Authors: Brenda Joyce
Innocent Fire (20 page)
“When are we going to San Antonio?” she asked cautiously, flushing despite herself. He had been gone when she’d awoken that morning, and she had been very, very thankful. Later she had been torn between her desire to see him and her inability to face him.
His glance was piercing. “I had no plans to do so, not until we need supplies.” He had bathed and changed, and smelled strongly of soap and cigars.
Her face fell.
He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. “There is nothing for you to confess, Miranda. Do you intend to go to confession every time I kiss you—or only when you like it?”
She grew defensive. “I didn’t like it!”
He laughed incredulously.
“It was the wine! And you gave me your word!”
His face grew tight. “If I hadn’t given you my word, princess, you would have woken up in my bed this morning—a much wiser and happier woman.”
Miranda blushed and turned away, but not before she heard him cursing. She didn’t want to reprove him; she was too burdened by her own guilt. And he was wrong—she hadn’t enjoyed it. It had been the wine. She would never drink again!
Dinner was a strained affair. She was too upset with her
own reprehensible behavior to carry on the light conversation Bragg tried to sustain, so he gave up, and they ate in silence. She was concerned enough to glance at him from time to time, certain that he was in a black mood, but he wasn’t—he was just inscrutable.
“Let’s walk,” he said after they had finished.
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly, looking away. “I’m tired.”
“Let’s walk,” he repeated firmly, taking her hand. He placed a shawl around her shoulders and slipped his arm around her waist, and they strolled beneath a row of cottonwoods. A fragrant scent she couldn’t identify hung on the twilight, sweetening it. He was holding her too closely.
“Don’t squirm,” he said easily. “I know my touch isn’t repulsive.”
She had no answer.
They walked on in silence. She knew beyond a doubt that he had brought her out here to kiss her. Her heart was pounding with indignation. How dare he try to seduce her? What about his promise?
He turned her toward him, smiling slightly, his hands on her shoulders. “Now tell me you don’t like this,” he said, and he bent and kissed her.
Her heart leaped wildly in her chest. She stiffened and tried to draw away. His mouth was warm, soft but firm, insistent. His tongue touched the joining of her lips, teasingly, fleetingly. A warm, wet ache spiraled through her.
He raised his head and smiled. “Stubborn, aren’t you? Shall we try again?”
“You promised!”
He pulled her closer. “I promised not to make love to you, princess,” he said, then claimed her mouth with his own again.
She struggled this time instead of remaining passive. He ignored it, his hold merely tightening. She tried to twist her face away, but he caught the back of her head easily in one hand and continued to kiss her, without forcing her mouth open. She released an anguished sob. He released her.
Miranda stumbled but didn’t fall, nor did he try to help
her. She watched his back cautiously as he leaned against a tree, staring at the jagged line of distant mountains. She began to breathe easier. She was angry, insulted, indignant—and there were so many emotions roiling around in her that she couldn’t even identify them all. She ached.
“Let’s go back,” he said, sighing heavily. She thought she could feel his disappointment, it was so strong.
He didn’t return for supper the next two nights, and Miranda didn’t wait up. Instead, she sought the sanctuary of her bedroom. But she didn’t fall asleep until long after he had come in.
She was awakened by the thunderous sound of many, many horses pounding up to the house. She blinked and fought sleepiness. What time was it? She heard male voices, taut and tense, but she couldn’t make out the words. She slipped to the floor, throwing on a robe and peering out her window. There were at least a dozen heavily armed riders in the yard, their horses wet, their faces grim. She grew frightened and rushed downstairs.
She heard a voice, not Derek’s, coming from the study, and didn’t hesitate to burst in.
“…a full day’s start…” a tall man was saying, but he broke off the moment she entered.
“Derek! What is it?” she cried.
“Miranda, go back to your room, and I’ll be up shortly,” he said, his voice quiet and even, his expression implacable.
