by Brenda Joyce
“What are the Rangers going to do?”
Bragg raised his hand again, and again the audience grew still. “I have a recommendation to make, and I urge it strongly. Everyone travel home tomorrow in groups for as much of the journey as possible. When you get back home, be prepared for raids and attacks. You all know the Comanche style of war. Make sure your weapons are always within reach, and have enough water and ammunition to withstand a short siege. That’s all.”
“But what are the Rangers going to do?” someone called out loudly. “Are you riding after them? Is Lamar going to call out the militia?”
Bragg ignored the questions, moving his horse through the crowd and dismounting. The men converged upon him at once, asking the same questions, as the women hung on to every word.
John gave Miranda a brief hug. “Don’t worry, dear,” he told her. “The Comanche never attack my spread. I’ve got too many men who can shoot, and it’s too well built. They don’t like those kinds of odds.”
Miranda nodded, unable to speak, not sure if her heart was racing from fear or something else.
“I’ll be glad to chat later, over a whiskey or two,” Bragg was saying.
“Leave the poor captain alone,” Beth Croft shouted, bustling through the men. “I think I know just what you need, Derek.”
A grin split his bronzed face. “A hot bath?” His tone was hopeful. “Some of that barbecue pork?” He sniffed. “I could smell it the moment I rode in.”
“You come with me,” she said, taking his arm. “Someone see to the captain’s horse.”
Everyone was talking in animated, tense murmurs, speculating on the Comanche trouble they might face over the next few months. Standing in the background, Miranda listened, then walked away, shuddering. She thought about the poor girl who had been a prisoner of the Indians. How awful. She remembered what Bragg had told her happened to women taken prisoner, and she shivered again.
She was absorbed in her thoughts, marveling at the authority Bragg had over these people. Was John right? Were the Comanche afraid to attack their ranch, or was he just reassuring her?
Suddenly a small form ran right into her, and with a cry, they both fell. Miranda sat, reached out, and caught a child’s wrist. She pulled him close. “Who—? Ben Parker! I told you you’d have an accident with that ball!”
“I hurt my knee,” he cried, sniffling. “It’s bleedin’!”
“Let me see,” Miranda soothed, stroking his little shoulder and peering more closely at the raw knee. “Well, that can be fixed up in a flash. Can you walk? Come, we’ll go find your mother.”
“Ma will whup me for bein’ up,” he whispered. “Can’t you fix it—please?”
Miranda was sure his mother would not whip him, but then she wondered. Lucy Parker was a grim, lean, haggard woman, and Ben was her youngest—and eighth—child. The woman probably had no patience left. “All right,” she said. She took his hand and led him around the back of the house.
“Oh, wait, where’s Spot? I’ve lost Spot!” With that he wrenched free and ran easily back in the direction from which he had come.
“Is that you, Miranda?” Beth Croft asked, bustling out of the kitchen.
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Croft, I need some linens for bandages. Where can I find them?”
“Everything you need’s in the pantry, just off the kitchen—”
“Beth! Come over here and listen to this,” her husband shouted, gesturing grimly.
Beth started to hurry away. Then she hesitated, looking over her shoulder. “Miranda, maybe you should wait,” she called after her, then sighed and shrugged. What difference did it make? Miranda was married. She hurried over to her husband, guessing correctly that he and his cronies were in a serious discussion about defense against renewed Indian hostilities.
Miranda hurried into the kitchen, which was lit by a fire in the large hearth and one kerosene lamp. She paused, looking for the door to the pantry, and was about to move across to it when a casual drawl made her freeze.
“Hello, Miranda.”
She gasped. Bragg was sitting in a tub in front of the hearth. Because she hadn’t expected to find someone bathing in the kitchen, she hadn’t noticed him at first. Her face flushed. “What are you doing?” she breathed.
His shoulders and chest were bare, wet, and glistening above the tub. He grinned. “What does it look like?” He sighed. “I’ve never seen you look better.”
