Innocent Fire (16 page)

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 his 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.

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.”

Miranda gasped and fell back on her cushions, stunned.

Bragg strode out, slamming the door behind him. The door frame shook and trembled in his wake.

Miranda stood in front of the hearth and stared into the leaping flames. Her confusion and shock were dying. There was no fear, either—she wasn’t afraid of Bragg. He intended to marry her, and she knew him well enough to know that anything she said or did would make little if any difference. He was a powerful man, used to getting his own way. And did it matter? If not Bragg, she was sure her father would marry her to someone else. Perhaps next time his choice would not be someone as kind and gentle as John. At least she knew Bragg. And she respected him. He made her feel safe and secure—the way no one else had ever done before, not in her entire life. She was sure she would be safe as his wife—who would dare to harm the wife of a Texas Ranger?

She supposed it didn’t matter, either, that he was marrying her with obvious distaste, because of his word to John and some Apache code of ethics. She knew him well enough to know that he was not mean or cruel. He would never hurt her—and wasn’t that the best she could hope for in a husband? She refused to think about sharing his bed, about the pain that would bring—maybe he just intended it to be a marriage in name only.

She tried not to see John in the dancing flames. As usual, just thinking about him wracked her with guilt. She knew that his murder was her fault. She blamed herself.
She had never caused another human being to be hurt before. She had been the instrument of her husband’s death. It tortured her. And—worse. She had denied him the love he had wanted so desperately from her. She had disappointed him in bed. She had not been a true wife to him—and those days had been his last on earth. The crushing guilt would not go away. Everyone thought she was grieving. She was, a bit, the way someone would for a new friend who had died suddenly. But it was not the grief of a wife for her husband, a woman for her man. She just felt so utterly responsible for John’s death.

Yet there was one thing she would not be a party to, she decided firmly, her resolution strengthening. She would not desecrate John’s memory and make him a laughing-stock in front of all his friends by marrying a week after his funeral. Oh no. That was wrong, entirely wrong, and she would not give in on this point.

Miranda hesitated, rebelting the robe tightly, debating the propriety of wandering downstairs in her sleeping attire. But this was her home. She marched to the door and down the stairs.

Bragg looked up expressionlessly as she knocked on the open study door. His eyes were narrow, and the golden glow of the fire in the stone hearth warmed his rich coloring even more. He sipped the brandy he was holding. “Are you seeking out my company?” His words had a sarcastic ring.

Miranda tightened her lips and closed the door behind her. She marched resolutely in front of him, debating the best way to bring up the topic.

A faint smile touched his mouth and eyes. “I have a feeling it isn’t my company you want. I’m shattered. What’s on your mind, Miranda? Have you changed your mind about our wedding?”

She ignored his dry, slightly derisive tone. “No, Captain, I will marry you. But not next week.”

He raised a brow, and set down his glass. “No?”

“I refuse,” Miranda said evenly, growing frightened by his cool manner. “It’s scandalous. You say it’s not improper, no one will care. Well, I will care. It’s improper to me!”

Bragg seemed amused. “You always surprise me, princess, when your spirit shows.”

She ignored the insult.

“How do you expect to survive for a year, unwed, in this land? In this house? You will be besieged by suitors, and being that you are a widow, Miranda, many will not have proper intentions in mind. It is not done. It will not be done. I have not changed my mind.” He picked up the glass of brandy and appeared to have dismissed her.

“You listen to me, you bully!” she cried. “Don’t you have any feelings toward your dead friend? How can you be so cold, so callous! How—”

He stood and grabbed her, hurting her, and she cried out. His hold barely lessened. “No, you listen to me, dammit! No one loved John more than I! No one is sicker over what happened! But he loved you—
you
, dammit! And I intend to see you safe, to keep you safe, if it’s the last thing I do! You are not going to sit here and mourn for John for the next year! You’re going to go on living, like all the rest of us!” He released her, fighting for control.

Miranda was ashen.

He glared at her. “I have my duties as a Ranger, Miranda, and even though I intend to curtail them as much as possible, I’m a Texan, and I believe in this land. When I’m not here you’ll have an armed guard. And my name. That should keep you out of harm’s way.” He picked up the brandy. “Now. Is there anything else?”

Miranda stared, her eyes glistening, knowing she had lost. Well, what difference did it make? Hadn’t she known all along that he would have his way? She turned to run out of the room.

He grabbed her from behind before she even knew it, one arm around her waist, one around her shoulders, hugging her to him. She tensed, but when he did nothing more than hold her, her body began to relax, and she became aware of the wild, frantic beating of her heart. His face was pressed against her neck, between her cheek and shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck, warm and soft.

His hold tightened.

She sensed, then, that he needed and was getting com
fort just by holding her. She could almost feel his grief, which she had forgotten because he kept it so well hidden. She relaxed completely, leaning back into him. The heat of his body seared her, making her skin tingle deliciously. His grip tightened, not uncomfortably, and a soft groan escaped him. Then he abruptly released her.

A huge disappointment flooded her. She saw that he had walked to the fire and turned his back to her. She started to approach, instinctively wanting to comfort him. She raised her hand, about to touch his back gently.

“Go,” he said huskily. “Leave me alone.”

Miranda could hear pain and desire in his tone. She wanted to ease the pain, but she was afraid of the desire. Silently she slipped through the door.