Innocent Fire (6 page)

Miranda felt ill again, actually feverish. There was a warm flush engulfing her whole body, and her heart still fluttered painfully. She glanced at her aunt. Praise God, she was asleep! Miranda was afraid her face might give away her agitation, and she did not want to answer her aunt’s prying questions.

Bragg had kissed her! Her face burned even more. She lay on her bedroll and hugged herself. Dear God! Was she ruined? Should she tell John? Would he send her home in disgrace? She sat up abruptly.

If John knew that Bragg had held her half naked and kissed her, he would surely send her home. Her eyes sparkled and she almost laughed aloud in glee. Home! Oh, how much she wanted to go home, to get away from all this—these strange, barbaric men in a wild, untamed land. It was a wonderful idea.

Miranda knew she was a good girl—mostly—for Bragg’s kiss had repulsed and terrified her. That was the only explanation for the way her heart had threatened to burst from her chest at his touch. How could that man have touched her? How could her fiancé have sent him, a complete beast, with no control over his baser instincts, to escort her to his home? She didn’t understand it. What if John was no better than Bragg?

It was a bit later when Bragg had the audacity to call to
her from outside the tent and tell her their supper was ready. She bit her lip, wanting to shout back that she wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want anyone, especially her aunt, to know what had happened. Her aunt would tell her it was all her fault for going to bathe in a pond, in public, practically in front of a man. No, she couldn’t tell Elizabeth. She didn’t dare.

Miranda ducked out of the tent cautiously, feeling his burning gaze upon her. Why was he always looking at her in that strange, hungry way—the way a starving child looks at a piece of cake? She kept her lashes lowered, filled two plates, and without looking at anyone disappeared back into the tent. She did not step out again that night, dreading his gaze, resolving to wait to take care of her needs until the next morning.

Because of her resolution, Miranda was up at dawn, before any wakeup call, and slipped out of the tent. Above the prairie, the sky was a peachy pink, turning the brown grass golden. In the distance, jagged, mauve mountains crested a darker sky. Miranda took a moment to inhale the sweet, morning-fresh scent of the raw land, enjoying the majestic sunrise. Then she glanced around. Fortunately there was no sign of Welsh or Bragg, and she assumed that the men were taking care of their own needs. The team was still hobbled, their packed gear lying unloaded on the ground. The coffee was heating, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. What she wouldn’t give for a bit of tea!

Miranda hesitated, wanting to wash at the pond, when Welsh appeared from the opposite direction, startling her. Surely by now Bragg had finished washing up, too—if that was what he was doing, or maybe he had been with Welsh. She headed down the embankment.

The sun gave forth a sudden burst of light as it crested higher, suddenly warming the cool morning, brightening the dawn to day. Miranda smiled and was even more pleased when she found the pond unoccupied. She washed her hands and face, brushed her teeth, and was about to stand when she heard a foul curse and was yanked up by her hastily braided hair.

“You never leave camp without my permission!” Bragg roared.

Miranda’s heart was pounding in fear. “You’re hurting me!”

“Good!” he shouted, deafening her. He was still holding her braid cruelly, and now an iron hand gripped her shoulder. He shook her roughly. “Foolish twit!”

“Let go of me,” Miranda managed, not knowing where the words of bravery, spoken so calmly, came from. In fact she was deathly afraid that he was going to beat her.

Bragg must have seen the terror in her eyes. He suddenly released her, and she wheeled abruptly and fled. She was brought up short, however, after only three steps. This time he had grabbed her wrist, and he whipped her around to face him. She could see that he was fiercely fighting back his rage. “Stand still,” he finally said, his nostrils and mouth pinched and white.

Miranda froze obediently. She had a sudden vision of her father striking her mother, and she flinched. It made his eyes grow darker. “Please,” she whispered.

“We’re in Comanche territory,” he said, in a cold, hard voice. “Do you know what the Comanche do to pretty white women like you?”

Miranda shook her head mutely.

“They strip you naked,” he said cruelly. “All the braves who want to take their pleasure with you do—touching you, hurting you, raping you.” She was staring at him, transfixed with terror. “Then, if you’re lucky, someone, like John, pays a ransom, and you’re released.” Bragg’s expression was murderous. He smiled grimly. “Of course, if you’re not lucky, a Comanche decides to make you his second or third wife.”

His eyes bored into hers. “A Comanche woman is treated like a dog. She’s taken when her husband feels like it, beaten on whim, worked like oxen. A second or third wife doesn’t even have the protection that a first wife enjoys. She gets beaten continually by the first wife—who is cruel because she’s jealous—as well as by her husband.”