Miranda swallowed. She tried not to look at his bare flesh, but it was exceedingly difficult not to. “I—I need some linens,” she managed.
Casually, as if he had no care in the world, he began to soap his shoulders, chest, and lower body. “You don’t have to worry about the Comanche,” he said easily, his eyes holding hers. “They avoid big, well-manned places like John’s.”
Bragg was rinsing, and she watched, fascinated, as he splashed water over himself. He glanced up and caught her gaze. Quickly she picked up the lantern and went into the pantry. Her hands shook a little. How could she have stood there and watched a man bathe? Where were the linens? She finally found them on the shelf right in front of her face, realizing she had been seeing in her mind’s eye only the man in the tub. She bit her lip, grabbed the bandages, and shut the door behind her.
“Mon Dieu,” she said, with a long, soft breath.
He was standing with his back to her, toweling himself off, all long, hard, rippling muscle. At her voice, he quickly wrapped the towel around his waist, and turned to face her. “Sorry,” he said. “What are you still so shy for? Hell, Mrs. Croft stood right here while I stripped.” He grinned. “Of course, she refused to leave until I gave her my clothes to launder.”
Miranda didn’t hear a word he said. The towel couldn’t hide his arousal. She practically choked as she whirled and fled. She couldn’t get outside soon enough. But the fresh, cool air didn’t make breathing any easier.
Chapter 35
Outside, Miranda found Ben, who was indeed getting a spanking from his mother. She left the linens and hurried away, trying to regain some calm, unable to fathom why Derek Bragg seemed to agitate her so. Why in God’s name did he make her pulse race and her body heat up? And worse, why was she so happy to see him? She was no fool. It was clear that she had some kind of misplaced affection for the rugged Ranger. That was shameful. A woman who was a wife should have no room in her affections for an unattached man, even if he was her husband’s best friend. Or maybe that made it worse. She leaned against a huge oak tree, sighing, confused.
“Hello, pretty lady. I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you.”
Miranda hadn’t even heard the man come up behind her, and now she recognized the stranger she’d noticed earlier. Up close, he seemed menacing. But he was obviously a friend of the Crofts’. “How do you do,” she said politely.
“How do you do?” He laughed. “Well, if that isn’t the purtiest voice I ever heard! What’s your name? Mine’s Earl. Earl Hollister.”
“Mrs. Barrington,” she said, just so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea.
“Missus, it it? John’s a lucky man. Tell me, how’d he find a pretty thing like you?” He leaned closer, grinning. His arm brushed hers. Miranda stepped away.
“He met my father,” she said. “And it was arranged.” She didn’t want to talk to him. He made her feel uncomfortable. But that was probably ridiculous. There were people everywhere, not more than twenty yards away.
“Arranged, huh? Now that makes me feel better.” He leaned close again, this time taking her hand. “Maybe I have a chance?”
“Please,” she said, shocked, trying to wrench her hand free.
“God, you even smell good,” he said huskily. “I ain’t ever had a woman as pretty as you.” He pulled her close.
Miranda realized that he was drunk, even though he didn’t sound or act it. His breath was sour with alcohol. And he was holding her improperly. “Please release me, sir,” she said firmly.
He chuckled and pulled her into h
is embrace. “Only after a kiss,” he said, and kissed her fully on the mouth.
Miranda cried out and struggled uselessly. His breath was awful, the kiss worse. His body was hard and strong, and she could feel his maleness against her, which frightened her. As he released her, she realized they were completely in the dark, shaded by the tree. No one had noticed, or even heard her cry through the noise of the festivities. She slapped him. He laughed. “I didn’t hurt you, you liked that!”
“My husband—”
“Don’t be a fool, gal. You tell your husband and he’ll get hisself killed. I wouldn’t—”
Miranda wasn’t listening. She ran from him, furious, and still a bit frightened. Just when she’d begun to think Texans had some redeeming qualities, they became crude louts! She ran right into John.
“Miranda, I’ve been looking for—What’s wrong?” He held her and searched her face worriedly.
