Innocent Fire (21 page)

“He’s daydreaming again,” the rider said, chuckling.

“Hell, I’d daydream too if I had a sweet little filly like that waiting for me!”

Laughter greeted this comment.

“Hey, Bragg! What do you say?”

Bragg jerked himself out of his wonderful if not downright erotic reverie and smiled at Brett Lincoln, who had ridden his horse against Bragg’s, knocking the chestnut rudely. “What’s the question, Lincoln?”

The Rangers around him chuckled. Pecos leaned over to slap him. “The Tetley place is up ahead. From there we head on in to San Antonio. You’re coming, aren’t you?” His tone was anxious.

“Of course he’s coming,” Lincoln shouted. “We’re gonna drink up a storm, then find us some hot women, right, Bragg?”

Bragg grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you, boys,” he drawled, “but I think I’ll just head straight west from the Tetleys’.”

“Oh no! C’mon, Bragg, what’s the rush?” exclaimed another Ranger, Anderson.

“Looks like we know who’s wearin’ the pants in that family,” Pecos said loudly.

Bragg smiled, barely hearing the suggestive comments
that followed. “He’ll probably never come into town with a gal like that warming his bed,” someone said.

“If I had a little gal like that, I’d retire,” someone else said. “Or take up a new occupation.”

“Yeah! Making babies!”

Miranda. He breathed the name in his mind. God, but it had happened. He had fallen in love.

Maybe he had fallen in love the first time he saw her. She’d become a torment then, had been an obsession ever since the first moment he’d seen her. He smiled, remembering how she’d clung to him when he’d left, whispering that she was afraid—not for herself, but for him. And that kiss. He thought about the passion she’d shown, her desire, her caring…and his loins grew full, tight, aching. He needed her. He wanted her. Even if she still wanted him to hold to that promise, he would, but just to see her again…

He was glad they’d caught up with the small war party of Comanche in just a few days. He grew sober thinking about what had happened after they’d killed the Indians and freed the two girls and their mother. The older daughter, eighteen, had been such a beauty. She hadn’t been much to look at when they’d found her. She’d been missing teeth, and her face was bruised and swollen. He knew she’d been raped repeatedly. She’d grabbed one of the Ranger’s guns and killed herself before they had even left the battle site. He didn’t want to think about it.

The Tetleys’ small spread appeared around the bend, nestled in a long, open canyon shaded by oaks and birch, a lazy river meandering through the middle. Colonel Bent held up a hand. “Let’s water the horses and give them a rest. I’ll inquire after the Tetleys.”

“Aw, Colonel, can I come?” someone joked. It was fairly standard practice for Rangers to stop in and check up on the settlers, but everyone knew that Tetley’s fifteen-year-old daughter was blossoming into a very pretty woman.

“Everyone stay put, except for you, Anderson.” The colonel and Anderson dismounted and strode up to the house. Mrs. Tetley appeared on the veranda.

Bragg dismounted and let the chestnut drink. They hadn’t ridden hard coming back, so the horses were fairly fresh.
Rangers did not ride their mounts into the ground unless they had to. Horses were too important—to the ongoing war they waged and to survival.

“Still dreamin’.” Pecos snorted.

Bragg smiled. He couldn’t wait to pull Miranda into his arms and kiss those full, cherry-colored lips, run his hands through her hair—

“Captain Bragg!”

Bragg turned to see Anderson approaching swiftly. “Colonel wants to see you, Cap.”

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.

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.

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 front 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?