Innocent Fire (8 page)

Chavez rolled off the other side of the bed, taking Miranda with him and crying out as Bragg’s shot hit him in his side.

Bragg ran for him. “I will kill you, Chavez,” he roared.

Chavez had a knife at Miranda’s throat, and he held her tightly against him while he rose slowly to his feet. “I will kill her.”

Bragg didn’t lower his Colt. He didn’t look at Miranda, even though her eyes were upon his face. He never took his eyes from Chavez’s black gaze. Very little of Chavez’s anatomy was exposed for him to hit. Worse, Chavez was a Comanchero. He could slit her throat as fast as Bragg pulled the trigger.

Unless he was bluffing. Bragg could not read his eyes. They were masked and ruthless.

Chavez, with Miranda shielding him, inched along the wall and toward the door. “I am leaving and taking her with me,” he said.

“No.” Bragg watched, helpless and frustrated, as Chavez reached the door and backed out of it, protected by Miranda’s naked body. The blade at her throat glittered.

“No,” Miranda moaned, and the movement of her throat caused the blade to cut her skin. She whimpered as a thin line of blood appeared from beneath the blade.

“Do not speak,
cara
,” Chavez ordered with a flash of anger.

It was too late; he had given himself away. Bragg knew he would not hurt Miranda. And Chavez knew that Bragg knew. They stared at each other in silent, uneasy understanding.

Bragg smiled ruthlessly. Chavez whistled and his stallion trotted over, bridleless and barebacked. Bragg waited eagerly. For only the slightest moment Chavez hesitated, and Bragg knew the dilemma he was facing. He had to decide whether to shove Miranda aside and escape alone, or attempt to mount with her. With his arm around Miranda, Chavez backed around the stallion, his eyes never leaving Bragg’s. So that was his game, Bragg thought. He didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Chavez leaped for the stallion’s back, holding Miranda in one arm. She screamed and the stallion took off. Bragg fired as the man was still finding his seat. A bright red flower blossomed on Chavez’s back, and Miranda went tumbling to the ground.

Bragg fired again. Chavez was leaning low on the stallion’s neck, despite his two wounds, trying to make a smaller target. At that precise moment the stallion crashed down an incline, and Bragg did not know if he had hit Chavez again or not. He ran to Miranda.

She was crouched on the ground, panting, her thick sable locks covering her naked body. Bragg reached her in an instant, sending a quick, searching glance around the perimeter of the camp, then dropping to his knees beside her. “Miranda,” he said huskily, pulling her into his arms.

The urge to comfort and protect her was overwhelming. She was quivering against his chest and began to tremble violently. “Miranda, it’s all right now, I’m here.” Tremendous pity welled up in him for what she had suffered, and along with it, guilt. Cruel, harsh guilt. He had failed her.

Her shaking was steady and convulsive. “It’s all right,” he said, stroking her hair. The words were ridiculous, but he didn’t know what else to say.

The rustling sound of leaves and branches was faint but
piercing to Bragg and made him jerk up his head. He could not comfort her now. He doubted that Chavez would be back, but the man was Comanchero. This site could also be a rendezvous point. He didn’t like it. Rising, he said, “We’re leaving,” then realized she wasn’t paying attention to him. She remained crouching where he’d left her, and a terrible pang seared him. But he didn’t pause again. Bragg had sacrificed his palomino to decoy the Commanche, tracking Miranda at a dog-trot on foot. He chose the best animal of the remuda, a big, rangy chestnut stallion with a deep chest and strong legs. The horse would not have a lot of speed, but he would be long on endurance and tough. Bragg saddled him quickly and led the horse to Miranda.

She hadn’t moved. She wasn’t shaking convulsively anymore, but every now and then a tremor would seize her. He pulled her upright. “We have to leave now,” he said, his eyes searching her face. Like the rutting bastard he was, he couldn’t help but notice her white, slim, but beautifully curved body, and the sight stirred him. He searched her face. Her eyes were on his shoulder, it seemed. “Miranda! Look at me!”

She raised her eyes, violet and lifeless. They gazed vacantly into his face. He cursed, deeply perturbed by what he had seen, and swung her into his arms. Leading the horse, he retrieved the rest of his gear and slipped his buckskin shirt over her. It came to her knees, and that satisfied him. He lifted her into the saddle, mounted behind her, and they set off rapidly north.

