Natchez Flame (11 page)

She glanced across at Brendan. How would Stuart’s good looks compare to Brendan’s ruggedly handsome profile? Her eyes traced the line of his nicely arched eyebrows, the straight nose, and firm, strong lips. Priscilla remembered the kiss they had shared, and a warmth curled in the pit of her stomach.

“We’ll rest the mules up ahead on that knoll—get out of the sun for a while and cool off a bit.”

Priscilla nodded. “It feels a lot hotter today.”

“I’ve got a hunch it’s gonna be worse tomorrow.” Priscilla groaned.

“Better get used to it, Miss Wills. This is Texas. You don’t like hot weather, you shouldn’t be here.”

Priscilla stiffened her spine. “As you pointed out, Mr. Trask, there are good things and bad things about this land. If I want to share in the good things, I’ll learn to put up with the bad.”

Brendan studied her a moment more, but made no further comment. They pulled up on the knoll into the shade of a live oak tree, and Brendan climbed down. His hands went around her waist and he swung her to the ground beside him.

While he unhitched the team and led them to water, Priscilla headed down the slope to relieve herself. The landscape was a bit more barren, mostly cactus and mesquite, but Priscilla determinedly scanned the area looking for a large clump of brush or a cluster of rocks to give her some privacy.

The best place lay a goodly distance away, but after
jouncing all morning on the hard wooden seat, the walk would give her a chance to stretch her legs.

Crossing the dusty open space, she skirted the rocks and discovered a secluded place behind them. As she started her return to the wagon, she spotted Brendan in the distance, leading the mules back into their traces.

Priscilla lifted her skirts and started to hurry, knowing he’d be angry if he saw her this far away. Spying what appeared to be a shorter return route, she hurried in that direction. Once she cleared the rotting fallen log that blocked her path, she’d be home free.

Raising her skirt even higher, Priscilla set one sturdy brown shoe on the top of the log. A bone-chilling buzz erupted from a rock beneath her leg, raising the hair at the back of her neck. With a scream of terror, she tried to avoid the piercing fangs of the coiled up, brown-speckled rattlesnake, but they tore into her tender flesh as she leapt over the log.

Pain shot up her leg, but she kept on running, her heart thundering wildly against her ribs. Her leg throbbed and her body shook with the remnants of fright, but all she could think of was the tempest that awaited her back in camp. Brendan would be furious! He’d rail at her for being so careless and tell her again what a fool she was for coming to Texas at all.

She saw him racing toward her and ran straight into his arms.

“Priscilla, what is it?”

“R-rattlesnake,” she stammered. “Over by that
log.” She pointed with a shaky finger, fighting to hold back her tears.

Brendan grabbed her shoulders and set her away from him. “I told you not to go that far from the wagon.”

“Please don’t be mad.”

He felt her trembling and pulled her against his chest. “It’s all right. Just don’t do it again.”

Her arms tightened around him. “It isn’t all right,” she whispered. “My leg—” Priscilla’s knees gave way and only Brendan’s hold kept her from falling.

“Sweet Jesus!” He settled her down on the ground and hurriedly lifted the hem of her brown gingham skirt. “Where?” he asked, searching her pale flesh, finding no fang marks on her ankle or calf.

“Higher,” she whispered. Brendan pushed her onto her back and hoisted her skirts even farther. “I still don’t see anything. Are you sure he struck you?”

“Higher,” she repeated, blushing from head to foot. “On the inside.”

Brendan swore softly, jerked her skirts up to her waist and spread her legs apart. He spotted the hole in her soft cotton drawers high on the inside of her right thigh.

With a great ripping tear, he parted the fabric, exposing her skin and most of her thigh. Priscilla’s face flamed hotter,
and
she twisted and tried to sit up.

“You stay right where you are.” He pressed her back down. “Your damnable modesty will just have to wait.” Pulling his knife from the scabbard at his waist, he shoved it into the burning sand beneath them and worked to cleanse the blade as best he
could. “Saw this done down in Mexico. I hope to God it works.”

