Innocent Fire (22 page)

“Damn,” Pecos said softly but succinctly.

Bragg didn’t respond. As usual these past few days, his face was a hard, closed mask. Like Pecos, he was on foot, peering down into the valley and making a rough count of the teepees they saw. “Close to one-twenty, I’d say,” Bragg muttered.

“More like one-forty,” Pecos said. “How we gonna do this, Cap?”

“Miranda’s down there,” Bragg said, totally calm, almost detached.

Pecos nodded; he understood. A typical Ranger assault could endanger her—or kill her accidentally.

“You take the north end, I’ll take the south. I want to know where she’s being kept, how many other captives there are, and roughly where they are. Should be easy. Half the men look to be out hunting.” Bragg turned and motioned. Anderson slipped off his horse, where he stood some twenty yards away with the rest of the Rangers. He came forward quickly. “Captain?”

“You’re in charge. If we’re not back in an hour and a half, we’ve run into problems. Launch an attack.”

Anderson nodded.

Bragg nodded to Pecos, and the two men veered off in opposite directions into the heavily forested slopes. Bragg ran silently, easily, his knife in his hand. Not more than
five minutes later he had reached the bottom of the slope, and keeping to the edge of the trees, he made a line for the closest teepees.

He covered the perimeter of the camp easily enough, merely by keeping out of sight. He didn’t pray for luck, but he suddenly had it. He saw Miranda instantly. She was kneeling and sewing leggings, dressed like a squaw. His heart went crazy.

She was all right!

It was his first coherent thought, and he reined in his emotions, which threatened to explode or, worse, make him do something foolish. He squatted behind chapparal and studied her.

The teepee she obviously belonged to was two from the outermost one—which was very lucky. He knew now they’d attack Ranger-style, with an encircling but frontal assault. He’d edge right up to her and abduct her before the first shots were fired. There weren’t very many men in camp—maybe fifty warriors—when the village probably boasted twice that number. He smiled grimly.

Miranda looked up directly at him.

Of course she couldn’t see him, but his heart stopped, and he wanted to cry out to her. Silently, in his mind, he reassured her. She was so small, so fragile. Her arms and face were no longer white, but a delicate peach hue. Thank God she was alive! He got up and moved on, with determination, to complete the assignment he had given himself.

Forty minutes later he was back with the Rangers, who all wanted to know what he had found out. They waited in silence. “Is Pecos back?”

“No,” Lincoln volunteered.

“As soon as he gets back we go in,” Bragg said, the Rangers crowding around. He gave his orders succinctly, evenly. “There are fifty warriors to contend with. It’s possible, but not likely at this time of day, that the rest may return in the midst of the battle.”

“We can handle it.” A wiry, lean Ranger grinned. Luke Hollis was anticipating the fight with relish.

“I’m taking my wife out of the action.” Bragg looked up as Pecos materialized and repeated what he’d said. Then, “How many?”

“Probably fifty warriors and about a dozen captives.”

“I made four, including Miranda. The squaws who fight, kill. All other women and children are to remain untouched.”

Bragg emphasized this last statement. It was not policy to kill squaws and their children, but sometimes it happened in self-defense. Then gender had nothing to do with it—an enraged Comanche squaw could be as deadly as a brave.

“Mount up,” he said quietly.

Almost as one, the Rangers obeyed.

The villagers never knew what hit them. One minute it was peaceful, the morning silence broken only by the soft sound of chatter and the playful cries of children, and the next, Colts were blasting, men were falling, women were screaming, children were crying. The Rangers rode in like a hurricane, ignoring the squaws and the children, hunting down the braves like wild prey. Taken by surprise, few managed to do more than throw knives. In minutes it was over.

Bragg had ridden at a gallop for Miranda straight through the sea of teepees as soon as the assault was launched. Everywhere around him guns were blasting and smoking, and cries of terror and agony rose up. “Miranda!”

She was standing frozen next to the teepee.

“Miranda,” he shouted, and she heard him.

Her face lit up. He reached her and swung her into the saddle at a dead run. Dragging his horse’s head around, he turned to go back into the safety of the woods. His first concern was for Miranda’s safety, he wanted her out of the danger, but with his practiced eye, he could see that the battle was almost over. The horse lunged back the way he had come, then screamed, the wild, eerie sound of a horse in pain.

Bragg knew his horse was hit even before the awesome shriek, and he was leaping from the saddle with Miranda in his arms as the great beast went down. They rolled into the dirt, unhurt. “Are you all right?” he said, looking into her eyes, his face inches from hers.