Miranda couldn’t breathe.

“Of course, if you’re really lucky, they sell you south of the border. Do you know what happens then?”

She could hear her own heart suddenly, pounding like a drum.

“You spend your time on your back—in a brothel. You become a whore.”

Miranda swayed, fighting to clear her head of the strange light-headedness that had descended. A whore…a third wife…many braves…

“Until we reach John’s ranch, you never go anywhere without my presence. Is that clear?”

His voice was coming from far away. The ground seemed to be coming up at her. Finally, a welcoming blackness enveloped her.

Bragg caught her just before her head hit the ground.

“Miranda!” His anger had fled. He shook her face and slapped her gently. Dammit! He had scared the little chit into a faint! He felt overwhelmed with guilt and anger at himself—he couldn’t believe she had actually fainted. He dabbed cool water on her face, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering.

“Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, wondering why his heart was pounding so hard.

Miranda looked at him blankly, vaguely, and then fear welled up in her violet eyes, and she stared at him with frozen terror.

He wanted to stroke her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Miranda,” he said gruffly, and almost placed his hand in her thick tresses. “But you need my permission to go anywhere, is that understood?” He was brusque to hide his relief, his agitation, and another confusing, unfamiliar feeling—fear. Miranda nodded mutely.

“Can you stand?” She was still staring at him, and he remembered how she had flinched at his rage, as if he were going to hit her. Had she really thought that? Only a husband could hit a woman, for then it was his right, whether he was white or Apache. However, he knew John would never hit Miranda—it wasn’t in his nature. Absurdly, that thought pleased him. He helped her to her feet.

Nacogdoches was only a few hours away, but Bragg scouted ahead anyway, trying not to think about Miranda, that girl-woman. It was hard not to. He had had a sleepless night last night, stiff with desire for her—his blood brother’s fiancée. It was an unacceptable situation. He seemed to have no control over his lust for her, but he had promised himself that he would never touch her again, and he wouldn’t. Miranda belonged to John. In all fairness to himself, the kiss had been an accident. What virile man could have stopped himself from kissing a woman clad only in wet underclothes, especially when that woman was as beautiful as Miranda, and was suddenly, unexpectedly, in his arms?

In an effort to quell his attraction for her, he reminded himself that she was not his type at all. He remembered his dead wife. She’d been slender when he had married her, yet he had always preferred women with ripe, voluptuous figures. Like Louise, who had breasts a man could bury his face in forever. She was soft and accommodating. No, Miranda was not his type at all.

Nacogdoches had always been a rough town, and it was even more so since Texas had gained independence from Mexico in ’36. There were no longer Mexican Rurales to keep peace, and although the Texans had elected a sheriff, violence ran rampant in the town, outlaws and drifters competing with immigrants, and the sheriff could not keep the peace. Because it was high noon when they rode in, Bragg secured them lodging at one of the more reputable establishments. He was glad they had only a half day of travel that day. He was worried about Lady Holcombe, who was thinner than when the trip had begun, pale and wan. She needed a bed, food, and rest.

“There is nothing to see in this town,” Bragg announced to the ladies as they stood in the front room. The common room was already half full with patrons, and Bragg immediately saw two hard, dangerous men. He instinctively stepped closer to Miranda.

“What do you mean, Captain Bragg?” Miranda met his eyes briefly, innocently.

“This is a hard town. Dangerous men, outlaws, ride
through. I want both of you to keep to your rooms until we leave tomorrow.” He settled an unflinching gaze on her. “Understand?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, taking Miranda’s hand.

“Anything you need—food, drink, bathwater—have brought up.” Bragg stared at Miranda again. Then he glanced at the common room and immediately met a dark gaze in a shadowy, bearded face. The man looked from him to Miranda with open lust. Bragg restrained the urge to beat the man to a pulp for his insolence. He unconsciously noted that the man was as tall as he, brawny, and exuded a reckless, lawless confidence. He took Miranda’s elbow, ignoring her gasp, and said, “I’ll escort you upstairs…
now
.”

Unfortunately, the stairs to the rooms were on the other side of the common room, and there was no way to approach them except by entering that male domain. They had taken no more than three steps within when a hush fell over the room, and every eye turned to Miranda. Bragg felt her tremble beneath his hand.

There were only a dozen men in the room, but another man stood out. A tall, dark, ruggedly handsome Mexican, possibly a Comanchero, caught Bragg’s attention. As with the dark, bearded man, the Mexican was also a worthy opponent—possibly trouble. The Mexican, clad in buckskins like everyone else, devoured Miranda with cold, black eyes.