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Lance the wound and suck out the poison.” Before she could protest, he cut an x on her thigh with two swift clean strokes.

Priscilla stifled the terror she felt and began to tremble even more. Brendan ignored her, just spread her legs wider and settled himself between them.

“Dear God in heaven,” Priscilla softly intoned, feeling his hands on the inside of her thigh.

“Damned puritan,” he grumbled, easing her embarrassment apparent in every rigid muscle and joint. “I’d enjoy this, if it wasn’t so damned serious.” With that he set his mouth against her leg and began to suck out the venom.

Even as scared as she was, Priscilla felt a jolt of heat slide through her body. Brendan’s hands gripped her thigh and his mouth moved over her flesh, sucking hard again and again. In the eye of her mind, she could see his lips moving over her skin, see his long dark fingers touching the flesh of her upper thigh.

Unconsciously, Priscilla moaned.

“It’s all right, Silla,” he soothed, “I’m just about done.” A few moments later, he pressed his handkerchief against the wound and grabbed the ruffle at the bottom of her petticoat. Tearing off a length of it, he wrapped the material around her thigh and tied the handkerchief in place with several sure tugs.

When he had finished he lowered her skirts, lifted her in his arms, and started back toward the camp.
Priscilla clutched his neck to steady herself, and corded muscles bunched beneath her hands.

“What happens now?” she asked, forcing herself not to notice how solid he felt.

“That depends mostly on you. How your body reacts to the poison.” His eyes narrowed with worry and seemed a slightly darker shade of blue. “You shouldn’t have run, Priscilla. It speeds up your heartbeat, makes the poison move faster—damn it, Sill, it’s the worst thing you could have done.”

“I didn’t know.”

“That’s the problem—you don’t know a damned thing about this country. Egan ought to have his head examined for bringing you out here. One way or another, you’re bound and determined to get yourself killed.” He set her down in the shade of an oak tree.

“Brendan?”

“What?” he snapped.

“I’m starting to feel kind of … dizzy.”

The harshness went out of his manner. “Just take it easy. I’m going to make a poultice out of some tobacco. I’ll be right back.”

“Brendan?”

He stopped and turned to face her.

“If anything … happens … I want you to know I appreciate how hard you’ve worked to take care of me.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he said gruffly, deep lines etching his forehead. “I’m not going to let it.” With that he strode off toward the wagon.

While he rummaged through their supplies, looking
for God knows what, Priscilla leaned back against the oak, thinking about his words.

She’d been right, of course. His “I told you so”s were even worse than she’d expected. Still, it felt good to hear the protective note in his voice when he’d said them. It felt good to know he cared, and that he was there to help her.

Brendan returned a few moments later. While Priscilla fought her embarrassment, he pulled up her skirts, reached between her thighs, and applied the tobacco poultice, securing it again with the length of petticoat.

“We’ll make camp here,” he said, “until you’re out of danger … speaking of which, I want you out of those clothes.”

“What?”

“You’re bound to run a fever,” he patiently explained. “It’s hotter than Hades out here already.” He turned her around and started to unbutton the back of her dress.

Priscilla pulled away. “I refuse to sit here half naked in front of a stranger.”

Brendan bent over her. “If I’m not mistaken—and I know I’m not—you’re wearing that damnable corset of yours. I want you out of it and that’s the way it’s gonna be. And I’m hardly a stranger.”

Priscilla started to argue, but a wave of nausea swept over her and beads of perspiration popped out on her forehead. She wet her suddenly dry lips. “All right. I’ll take off my corset and petticoats, but I’m leaving on my dress.”

Brendan put a hand to her forehead. It felt clammy
and warm. “All right, have it your way.”
For now
, he thought. The way things were going, it wouldn’t be long before she got too sick to care. He unbuttoned the back of her dress and started to pull it off her shoulders.

“Just loosen the corset,” she said, “I can do the rest.” But she didn’t look like she could. “Turn around,” she ordered.

