle time kept the thoughts and memories alive. She needed something else -- something to do, something to take her mind off of her dire situation.
A sudden thought made a smile tug at her face. Perhaps it was time for an adventure, she told herself. Besides, she reasoned, she had nothing better to do. Her senses were far better than a human's, why not test them by searching for the drivers' next camp? She'd make a game of it.
Reality of her true situation slammed into her mind -- shelter. She would have to find shelter before dawn each morning or face the consequences.
Consequences? She was in the middle of nowhere, alone, and hungry. What could be worse? Death? Bri shook her head. Death would be a gift, her mind retorted. The decision made, she stood and searched for her hat, momentarily forgetting she'd lost it last night during her flight after the man found her sneaking around their camp.
Bri tightened the rope she used as a sash on the oversized pants she wore, and tucked the shirt further down the legs. She found she enjoyed wearing men's clothes; they offered her a freedom not found in the dresses and elaborate gowns she'd worn in Europe and New York.
She could almost feel the tight whale-bone corset cutting off her breath and squeezing her internal organs until she felt as though she would faint. She didn't miss the hoops or petticoats, or the other twenty pounds of clothing she wore whether it be warm or cold. What she did miss, however, were the beautiful colors and fabrics.
Turning her head to gaze at her surroundings, Bri knew she would never wear such fineries again. Not here.
After filling the canteen with water, she stared at the tin a moment, trying to decide whether to take it on her journey or leave it at the creek. She wouldn't need a tin to eat. An image of the cattle driver sifted though her mind, and her heart skipped a beat as she smiled. The tin served as a memory of him, like a memento. No, she told herself, she would not leave it behind.
CHAPTER THREE
The sun dipped low in the horizon, leaving the sky with beautiful, swirling colors. Bri kept a brisk pace, as she was able to travel at a much faster speed than any human. A screech owl cried in the distance as she followed the well worn trail of stomped grass and upturned soil left by the cattle. Anticipation grew at the thought of seeing the man again. Then what?
Her mind was right, and her heart felt it, too. Following the man to wherever he was going was pure folly, not to mention useless. When he reached whatever town he planned to sell his cattle, he would return home, where ever that may be.
Home .
Had she ever had a home? Her time in New York came to mind once again as she walked. She pictured the hotel where she lived with her father and brother for the last two years. Those two years had been hard on her father, and she recalled how worn his face had become; he seemed to age several years in a very short amount of time.
Bri quickened her pace, going from a fast walk to a jog, then a run, trying to outrun the painful memories and the ache in her chest. She spent many nights during the past two weeks crying over being left alone in this land; she would not cry now.
Several miles fell beneath her feet before the distant bellow of longhorns rang in her ears. She'd found them.
A planned formed in her head. She'd get closer to where they stopped for camp, then make a quick hunt for shelter. When the time came to escape the daylight, she had to know where to go.
Climbing a small hill, she gazed down at the herd, watching the drivers push them into a tighter group. She circled the hillside while keeping an eye on the cattle and the two men watching over the herd. At the base the hill, on the opposite side from the longhorns, two large boulders lay against one another, creating a small burrow she figured would adequately serve as shelter during the day. Relieved at having her worse fear settled, she made a mental note of the location and then skirted the hill, keeping low so as to not be noticed.
Grass waist high, it provided cover as Bri crouched and duck-walked her way past the herd, heading for the amber glow of the campfire.
* * * *
The clang of pots seemed to ring out into the night, Brody thought, while entering camp and dusting off his hat on his leg as he walked. Thanks to a few of the herd who decided to break from the rest and head off in another direction, the team were settled in for the evening later than normal.
When Frank handed him a cup of black coffee, Brody nodded his thanks, his throat too dry with trail dust to speak. The man's grin said he understood. Brody watched Frank take a spot on the ground; the man sat with his back against a tree stump and his legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed. Frank looked very much at home out here, Brody mused.
Taking a huge gulp of coffee to wet his windpipe, Brody turned and assessed the area. The full moon lit not only the hills on both sides, but also the valley in which the herd were bedded for the evening.
His legs ached, as did every bone in his body. Lack of sleep the night before, and then riding over twelve hours today, made him feel as though he'd lost several years off his life. Brody let out a soft groan as he made his way to where his saddle lay on the ground.
Unhooking his bedroll and tarp, he set to laying them out. When he was finished, he propped his back against his saddle and stretched out his sore legs, almost mimicking Frank's relaxed position. One of the men pulled out a harmonica and began to play a soothing melody. After a few notes, another brandished his guitar, placed it over his lap, and joined the song. The music relaxing, Brody found himself fighting to stay awake.
"You sleep now, you miss dinner." Frank's raspy voice jerked Brody back to consciousness.
Brody sighed long and hard. "Yeah. I know. Just restin' my eyes."
He heard Frank snort and knew the Indian didn't believe his excuse.
Prying his eyes open and forcing them to stay that way, he noticed a shooting star soar across the dark sky, a long tail in its wake as it finally winked out. The sight made Brody smile as he stared into the vast darkness speckled by millions of flickering lights.
"Won't be long. Makin' good time to Fort Worth."
Brody turned his face to see Frank nod in agreement.
The man pulled a clay pipe from his saddlebag and stuffed it with his own brand of smoke. After a few moments the Indian stood and poked a stick into the fire, then brought the small flame to his pipe. He dipped the glowing tip of the stick inside his pipe while sucking on the mouthpiece, lighting the dried leaves.
Puffs of smoke rose from the pipe and ringed the old man, seemingly wrapping him like a blanket or warm embrace. Brody blinked several times to clear his eyes of the illusion. He must be really tired, he thought as he watched Frank toss the stick into the fire and return to his slouched position against the stump.
The smell of Frank's smoke was sweet; Brody could remember smelling it all his life. It was an indication the man was near before he caught sight of him. Bro
dy realized the scent brought him comfort, just like Frank's presence.
Brody turned his head and glanced around at the men. A few smoked their own rolled cigarettes, and others drank a little too much, especially while in town. Allowing his lids to close once more, Brody tried to come up with a reason as to why he never cared much for coffin nails or bug juice.
"Come get yer' eats!" Cookie called, but Brody didn't feel like moving. The music stopped abruptly as the men headed for the chow wagon to fill their plates, and though his stomach growled in protest, Brody still had no desire to move.
After a few minutes a shadow fell across his face, and he cracked open one eye. Frank stood over him, pipe in one hand and a tin of food in the other. Though no emotion showed on his friend's face, Brody didn't miss the gleam of amusement in the old man's eyes.
With a grunt of effort, Brody sat up and accepted the tin, and this time he was able to voice his thanks. Frank was one to ride the river with, Brody told himself as he picked up his fork. The man had always been there for him; he seemed to watch over Brody even more closely since the death of his father.
The sounds of the harmonica and guitar filled the night once again. After just a few bites of food Brody found he didn't have the appetite his stomach imagined. With each spoonful he thought more about the woman.
Where was she now?
Brody couldn't get her out of his head. The thought of a woman out there alone and hungry still gnawed at him, eating at his insides. Women were to be protected, his mind screamed in protest. They were to be kept safe, healthy, and happy, with a roof over their head, nice duds on their bodies, and food in their bellies. They were to be loved and cherished.
Unable to take another bite, Brody laid his tin on his bedroll. He stood and ran a hand over his face, grimacing at how dirty it felt under his fingers, not that they were any cleaner.