Natchez Flame (12 page)

The Indian just grunted and returned to his wiry white mustang. He swung onto the horse’s back and nudged the animal forward with his knees.

Stuart surveyed the parched landscape a moment more, the forty thousand acres that had once been Rancho Reina del Robles—Queen of the Oaks—and was now the Triple R. He had bought Don Pedro’s land grant for a song—after the old Mexican’s disastrous string of unfortunate “accidents.” The land was his now, and this wide-open tract was just the beginning. Eventually Stuart intended to own a hundred thousand acres and tens of thousands of head of cattle. He’d be the wealthiest landowner in Texas.

To say nothing of his lofty political ambitions.

What he needed was a wife to give him an appearance of stability, and, most importantly, more sons. A man needed sons to run a ranch the size of the Triple R. Noble was a good boy, but if anything happened to him—and in this rough country there was always that chance—Stuart would be left without an heir. He intended to remedy that possibility with all haste.

He just hoped the woman was as comely—and as docile—as her crotchety old aunt had said.

“No, Mama. No, Mama! Mama, I’m scared.”

“It’s all right, Silla. Everything is going to be all right.” Brendan wiped the perspiration from her
brow with a damp cloth, appreciating as he had a dozen times before the delicate planes and valleys of her face, her clear skin, and long dark lashes.

She muttered something else and shoved the blanket down to her waist. Her breasts rose softly beneath her thin chemise, the dark circles at each peak making his body stir.

With the fever still raging, she shouldn’t be covered at all, he admitted, but he’d grown so damned uncomfortable looking at her slender body, speculating—however unwillingly—how tempting she’d look in nothing at all, that he’d finally tossed a blanket over her.

“No, Mama,” she repeated, drawing his attention to the slender hands she fisted like a child. She had mumbled in her sleep several times before, but said nothing he could make sense of until now. He wondered at the ominous words and tried to imagine the childhood memory she suppressed. He wondered if not being able to remember was a curse—or a blessing.

With a businesslike movement of his hand, Brendan checked the poultice he had placed on her thigh, forcing himself not to notice how smooth and white her skin was, how long and supple her legs. Though she still tossed and turned, the wound hadn’t festered, and some of her color had returned.

He moved to the campfire and fixed some broth from the slab of bacon he had brought, hoping that when she awakened she would be able to eat, then he settled down beside her. He must have dozed because he awoke with a jolt to find her awake and watching him.

“Silla,” he said without thinking, feeling a rush of relief. “Thank God.” He sat up tiredly and raked a hand through his wavy dark brown hair.

For a moment she seemed uncertain, then she wet her lips and smiled. “I’m going to be all right,” she said staunchly, and Brendan smiled, too.

“So it seems.”

He fetched the broth and fed her some, and afterward she drifted back to sleep. Since the fever had broken and there was no more tossing and turning, his worry eased, but still he only rested.

He kept thinking about his lovely charge, wondering what would happen to her once they reached the Triple R. Egan would marry her—he had no doubt about that—but would she be happy? And why did he care?

The debt he owed her would end the moment they reached the ranch. Egan could take over, use his power and money to keep her safe. She’d have expensive clothes, servants. If Egan had his way, they might even wind up in Washington. Surely she would be happy—what woman wouldn’t?

Unfortunately, she’d be Egan’s possession, forced to live under his rule just as his men did. Still, lots of women lived that way. If he were her husband, he’d be pretty damned demanding himself.

Brendan started, wondering where such an odd thought had come from, then doggedly his thoughts returned to Egan and Priscilla. Eventually the sun came up, putting an end to his musing, and Priscilla awoke with it.

“Good morning,” she said with a much brighter
tone than he had expected. When she tried to sit up, he gently urged her back down.

“I gather you’re feeling better, but there’s no need to rush things.”

She yawned behind her hand and smiled. “I gather I wasn’t feeling too well last night.”

“For a while there, no. I was damned worried about you.”

