Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  Bragg shrugged, handing Pecos his reins. “What’s up?” he asked lightly, then grew dismayed. There had better not be another problem, because there was nothing that was going to keep him from seeing Miranda today. Nothing.

  Anderson didn’t respond, but his look was so dark that Bragg knew something was brewing. He cursed and hurried to the house. He knocked once, but Bent was there, looking very, very grim. “Come in, Bragg.”

  “What is it?”

  Mrs. Tetley handed him a glass, and he saw that it was whiskey. His apprehension grew. “Colonel?”

  “Derek, the JB’s been burned to the ground.”

  Bragg stared, and slowly put the glass down. Shock numbed him only briefly. “Miranda?” It was a croak.

  “Gone. They took her and that other woman. Killed the three hands and a fourth man. The old woman hid and survived.”

  Bragg was momentarily unable to breathe. Not Miranda! A red-hot rage flooded him. “How many men can you spare, sir?”

  “I couldn’t stop them from going with you if I wanted to,” Bent said. “I just wish I could come with you. But I have to be in Galveston.”

  Bragg nodded. “How long ago?”

  “Six days. And there were about twenty-five of them.”

  Two days after he’d ridden out, Bragg thought. He turned, striding out, his face a hard, tight mask. He reached the chestnut, swinging into the saddle. “We’re riding out,” he said clearly, but he knew that Anderson had already spilled the news, for everyone was wearing grim, deadly expressions.

  They rode at a steady lope for the next two hours, and no one spoke. When they topped the final rise Bragg pulled up, to gaze down on nothing but stone hearths—all that was left of the ranch buildings. The twenty Rangers thundered down the slope, and it was only a moment before someone—Lincoln—called out. “Here! They’ve gone this way!”

  As one, the prancing, stomping mass of horses and men wheeled and pounded after Lincoln, bits jangling, mounts snorting, saddles creaking.

  Miranda had been captured by Comanche. The thought echoed again and again in his mind. Even now he couldn’t think of it. He couldn’t think of what was happening to her. Hang on, he pleaded silently. Just hang on. I’m coming.

  Chapter 49

  His touch on her shoulder awoke her.

  Miranda started, instantly fully awake, aware that it was dark out, aware of drums and rattles and singing and laughter coming from outside the teepee. And aware of Chavez squatting beside her. She met his gaze.

  He smiled, his teeth white against his coppery skin. The fire behind him illuminated him perfectly—and she gasped because he was naked. Naked and aroused. She quickly closed her eyes.

  “Yes, cara,” he murmured, slipping his hands over her shoulders, then up into her hair. His breath caught. Miranda lay very still, her heart pounding wildly. His hands moved down her back, then to her waist, and up to her breasts. He squeezed her gently, rubbing, lingering. His breathing was harsh.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her beneath him.

  “No!” She began to twist, kicking, trying to buck him off. He laughed, shoving his knee between her thighs, forcing them open, her dress riding up. He kissed her savagely. She raked his back with her nails.

  To her dismay, he groaned, trembling, shoving his hardness against her belly, excited by what she had done. Miranda didn’t think. She clawed his face, breaking the skin by his jaw. Immediately, one of his hands captured both her wrists and swung them over her head. She was pinned helplessly beneath him.

  He forced her mouth open and thrust in his tongue. She bit down hard.

  He cried out, jerking back, and struck her across the face. The pain was brief; there was a faint explosion of stars and then nothing.

  The heaviness engulfing her was lightening, and she was drifting up, out, but she didn’t want to—she fought it. Awareness with all its horror seized her. She opened her eyes with a gasp.

  He was kneeling between her thighs, breathing heavily, staring at her. He lowered himself, shoving her dress up to her waist.

  “No, please.” It was a pitiful whisper.

  His arms went around her, pinning her own arms to her sides, and he thrust in. She screamed—from pain as he tore through her dry, tight flesh, and from humiliation. He groaned. “Sorry, cara, so sorry…” and he cried out, collapsing on top of her.

  She began to cry, silently, tears streaming down her face.

