Natchez Flame (44 page)

“You know, Mace, you may be right. I’m a practical sort of girl. If what you say is true, then I’m all alone. I could use a man’s protection.”

Mace drew back warily, his eyes running over her face, down her body, then returning to the peaks of her breasts. She felt a shudder of revulsion but suppressed it.

“I’ll give it some thought. You show me you’re talking straight, maybe we can do business.”

He shifted both of her wrists to his one hand, then his other hand cupped a breast. Priscilla felt the bile rise up in her throat, and such a blinding rage, it nearly overwhelmed her. She worked to control it, seductively wet her lips and lowered her lashes.

“You keep looking at me that way,” he said, “things might just work out.” As he fumbled with the buttons at the front of his breeches, Mace leaned down and kissed her. Priscilla ignored his foul breath and kissed him back. When Mace let go of her wrists, she slid her arms around his neck.

His breathing increased and so did his frustrations. Fighting to get his pants undone, he cursed and drew back to finish the task.

Priscilla’s hand crept forward, inch by inch. She jerked his gun from its holster, thumbed back the
hammer, but Harding grabbed her wrist. Priscilla twisted the weapon as far as she could and fired. The shot went wild, missing him completely. Harding jerked it from her fingers, shoved it back in his holster, and slapped her hard across the face.

“You little bitch.”

Priscilla cried out as he wrenched her arms behind her back and pain shot through her body.

“Get off her, Harding.” Brendan’s voice, as cold as a Texas frost, cut through the room. “Let go of her—now.”

Harding spun toward the voice that dripped with icy rage. “You bastard, I killed you!”

Straining to look over Mace’s shoulder, Priscilla could barely see him, but she didn’t miss the patch of red that blossomed on his shirt.

“I thought it was Egan,” Brendan said. “If I’d known it was you, you wouldn’t have even come close. Now back away, before I pull this trigger.”

Mace eased himself off Priscilla, and she drew her nightgown back into place with a trembling hand.

“Step clear of her.”

“I’m not hangin’,” Mace said. “One of us is goin’ down—I’m bettin’ it’s you.” Mace jerked his gun. Brendan fired, Mace fired, and Priscilla screamed. Black eyes wild with disbelief, his chest erupting with blood, Mace turned and slowly sank down to the floor. The gun clattered to the ground beside him, and Brendan kicked it away. Mace’s body twitched once before his eyes slid closed and he lay dead.

“Brendan!” Priscilla scrambled off the bed and raced across the room into his arms. He tightened them protectively around her.

“H-how bad are you hurt?” She pulled away to look at him, a knot of worry in her chest.

“Shoulder wound. I’ve survived a whole lot worse.”

“He said you were dead. He said—”

“I heard what he said. I also saw what
you
did. God, Priscilla, you are really something.” There was such pride in his eyes, Priscilla blinked back a well of tears.

A loud rap sounded at the door, and Brendan walked over and pulled it open. The hotel manager stood in the hallway.

“I thought I heard shooting,” the little man said. “What’s going on?”

You’d better call a constable,” Brendan told him. The man peered into the room and saw Mace Harding’s body covered in blood. Behind his spectacles, his face grew pale. He turned and ran for the stairs.

“We’d better get you to a doctor,” Priscilla said.

Brendan nodded. “It isn’t as bad as it looks. The bullet went all the way through. I’ll be fine by the time we reach Savannah.”

With hands a little unsteady, Priscilla wrapped a linen towel around his shoulder to slow the bleeding, and they made their way down the stairs to the tiny hotel lobby.

“At least this time it’s really over,” Priscilla said.

“I knew we were being followed. I was trying to catch the bastard. I didn’t want you to worry.”

He waved down a hansom cab, and Priscilla helped him climb in. “The next time something like this happens,” she scolded, “you had damned well better tell me.”

“Damned?” Brendan repeated, incredulous. Priscilla flushed. “Well, you’d better.”

“What a bossy little wife you’ve become.” But his look was warm on her face. “I’m sorry he put you through that. I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”

“You got there soon enough,” she said softly. “That’s all that counts.”

That night they lay in a canopied bed in another small hotel room down the hall. A fire crackled pleasantly in the fireplace, and Priscilla nestled in the crook of Brendan’s arm. He’d been sleeping off and on, the effects of a dose of laudanum the doctor had ordered. As Brendan had predicted, the wound looked worse than it really was, but the doctor had insisted he rest.

The constable had come to the hotel to see them, but since Brendan had paid him a visit several days earlier, explaining what happened in Natchez, and voicing his suspicions, the matter of Mace Harding’s death didn’t take long to clear up. Afterward Priscilla had firmly ordered him to bed.

Now he stirred, and his light blue eyes came open. When he saw Priscilla watching him, an easy smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

“What’s the matter, sweetness, can’t sleep?” He ran a finger along her jaw.

He was so handsome, so totally and utterly male. Her eyes strayed to the dark brown hair on his chest, the bands of muscle across it, the shadowy indentations beneath his ribs. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to show him how much she cared.

“I was just worried about you.”

He grinned. “I’m fine. Well … almost fine. Actually, I’m feeling kind of hungry.”

“Would you like me to go down and get you something from the kitchen?”

“No.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble. It’ll just take a minute for me to get dressed.” She started to get up, but Brendan pulled her back down. “What on earth are you doing? You’ve got to be careful of your shoulder.”