“A man named Hollister grabbed me and kissed me!” she cried. “I’ve never met so many uncivilized beasts—”
John cut her off. “Where is he?” His face was grim.
Miranda pointed, not even wondering if she’d done the right thing in telling him. After all, he was her husband. If he didn’t protect her, no one would. She ran after him as he went after Hollister.
“Hollister!” he roared. “You bastard! I’ll kill you for touching my wife!”
Hollister was leaning under the same tree, and he laughed. “I told you, gal, not to tell him,” he said easily, as if he were having fun.
John lunged for him with all the fury of an aroused mother bear. Hollister sidestepped quickly and ducked, slamming a hard right fist into John’s abdomen. John merely grunted, grabbed his shirt, and bashed him in the face. Blood poured from Hollister’s nose.
But Hollister was tough, and he blocked the next blow to his face, following with a hook to John’s eye. The two men grabbed each other and began to wrestle. A crowd had gathered, and Miranda became afraid of the violence she was witnessing.
The men broke free of each other and exchanged blows. Hollister fell. John lunged for him, yanked him up, and nearly broke his jaw with another punch. He was about to hit him again, when suddenly he straightened, stiffened, and fell onto his back, a knife protruding from his chest.
Miranda screamed.
“He’s killed Barrington!” someone yelled.
Miranda ran forward and collapsed beside her husband. “John! Dear God, no!”
“Miranda?” His voice was faint. His chest was covered with his blood. “I can’t…can’t see you.”
“I’m here,” she cried, throwing her arms around him. She wept hysterically. “Someone, please, get the knife out—save him!”
“Come closer,” John whispered. “I…can’t see…”
Miranda was aware of someone pulling out the knife, saying something. She hugged her husband’s head to her breast, weeping softly. “It’s all right, John, it’s all right,” she kept saying. She kissed his hair as if he were a child and began to pray.
The crowd parted behind her, but she didn’t notice. Bragg strode through, his face contorted, and dropped down on one knee beside them. One look told him that John was dead. Miranda was murmuring to him. He stood up and looked around.
“Hollister touched her,” someone told him. “John went to kill him.”
Bragg had only one coherent thought: Avenge John. Kill Hollister. He knew the man—an ex-sergeant in the militia, a man who looked for trouble, usually found it, and enjoyed it. Hollister was standing ten yards away, beneath the same oak tree, braced, his gun hand ready.
Bragg didn’t have time to think further.
Hollister drew, but his gun never got past its holster. Bragg’s Colt fired, and Hollister fell without a cry, hit in the chest, killed instantly. A couple of the men ran over to check him. Bragg automatically sheathed his gun, then he turned slowly and looked at Miranda and John.
Beth Croft was trying to pull the girl away. She was weeping softly, still cradling her husband’s head. Bragg glanced at the crowd and made eye contact with Will Croft and another rancher. “Please see to John,” he said. “Put him in his wagon. I’ll be taking him and Miranda back to the JB at first light.”
He turned away. The night reverberated with quiet, shocked whispers and Miranda’s crying. He walked into the woods. His grief was burgeoning from where it was tightly held, in a small, fierce knot, deep inside him. He had to be alone before it exploded and overwhelmed him.
Chapter 36
Bragg paused outside Miranda’s bedroom door, his hand lifted to knock. He hesitated. She had not come out of her room all day, or the day before, except to attend the funeral. He had been sorely disappointed when Bianca informed him that she was dining in her room that night; disappointed and worried. But no matter how much he respected her right to grieve in peace and privacy, there were matters that had to be discussed. He also wanted to alleviate her fears about her future—surely she had given a thought to that?
He knocked. He heard no sound from within, until Miranda’s soft voice bid him enter. He went in quietly, his eyes immediately finding her on the bed. She was sitting propped up, in a gown and wrapper, pale and wan. Her hair was loose, falling in thick strands over her shoulders, and gray circles were smudged beneath her eyes. She was momentarily startled to see him, and he saw her tiny hand clench the sheet, knotting it.
“Hello, princess,” he said softly, smiling slightly.
