by Brenda Joyce
He regained instant control, looking away out over the mountains. “I see.”
Did he? She should speak, explain, but no words came.
“You choose the child over me.” The words were final. He looked at her. His gaze was so cold, so remote.
Miranda took a deep breath. “The child is innocent and defenseless. You can survive without me—easily.”
He laughed, shortly, with bitterness. He looked away. “And if I refuse? We were married in the church—your church, more than mine. There are no divorces.”
“Why would you refuse?”
He stood. “The answer is no.” His gaze was hard, steady, a look she knew well. There was no compromise in it.
“You’re not being fair,” she cried, standing.
“No one said life was fair.” He walked away.
Miranda felt defeated. A part of her felt relieved—and she knew she still loved him. But she had the child to think of. How could she get to San Antonio without him to begin her journey back to England? It was impossible, and she knew it.
She had just fallen asleep when she felt him slide into bed next to her, and she was instantly awake, frozen, pretending sleep. She felt him looking at her. Then she felt his hands, stroking down her arm, her hip. She was shocked. It wasn’t possible, with all the anger between them, that he should want to exercise his rights tonight.
His lips brushed her temple, her ear. She twisted to face him. “No,” she said firmly.
He took advantage, catching her face with both hands and kissing her. She tried to turn her head; it was impossible. The kiss deepened, and she tried to push him away. He grabbed her hair with one hand, coiling it around his wrist, the other holding her tightly around her waist. He threw one thigh over hers, pinning her. What was he trying to prove?
Miranda stopped caring. Her body began to respond eagerly, as if it had been years since they had been with each other, not a day or two. She pressed against him, accepted his tongue, probed his mouth with her own. She was desperate, starved, frantic. His passion matched hers. They kissed wildly, savagely, and she moaned. His breathing was ragged and harsh. He pulled up her skirt and thrust into her. She cried out with the sheer splendor of union. He plunged almost viciously, and she wanted it faster, harder. He sensed it, and drove himself like a rutting bull. She climaxed first, crying out wildly, and then he joined her, groaning, shuddering, collapsing.
She listened to their heartbeats, holding him lightly, and found her fingers stroking his hair. She wanted to weep with sadness. She wanted to break down the wall the child had created, but she didn’t know how. She wanted to love him.
He rolled off her, and she waited anxiously for some tender sign, some words of love. He lay still on his back, eyes closed, breathing even. She moved to him. His arm curled around her. She lay her head on his chest, glad at least that he hadn’t turned away, and sad that there was no tender, loving aftermath. She listened to his breathing, and realized he had fallen asleep.
Chapter 68
He was bitter, still, that she was choosing the baby over him. It proved to him that she didn’t love him, and that was a stabbing truth. He felt less angry today. It was as if her asking him if she could return to England had jolted him back to his senses. But the bitterness was there, hurting.
He couldn’t let her leave, because that would be giving up something more precious than his own life. He couldn’t imagine living without her, not after he’d had her and her love, even if for a short time. Last night he had wanted to show her how much she needed him, but he knew he wasn’t approaching her in the right way. If anyone knew the difference between lust and love, it was he. It was so ironic. He had lusted after women his whole life, then fallen in love with a complete innocent, who in return only lusted after him! If it wasn’t so heartbreaking, it would be funny.
He wanted things to be right between them. If it meant his accepting the baby, he would try like hell. He had seven months, maybe a bit less, to come to grips with raising Chavez’s son. He would turn to her. She could help him. But it was unfair of her to expect him to love the child as his own. That he couldn’t do. What he could do, what he could try to do, was care.
That afternoon, after she had recovered from her morning sickness, he found her plucking the quail he had brought in that morning. He took her hand, stilling it. When she looked up at him, he saw the hope flaring in her eyes, and the anguish. He hated himself for being so selfish, for making her so unhappy. If he was unhappy, he resolved, he would keep it from her from now on.
“Miranda, I’ve been thinking.”