  He moved away to sit beside her and stare down at her. She averted her face. She could not stand to look at him.

  “I’m sorry you are so determined to resist me,” he said. “I had no control then, for I have wanted you for too long. Next time I will give you pleasure, I promise.”

  “Never,” Miranda heard herself say. “I hate you, I hate you…”

  He was quiet for a while. She heard him moving about. He returned to her side. “Here, drink this.”

  “No! Go away!”

  “No, cara, the night is young, and it has just begun.”

  Miranda turned to face him. “You…you…dog!”

  He smiled, held her head still, and forced some kind of raw, burning liquor down her throat. She choked, swallowing most of it, although some dribbled down her face. She slapped the jug away. He was amused and set it aside. Then, before she could react, he pulled off her dress, inhaling sharply. “So beautiful.”

  She tried to cover herself with her hands.

  He chuckled. He reached for her, pried her hands off, and held her in an iron grip. “No,” she moaned, but was helpless as he began to kiss her breast. She closed her eyes, a shudder of such revulsion shaking her that she felt like vomiting. The intensity of his mouth increased, and he released one of her arms and began to probe her womanhood.

  She twisted, striking at him.

  He caught her wrist, grinning, his eyes gleaming with lust. He shoved her down, pinning her, and began to tease her other nipple with his tongue. Miranda shrieked and kicked out. She knew it was hopeless, but it was all she could do—and she was so angry! She didn’t realize, then, that her struggles excited him.

  “Cara, God, I can’t wait,” he cried, his fingers probing into her, hurting her. “You’re wet,” he cried triumphantly, although Miranda had no idea what he meant. She was so sore, his touch burned. Then he thrust into her, and she screamed, this time in pure pain. Mercifully, she fainted.

  When she came to, he was still there, but he was bathing her with a cloth. “Go away,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said. “But I know you were no virgin. I hurt you. Dammit!” He threw the wet cloth down and got to his feet.

  Miranda sat, feeling very, very dizzy, and reached for the cloth. It was bloody. She had bled with John. She wondered if something was wrong with her, if she was dying. She hoped so.

  He came back to her. “Colchikehatta will bring you salve. I won’t come to you for a few days, until you are healed. The next time, we will use grease to ease my way. I promise you, it won’t hurt.”

  Miranda stared at her feet. Next time. God, please, help me. I do not deserve this.

  He tilted her chin up. She was forced to look into his eyes. “Many women enjoy me. I do not understand why you fight me. Did you fight your husband too? Have you not learned passion?”

  Miranda gritted her teeth and stared back defiantly. She refused to even talk to him. But when he left, she lay down, curled into a ball, and wept softly.

  Chapter 50

  Walking Tall Woman’s attitude had changed after that first night in the village. She was no longer friendly; in fact, she was hostile. She brought some herbal ointment and indicated that Miranda was to apply it to her most intimate area. The next morning she half dragged her outside and set her to the task of grinding corn.

  Miranda sat there outside the teepee, grinding the corn on the flat, oblong stone. It hurt her delicate hands. Walking Tall Woman was mending buckskin pants, not far from her. Other women sat in fro
nt of their teepees doing similar tasks. Children ran, playing. The few men who were about were taking care of their weapons—sharpening knives and spears, making arrows, and a few cleaning pistols. Miranda guessed most of the men were out hunting.

  She paused to rest her hands. They were red and chapped, almost raw, and she had only been at it an hour or so. Before she even knew it, Walking Tall Woman was upon her, and she hit her so brutally across the face that Miranda fell onto her back.

  “Lazy dog!” she shouted, and she kicked Miranda in the ribs.

  Miranda cried out, gasping with pain.

  Walking Tall Woman reached down and yanked her upright by the hair, hurting her again, and threw her toward her task. Miranda landed on all fours, gulping, her face numb, her rib and hip throbbing. “Finish, dog!” Walking Tall Woman shouted. Miranda sat back and picked up the stone she was using to grind with, tears blinding her. What had she done to be treated like this?