They rode until dusk. Bragg did not head directly north, back to Welsh’s camp. Instead he headed west, for they were far south of the Camino Real, almost on a direct tangent with San Antonio. There were several towns on the way, but Bragg had no intention of stopping at any of them. He could not ride into a settlement with John’s fiancée clad only in his buckskin shirt. He intended to protect her the best way he could from this point on, which meant that no one but John would know what had happened. Although the young nation of Texas boasted a population of several hundred thousand, mostly American and European, it was still a small community where gossip flew as fast as any current news. Indeed, gossip was a good deal of the current news.

Miranda sat slumped in his arms, wearing the sombrero of one of the dead men. Occasional tremors shook her. Bragg tried to talk to her several times, but it was as if she was deaf and dumb. He was alarmed by her condition, if not downright frightened. He could not forget the vacant look in her eyes, as if she were far gone from reality, withdrawn from the world. His guilt tortured him. He had given his word to John that he would protect her with his life, deliver her to the ranch unharmed. He had failed miserably. And the evidence of his failure was Miranda’s silent agony.

It was a great relief to him when she slumped fully against him, falling asleep in the saddle. Finally, those awful shudders no longer wracked her.

He stopped at twilight, setting her down carefully without waking her. She stirred and moaned. Bragg rolled out the bedroll, then lifted her onto it. Despite her condition, her soft, feminine warmth made him acutely aware of her as a woman, a desirable woman. He hated his own lust. He left her sleeping, then he sat staring at her for many hours—even though he had not slept in almost two days. That ability, too, was a part of his Apache training.

He awoke at daybreak and saw that she was still sleeping. She had had bad dreams during the night, whimpering and moaning, but had not awakened. He had gone to her and soothed her, feeling awkward, but what else could he do? Let her dream about being raped by Chavez? She really was a child, he assured himself—not at all comfortable with what he saw as a weak, maternal urge to comfort her. He reasoned that any man would soothe a hurt, frightened child.

He came back from relieving himself and saw her sitting up with a look of confusion. He studied her closely, and when she met his gaze, a vast relief washed over him. That awful vacant look was gone. He squatted beside her. “Miranda?” His voice was so gentle that he didn’t recognize it and was embarrassed. She flushed and looked away.

He took her hand. “It’s all right,” he said steadily.

She looked at him, and he saw that huge tears were welling in her eyes and spilling over. “No,” she moaned. “Oh dear God, no.” She hugged her knees and rocked herself.

He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said harshly, hating himself for his failure. “I am so damn sorry.”

She lowered her eyes, then looked up at him, biting her lip. “It’s not your fault,” she said, her mouth trembling. She took a deep breath. “Thank you. I—I thought you were dead. But you saved me.” New tears rolled down her cheeks. “You saved me from that—that—” She moaned.

“Unfortunately, I was too late,” Bragg said grimly, furious with himself. He felt like hugging her, but wasn’t sure if he should. He hated himself so much at that moment that he was sure she hated him, too.

“Oh, Captain Bragg, thank you for rescuing me,” she cried, sobbing now. She leaned forward into his arms.

He caught her and held her gently, awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say. “Did you think me some kind of bastard, that I’d leave you to the likes of Chavez?”

Miranda looked up at him, her breasts soft against his chest, her hair teasing his jaw. “How—how do you know him?”

Bragg grew dark with self-recrimination. “I saw him in Nacogdoches and didn’t like the way he was looking at you. Goddammit!” He looked down at her, his hand caught up in her long tresses, delighting in the silky softness. “I asked who he was.”

She had caught her breath.

“I know I can’t make up to you for what happened,” he said harshly. “But no one will ever know about this except John, I assure you.”

“Now I understand,” she murmured, and suddenly she stiffened in his embrace.

“What is it?” he asked with concern.

Miranda pushed his arms away and scrambled out of his grasp, yanking the bedroll up around her bare calves. “We forgot ourselves,” she said, her face scarlet. “I have no clothes. I need my clothes.” With horror, she had realized that she was wearing nothing but his shirt.