She looked deeply into his gaze, waiting. She was so vulnerable, he thought.
He exhaled. “I want things to be right between us. I’ll try to be a good father. I…I would never let harm come to any human being, not an innocent one, you know that, and that includes this baby. I can’t pretend I can love it, but I…I will be a good father. You can help me, show me how. Please.”
Miranda looked at him, and he saw sadness filter into her eyes.
“What is it? Haven’t I told you what you want to hear?” He heard the desperation in his tone.
“I never assumed you wouldn’t give my child protection and creature comforts, Derek. But you offer yourself because of me, not because of the child. What you want to do is right, but for the wrong reasons, selfish reasons.”
He heard her and knew she was right. “Miranda, how do I get your love back?”
“You don’t trade on love,” she said softly.
He felt miserable.
She saw his unhappiness. Her hand came out to touch his cheek, and he caught it, holding it there. “Derek, we’ll do the best we can.”
“I’m a selfish bastard,” he said. “I’ve always known it, but it never bothered me before. But when I met you, you became more important than my own needs. Or so I thought. Maybe I was wrong.”
“I don’t doubt your love,” she said. She sighed. “Maybe when the baby is born you will find it in your heart to love an innocent child.”
“Maybe you can help me.” But even as he said the words he felt torn—he didn’t want to love Chavez’s son, he just wanted to love his wife. But another side, a deeper side, told him to let go of his anger.
Suddenly he lifted his head, every nerve ending in his body alert.
“Derek, what is it?”
He grabbed her arm and began propelling her toward the pile of logs and the framed cabin. They had taken three strides when an Indian war cry split the air, and the ground thundered with pounding hoofbeats.
“Miranda, behind the logs!” Derek yelled, propelling her, dragging her, shoving her forward. There was no time to think of what Comanche were doing this far west. He saw Miranda dive behind the logs, then fired just as the Comanche released his spear, riding down on him. The spear took him high in the chest, then the Comanche fell, dead. Miranda screamed.
Derek turned, firing at another attacker. He hit him and the pony raced off, riderless.
Miranda screamed in warning. “Derek!”
Too late, he felt the knife in his back, driving him to his knees. He raised his gun and fired. The attacking brave slumped over his galloping pony’s side. Bragg hadn’t had a chance to see how many there were, and now he was too weak, too hurt, losing blood. He was starting to have difficulty focusing. Then he heard Miranda scream again.
He was on his side, half sitting, when he saw that he was being rushed by three Comanche on ponies, all with raised spears. With great effort he focused and fired once. One warrior fell, his aim deflected, and the other two missed, galloping past. He had only two shots left. He waited. The Comanche rushed, then raised his bow. Derek fired, hitting his target. He knew it was a lucky shot because his world was a blur.
He heard her scream again. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t see, heard thundering hoofbeats, close, retreating. Everything was gray and growing black.
“Derek!” It was a shriek.
“Derek!” Fain
ter.
“Derek!”
Chapter 69
Miranda sobbed helplessly. She had no strength left to fight. She had seen everything, had watched her husband slaughtered before her eyes, had seen him fall as she was thrown up on a pony in front of an Indian who smelled like rancid grease. To leave him lying there destroyed her. What if he was still alive, but bleeding to death?
How could a man live after being lanced and stabbed that way?
There were only six of them, she realized dimly, and they rode through the day and into the night. She stopped thinking. Her heart was broken. She couldn’t think because then she would die from the pain. Derek. Derek. She wanted to die.
They stopped the next day. Miranda wasn’t sure if it was the next day or a week later. She felt utterly exhausted. She was confused, dazed. Derek was dead. Derek! Pain throbbed steadily within her. Someone pulled her off the pony, and she crumpled to the ground.
A hand coiled in her hair. She whimpered from the physical pain as she was dragged by the hair, then released, falling on her face. She heard male voices, excited voices. They were arguing. She opened her eyes, raising her head. A big man in buckskins, a white man, was talking to the Indians, gesturing with his hands. What was happening? Where was she? Where was Derek?