“Oh, Derek!” She clung to him.

Now was not the time, and he stood, pulling her up, as the melee around them quieted. He felt danger instantly,
and shoved Miranda behind him. He saw Chavez and drew.

But Chavez’s gun was already drawn. Bragg was fast enough that Chavez’s shot only grazed his neck, although blood poured from the little wound. His own shot missed completely, and Chavez ran and dove behind a teepee. Bragg didn’t hesitate. He tore after him.

He paused by the teepee, listening, but there were so many sounds around him—moans and sobs, horses stomping, jangling bits and creaking leather. He tried to block the noise out, straining to hear. He poked his head around the teepee, pulling back as Chavez fired.

Three shots left, Bragg was thinking. Chavez had a five-shooter, and he smiled with anticipation. Bragg darted forward, blasting with his Colt. Chavez was running for the trees. He hit him in the thigh, and Chavez went down.

Bragg ran hard across the open space. Chavez rolled, metal glinting. Bragg dove to the ground. The shot missed widely. Bragg rose, firing purposefully. He was close enough that he would never miss. He hit Chavez’s gun, and it went spinning out of his hand. Bragg stood slowly, unbuckling his gunbelt and throwing it aside. “Get up, Chavez! Get up!”

Two Rangers came up, Colts in hand. “Cap?”

“No one interferes,” Bragg said, never looking at them, his eyes only on Chavez, who was getting to his feet. He strode forward, only to stop some ten feet away. His smile was cold and ruthless. “If you can kill me, you might just live.”

“You have the advantage,
amigo
,” Chavez said easily. “I am hit, remember?”

Bragg smiled again, took out his knife, and before anyone could move, sliced into the back of his thigh—exactly where he had hit Chavez.

Miranda screamed.

Chavez smiled.

Bragg frowned. “Pecos,” he said, not looking at anyone other than Chavez, “get her away from here.”

He heard Pecos ride away, heard Miranda protesting, sobbing, screaming his name again and again.

Chavez moved, taking advantage of the distraction. His
knife appeared in his hand. Bragg leaped back, but not before a line of blood appeared on his chest through the buckskin shirt. They circled each other warily.

Bragg lunged. Chavez jumped back, but Bragg kept coming, and he slashed, opening a wide gash on the Comanchero’s forearm.

The fight became a dance of movement, back and forth, blades flashing, just barely missing skin. Both men, although wounded, were agile, expert. Both men used their knives like the Indians whose blood they’d inherited. Soon both were drenched with sweat and breathing heavily, yet the intricate dance never stopped.

And then Chavez lunged. Bragg let him come, then blocked the knife-wielding arm with his own forearm, stepping around Chavez with one leg, locking him into place. He sank his blade into him. Chavez screamed and crumbled.

“He’s a goner,” Lincoln said conversationally. “It’ll be hours before he dies, though.”

“Give me your canteen,” Bragg said, breathing heavily now, sweat pouring off his face. Lincoln complied. Bragg dumped the water on Chavez’s face. The man came to, coughing.

“I want you conscious,
amigo
, while you die slowly.” Bragg turned, then scowled. “What’s she doing here?”

“She wouldn’t leave,” Pecos said.

Miranda was white and still, her eyes huge in her face, which was thinner—haggard. He strode to her with a definite limp and clasped her by her shoulders. “Did he rape you?”

She gasped.

“Did he, dammit?”

“Yes.” It was a barely audible whisper.

He handed her to Pecos. “If you have to carry her, get her away. I don’t want her to see this.”

Pecos understood, and he lifted Miranda in his arms and strode toward the village. Bragg watched, waiting until they were too far away for her to be able to see. Limping heavily now, he made his way back to Chavez and stared down at him. The man stared back, refusing to beg.

Chavez’s eyes widened with astonished fear as Bragg
slipped his knife out and held it, the sunlight dancing on the blade.

“I am dying,” Chavez said.

“Yes, I realize that.” Bragg bent casually and slit the man’s trousers at the crotch.

“No!” Chavez cried.

Bragg grabbed him.

Chavez’s scream was bloodcurdling.

Pecos wouldn’t let her turn around, and when Miranda heard the scream every hair on her body stiffened. What had Bragg done? She was still stunned by the rapidity of events, by how suddenly the village had been attacked, by Bragg’s appearance and the fight with Chavez. Dear God, how she needed Derek now.