She opened her mouth to protest, but saw his gaze—hard and unflinching. Truly frightened, she obeyed. Back upstairs, she peered out her window again. This time she recognized Pecos and Lakely sitting easily amid the riders. Rangers. Something terrible had happened, she thought, for so many Rangers to ride together. She began to tremble. She wanted to cry.
She knew he was going to go with them.
She heard his footsteps and rushed to meet him at the door. “Derek! What’s happened!”
He guided her into the room, gently, firmly. “Shhh. There’s been some trouble. Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll be gone for a week or two.” He held her hands and smiled into her worried face. “Don’t worry, princess, you have four good men here, and nothing will happen to
you. Brown will stay by your side twenty-four hours a day. And no riding, at all.” He smiled. “Promise.”
“I promise,” she cried, gripping his hands tightly. “What trouble? Comanche?”
He nodded reluctantly.
“Where?”
He hesitated. “Miranda, you’ll be safe. But we’ve got to catch these bastards and get rid of them.”
“You said your vendetta was old! Don’t go!”
He grew grim. “They killed Hewlitt, Miranda. And his three boys, one only eight. They took Beth Hewlitt and her daughter captive. Her daughter is your age, Miranda, unmarried. We’re going to get them back.”
Miranda sat still, ashen and terribly afraid.
He stroked her face with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Nothing will happen to you. I’ve got to go.” He stood, pausing, then he kissed her briefly on the lips. She was so frightened that she sat like a stone, unable to move, barely able to think.
He stared at her for a moment, disappointment flickering in his eyes, then he turned and walked into his room. She heard him dressing, gathering his guns, his saddlebags, and the rest of his gear. Her mind began to shriek. Derek was leaving! He could be killed!
She realized he had already gone down the stairs, that she might never see him again. With a cry, she fled after him. “Derek! Wait!”
Someone had saddled his horse, and he was about to mount. The other riders were waiting impatiently, their horses moving restlessly. He turned, startled.
Miranda flew off the veranda, her robe flying open around her legs, her hair loose and streaming like a flag behind her. She threw her arms around him, clinging tightly. His warm, strong arms held her tightly against him. She raised her face, tears swimming in her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m not afraid for myself,” she said, her tears falling helplessly. “I’m afraid for you!”
His breath caught, and his eyes blazed like golden fires. Miranda slipped her hands around his neck, grasping the thick hairs curling over his collar, pulling him down. She
kissed him shamelessly. She clung, her mouth on his, demanding, seeking, frenzied. She heard him emit a deep sound in his throat. Someone laughed, and someone else suggested that Derek meet them later. Derek wrapped his hand in her hair, deepening the kiss, and she opened her mouth eagerly. She accepted his tongue desperately, urging him deeper. She could feel the whole length of his body against hers, hard and hot, even his manhood.
“Let’s go, Bragg,” someone yelled.
Bragg released her, putting her firmly from him. His gaze was smoldering. Miranda didn’t look away. She was breathless. He smiled. Their eyes held as another voice shouted at him to mount up. He turned and swung effortlessly into the saddle. She hugged herself tightly, miserably. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, wanting to memorize every last detail.
He was so magnificent, broad-shouldered, tall, powerful, the buckskins rippling over his body. He sat easily, gracefully, as the chestnut pranced in excitement. His face, so bronzed and lean, was incredibly handsome, and his eyes, golden like citrines, were tender.
And then he was gone, in a thundering cloud of hooves and dust.
A noise awoke her.
It was dawn. Derek had left just two days ago. The morning was unusually quiet—no birds, no horses, no sounds of the men rising and tacking up, their soft, drawling conversation punctuated with laughter. She strained to hear. She had heard something. But…what? She fought for conscious recall. An animal? A grunt? A thump?
Why was the morning so quiet?
