Renegade's Lady

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Renegade's Lady Page 9

by Bobbi Smith


  Driven by demons he didn't understand, Brand moved even closer until he towered over her.

  Sheri stood her ground, though. She did not flinch before his obvious anger or cower before him. She bravely looked up at him with innocent, trusting eyes.

  "You're living in a fantasy world, little girl. You think you know me, but you don't. Maybe I should show you just how much Indian blood I really have. . . ."

  As he reached for her, he seemed to change before her very eyes. He was no longer the scout, but was now the fierce warrior Charles had mentioned. Still, Sheri did not back down. As he pulled her close and sought her lips with his, she did not resist.

  Brand did not know why he felt compelled to kiss her. It was almost as if he sought to punish her or convince her that the Brand of her fantasies didn't exist. His mouth slanted across hers as he crushed her to his chest. His kiss was savagehard and hungry.

  Then, suddenly, an awareness jolted through him. Suddenly, he became aware of everything about her . . . the sweet scent that was only hers, the lush softness of her womanly curves pressed against him, the way her body molded to his. She wasn't fighting him or trying to escape his embrace, and amazingly, kissing her wasn't punishment anymore. It was wild and wonderful. He gentled his hold on her as he realized how delicate she was . . . how special . . .

  And he knew this had to endnow.

  With all the fierce resolve he could muster, Brand tore himself from her, taking a step back to put some distance between them.

  Sheri was stunned. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and questioning in the wake of the feelings his embrace had aroused. She had never known a kiss like his before. Her heart was racing, and she longed to be back in his arms again.

  "I have to keep watch," he said tersely, coldly. He turned his back on her and walked away.

  Maureen had been right when she thought that the trek back to McDowell would seem endless. It did. Charles was weak, and eventually O'Toole was forced to ride double with him to keep him in the saddle. They were constantly on watch, expecting the raiding party to come back after them again at any time, while Maureen looked continually and hopefully for some sign of Sheri and Brand.

  But there was nothing. It was eerily quiet, and with every passing mile that took her farther away from Sheri, Maureen grew more and more upset.

  "I feel like I'm abandoning her . . ." Maureen agonized.

  O'Toole could see how desperate she was. He wished he could promise her that everything would be all right, but until they were safely back at the fort, there was no way to be absolutely sure. "We'll send out troops to look for them as soon as we reach McDowell," O'Toole told her.

  "And I'll personally lead the search," Philip added.

  His offer didn't necessarily reassure Maureen, but she didn't say anything. She needed all the help she could get and couldn't risk offending anyone.

  "It's getting dark. What if she needs us now? What if something's happened to Brand, and she's all alone?" Maureen cast an anguished glance back toward the wilderness they'd just fled.

  "Even if it was safe for us to go back right now, there's no way we could truck them at night."

  Maureen gave a strangled sigh. "I know you're right. It's just that I feel so helpless."

  Charles managed to speak. "Brand will take care of her. He's her hero."

  His hard-fought words made Maureen smile. If Charles could feel optimistic in as much pain as he was, she certainly could. She fell silent, concentrating only on the ride and praying that they would soon reach McDowell.

  It was hours later when they finally made it to the fort. They'd traveled after dark, moving slowly but steadily to safety.

  Philip had ridden ahead to announce their return. He was waiting for them with several troopers to help when they arrived. With their aid, they got Charles down and rushed him off to the hospital, where the doctor had already been awakened and was ready to treat him.

  "He's in good hands now," Philip said confidently as he went to Maureen and helped her down.

  "I hope so." She tried to stand, but found her legs were weak after so many hours in the saddle.

  Philip noticed her unsteadiness and tightened his supportive hold on her. "Are you all right?"

  "Don't worry about me. You go ahead and do what you have to do. All I care about is that Charles is all right and that you find Sheri and Brand."

  "We'll be heading out again shortly. Orders have already been given. Let me help you back to your quarters."