They had started up the stairs when the room began to buzz excitedly.

“Did you ever see anything like that?” someone said hoarsely.

“What a beauty! What white skin!”

“Did you see her eyes? They’re purple! I saw ’em!”

“She’s skinny.”

“Who cares? With your rod buried deep in her, would you give a damn?” Excited laughter greeted this last remark.

“You wish you could bury your rod in her!”

“She looks like a virgin,” a cool voice commented.

“Who’s the man?”

“Bragg.”

“You think he’s getting it?”

“He’s a Ranger,” someone warned.

Miranda was shaking when Bragg opened the door to the room.

“It’s all right,” he said softly.

Her eyes, wide and filled with horror, held his. Bragg wanted to sweep her against his chest and protect her, but he shrugged off that ridiculous, womanly urge.

“How could you bring us to this place?” Elizabeth gasped, her face flushed with outrage and indignation.

“I told you,” Bragg said coolly, suddenly wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to camp on the trail, “it’s a rough town. I guess I won’t have to remind you to stay in your room?” He quirked a brow.

Miranda turned and fled inside.

Bragg regarded her aunt soberly. “I’ll be downstairs, and I have the room next to yours. No one will try anything, don’t worry.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Try anything? Good Lord! What do you mean?”

Bragg saw Miranda standing frozen by the window, her face a mask of raw terror. He wanted to kick himself. “Just don’t worry,” he said harshly. “You’ll be safe if you lock the door.” He closed the door and left.

The crowd downstairs was worse than he had ever seen, and it was just his luck. He had no intention of moving from that common room, he decided, unless it was to sleep outside Miranda’s door.

Bragg settled himself comfortably at one end of a trestle table, his back to the wall. He met the Mexican’s assessing eyes. The man held his stare for a moment, long enough to show that he was not afraid. Then, smiling slightly, he gazed casually about the room. In that instant, Bragg felt a deep foreboding. The man looked like a half-breed, and if he was, he was a deadly foe. His glance moved to the brawny, bearded man, who was studying Bragg openly, also unperturbed. He suddenly smiled, said something to his companion—a thin, oily blond man—and they both grinned lewdly. Bragg knew who they were talking about, but ignored them.

“Is the beautiful girl your wife?”

Bragg turned to the lanky redheaded man on his left. “Yes,” he said, his eyes sharp.

The man, clad in buckskin pants and a cotton shirt, smiled amiably. “You’re very lucky. She’s a rare beauty.”

Bragg nodded, not smiling. He decided to be pleasant. “Do you know any of these men?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve met a few of them on my travels.”

“You pass through these parts often?”

The redhead nodded. “I’m an impresario,” he said. “The name’s McDermott, Tim McDermott.”

“Bragg,” he responded. “So you’re scouting land for settlement?”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve filed on four hundred thousand acres north of here, way up by the Red River. I hope to find three hundred families to settle it.”

“Good luck,” Bragg said. “That’s very wild country up there.”

“Good farming and cattle land,” McDermott said.

Bragg nodded. “Do you know that man?” he asked, not quite so casually.

“Ah, one of your wife’s ardent admirers.” McDermott glanced at the dark, bearded man. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“What about him?” Bragg turned a cool gaze on the Mexican, whose black eyes, just as unperturbed, met his glance in a slight salute—or a challenge.

“Yes,” McDermott said, grimacing. “He’s a Comanchero.”

Bragg tensed. So he had been right; the man was half Comanche.

“His name is Chavez. Or that’s what he calls himself. He’s very dangerous.”

“Was his mother or his father Comanche?”

“His father was a chief. He is not the eldest son, however. It is rumored he has a Comanche wife. It is also rumored he has extensive land in Chihuahua, that his mother was a Spanish aristocrat.”

Bragg lapsed into silence and fell into a waiting game.

About an hour later, Chavez rose gracefully to his feet, sending Bragg a nonchalant smile. Bragg recognized the challenge. He watched as Chavez sauntered out, then, through the window to his right, he watched Chavez mount a magnificent black stallion and canter out of town. He felt no relief. He knew, beyond a doubt, that their paths were destined to cross again.

It was much later when the bearded man rose to his feet and started up the stairs. Dusk had fallen. The common room was full. Bragg rose too, and quietly followed.