Miranda sat up, pushing her long braid over her shoulder, hesitating. There were no sounds from downstairs, either, but then she realized that of course there weren’t; it was Derek who made noise downstairs in the morning, joking with Elena as she waited on him hand and foot while he ate before riding out. Sighing, a strange loneliness gripping her, Miranda sank down under the covers and tried to fall back asleep.
She dozed. Her light sleep was punctuated with images of her husband, a warm, fluttery feeling mixed with a sick fear for his well-being. She dreamed he was leaning over her, smiling, his breath warm on her face. Derek. She would welcome him into her arms now. She had been a fool to deny him. What if he didn’t come back? No, she would never deny him again.
He took her in his arms, and Miranda snuggled against
his warm, hard body for a moment. Then her eyes flew open, and she opened her mouth to scream.
Something was shoved into her mouth, something like cotton, and she was flung over a hard shoulder. Indians! The man was moving silently, rapidly, out of her room. Her face was pressed against his bare waist. He was wearing only a loincloth and high moccasins. Her view was upside down and distorted. She struggled, but realized instantly it was fruitless. The man was too powerful.
In the hall she saw Brown, lying on his back, his eyes open in death, his chest covered with blood. She choked on hysterical sobs.
The man was taking her downstairs. Where were the rest of the men? Elena? Bianca? Oh God! He carried her outside and threw her on a black horse, jumping up immediately behind her. Wild war cries suddenly rang out, and dozens of Indians appeared from the woods, carrying torches, riding for the buildings, setting them on fire. Miranda tried to scream, but only a muffled sound came out through the gag. The man held her tightly with one arm around her waist, urging his horse forward.
Rifle shots rang out of the bunkhouse. Miranda exulted. She saw one, two braves hit, tumbling from their horses. She turned her head frantically. They had torched the big house, too, and flames were licking at the corners. She heard a woman scream.
Bianca was running toward the woods. A Comanche bore down on her at a gallop, and Miranda closed her eyes, thinking he was going to run her down. Her scream sounded again. The brave effortlessly whipped her astride his mount, and when she fought, he backhanded her with a resounding thwack across the face. She slumped over the horse’s neck.
It had become a melee. Her captor was shouting words she did not understand, but he was giving orders, and the Comanche began to disappear into the woods from where they had so suddenly come. Miranda shuddered with another sob.
They followed the warriors rapidly into the woods, branches flying in their faces, horses’ hooves thundering, bridles jangling. Miranda began to think.
Something was definitely wrong. She had lived in Texas long enough to know what to expect when Comanche attacked. They did not sneak into homes to abduct women. They attacked and sieged. It was as if…as if
she
had been the target!
But that was silly!
She twisted her face away when she suddenly felt his hand, then she realized he was removing the gag. He tossed it aside. The gravity of her situation hit her full force. She would be raped by many braves. She could be made a wife of one of them. She could be sold as a whore. She closed her eyes. Another shudder wracked her. No, think! Stay calm! Bragg will come!
She was seized with the dread certainty that when he came, it would be too late.
She trembled all over.
“Are you cold,
poquita
?”
Horror overtook her. She knew that voice. She would never forget it. Twisting, she looked up into Chavez’s smiling face.
The Squaw
Miranda wanted to weep, but she didn’t. Tears were an indulgence, she realized for the first time in her life—although the sisters had told her that many times. Nothing would save her now except the Lord.
“What are you going to do with me?” she cried.
His hand on her stomach lightly caressed her, and her horror increased, for she was wearing nothing but her flannel nightgown. “I already told you,
poquita
.” His voice was rich, but so frightening. “I will make you my woman, my wife.”
“They’ll come after me,” Miranda said desperately. “Those cowboys—”
“No, sweet, I’m afraid not.” His voice was in her ear. “They will have to leave the bunkhouse or burn to death. Once all three have come out, the men I left behind will pick them off.”
“Bragg will kill you!”
She could feel the man behind her grow tense. “If he can find me, I welcome him.”
His tone was soft, ruthless, and she was afraid.