“Christ, Priscilla.”

“Please don’t blaspheme.” It was little more than a whisper.

Brendan turned his back to her. “Finished?” he asked. When Priscilla didn’t reply, Brendan turned to find her slumped forward, her dress half on, half off.

“Damn you, lady.” But his hand shook as he took in her sallow complexion, the ragged sound of her breathing.

As gently as he could, he undressed her, removing first her dress, then her flashy red-embroidered petticoats—which still coaxed a smile—and the most god-awful steel-sided corset he’d ever seen. In a burst of fury at her maddening sense of propriety, he bunched it up and threw it as far as he could. Nothing but a damned nuisance. And it wasn’t as though she needed it.

Determined to strip her naked and put on her nightgown, he pulled the string to her white cotton drawers, but wavered. Damned woman would probably rather be dead than have him see her naked.

Cursing her again for her infuriating modesty, he left her in her soft cotton drawers and chemise. He tried not to notice the gentle curve of her hips, how
small her waist was even without the corset, the peaks of her upthrusting breasts.

Mostly he tried not to notice how deathly pale she looked—or how much it hurt him to see her so sick.

Stuart Egan swung down from his palomino stallion to join the broad-faced, thick-chested Indian who crouched a few feet away, carefully studying the earth.

“What do you make of them?” Stuart asked, trying to read the wide swath of hoof marks.

“Comanche,” Tall Wind replied. “Ten, maybe more. They head north. Go back home.” Once a great Kiowa warrior, Tall Wind had succumbed to the lure of the white man’s whiskey. He’d wound up drunk and half starved wandering the desert like a nomad until he stumbled onto the Triple R.

“They shouldn’t have been around here in the first place,” Stuart said. “They’ve agreed to a peace—shaky as it is—besides, they know damn well what will happen if they raid the Triple R.”

Tall Wind stood, the hot breeze ruffling his breech-cloth as well as his coarse black hair. “Some afraid. Others not care. They fight for their land. They die for the ways of their people.” Something in his hard black eyes said he admired them for it, though Tall Wind had pledged his loyalty to the man standing near him—the man who had come to his aid when no one else would have. Stuart Egan. The man who had saved his life.

“They’ll die, all right,” Stuart said, “make no mistake about that.”

Tall Wind didn’t answer. Stuart knew the Indian didn’t doubt his word, or his power to make it happen. Though a part of the warrior would remain with his heritage, Stuart trusted him, as he did most of the men who worked for him. He demanded loyalty from those around him. He knew how to get it, and he would tolerate no less.

“You don’t think they’ll double back, do you?” Noble Egan, Stuart’s only son, swung down from his saddle. “Barker could be crossing the trail south of here. We’ve got no way of knowing which ship he’ll be taking to Corpus, or when it might arrive.”

“Comanche ride north,” the Indian repeated, pointing in that direction.

“That’s good enough for me,” Stuart said. “With that latest shipment of cattle, we’re damned short-handed. We can’t afford to lose a single hand.”

“What about Miss Wills?” Noble pressed. He stood nearly as tall as his father, with Stuart’s same light complexion, sandy hair, and hazel eyes. At eighteen, he was mature for a boy of his age, and he blindly worshipped his father. “If there’s any chance of a run-in with the Comanche—”

“Tall Wind says they’re returning to their homeland. Barker is plenty tough enough to take care of Miss Wills and her traveling companion.” When Noble still looked doubtful, Stuart added, “If I thought there’d be any trouble, I’d go after her myself.” This last was true enough, though he couldn’t afford the time.

Besides, the rough trip with Barker would do the woman good. She’d have to toughen up if she intended to live on the frontier. There’d be no frills
with Barker. He’d get her here in one piece, see that she came to no harm, then Stuart could step in and play the hero. It was a tactic he had used again and again to inspire the kind of allegiance he demanded.

“We’d better get a move on,” he said to Tall Wind. “I want to check the upper mesa.”