Innocent Fire (24 page)

Derek was gone, and she wondered where he was so early in the morning. She bathed in the creek, which was quite cold, then slipped on her plain cotton skirt and blouse. She made coffee and breakfast for him—she was never hungry in the morning. While she was making the batter for the pancakes, she began to hum. It was truly a glorious morning.

It was slightly cool, but that was because it was so early. The sky was almost a royal blue, without a single cloud. Birds chirped melodiously, sing-songing back and forth in the trees overhead. A wonderful aroma drifted around them, the scent of coffee, tanned hides, something sweet and floral—maybe all the columbine that had blossomed over the past week in the meadow, their riotous purple mingling with the yellow and blue of daisies. She was surprised to discover she was quite content.

Where had Derek gone so early in the morning?

Miranda was learning more every day. She had become a pioneer woman—or a squaw. Just the day before, Derek had spent the afternoon helping her make soap. They had brought soap with them, but their supply would run out eventually. The wickiup—which, Derek had told her, was called
gohwah
by the Apache—was completely covered with hides.

The door was made of a blanket swinging on a frame of
wood. It was really almost like a hut, she thought. She had even learned to make a decent loaf of bread. Her first effort had been a lumpy disaster. Of course, Derek had been kind and tactful, but she could see the laughter in his eyes.

Last night was the first night she had slept the night through without waking up from a nightmare about Chavez. Today was truly the first day she felt completely rested. She felt wonderful.

She couldn’t help thinking about how it felt each night to have Derek crawl into their bed of blankets and hides with her. He would immediately pull her into the curve of his body, where his pulsing warmth distracted and confused her greatly. If it weren’t for the fact that she was so utterly exhausted by evening after the day’s travails and her nightmares, she was sure she would be up most of the night.

Derek didn’t look like he was sleeping too well. Although his vigor seemed indefatigable, there were faint shadows beneath his eyes. She wondered what was keeping him up at night, and hoped it wasn’t her and her awful dreams.

“Daydreaming so early?”

She leaped up, gasping.

He chuckled, his tone teasing, and squatted beside her, pulling her against him and kissing her full on the mouth. She leaned against him. He stiffened in surprise, then kissed her again, his mouth stroking hers with more intimacy this time, and she felt the tip of his tongue on her lower lip, circling it delicately, before slipping up to prod gently where her lips joined. A warm, liquid fire raced over her, completely pleasurable. She parted her mouth just a hair. His tongue probed the flat, porcelain surfaces of her teeth, and then he was gone. Disappointed, she opened her eyes.

Miranda gasped. He was standing staring down at her, and he was clad in his knee-high moccasins and a buckskin loincloth. It came almost to his knees, but it revealed the long, hard length of his legs on the outermost edges. His torso was bare. He wore only his knife, but he had been
carrying the rifle. The sheer maleness of him mesmerized her. “What are you wearing?” she managed.

He looked away from her, but not before she saw the heat of his gaze, the unnatural brightness. Something plummeted fiercely deep inside her, achingly sweet. He stopped and poured himself coffee, sipping for a moment before he answered. “My clothes are dirty.”

“Oh,” she cried, flustered and ashamed. Color rose in her face. “Derek, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, I’ll launder your clothes immediately.”

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked.

“Pancakes.” She began methodically to make his breakfast. What was wrong with her? Had she expected a maid to materialize out of the sky to do their laundry? She stole another glance at him through her lashes. He was sitting on a boulder, graceful, so naked, so powerful. So male. He was staring at her.

“Make enough for two,” he said.

“But I’m not hungry.”

“You’re wasting away, and I don’t like it.” His tone was sharp, the old Bragg, the one who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. “I want you to put on some weight, Miranda.” His tone softened. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

She thought about his wife, who had starved herself to death. “Yes, all right.”

He smiled. “You slept well last night.”

She handed him a tin plate and took one herself. “Yes.”

He studied her with that penetrating gaze, one she was used to. Then he began to eat with relish, and she did, too, forcing herself to eat every bit. He wasn’t asking much of her, truly. He was so kind, so patient. And it was true that she was thin. Her skirt was loose by an inch at the waist, and when she had bought it, it had fit perfectly. She wanted to please him. He had always thought her skinny. What would he think now?

She washed all their clothes that morning, including her buckskin dress. She mended his pants, the ones she had cut to tend his leg, and mended a few other holes she
found. At least she could sew, and do it very well. It was something she could be proud of.