This wasn’t happening. She was with Derek in their beautiful meadow, safe, secure. No…Derek was dead! No…soon he would come, rescue her…Derek, I love you….
The floating, drifting sensation deepened. A fog curled around her. A misty fog…England. Her mother, a park, beautiful, manicured lawns. Her mother loved her. She was young, so young, a little girl. The fog was cool and soft, like a fluffy cloud. She didn’t want to leave it, but someone was shaking her. Miranda forced her eyes open, and her heart leaped at the sight of a buckskin-clad chest. “Derek.”
The man smiled. “This is your lucky day, l’il gal. Come on. We got some traveling to do.”
Miranda blinked and stared at the big, dirty stranger. Derek was dead. Nothing mattered. The Comanche had already ridden off. When the man pulled her to her feet, she moved as if she were drugged.
Chapter 70
He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. That was his first coherent thought—that he was conscious. His next was of Miranda.
He focused. He was hurt—dying, if he didn’t do something about it. His back was in agony. His chest burned, but that pain was insignificant to the rest. He was weak, and when he opened his eyes, it was dawn, red, rosy, and very blurry. He closed his eyes and fainted again.
The next time he came to, the sun was high and very, very hot. He managed to pull his knife from his sheath. He had to rest after that effort. He made an incision in his shirt. He was panting, and desperately thirsty. He was going to faint. No! He had to live…to find Miranda.
He fought the encircling blackness. He cut through his shirt, slicing it into awkward rags. Then he fainted again.
But only for a few hours, he saw, when he came to again. He still had the knife in his hand, and he released it, with great difficulty placing both his hands on the spear protruding from his chest. It was in a good spot, he noted, below the collarbone, above his lungs. He was lucky. In his mind he smiled at the complete irony of the thought. He needed strength. He yanked, moaning in pain, fighting wave after wave of dizziness.
It took him half a dozen tries to finally pull the spear out, and then the blood gushed anew. By sheer will-power he managed to place a wad of his shirt on the wound and rolled onto his stomach, still clutching the material to his chest. He refused to pass out.
He knew the knife was still in his back, because he had fallen against it before twisting half consciously to his side. The pain was unbelievable, high in his back, in his shoulder, in bone and muscle. He was so weak. He had to get it out, but he knew he didn’t have the strength, not yet.
He crawled to the creek. He passed out twice, and it took him hours to go thirty yards. His body was burning, and he knew fever was setting in. But he wasn’t going to die. He slithered into the water.
He drank deeply.
With his knife he cut off the rest of his shirt in strips. The process took him a long time. All the while he sat in the creek, letting the water bathe his wounds. He bound the wad to his chest with a strip of his shirt, still bleeding. He was weaker than ever, but his determination outweighed everything. He ignored the knife in his back; he knew without trying that there was nothing he could do to get it out, not now.
He could not think about Miranda, either. But he did wonder, briefly, if his people had been attacked, too. He fell asleep.
He awoke burning up with fever, but he had expected it. Desperately he hung on to sanity. His chest wound had stopped bleeding and was clotting. He knew he shouldn’t get it wet, but he also knew he could die from the fever. He had already determined that the chest wound was the more serious injury. He crawled fully into the water until it coverd him, clear and cool, and he slept again.
He awoke as cold as he had been before, but he didn’t move, he wasn’t able to. The chills alternated with burning heat. At some point he began to thrash and murmur and dream, mostly of Miranda. He relived their time together. He could actually feel her touch on his forehead, so cool and soft.
He saw his son as a newborn infant, and he felt thrilled with pride. The boy howled with lusty vigor from his first moments in the world. Derek held him. His wife smiled tiredly. She was Apache. Then, before his eyes she turned into Miranda. The boy in his arms became Chavez’s bastard. He stared, holding the infant, unable to put it down, but not wanting to touch it. The infant changed, became his own flesh and blood, then turned back again into the unwanted bastard. Finally he saw his son, tall, a teenager, a Comanche. Derek was protecting Miranda from his son who was charging, wanting to kill her. Bragg prepared to defend Miranda from his own flesh and blood.