“Miranda?”

She whirled at the sound of his voice and ran blindly into his arms. “Derek!”

He held her tightly. His body was warm and hard. She felt so utterly safe. He smelled like sweat and horse and man, and she snuggled closer, his arms tightening around her, thinking she had never been more relieved in her life. She felt his hands in her hair, and then his lips pressing on the top of her head.

“Thank God,” Bragg said heavily.

Miranda suddenly remembered his condition and pulled as far away as he would let her, which was only an inch or so. “Derek, you’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing,” he said, gazing at her with sad, infinitely tender eyes.

But he was limping and bleeding, and it frightened her. “Let me care for you.”

“We don’t have time. Linc, fetch me a good horse, and my gear. How are we doing?”

“Just about ready to move out, Cap.”

Bragg looked at Miranda. “You can bind up this wound on the back of my thigh, then we’re riding out.”

“There are more of them,” she said anxiously.

“I know,” he said.

“How could you, Derek?” she cried, examining the gash in the back of his leg.

He didn’t answer.

She bound it quickly with buckskin. “This isn’t good enough at all.”

“My knife was clean. As soon as we stop, you can clean it and bind it properly.” He smiled. “I know how much of a stickler you are for propriety,” he said.

Miranda smiled, too. Her heart seemed to take on wings.

They rode all day until dusk. She sat on Bragg’s new mount, a rangy bay. Two men scouted ahead, two rode behind. About eighteen women and children were with them, but Bragg didn’t let that slow them down. Anyone who couldn’t ride well enough to keep up rode double with a Ranger. Fortunately, only the elderly woman could not ride. They made a fireless camp as dark descended.

“I’m cleaning you up,” Miranda said disapprovingly because Bragg had disappeared to give orders for four-man sentry shifts the minute they had stopped. “And let someone else unsaddle your horse.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted, grinning, as if he were pleased to be ordered around.

“Follow me to the stream. Can you make it?”

“Certainly. You are a bossy wife, aren’t you?”

For some reason, his tone of voice made her feel wonderful. She ordered him to sit and remove the blood-soaked bandage, then deftly sliced off the leg of his pants.

“Now why did you do that?” he complained.

“I’ll repair it,” she told him. “Turn over and lie still, Derek.”

He obeyed.

The wound was quite clean and not deep. However it hadn’t clotted yet, and she frowned, wishing he didn’t have to be mobile and on horseback. She cleansed it with water, then whiskey, and Bragg didn’t even flinch. She realized she was terribly proud of him. He was so brave,
so utterly fearless, so strong. I’m going to try to learn from him, she thought as she bandaged the wound with linen strips taken from Lakely, who had handed her the material without a word.

“You’ll be as good as new in no time,” she said.

Derek gingerly turned over and sat up, keeping his bad leg bent at the knee and off the ground. He pulled off his shirt. “Aren’t you going to clean up the rest of me?” he asked innocently.

His chest glistened, all hard, sinewy muscle. For a moment, Miranda couldn’t respond, and then he chuckled. “Come here, I can’t wait.”

Before she even knew it, he had pulled her closer with one strong arm and was kissing her, tenderly but with rigid, restrained passion. She stiffened and closed her eyes, but didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t, she was thinking. He just wouldn’t.

He released her and stared at her. He was no longer smiling. She was too familiar with that look of lust—she had learned what it meant from Chavez. Her mouth trembled. She didn’t move. She felt concerned and trapped, afraid again.

His hand went to her hair, to tendrils that had escaped the one long braid she wore. “I want to make love to you,” he said huskily. “I want to wipe out Chavez’s print. I want to claim you for myself. I want you…so bad.”

Miranda stood slowly. She tried to find the words she needed. All that came out was, “Please don’t.”

She saw the disappointment, and something like pain or grief, flood into his eyes. Then he lowered his gaze, a somewhat bitter smile crossing his features. “I can clean myself up now,” he said evenly, and rose stiffly to his feet.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, breathless. “Please, let me take care of you.” Her voice broke. She was suddenly shocked when tears started pouring from her eyes. She turned away.

“Hey,” he said, startled, and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his chest against her back. “It’s all right,” he soothed.

She sobbed harder.

“Miranda, I’m sorry,” he said, agonized. He kissed the top of her head, then tucked it under his chin. “Shhh, shhh, darling, don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I understand. I’ll never hurt you, never.” He rocked her from side to side in the cradle of his body.