But he teased her. “Such fancy stitchwork.” He laughed.

Miranda blushed. “It’s the only way I know how to sew.”

He was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not a very good wife.” She spoke aloud before she knew it.

He came over to her immediately, kneeling next to her, forcing her to look at him. “You’re a wonderful wife.”

“I’m an awful cook. I don’t know how to do laundry. I can’t clean game. My sewing is too fancy. I’m the worst shot, and I can’t ride. Everything you need in a Texas wife, I’m not.” She felt ridiculous tears welling up, and she tried to stifle them.

He cupped her face, his golden eyes tender and concerned. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t trade you in for anything. You’re an English lady, and I’ve thrown you into a completely alien environment. You’re doing wonderfully.”

Miranda searched his face for the truth. “I just want to please you,” she whispered. “I’ve been nothing but trouble…”

“No,” he said firmly, adamantly. His mouth found hers. The kiss was soft but searing. She opened her mouth immediately, and he thrust his tongue within, exploring the inner recesses completely. Her heart began to thud, and his warmth assailed her. He still held her face. His tongue entwined with hers. She touched his tongue with hers, timidly. He shuddered.

“Miranda, please me,” he said huskily, kissing the corner of her mouth.

She was floating. His mouth was becoming harder, more forceful. He pulled at her lower lip with his teeth, then instantly became tender, soft. He groaned against her lips. He pulled her against his body, knee to chest. “Let me love you,” he rasped. “Miranda, please.”

He cupped her buttocks and pulled her against his male hardness. The contact immediately ruined the euphoria of their heated embrace. She had a flash of Chavez hurting her as he raped her. She cried out in protest, pushing feebly against his chest. For a moment, a long moment, he
held her hard against him, pulsating against her belly, his mouth taking hers with a savagery that was too heated, too brutal, too reminiscent. He released her suddenly and she scrambled to her feet.

He stood slowly, breathing deeply and unevenly. His eyes were burning embers. She felt so guilty, so afraid, and so needy all at once. Unable to sort through her jumbled emotions, she cried out inarticulately and fled into the wickiup. Her confusion turned into tears, and she wept silently, not just for herself but also for him.

That night he slept under the stars.

He was at the limit of his self-control, and he knew it. The pleasure of lying with her, having her in his arms, so soft and fragrant, was outstripped by the agony. He hadn’t made love to a woman since John’s death, which had been more than six weeks ago. His physical discomfort was more than real. He was at the point where he feared waking up with a wet dream and embarrassing them both. And last night she had slept soundly for the first time since he had rescued her from the Comanche. He felt he could leave her to sleep alone.

He knew that if he could not forget Chavez, there was no way she could. The fact that she had those damn nightmares kept what had happened very alive for both of them. And it was the strongest reason for his self-control, which he had never even known he had. After all, he’d never gone celibate in his life until now. He’d never tested his capacity for self-denial. And, hopefully, he would never have to again.

The next morning, before she was up, he went hunting to test the bow he had made. He returned at midday with a wild turkey and two hares. He saw that Miranda was making him a pair of pants out of doeskin that he’d said she could have. He felt strangely warmed by the sight of her. She was wearing the buckskin dress and moccasins,
her hair in two braids. Her skin was a pale peach now, but she was no less attractive. In fact, to him, every day she grew more beautiful. He worried about how thin she was, though. He knew she had lost weight since her capture by Chavez. If he had to, he would force-feed her, because she was not going to fall ill and waste away…not ever.

“Morning,” he called out, depositing his game by the hides that were stretched and drying.

Miranda gave him a short glance, with no smile. He wondered what was wrong. He strolled over. “Good morning,” he repeated.

She set aside the pieces of buckskin that she had cut and had just started sewing. She met his gaze. Her face was troubled and wan, and he hated seeing dark shadows beneath her eyes. “Are you sick?” He was immediately anxious.

“No.”

He studied her, but she was toying with the leather, and he shrugged. Something was wrong, he knew it. Was she angry with him for making demands on her yesterday? Hell, it was his right. As far as he was concerned, he had gone beyond the bounds called for. No husband could possibly be more understanding or considerate than he was. He walked away and decided to clean the rabbits first, surprised when she followed him and knelt opposite him.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to learn,” she said. “Cleaning game is women’s work. Will you teach me?”

He suddenly smiled, wondering why she wanted to do it. “Miranda, it’s okay. I’ll do it.”