Priscilla spotted the blanket that covered only her feet, blushed prettily at the parts she exposed, and pulled the light red wool up to her chin. “My leg hurts some, but other than that I feel pretty good. I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”

Brendan’s mood turned dark as he thought of how close she had come to serious injury. “Trouble, Miss Wills, is your middle name. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

If she noticed his frown, she didn’t acknowledge it. “If I am all right, I imagine it’s because of you.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Mostly it’s how much venom you took, or any number of things. Since I’ve been out here, I’ve seen plenty of snakebit horses and men. For the most part, a centipede bite seems more often fatal.” He looked at her hard. “You’ll damn well be more careful from now on, or I swear, Priscilla, you won’t leave my side, modesty or no.”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised with an odd look of pleasure at his words.

Priscilla couldn’t help herself. No one had ever watched out for her the way Brendan did. He looked bone-tired, his face lined with worry and roughened by a day’s growth of beard.

“We’ll stay here another day,” he was saying. “If
you feel well enough to travel in the morning, we’ll head out.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “And thank you.”

Brendan just scowled. What was he thinking? she wondered, watching him move toward the fire with his usual catlike grace. He returned with a steaming cup of coffee, which she gratefully accepted, and she began to feel even better.

At Brendan’s insistence, she ate lightly and rested through most of the day, but by late afternoon she felt restless and ready to move about.

“It’s time I got dressed,” she pronounced. “I don’t suppose there’s a stream nearby—someplace I might bathe?”

“There’s a creek at the bottom of the rise. If you’re bound and determined to go, I’ll carry you.”

She paused at that. “You don’t intend to stay, do you?”

Trask just grinned. “I’d love to, ma’am,” he drawled, but I don’t suppose you’d ever get into the water.”

“You’re right.” Priscilla wrapped the blanket around her and reached for her brown gingham dress. She felt a warmth in her cheeks as Brendan gathered up shoes, stockings, and petticoats, rummaged through her trunk for clean pantalets and chemise, then scooped her into his arms.

“I don’t want you putting too much weight on that leg,” he said.

Priscilla started to protest, but it felt so good to be nestled against his chest, she decided not to. She had never been held by a man until she met Brendan.
She’d already determined that she liked it, unseemly or no. She just hoped Stuart could make her feel the same warm, cared-for sensations.

True to his word, after checking the banks of the stream, Brendan left her to bathe. Though the water wasn’t deep, it was cool and cleansing, erasing the stickiness left from her fever. After washing her hair and body, she checked to be sure he wasn’t looking, eased herself out of the water, dried a moment in the sun, then began to pull on her clothes.

All went well till she reached for her corset. A search of the garments on the rock beside her turned up no sign of it. Priscilla finished dressing, a little surprised she could fit in her clothing without it, then climbed the hill in search of Trask.

She found him tending the mules, rubbing their sleek dark gray coats with a flour sack while they munched contentedly from a bag of grain.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, walking up beside him. “But I can’t seem to find—”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Why didn’t you call me? I told you I didn’t want you putting too much weight on that leg.”

“My leg feels fine. It’s just a little bit sore.”

His brows drew together in a scowl.

“As I was saying, I hate to bother you, but I couldn’t seem to find my … ah … corset.” It felt awkward discussing such a subject with a man, no matter how much of her he had seen.

He returned to rubbing down the mule. “I threw the damned thing away. This is not the place for such
a god-awful contraption. You ought to have sense enough to know that without being told.”

Priscilla’s temper heated. “My undergarments are hardly your concern, Mr. Trask. You ought to have sense enough to know
that
without being told! I want my corset back and I’m not budging from this camp until I get it.”

Brendan turned to face her. “You are without a doubt the stubbornest, most irritating—” He tossed the flour sack away. “Christ.”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme!”

He took what appeared to be a deep, calming breath. “Look, Miss Wills. I don’t have the slightest intention of spending the night searching the wilderness for your damnable corset.” Priscilla stubbornly set her jaw. “Nor do I intend to delay our departure so you can look for it—and probably get into more trouble. We’ll be leaving at dawn. If we push hard, we can make up some lost time. The sooner I get you to Egan, the better off we’ll both be.”