“I—I thought you were Bianca,” she said nervously, gesturing at a tray of uneaten food by her bedside.
He came over and gazed disapprovingly down at her. “Why aren’t you eating? Do you intend to waste away and die?”
Miranda met his gaze, flustered, and he saw a faint pink stain color her cheeks. “No, that is not my intention,” she said, so softly he had trouble hearing her.
Concerned, he touched her forehead, feeling her stiffen at his touch, but her face was cool. He pulled up a delicate chair, turned it around, and straddled it. He smiled. “I guess I’ll have to sit here while you eat.”
She met his gaze and saw that he meant business. “I have no appetite.”
“I’m sure John would be touched by your grief,” Bragg said, “but he certainly wouldn’t want you to starve yourself to death.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You are…so uncaring!”
He stifled his anger at her accusation; no one cared, or had grieved, more than he did. “Eat some food, dammit, and I mean it.” He picked up the tray and set it on her lap, looking grim. He did not want to be harsh. He only wanted to do what was right.
He studied her as she picked at the roast chicken, now cold, at the beans and potatoes and fried cornbread. She ate agonizingly slowly, he thought impatiently, but at least she was eating. He knew from Elena that she had barely eaten a thing since they had arrived back at the JB ranch three days ago. “Thank you,” he said, removing the tray to the bedside table. “We have to talk, Miranda.”
She gazed at him steadily, waiting. She reminded him of a child—a sad, vulnerable child.
“I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about anything.” He paused. “I’m going to take care of you.” He hesitated, seeing her expression remain unchanged. “I promised John,” he added.
A look of confusion crossed her face. “What are you saying?”
He didn’t know why he felt so nervous, why the words were hard to formulate. “I promised John if anything happened to him, I’d care for you, marry you.” He gave her a smile as her eyes widened in surprise. “Besides, it’s the Apache way. If a brother dies, it’s his living brother’s duty to marry and provide for his widow. It’s actually very sensible, if you think about it.”
Her eyes just grew wider, an expression of shock freezing her face. “This is a raw land,” he rushed on. “A woman has to have a man to provide for her, and more so, to protect her—from hostiles, from other men.” He smiled coaxingly. “Believe me, this isn’t in the least unusual. No
one will be surprised.”
Miranda stared, sitting straighter, and for a long moment she didn’t say anything. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“You’re going to marry me because John made you promise to look after me? Because of some Apache—some barbaric—custom?” Her voice was high-pitched, almost hysterical.
Bragg took her hand, which was icy cold. “I know you haven’t been in Texas long enough to understand us, or this, but…it’s for the best, Miranda, trust me.”
She shook her head. “It’s—improper.”
“No, actually, it’s very proper.”
“You’re not Catholic. We can’t be married.”
Bragg smiled slightly. “Actually, I am Catholic. I had to become one to get title to my land.” He shrugged. “Just like John.”
She stared.
“Do you have some objection to marrying me, Miranda?” He was tense. A wife did not fit into his life, not at all. But he had accepted his duty, his promise, without thinking once of trying to break his oath. Now, suddenly, he realized that he wanted to marry her, and the force of his desire stunned him.
Miranda hesitated. “I suppose not. Even if I went home, Papa wants grandchildren. He told me. I suppose he would just arrange another marriage.” She stared past his shoulder at the crackling fire.
“I’m flattered,” Bragg said stiffly. “Truly flattered you are so enthusiastic.” He stood. “Believe me, this wasn’t my idea.”
He was at the door when she called out. “Captain?”
He turned, his expression inscrutable.
“I hate to say this, but even if it becomes general knowledge that you will wed me, you can’t stay here for the year of mourning. It’s improper. I—”
Bragg’s laugh cut her off, and he strode back to her bedside. “My dear princess, there will be no year of mourning.”
Her mouth fell open in surprise.
“This is a rough land, Miranda, in case you haven’t figured that out. You can’t live here as a widow, alone. You need me and my name as protection. We’ll be married next week.”