“You’re right, baby, I’ve got to get plenty of rest, but I can’t seem to fall asleep.”

“What’s the matter?”

He took her hand, drew it along his chest, down his flat stomach until she touched his hardened arousal.

Priscilla sucked in a breath. “You are without doubt the most—”

“Tell me that has nothing to do with what you were thinking.”

How could she deny it? “But your shoulder—we can’t just … just …”

“Just what, Silla?” There was a roughness to his voice she knew only too well. “What is it we can’t do?”

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore her pounding heart. “We can’t make love.”

With a sigh of resignation, he thrust his hands behind his head. “I suppose you’re right. I’m far too weak. I’ll just have to suffer. Of course I won’t be able to sleep, so I’ll probably feel worse in the morning. Too weak to make love, so I’ll get no rest, and I’ll feel worse, and then—”

Priscilla’s laughter cut him off. “Well, I suppose … if you promised not to overdo things … I could just sort of—” Priscilla leaned over and kissed him.

“What a lusty little wench you are,” he teased against her ear as he moved to lift her astride him.

“I love you, Sill,” he said, surprising her.

“I love you, too, Bren.”

Content as she had once only dreamed, she let him work his magic.

Brazos River, Texas
April 3, 1852

“I’ll get the kids in the wagon. You about ready?”

Clutching to her breast the bright yellow wildflowers she had gathered just that morning, Priscilla glanced up at her handsome husband.

“I’ll just be a minute. I picked these for Chris. They used to be his favorite.”

He nodded solemnly. They were driving into Waco, going to church as they did at least once each month. It was a goodly distance, but they played games and picnicked along the way, and in Waco picked up letters from family and friends. Last time Rose and Jaimie had written of the new addition to their family, a little red-haired boy, and Silver and Morgan had mentioned an upcoming visit.

“Tell the children not to get impatient,” Priscilla said, “this won’t take long.”

“Want me to go with you?” Brendan asked, his blue eyes filled with compassion, lending her his strength.

“No. I’ll be fine.” She touched his cheek with the palm of her hand. “I kind of like going alone.”

He understood, as always. “Take all the time you need.”

She nodded and turned away, walking out toward the huge old oak that shaded the grassy knoll down by the river. The Brazos rolled by, lazy this time of year, though it could run in torrents in the winter.

She picked up her simple brown calico skirts and made her way along the path beside the garden. Squash, melon, corn, beans—all of it grew in abundance from the rich black soil that belonged to them. In the distance, spring cotton had been planted, and cattle grazed contentedly on the range that ran for miles in several directions.

Her gaze swung up to the knoll. A gentle breeze blew the soft grass that covered the small mound marked by a carved chunk of granite. Approaching silently, reverently, she sank down on the grass and touched the cold gray stone with loving hands.

Ignoring the tightness in her chest, she traced the words chiseled into the hard rock surface and laid the flowers atop the tiny grave. More than two years had passed, but still she ached for him. She guessed she always would.

She reached down and plucked a weed that seemed to have sprung up overnight. Chris had died of a fever that had ravaged the country, but God had been merciful and none of the others had fallen sick. With Brendan’s tireless help, she had tended the
child for hours, sitting by his bedside, willing him to live.

With a wisdom few mortals understand and certainly not Priscilla, God had chosen to take him.

As she thought of him now, her lips curved up in a bittersweet smile. She had been fortunate to know him, even for a while, yet she wished she could have known him longer. Christopher Thomas, their second son, had been the image of his handsome father, but then, so were they all.

Priscilla stood up from the grave and brushed the dirt from her palms. Once the thought of losing a beloved child had nearly cost her her happiness. She had run from the only man she had ever loved.

Her gaze swung back toward the house, a big rambling structure he had built for her, just as he had conquered his land. She saw him standing beside the wagon, next to their firstborn son, the child she had given him the summer after their wedding. A beautiful boy they had named Morgan.

Already he looked like Brendan, carrying himself tall and proud. He held his little sister Sarah’s hand, ever watchful of her, waiting patiently for his mother’s return.

Her heart constricted just to look at them, the family she loved so much. She had lost a child, as crushing a blow as any she could have imagined. But she had gained a gift more precious than any she could have dreamed. The love of a husband and family.

They had given her the strength she needed.

Just as Brendan had said, they’d shared hardships—devastating ones—but they had also shared a joy so profound that words could never describe it.

She left the grave and walked along the path back toward the wagon.

Brendan’s eyes found hers as she approached. “All right?”

She smiled softly. “As long as I have you and the children, I’ll always be all right.”

Brendan pulled her into his arms, and his cheek felt warm and solid against her own. “We’ve got lots to look forward to, Silla, years of happiness ahead of us.”

She nodded into his shoulder, knowing it was the truth.

“Let’s go, Papa,” Morgan said. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Just like his mama,” Brendan said. “Always steady and reliable.”

“Just like his father,” Priscilla teased. “Sinfully handsome and utterly charming. He’s probably planning a rendezvous with one of the little Porter girls.”

They both laughed at that and climbed aboard the wagon. The sun warmed the prairie, and wildflowers of every color dotted the landscape.

“It’s just as beautiful as you said it would be.” Priscilla smiled softly. She had fallen in love with the rough Texas landscape, the freedom and open space, the animals and birds. The courageous frontier people.

“That’s because you’ve made this land your home,” he said gently.

Priscilla knew that she had.