“But wouldn’t you rather I be able to do it?” Her violet gaze was direct.

He had never lied to her, and he certainly wouldn’t start now. “Yes.”

She smiled slightly. “Then show me.”

Bragg studied her, shrugged, and decapitated the rabbit with one stroke of his blade. He didn’t look at her, but he could feel her dismay. He quickly and efficiently sliced off the four paws. In another instant, he had slit the skin on
the back of the four limbs and from the chest to the anus. In one more instant, he pulled the hide off completely.

Miranda cried out and turned away, stumbling and retching.

Bragg sat back on his heels. He had warned her. She was far too dainty for this. He reached into the belly cavity and pulled out the guts, tossing them in the pile of refuse, then set the hare aside.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda said, turning back to face him. She looked truly miserable.

“Forget it,” he said. “I told you, I don’t mind cleaning the game.” He picked up the other hare, setting it in front. He was about to decapitate it, then looked up when she was still standing there. “Why don’t you go back to what you were doing?”

“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I want to do it.”

“Miranda.”

She walked resolutely over to him, kneeling and taking the knife out of his hand. She was pale. She swallowed with obvious difficulty. He sat back on his heels, amused, and waited. A few moments passed. “Well?”

“It’s still warm.”

He took the knife out of her hand. “There’s no reason for you to do this,” he said. “Your sensibilities are too fine. I don’t think I want you any other way.”

She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Give me the knife,” she said.

He was amazed. “What the hell are you trying to prove?”

She took the knife. With clenched teeth, she made an incision along the neck.

“Lower,” Bragg corrected. “In one slice.”

She moved the blade lower on the animal’s fur, hesitating. Blood appeared as she slowly, timidly pressed. Bragg glanced at her face and saw tears spilling out of her lashes. He angrily took the knife away and stood, pulling her up with him. “That’s enough. This is ridiculous.”

Miranda didn’t look at him, but wiped her eyes with her bare forearm and pulled free of his hold. He watched her walk stiffly away to where she had been sewing, and sit, blindly picking up the doeskin. What was that all about?
Perturbed, he sat and cleaned the hare, then moved on to the turkey.

Bragg didn’t understand her and began to feel guilty. He was making her into a squaw when she should be a fine lady. He paused as he pulled out feathers, thinking. He had wanted to bring her up here because it was beautiful, cleansing, healing. With just the two of them, they could start their marriage over. But had he made a mistake?

He imagined a beautiful home. It had always been on his mind, that if she became happy, he would take up ranching and build her a fine home to raise their children in. They would sell the JB easily, giving them some extra funds. Wild cattle were everywhere for the taking, so it would be easy to get started. He looked over at her.

Miranda was sewing determinedly, skillfully. Her beauty and vulnerability twisted at him. Yes, she deserved a ranch, and they would have children….

Suddenly he stopped what he was doing, remembering how she had gotten sick, which made him think of pregnancy. What if she was already pregnant? He strode over to her, hard and tense.

“Miranda, when was your last monthly flow?” he demanded.

“What?” She dropped her sewing, startled. He repeated the question, his face dark.

“What…what is this about?”

“I’m your husband, and I have a right to know. When was it?” He watched her hesitate.

“Six weeks ago.”

He felt as if he’d been shot. For a moment he couldn’t speak. All he could think was, She’s pregnant with Chavez’s child.

Miranda got hastily to her feet, seeing his expression. “Derek, wait. I’ve always been a bit…” She blushed. “A bit irregular. Sometimes I’ve missed my month completely.”

He stared, rigid. “You could be pregnant.”

She paled. “I hadn’t even thought about it,” she whispered. “No, I’m not, I know I’m not.”

He turned away. Then he looked back at her. “Maybe now is the time for you to say a prayer or two.” He was
angry, frustrated. What would he do if she had Chavez’s child? How could he possibly be a father to a baby born of a man who had raped and hurt his wife? He strode away and finished plucking the turkey without thinking, in utter turmoil.

But he thought about her words. It was possible that she wasn’t pregnant. It was ridiculous to get upset now, over something he couldn’t control. But that was easier said than done. He looked over at her. She was bent over the doeskin, sewing fast and methodically. She had turned her back to him. He felt a pang of pity and an urge to protect her.

He couldn’t see her face, which was just as well. Miranda was white and strained, managing not to cry, but her mouth trembled, giving away her distress.