His voice became a silken caress. “But,
cara
, you give me no credit. Do you think I would come to you while he was still there? Eh?”
Miranda closed her eyes briefly. “You knew the Rangers were riding out.”
“After Comanche—yes, of course. I am no fool.” His hold on her tightened.
Miranda prayed. It was her only hope, and it gave her comfort. She was not conceited, but she did not think her sins were great enough that she should be raped by Indians or sold into a life of prostitution. Then, unwillingly, she thought of her behavior with Bragg. No, no, no! She couldn’t succumb to despair and guilt now. She needed faith—faith and hope.
She had thought she had ridden to the limits of her endurance with Bragg on the last leg of their journey from Natchez, but she had been wrong. The Comanche, two dozen of them, rode for two days straight, stopping only to water the horses. They rode at a steady trot, up one river valley after another. Miranda was such a tenderfoot that it took her a day to realize they were heading almost directly north. She knew that northern Texas was the most uncivilized and wild part of the entire land.
The third night they stopped and made camp. When Miranda dismounted she would have fallen to the ground had Chavez not caught her. She couldn’t walk. Her body was screaming with pain.
Everyone ate pemmican; there was no fire. Miranda prayed that she would be safe that night, that Chavez would be too tired to touch her. She prayed for Bianca, too, whom she had only glimpsed as they traveled. The woman was stoic, but Miranda knew she was terrified—it was in her eyes. Miranda wondered if her own fear was so apparent.
Her prayers were answered, it seemed. Apparently the braves were as exhausted as any human beings would be, and within moments the camp had become silent with deep sleep. Including Chavez, who lay beside her on his back. They were sharing a bedroll.
Miranda debated escaping. She knew she would die if she tried. She had no gun, even if she could use one, and no knife. She had no idea how to survive. She didn’t know where to go. But…maybe this quiet camp was a gift from God, a sign. Maybe He would guide her. She was afraid, but she was more afraid of what waited for her with Chavez than of dying in the wilderness.
She rolled cautiously away from Chavez, onto her side, listening to his deep, even breathing. The fool, she thought, wondering why he hadn’t tied her up. Or was what she was doing so foolish as to be incomprehensible? She thought of Bragg. She knew he would approve. She got to her knees slowly, glancing around. The camp was an expanse of bodies and soft breathing, some snoring. She rose and, on tiptoe, not wanting to make a sound, she edged toward the forest.
She was way past the camp, stumbling through the dark woods, suddenly wondering about snakes, spiders. She wished she had shoes and a knife. She walked into first one tree, then another. Branches cut her arms, her face. She was not going in any particular direction, just away from Chavez. She tripped over a root and fell on her hands and knees. She suddenly began to understand the immensity of what she was doing. She moved on blindly. There was no moonlight and she wanted to curse. She stubbed her toe on a rock and gasped aloud. The sound seemed to echo ominously.
She stood very, very still, frozen, listening. She heard nothing except an owl, and what seemed to be the breeze rustling leaves. She took another step. Too late, she realized that there was no breeze. He grabbed her.
“No!” she sobbed. “No! Let me go! Let me go! Damn you!”
He shook her. “Little fool! Do you want to die?” Chavez pulled her closer. His eyes gleamed in the dark. “Is death by wild animals or starvation preferable to being my wife?” Angry, he shook her again. “Answer me!”
“Yes!” she shouted. “Yes! Death is preferable.”
He slapped her.
Miranda was stunned, and the blow carried her backwards against a tree. Her breathing was suddenly very loud.
“I do not want to hurt you. I should beat you. You are now mine, Miranda, mine. Understand it. Accept it.”
“I’m married to Bragg!” Her voice was broken, but she lifted her chin, seeking courage. It was so hard to pretend to be brave.
“I do not care. Many Comanche take wives of other
men. Come. I must tie you up now, because I, at least, must get my sleep this night.” He took her arm. She expected him to be rough, but his grip, although firm, was gentle. “Do not make me hurt you again,
poquita
,” he murmured, leading her through the forest as if it were broad daylight.