Silently seething, Priscilla whirled away from him and headed back to camp. Cursing Brendan Trask for the bounder he was, she dug through the pots and pans, pulling out several and slamming them down on the top of a rock by the fire. The man was impossible! He was domineering, infuriating—

And the thought of never seeing him again almost made her weep.

Once you reach the Triple R, everything will be all right
, she told herself firmly. Stuart would make her forget Brendan Trask. She’d have a home of her own, the family she dreamed of—Trask could just go hang!

*  *  *

In spite of her anger, Priscilla cooked the wild turkey Brendan had shot and cleaned, and made another batch of hoecakes. Trask was enthralled. He ate with such obvious pleasure, it was hard to stay mad at him.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone who enjoyed a woman’s cooking as much as you do,” she finally said.

“I don’t believe I’ve known a better cook,” he countered with a grin.

“Did you always have such a big appetite?”

He shook his dark-haired head. “Guess it must have been the time I spent in that Mexican prison. We ate anything that walked, crawled, or moved, just to stay alive.”

“It must have been awful. How did you escape?”

Brendan stopped chewing. There was a guarded look on his face that hadn’t been there before. He seemed to be carefully choosing his words. “I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for my brother. Morgan and a handful of Texas Marines broke in through an old abandoned tunnel in the ruins where they kept us. He got all of us out … at least those of us who were still alive.”

Priscilla could almost feel his pain. It was there in the slump of his shoulders, usually so broad and straight, and the darkness that had crept into his eyes. “You must have lost some very good men,” she said softly. “Maybe even some friends.”

Brendan set his plate aside, leaving several bites unfinished. “It’s all in the past, Miss Wills. I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget it. I’d prefer we changed the topic”

“All right.” It was easy to see how much the discussion had bothered him. “What shall we talk about instead?”

“Anything but the war.”

She smiled. “Then tell me what kind of a bird was that back at the ravine—the one that spooked the mules?”

“Chaparral cock. Some people call it a roadrunner, some a
paisano.”

She pointed to a tall spiny cactus. “What about that?”

“Spanish bayonet—I thought we weren’t going to talk about the war—”

Priscilla laughed softly. “All right, you pick a subject.”

“How about your fiancé?” he said with what seemed a trace of bitterness. “Why don’t we discuss the fact that you’ll be marrying a man you’ve never even met, someone you don’t know a damned thing about. Why don’t we talk about living on the Texas frontier when you can barely tie your own shoelaces.”

Priscilla jumped up from the log where they’d been sitting. “All right, why don’t we? While we’re at it, why don’t we discuss the fact that I haven’t a penny to my name, I have no skills other than those of a wife and mother, and that up until Stuart came along, no other man had ever shown the slightest interest in me.”

“You probably never gave one a chance.”

She didn’t deny it. “I had my aunt to look after—I owed her that for taking me in—and believe me, Aunt Maddie was a full-time job.”

“Egan might be way more than you can handle.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Like you’ve managed everything else so far?”

“I’m marrying Stuart, whether you approve or not. You just get me there.”

“Oh, I’ll get you there, all right. And damned good riddance.” With that he stormed out of camp and into the darkness.

Priscilla felt the sting of tears, though from anger or despair she couldn’t quite say. Determined not to let them fall, she busied herself cleaning up, but her thoughts remained on Brendan. Why had he said those things? Couldn’t he see how frightened she was already?

I have no choice
, she wanted to scream, wishing he would try to understand. Except by reputation, he didn’t even know Stuart Egan. Trask most certainly wasn’t contemplating marriage. She wasn’t sure he even liked her.

Damning him to hell in the most ladylike terms she could, Priscilla shoved back the last traces of sadness. Just a little longer and she would be safely where she belonged. Stuart would take care of her, and Brendan Trask would be gone from her life forever. He’d be nothing but a memory that would fade with the course of time. Just a little longer, she repeated, and she would finally be home.

She ignored the voice inside her head that whispered,
Maybe you’re already there.