  "Thank you, but I think I'II go with Charles. I have to find out how he is."

  "I can have one of the men report to you, if you'd like," he offered, trying to discourage her.

  "No. It's all my fault that this happened to him. He only got involved in this because of us. I want him to know that I'm worried about him."

  "There is a small waiting room. Doctor Aldridge probably won't mind you waiting there."

  She nodded and moved off in the direction O'Toole had gone. Her emotions were turbulent. She was torn between concern for Charles and her fears for Sheri. No matter what, it was going to be a long night.

  Sheri sat watching Brand as he stood near the cave entrance. He was a tall, lean, broad-shouldered silhouette in the soft moonlight, and she shivered as she remembered the power of his touch. Strange feelings besieged her. For that one breathless moment in time when his lips had been on hers, she had been in ecstasy, and now . . . Sheri didn't know what to think. His abandoning her without so much as a backward glance had left her feeling unsure, confused . . . and a little angry.

  "Is there anything I should do?" she finally asked when she found her voice. "Do you want me to help you keep watch?"

  "No. Just stay there, where you'll be safe," Brand told her, knowing the last thing he wanted or needed was to have her anywhere near him.

  His grim rebuff left Sheri's thoughts in turmoil. She'd been kissed by a few men in her lifetime, but those chaste pecks had been nothing like Brand's embrace. His kiss had stirred her to the depths of her soul, yet he had been able to turn his back on her and walk away as if it had meant nothing to him. Sheri didn't know whether to break down and cry or hit him. At the moment, neither option seemed like a good one. Instead, she sat stoically in the darkness, wondering how she'd come to be there, and wondering, as memories of the renegades intruded on her thoughts of Brand, if she was going to be alive at sunrise.

  Brand stared out into the night, forcing himself to concentrate on keeping watch. He had to ignore the woman behind him. He knew now that he should never have kissed her. He regretted it more than he could say. His original intention had been to scare her. His plan had gone completely awry at the first touch of his lips on hers. Her kiss had stirred feelings in him that he'd thought long dead, and that troubled him.

  Brand wished there was some way to get her back to the fort tonight so he would be rid of her. The sooner he was away from Sheridan St. John, the better. He didn't want to be anywhere around her. He didn't want anything more to do with her. He wanted her to pack her things and go back to where she came from. She should just go away and write her booksand leave him alone.

  Alone . . . He liked being alone. Then he had no one to worry about except himself.

  He glanced back at her, and again, emotions he had long been denying tore at him. They were under attack by renegades, and she was depending on him to keep her safe. He had failed Becky. He would not fail again. He would keep Sheri safe from harm or he would die in the effort.

  Brand hardened himself again against the emotions that threatened his concentration. He had to keep watch. He could allow himself no lapse. There was little chance that the renegades would come after them at night, but he had to be sure. He'd made two mistakes that day alreadymissing the renegades' tracks and kissing Sheri. He wasn't about to make another.

  Sheri glanced askance at the revolver where she'd laid it on the ground beside her, and she swallowed uneasily. Just the sight of it brought home the reality that this w
as no dream, no fantasy she could write her way out of. She was truly caught up in an adventure, and it wasn't one that she particularly delighted in.

  With a sigh, she decided to try to get some rest. Since Brand had made it clear he didn't need or want her help, she would sleep so she would be alert and possibly of some help to him in the morningif he let her help. She felt useless, and it made her angry. Sheri wasn't used to being told to sit down and be quiet. She was a woman of action. She liked to be in control of her life, and right now, control was the one thing she didn't have.

  Frustrated, Sheri curled up on her side on the cave floor and murmured no complaint as she sought some form of comfort on the rocky, unforgiving ground. She kept the revolver Brand had given her and her bag with her writing materials close at hand.

  The minutes seemed like hours as Maureen waited for the doctor to finished treating Charles. She had caught a glimpse of the doctor only once, and his expression had been so solemn that she'd begun to fear Charles was gravely wounded. She'd known it was a bloody wound, but she hadn't thought he was in mortal danger. Now, worry and guilt consumed her.