The next day they rode for another thirty hours straight. The Comanche were tireless, superb riders. Miranda was sore, exhausted, and almost hopeless. Bragg had said he would be gone a week or two. Even if he were only gone a week, he would just be returning to the JB, and would be many days behind her abductors. She prayed. It helped to stem the hysterical terror that would rise and try to choke her, threatening her with insanity.
It was midday when they crested a rise and Chavez pulled up his black stallion. “Look,
cara
.”
Miranda wanted to sob with despair. Below them, in the valley stretched a sea of teepees. There were a hundred—two hundred. So many! If she were ever going to be rescued, it would take the militia to do it. It was over, she thought. All the hopes she had clung to—hopes that Bragg would come…He
would
come, she knew it. But he could not possibly rescue her from this.
They rode down into the Comanche village, the warriors whooping and screaming in obvious elation, other warriors, children, and squaws, rushing to greet them, clearly congratulating them. She refused to think about what would happen that night. Surely Chavez needed more sleep. The night that she had been so foolish to try to escape had been a day and a half ago. Surely he would want to sleep tonight…
A tall, big-boned squaw, broad-shouldered and very beautiful, came running up to Chavez, crying out ecstatically. Chavez chuckled, sliding to the ground, pulling Miranda down with him. He spoke in Comanche to the squaw, obviously pleased by her warm reception. She ignored Miranda, flinging her arms around him, kissing him. He responded for a moment, then pushed her away. He spoke again, rapidly, gesturing to Miranda, who looked around, dazed.
There were fires burning and food cooking, tended by
squaws of all ages. The braves had interrupted their activities, she could see. She saw hides being sewn, baskets being woven, skins being cleaned. Dogs barked and children raced around in a frenzy. Fathers lifted up youngsters and laughed. There was much animated conversation. Where was Bianca?
Her gaze fell upon two white women, and she gasped. They were pitifully thin, their hair was cropped below their ears, and they were dressed in rags. One had a black eye. They were working over a large fire, but they were staring at her. Their eyes were vacant, dead. Miranda wanted to go to them.
“Miranda, this is my wife, Colchikehatta. You may call her Walking Tall Woman.”
Miranda noticed then that this woman had her hair cut short too, as did all the women. As if reading her mind, Chavez laughed. “Don’t worry. I have told her to leave your hair alone. You must obey her, Miranda. She is going to take you to bathe and give you clean clothes. Then you tend to me,” he said to the squaw, in English.
She nodded, flashed him a smile, and turned to Miranda. “Come, Me-ran-da. A strange name, no?”
Miranda gave the white women a last glance and followed Walking Tall Woman down to a creek. The woman handed her soap and held out her hand for the nightgown. Miranda hesitated, but there was no one around except another woman, and she was bathing also.
“Do not worry. This area is for bathing, and for women only.” She smiled.
Miranda removed the gown and waded in. The water was frigid, and she gasped. Immediately, her teeth began to chatter. The squaw laughed, tossing her the soap.
Miranda bathed as quickly as possible. She washed her hair, too, but only rinsed it twice. By the time she rushed out, she was blue from the cold. Walking Tall Woman clucked and wrapped her in a blanket that was surprisingly clean.
The teepee she was led to was very large with a hole in the top for the smoke of a fire to go out. There were hides upon the ground, and all kinds of gear—rifles, spears, bows and arrows, a saddle, blankets, cooking and eating
utensils, a book, and a pile of white men’s clothing—Chavez’s, of course. Walking Tall Woman handed her a buckskin dress and moccasins, which Miranda put on gratefully.
“You rest,” Walking Tall Woman said. “Soon you eat. I tend to my husband now.” She left.
Miranda leaned back upon the hides. Tears threatened, and she gave in. She was doomed. Soon Chavez would come, and there was nothing she could do.