  She ground the corn methodically. She remembered that day at the pond, when Bragg had been so cruel, screaming at her for wandering alone. He had been afraid she would be captured by Comanche. “…wives are treated like dogs…and a second wife doesn’t even have the status of first wife to protect her…the first wife beats her from jealousy…” Was Walking Tall Woman jealous? Because of last night? But she had been so kind yesterday afternoon. Miranda didn’t understand.

  Her hand started to bleed by the afternoon. Walking Tall Woman gave her the task of scraping hides. When she saw that Miranda was bleeding on the hides, she kicked her viciously, in the thigh. Miranda fell back, not able to move, not caring.

  “Bitch!” Chavez roared.

  Miranda struggled upright as Walking Tall Woman cried out in pain. She stared as Chavez struck her again and again, shouting in the Comanche language. He threw her to the ground. Then he left her and hurried to Miranda’s side.

  Miranda shrank away.

  “God, what has she done?” he said, his face grim. “Your hands! Come, cara, stand. Here, let me help you. She will never touch you again. She has defied me, the jealous bitch.”

  Miranda let him help her to her feet, too battered and tired to care. He put an arm around her and led her into the teepee. He pushed her onto the hides, then cleaned her hands with a wet cloth. He let her apply the salve herself. He touched her hair.

  She swallowed and looked at him, so afraid he was going to rape her again.

  “I will not hurt you,” he said seriously.

  “You have already hurt me,” Miranda said harshly, then was shocked at her bravery, her audacity.

  “I did not mean to, cara. The second time, I did not know you were bleeding. I thought you were ready for me.”

  Miranda had no idea what he was talking about.

  He suddenly smiled. “You are still an innocent. That pleases me.”

  She looked away. Please rescue me, Derek, she thought. Please come. Please.

  He caught her face. She gasped, just as he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her at first gently, then with growing insistence, until his mouth was savage and hard on hers. He released her, standing. “You devastate me, poquita.” Then he left.

  I don’t want to devastate you, I want to kill you, she thought, lying back on the hides. She touched her rib and found she was sore. She moaned. How long did she have until he came to her again?

  Chapter 51

  “Damn,” Pecos said softly but succinctly.

  Bragg didn’t respond. As usual these past few days, his face was a hard, closed mask. Like Pecos, he was on foot, peering down into the valley and making a rough count of the teepees they saw. “Close to one-twenty, I’d say,” Bragg muttered.

  “More like one-forty,” Pecos said. “How we gonna do this, Cap?”

  “Miranda’s down there,” Bragg said, totally calm, almost detached.

  Pecos nodded; he understood. A typical Ranger assault could endanger her—or kill her accidentally.

  “You take the north end, I’ll take the south. I want to know where she’s being kept, how many other captives there are, and roughly where they are. Should be easy. Half the men look to be out hunting.” Bragg turned and motioned. Anderson slipped off his horse, where he stood some twenty yards away with the rest of the Rangers. He came forward quickly. “Captain?”

  “You’re in charge. If we’re not back in an hour and a half, we’ve run into problems. Launch an attack.”

  Anderson nodded.

  Bragg nodded to Pecos, and the two men veered off in opposite directions into the heavily forested slopes. Bragg ran silently, easily, his knife in his hand. Not more than five minutes later he had reached the bottom of the slope, and keeping to the edge of the trees, he made a line for the closest teepees.

  He covered the perimeter of the camp easily enough, merely by keeping out of sight. He didn’t pray for luck, but he suddenly had it. He saw Miranda instantly. She was kneeling and sewing leggings, dressed like a squaw. His heart went crazy.

  She was all right!

  It was his first coherent thought, and he reined in his emotions, which threatened to explode or, worse, make him do something foolish. He squatted behind chapparal and studied her.

  The teepee she obviously belonged to was two from the outermost one—which was very lucky. He knew now they’d attack Ranger-style, with an encircling but frontal assault. He’d edge right up to her and abduct her before the first shots were fired. There weren’t very many men in camp—maybe fifty warriors—when the village probably boasted twice that number. He smiled grimly.

  Miranda looked up directly at him.