  "How is he?" O'Toole's voice cut into her thoughts as he came into the small confines of the waiting area.

  "I don't know yet. The doctor's still with him," she supplied wearily, glancing anxiously toward the private area where they'd taken Charles.

  "I hope we got him here in time. I didn't think it looked too bad, but sometimes it's hard to tell."

  "I hope he's all right, too." A great sadness filled her. Nothing was turning out the way it was supposed to. She feared their big adventure had turned into a tragedy. If Charles died . . . The thought horrified her. She had only known him a few days, but she liked him a lot and couldn't bear to think of him dying.

  "I came to tell you that we're getting the men ready to ride. Well be heading back out at first light."

  "Thank you."

  "We'll find them," he told her.

  "Soon, I hope."

  "We'll do our best."

  Maureen smiled wearily. "Sheri's certainly getting all the research she'll need for her book, isn't she? Attacked by renegades, disappearing with the halfbreed scout, then being rescued by the cavalry . . ." She added her own happy ending to the sequence.

  "That she is." As he turned to go, her call stopped him "Sergeant O'Toole?"

  When he looked back, all her fears and worries were plain on her features. "Good luck."

  He nodded, his expression solemn, then disappeared out the door.

  Maureen settled back to continue to wait. Her vigil was rewarded a few minutes later when the doctor came to her.

  "Miss?"

  "Yes, sir?" She jumped to her feet, thrilled to see him, yet fearful of what he might be about to tell her. "How is Charles? Is he going to be all right?"

  "Are you a relative of Mr. Brennan's?" he asked, wondering at her relationship to the young man.

  "No . . ." she answered hesitantly.

  "Well, then . . . He paused, unsure of whether to continue or not.

  "What is it?" Her eyes widened with worry.

  "My dear, it's highly unusual for anyone outside of family to be involved this way."

  "I could lie to you and tell you I'm his sister," she retorted quickly, "but I won't. He's my friend, and it's my fault that he's lying in there right now. So just tell me the truth. How is he?"

  "I got the bullet out . . ."

  His expression was so guarded, his words spoken with such care that Maureen couldn't stand it. She thought he was going to announce that Charles was dead.

  "Is he . . . dead?" she choked over the last word.

  Aldridge looked at her, stunned. "Dead? No. He's lost some blood and he's going to be sore for a while, but he will definitely recover," he explained.

  "Really?" It was as if a thousand-pound weight had been lifted off her.

  "Really," he repeated, smiling at the joy he saw on her face.

  "Thank, God. I'm going to him. I've got to see him." She started past the doctor.

  "Miss, this is highly unorthodox," he protested. She was a single lady; he was an injured young man.

  Maureen did not know where the words came from, but she whirled on the doctor, glaring at him.

  "If you think, after everything I've been through today, I'm going to let something as ridiculous as society's dictates keep me from seeing Charles, you are sorely mistaken.''

  The physician was shocked by her display of temper and immediately backed down. "We'll . . . er, all right, my dear. Let me show you where he is."

  "Thank you." Her words were terse. She followed the doctor without further comment as he led the way.

  The hospital was not a large facility. It had only six beds, and Charles was the only patient. He was pale and he looked unconscious. Maureen approached the bedside slowly. He didn't open his eyes, so she stepped back and turned to the doctor.

  "I'm going to stay with him."

  "But Miss Cleaver . . . That just isn't done. You're a lady and he's . . ." He looked distressed by the thought, until he saw the warning glint in her eye.

  "And he's wounded because of me." She lowered her voice to a commanding tone. "Bring me a chair. This man almost lost his life because I convinced him to go along with Sheri and me. If I had just stayed in New York where I belonged and hadn't let my cousin convince me to come on this hellish nightmare of a trip to this godforsaken country, none of this would have happened. Charles would be fine, minding his own business, writing his newspaper columns in town. I am not going to leave him by himself at a time like this."