He awoke to a sparkling day, the pleasant, tepid warmth of a late setting sun. He focused, remembering. He was in the creek, covered up to his neck, but he was no longer feverish. He was very, very weak. He didn’t have the strength to move, but he tried to take a mental inventory of his wounds. The bandage on his chest was as clean as if he had never bled. He became aware that there was no knife in his back. Had he pulled it out? Or had the water loosened it? He didn’t remember pulling it out. How long had he fought the fever?
And, God, was Miranda okay?
He knew he needed strength. He dug with his fingers in the mud to find worms and bugs, which he ate. He was too weak to spear a fish with his knife, which was tucked in his belt. But if he built up his strength he would be able to catch a fish and eat it raw. Until then he would live on worms and bugs. He sank into sleep.
Part Four
The Beloved
Chapter 71
“What’s wrong with her?” the woman asked suspiciously, her hands on her ample hips.
“You can see she’s a beauty,” the big, buckskin-clad man said, scratching his lice-ridden beard.
The woman was short and plump, clearly a prostitute, clad in a scandalously low-cut black satin gown. She was not young and not old. Her hair was red and natural, her face heavily painted. Her eyes were hard and old. “Chester, what did you do to this girl?”
They both looked at Miranda. Her hair was nothing but snarls, her dress filthy tatters. Chester had washed her face, the better for Mollie to see what a beauty she was, but nothing could change the vacant look in her eyes. If she saw them looking at her, or heard them, she didn’t give a sign. In fact, she never looked at them, but through them, as if they didn’t exist.
“I didn’t do nuthin’. She’s an idiot, I guess. She don’t talk, don’t smile, nuthin’. But she’s a beauty. Hell, she don’t need to talk, Moll, you know that. Men don’t pay a whore to talk.”
Mollie frowned and walked up to the girl, then around her, inspecting her. “She’s thin.” She wanted to ask how Chester had come by this girl, but she wouldn’t—she never asked. Never before had she eve
n wanted to know. “Girl, you got a name?”
Miranda looked at her blankly. She was in such pain. Why couldn’t they leave her alone with her grief?
“I told you, she don’t talk. But me an’ Will named her Belle, ’cause she’s such a looker. Listen, you don’t want her, I can unload her in Chihuahua, I know that.”
Mollie frowned. “I’m short two girls, Chester. Damn bitches run off and got married, can you believe it? The way this town is growing, damn, I need all the girls I can get.”
“You sure do,” Chester encouraged her. He wouldn’t tell her that he privately thought the wench was insane. Crazy like a loon. At night she’d moan and whimper, saying the name Derek over and over. Her man—the one killed by the Comanche. He’d always been afraid of crazy folks, and it was too bad, because if she weren’t crazed from her grief he’d have bedded her. What a waste. “Galveston’s three times the size it was five years ago,” he said.
“There was nothing here five years ago, practically.” Mollie snorted. “All right. I’ll take her. Maybe with some food and sleep she’ll snap out of it. Let me ask you, though, how long she been like this?”
Chester hesitated. He didn’t want to tell her she’d been like this from the first day he’d seen her and bought her from the Comanche.
“I see,” Mollie said astutely. “Well, I ain’t giving you the standard price, not for this one. Seventy-five, and that’s it.”
“Damn! That’s robbery! You know I don’t sell a girl for less than a hundred fifty. You make that much in six months.”
They bickered back and forth and agreed on a hundred, as they had both known they would. Chester left. “Well, girl,” Mollie said, taking her hand. “I’m going to have one of the girls bathe you and bring you up a fine meal.” She led her out of the office behind her saloon, which served also as her sleeping quarters. There was a back stairs up to the rooms where her girls lived and work. There were eight girls—now this one made nine. Better than nothing, she thought.