  Of course she couldn’t see him, but his heart stopped, and he wanted to cry out to her. Silently, in his mind, he reassured her. She was so small, so fragile. Her arms and face were no longer white, but a delicate peach hue. Thank God she was alive! He got up and moved on, with determination, to complete the assignment he had given himself.

  Forty minutes later he was back with the Rangers, who all wanted to know what he had found out. They waited in silence. “Is Pecos back?”

  “No,” Lincoln volunteered.

  “As soon as he gets back we go in,” Bragg said, the Rangers crowding around. He gave his orders succinctly, evenly. “There are fifty warriors to contend with. It’s possible, but not likely at this time of day, that the rest may return in the midst of the battle.”

  “We can handle it.” A wiry, lean Ranger grinned. Luke Hollis was anticipating the fight with relish.

  “I’m taking my wife out of the action.” Bragg looked up as Pecos materialized and repeated what he’d said. Then, “How many?”

  “Probably fifty warriors and about a dozen captives.”

  “I made four, including Miranda. The squaws who fight, kill. All other women and children are to remain untouched.”

  Bragg emphasized this last statement. It was not policy to kill squaws and their children, but sometimes it happened in self-defense. Then gender had nothing to do with it—an enraged Comanche squaw could be as deadly as a brave.

  “Mount up,” he said quietly.

  Almost as one, the Rangers obeyed.

  The villagers never knew what hit them. One minute it was peaceful, the morning silence broken only by the soft sound of chatter and the playful cries of children, and the next, Colts were blasting, men were falling, women were screaming, children were crying. The Rangers rode in like a hurricane, ignoring the squaws and the children, hunting down the braves like wild prey. Taken by surprise, few managed to do more than throw knives. In minutes it was over.

  Bragg had ridden at a gallop for Miranda straight through the sea of teepees as soon as the assault was launched. Everywhere around him guns were blasting and smoking, and cries of terror and agony rose up. “Miranda!”

  She was standing frozen next to the teepee.

  “Miranda,” he shouted, and she heard him.

  Her face lit up. He reached her and swung her into the saddle at a dead run. Dragging his horse’s head around, he turn
ed to go back into the safety of the woods. His first concern was for Miranda’s safety, he wanted her out of the danger, but with his practiced eye, he could see that the battle was almost over. The horse lunged back the way he had come, then screamed, the wild, eerie sound of a horse in pain.

  Bragg knew his horse was hit even before the awesome shriek, and he was leaping from the saddle with Miranda in his arms as the great beast went down. They rolled into the dirt, unhurt. “Are you all right?” he said, looking into her eyes, his face inches from hers.

  “Oh, Derek!” She clung to him.

  Now was not the time, and he stood, pulling her up, as the melee around them quieted. He felt danger instantly, and shoved Miranda behind him. He saw Chavez and drew.

  But Chavez’s gun was already drawn. Bragg was fast enough that Chavez’s shot only grazed his neck, although blood poured from the little wound. His own shot missed completely, and Chavez ran and dove behind a teepee. Bragg didn’t hesitate. He tore after him.

  He paused by the teepee, listening, but there were so many sounds around him—moans and sobs, horses stomping, jangling bits and creaking leather. He tried to block the noise out, straining to hear. He poked his head around the teepee, pulling back as Chavez fired.

  Three shots left, Bragg was thinking. Chavez had a five-shooter, and he smiled with anticipation. Bragg darted forward, blasting with his Colt. Chavez was running for the trees. He hit him in the thigh, and Chavez went down.

  Bragg ran hard across the open space. Chavez rolled, metal glinting. Bragg dove to the ground. The shot missed widely. Bragg rose, firing purposefully. He was close enough that he would never miss. He hit Chavez’s gun, and it went spinning out of his hand. Bragg stood slowly, unbuckling his gunbelt and throwing it aside. “Get up, Chavez! Get up!”

  Two Rangers came up, Colts in hand. “Cap?”

  “No one interferes,” Bragg said, never looking at them, his eyes only on Chavez, who was getting to his feet. He strode forward, only to stop some ten feet away. His smile was cold and ruthless. “If you can kill me, you might just live.”