A small smile twisted Bragg’s mouth. He was so glad to see some of the old Miranda! “There’s no one here to know if we’re improper, princess,” he teased gently.

Her blush rose anew. “But we know,” she said, fixing her huge violet eyes on him. “Where are my clothes?” A note of panic rose in her voice, and she looked around with desperate urgency.

Bragg leaned back on his heels. “I’m afraid it would be an invitation to disaster to go back to the wagon to fetch your things.”

She looked extremely dismayed.

“Look, Miranda. I’ve seen about every portion of a
woman’s anatomy that there is, and I promise you, the sight of your lovely legs isn’t going to turn me into a bastard like Chavez.”

Miranda flushed again and looked down. “Is—is he dead?”

“I don’t know,” he said harshly, rising, his face grim.

“I hope he’s dead,” she whispered raggedly, her eyes still downcast.

“I know,” Bragg said, wondering why her pain hurt him so much. He had never been a compassionate man, not really, and never toward women.

“God is punishing me,” she said, looking up at him. “Everything—”

“That’s ridiculous,” he snapped.

“No! Don’t you understand? I wasn’t obedient enough, not humble enough! And I had too much worldly curiosity!” She moaned. “I have sinned so much! And now I hate this man. If I were truly Christian, I would forgive him with love and kindness.”

“I personally don’t know a single Christian who loves his enemies,” Bragg said. “That kind of teaching only belongs in the convent, princess, not in the real world.”

Miranda gasped, looking as if she expected to see him struck down for uttering such blasphemy. “No!”

“Oh yes. Here in Texas, if you love your enemies, you die. To live, you kill your enemies before they kill you.” His gaze was hot and angry. She would never survive in this raw land if she believed such nonsense.

“No,” she said, standing unsteadily, still clutching the blanket around her waist. “No, I beg your pardon, but you are wrong!”

The force of her voice, revealing the strength of her conviction, surprised him. “Listen to me,” he snapped, unable to believe he was arguing with her, a mere girl, especially after what had happened. “What do you think forgiveness will bring you with Chavez?” He knew he was being cruel, but he was too angry to help it. “You pat him on the back and tell him he’s forgiven, and he’ll just rape you again!”

Miranda gasped, growing pale.

“If Chavez is still alive, Miranda,” Bragg said in a
somewhat calmer tone, “he will never forget what I did, and he will kill me without a second thought the next time he sees me—unless I kill him first.”

Miranda clapped her hands over her ears and turned away.

Bragg kicked at a rock and sent it flying through the air. He strode away to saddle the horse, furious with himself for yelling at her—but someone had to teach her the facts of life. Was she going to welcome the Chavezes of the world with open arms and blind innocence, time and time again? But what did he care? This wasn’t his problem—it was John’s problem.

No, he thought, flinging the saddle on the startled chestnut’s back. I owe her. Because of me she was brutally used. I owe her protection. It was that simple.

“Captain Bragg?”

He turned at her approach, unable to smile at the ridiculous look of the blanket clutched around her waist. “Yeah?”

“I think you should know something about Chavez.” Her eyes were fixed on his. He stiffened.

“I mean, if he is going to try to kill you sometime in the future…you should know how smart he is.” She gazed up at him, her face pale.

“Go on.”

“Chavez’s half brother was the chief of those Comanche you were decoying. It was a trap, to get you away from me, so he could abduct me.” She shuddered uncontrollably. “It was planned.”

He stared at her with growing comprehension. And in that moment, he hoped that Chavez was alive…so that he could exact vengeance, Apache style. The man would die—oh yes. But very, very slowly, and in great pain.

That day was nothing like the one before. Miranda sat stiffly in front of him, her every muscle tensed, trying to hold herself away from his body. After a long fight Bragg had finally let her keep the wool blanket thrown over her legs to hide them from his view. If she had not been abused so badly, the situation would have been almost amusing. Unfortunately, her discomfort only matched his. Her firmly soft little derriere nestled between his thighs had elicited an unavoidable physical reaction from him, of which she seemed—thankfully—oblivious. He intended for her to remain ignorant of his disgusting lust—although he had never been disgusted with his own natural appetites before. He did not want her to equate him with Chavez.