  The doctor didn't even try to respond. He just rushed off to get a chair.

  Maureen suddenly felt helpless and drained by the force of the emotions that were wracking her. When the doctor returned with the chair, she sat down with all the elegance of an Eastern lady.

  "Thank you."

  "I'll be nearby if you need me."

  She could tell he was uncomfortable with her being there, but she didn't really care. Charles had become her friend, and she took care of those she loved.

  "Quite a display for a quiet little lady." Charles's soft chuckle surprised Maureen.

  "You're conscious!"

  "I was just sleeping, but who could sleep with you ordering the doctor around like that?"

  Tears burned in her eyes. "Thank heaven. I was so worried about you . . ."

  "You were?" He turned his head so he could look at her, and he could see her torment in her expression.

  "Yes. He's been in here with you for what seemed like eternity. I was afraid you were going to die. . . ." She admitted the truth, and there was a catch of emotion in her voice.

  "You can't get rid of me that easily," he countered, then gave a slight cough and groaned.

  "Are you all right?" She was instantly anxious, and she reached out to touch his arm.

  "I'll live," he said in a painful rasp. "Could you hand me my glasses?"

  She quickly picked them up off the bedside table and gave them to him.

  He had to shift positions to put them on. "Damn . . . Oh, sorry . . . I didn't mean to swear, but I've never been shot before."

  "Don't worry about that," she said, unable to believe that he was still being the gentleman even after all he'd been through that day. "I'm the one who's sorry."

  "You? What for?"

  "This is all my fault. If I hadn't convinced you to come along with us, none of this would have happened to you."

  "Maureen, there's one thing you're going to have to learn about me." His gaze caught and held hers with serious intent.

  "What's that?"

  "I never do anything I don't want to do."

  "Oh . . ." A great sense of relief washed over her.

  "I wouldn't have missed that scout with you and Sheri for anything. I just hope they get back here safely and soon."

  "Me, too."

  "I think I need to rest for a while. . . ." A great weariness suddenly came over him, and his eyes
drifted shut. He fell back asleep almost immediately, their conversation having taken its toll on him.

  Maureen slipped his glasses off, but he did not stir. She did not leave him, but stayed by his side all through the night.

  It was long hours before Brand stirred. It would be dawn soon, and he was worried about what the new day would bring. Needing to move around a little to keep himself alert, he stood and walked back into the cave to check on Sheri. She'd surprised him when she'd done exactly what he'd told her to do, and he wanted to make sure she was all right now that he had his control back.

  Brand found Sheri asleep on her side, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. Without thought, he stripped off his shirt, and, taking care not to waken her, he covered her with it. He was glad that shed gotten some rest. The day to come was going to be long and dangerous.

  As Brand stared down at her, he realized that some of her papers had fallen out of her bag where it lay beside her. He reached down to pick them up, meaning to put them back, but as he held them he glanced down at one page. It was dark, but he could make out a few words.

  Brand returned to the fort weary but victorious . . .

  The sight of his name so boldly written in her handwriting intrigued him. Quietly retrieving the whole bag, he returned to the front of the cave and settled in to keep watch againand to read.

  He was surprised to find that she was carrying all the pages of her book with her. He sorted them, putting them in order, then began to readfrom the beginning.

  Brand quickly realized that, contrary to his original thoughts about her, Sheri did have talent. As he went through page after page of handwritten manuscript, he found himself caught up in the drama she was creating. He knew this was a rough draft, but it was good. She had cleverly woven the facts she'd learned since being there into the story. She was a wonderful storyteller.

  And then he reached the page with his own description on it.

  Brand read it once, then stopped and read it again. A dangerous man . . . darkly tanned, heavily muscled . . . a sleek and deadly predator . . . He had never thought of himself in the terms she'd used. Over and over, he had told her that he was nobody's hero. Yet, he was mesmerized by the images she was creating with her words.

 

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