At the top of the stairs, the man turned to look at him. Bragg stared back steadily. The man paused in mid-stride, then kept on walking down the hall, opening a door at the
end and disappearing inside. Bragg knocked softly on Miranda’s door and Lady Holcombe cracked it open.

“Is everything all right?” Bragg asked.

“We’re fine. Miranda’s sleeping. She seems exhausted.”

Past Lady Holcombe’s head, Bragg saw Miranda’s form curled on her side beneath a tattered but clean blanket. Her hair was loose and thick, wavy tendrils falling over her shoulder and down to her hips. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“Good night, Captain Bragg.” Elizabeth closed the door in his face.

Bragg frowned. The woman had obviously read his expression. God! He had let down his guard—which he could not do. He sank to the floor in front of their door and leaned his head back, removing his wide-brimmed hat. He dozed fitfully.

Sounds in the middle of the night woke him three times, but it was just other patrons stumbling tiredly or drunkenly to their rooms. The night passed without incident. Bragg woke the women at dawn and escorted them downstairs for breakfast.

“I’m not hungry,” Miranda said, gazing up at him pleadingly. “I can’t eat in that room.”

Bragg regarded her steadily. “No one will say a word in my presence.”

“Please,” she whispered.

“It’s out of the question, Captain Bragg,” her aunt said firmly. “We ate a huge meal last night and we are not hungry. We will not suffer the intolerable company of uncivilized, brutish men. That is final.”

“Fine,” Bragg said. It really was for the better. He led them outside. “Wait here, and don’t move while I help Welsh finish hitching up.”

Miranda and her aunt nodded, and he left them on the porch, striding across the courtyard to where Welsh was harnessing the mules. There was a team of oxen being hitched to his left, and a man was leading a pair of sturdy bays out of the corral. A thin, gaunt woman and a small boy waiting not far from Miranda and her aunt belonged to the man with the bays, Bragg decided. The man hitching up the oxen had another male companion, and they looked
like prospectors. Bragg moved around to the far side of the team, slipping a bridle on a mule.

Another man came out on the porch, and Bragg looked up just as he was pushing the bit against the mule’s closed mouth—one of his hands forcing open the stubborn animal’s jaw. It was the bearded man. He had stopped next to Miranda and was smiling and talking to her. Bragg dropped the bridle and strode over.

Lady Holcombe was trying to push herself between her niece and the stranger, but the man planted himself firmly at Miranda’s side, taking her arm. Miranda was frozen. All her worst fears, it seemed, were coming true.

“Where are you heading?” he asked pleasantly.

“Please unhand me, sir,” she said.

His hand slid up her arm. He pulled her against him, pressing his male hardness against her hip, saying, “I just want to talk, pretty lady.”

In a red rage, Bragg saw what the man was doing. He yanked him away before the man even knew what was happening, landing a crushing blow to the man’s abdomen. He doubled over. As he did so, Bragg lifted his knee into the man’s face. He had already planted one leg behind him, and used his body and the leg as a lever to flip the man onto his back. He straddled him an instant later, digging one knee into his ribs. He yanked up his head, hitting him again. Bragg’s knife appeared in his hand, and he pressed the blade against the man’s throat, breaking the skin. Not more than thirty seconds had passed.

“Say your prayers,” Bragg rasped. “Because I am going to kill you now.”

“No!” Miranda screamed. “Don’t! It was nothing!”

Without taking his knee from the man’s broken ribs, and keeping the blade at his throat, Bragg raised his head and looked at her.

“Don’t kill him,” she pleaded. “He only touched my arm. Please, I beg you, have mercy!” Tears trickled down her face.

Lady Holcombe came into action, pulling Miranda away. “Don’t look, Miranda!” she cried. “Come, come with me.”

Miranda wouldn’t be pulled away. She broke her aunt’s
hold, panting. “If you kill him, you’re an animal,” she cried. “He only touched my arm—
mon Dieu! Quel espèce d’assassin est cet homme? Je lui en pries
…” She was babbling hysterically.

Bragg sheathed his knife and rose. She didn’t understand what the man had been doing, but Bragg had seen it. He wanted to kill, but he would not. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

Miranda turned away from him, and her aunt pulled her into her arms, patting her while she choked back her sobs. Bragg scowled, trying to ease his bloodlust, then stared past their heads—at Chavez.

Studying him without a smile, Chavez was standing in the shadows of the inn. Bragg had never even seen him arrive, he had just appeared, with the stealth of a Comanche. Their gazes locked. Chavez’s contemptuous glance said clearly,
I would have killed him, no matter what she said
.

“We ride out,” Bragg said. “Now.”