Because of their mutual discomfort, they did not talk. Miranda was thankful. Today she was numb and exhausted, as if she had been undertaking a very strenuous task for a very long time. Her mind had blocked out all memory of her abduction and encounter with Chavez. She knew she had been hurt and touched, but could not recall exactly what had happened, nor did she even try. She could still feel numbly the horror and the terror, way back in the farthest depths of her mind. She knew that her ordeal had been a punishment from God, but she didn’t feel guilt, as she should. She still grieved for her aunt, although not as strongly as she knew she should. She had not even known
her aunt until she had returned from the convent to England, but that was no excuse. All she could think about were two things. The man upon whose lap she was sitting and her fiancé.

Miranda was very uncomfortable. Bragg’s body heat made her own body throb—not unpleasantly, but feverishly. It was not a new feeling, and she wondered if she was becoming ill from everything that had happened. She was aghast at the impropriety of their riding arrangement, indeed, of the fact that she was no longer chaperoned. It was not that she did not trust Bragg. His one, brief, accidental kiss was virtually forgotten—insignificant compared to the humiliation and agony she had endured since then. He had risked his life to save her, and she trusted him completely.

But there was no escaping the fact that Chavez had ruined her, and that now she was traveling in a completely scandalous manner with a strange man. She knew she was ruined, that John Barrington would never take her as his wife. She would certainly be sent back to the convent as soon as she arrived at the ranch. That thought should have relieved her immensely—she wanted to go home. But instead she was filled with anxiety.

They halted for the night in the mountains beneath lush oaks, next to a tumbling creek. There were a few hours of sunlight left as Bragg lifted her down, still clutching the blanket. Her legs itched unbearably, and her knees and inner thighs were sorely chafed from rubbing against the leather of the saddle all day. She was utterly exhausted.

“Make a fire, Miranda,” Bragg said, untacking and hobbling the chestnut. “I’m going to catch us a nice fat pheasant for supper.” He smiled. “How does that sound?”

His golden eyes were kind. She found herself smiling back. “All right,” she said, then stopped. “Wait! I don’t know how…”

He stared at her, then laughed. “All right. I’ll show you when I get back. I’ll only be fifteen, maybe thirty minutes.” He started to go. “Oh. And don’t worry. There’s not a soul around for twenty miles.”

Miranda smiled at him, not knowing how it affected
him. “I’m not afraid. I know you wouldn’t leave me here if there was danger.”

Bragg hurried away with a strange look on his face.

Once he was gone, she immediately shed the blanket. The cool air on her legs was a blessed relief. She stretched and walked a bit to ease her cramped muscles. She decided to collect firewood, without roaming too far. At least that was something she could do.

Afterward, Miranda wandered down to the creek. She suddenly had a compulsive urge to scrub herself clean. She raced back to their gear and searched through Bragg’s saddlebags for soap. She found a long, rectangular piece of buckskin, the size of a small blanket, gunpowder for the rifle, caps for the six-shooter, a small jar of grease of some sort, dried jerky, a strange beaded necklace with brass conchos and something that looked suspiciously like a cross on it. There was also coffee and tobacco and a small bottle of whiskey, but no soap. Damn, she thought, then slapped her hand over her mouth, truly horrified for even thinking such a word. She went back to the creek empty-handed, thinking that she would have to ask Bragg to watch his language around her.

Miranda waded into the creek wearing Bragg’s shirt, afraid that he’d return soon and catch her bathing. The water stung her raw blisters. The urge to scrub herself clean became compulsive. She sat on a rock, the water racing about her shins. She picked up a handful of coarse sand and began to scrub her leg violently, from toe to thigh.

She began rubbing harder and harder as a frightening, sickening image came to mind—Chavez stroking her naked body. She fought the vision, chased it away. The grains of sand abraded her skin, but the pain was a relief, and she welcomed it. Her heart was pounding painfully and it was hard to breathe. She started on her other foot and worked her way up that leg, determined, driven. She kept seeing Chavez, kept seeing his face looming over her. She scrubbed herself harder, viciously. She rubbed her inner thighs, already raw from riding. Chavez was thrusting fingers into her, into a place she had not even known she had. She tore off the shirt and began to scrub her belly, her breasts, every part of her body he had touched….