Teresa Bodwell (14 page)

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Authors: Loving Miranda

BOOK: Teresa Bodwell
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“I come to talk, Mr. Lansing. Ben.” She blinked, and he noticed her lashes, a golden color a shade darker than her hair. Her eyes opened wide again, pools of warm liquid.
“I’ll meet you downstairs. We’ll sit in the saloon. We could have some . . .” He couldn’t very well offer the young lady whiskey. “Coffee?”
She shook her head and took a step forward. “I think it’d be best if we talk privately.” She leaned toward him, but he didn’t move. “Could I come in?”
If he had any sense he would refuse. Didn’t this sweet young thing realize how dangerous it was for a girl like her to be alone with a man like him? Once again, he studied her eyes and wondered whether they held innocence or knowledge. He stepped back, pulling the door open and allowing her to enter. She turned and pushed the door closed behind her.
“You can’t take Jonathan.” She glared up defiantly.
“Is that what this is about?”
Miranda stepped up to him, taking his large hand between her small ones. “Please, you need to understand how much he means to my sister. Even before Arthur died, Mercy always had time for Jonathan. She spent hours with him, played with him, taught him to play the piano and ride a horse, and she always had a story for him. His father never did those things for Jonathan, but Mercy did.”
“I . . .” He studied her face, those wide eyes so full of worry. He was tempted to reassure her, but he had some unfinished business with O’Reilly. “I can’t leave town just yet.”
“Even if the money is gone as Mercy says?”
“There are some things I need to find out for myself.”
“You want to count the cows? Jonathan will have his cattle, I promise you.”
“Miranda . . .” Ben took a deep breath. “I don’t believe your sister intends to cheat my nephew.”
Miranda threw her arms around him and squeezed tight, though that wasn’t the reason Ben found it difficult to breathe. “Thank you.”
She stepped back and smiled up at him. It wasn’t the desire to drive himself into her that nearly overpowered him—he could control that—it was the need to taste the lip that she now held between her teeth that had his mind wandering in circles so that he had difficulty understanding what Miranda said, let alone conceiving how he should reply.
“I haven’t promised to leave,” he managed to say, though his voice cracked.
“They love him. My sister and her husband.” Though she no longer touched him, she didn’t back away either.
“Even with another baby coming, their own blood?” he asked.
“Most parents have it in their hearts to love more than one child.”
Ben wondered. He’d never been certain his father loved him. Though he wasn’t sure his father had really loved his brothers either.
“I don’t know whether that’s true.”
Miranda smiled. “Course, I don’t have a lot of experience. But I know my pa loves me
and
my sister. Don’t think me coming changed the way he felt about Mercy. Nor did I ever think he couldn’t love me ’cause he already cared for her.”
Ben pondered her words. Hell, it made a lot of sense. That was how things were in a family. “But your mother was there to help—”
“If you mean to say that Mercy and I had the same ma to love us both like Pa does—no, we didn’t. We had different mamas. They both died, leavin’ Pa to raise the two of us.” Miranda shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Different as we are, we both love our pa and each other. It’s the one thing I know for certain I can count on in my life. That and the fact that my sister loves Jonathan like he’s her own flesh and blood.”
Ben only wished he knew how to recognize a parent’s love as easily as he could identify the simple love of a child. “Jonathan loves them, I’m certain of that.”
Miranda smiled. “You’re right about that, Ben. There just might be some hope for you yet.”
He couldn’t help himself—he returned her smile.
“I’m beginning to believe that’s true, but I still have some questions.”
She blinked up at him, and he ached at the thought that she might cry. “You’re still worried . . . about the money,” she said.
He turned away from her and glanced out the window to the dusty street below. “Yes, I want to know what happened to my money. I can’t believe my brother . . . simply lost it all.” He turned back to Miranda.
“My sister would not have taken it.”
“No.” Ben stared into the depths of Miranda’s eyes. “No, I don’t believe she did.” O’Reilly was the more likely culprit. “I have some other suspicions, though. I’m not leaving here until I find out what happened.”
She bit her lip, then looked up at him. “But you will be going?”
Ben nodded and took a step closer. “I want to be on my way before winter comes. You can stop worrying about Jonathan. I don’t intend to take him.”
She smiled, a slight, shy smile. “I just have one more thing to ask.” She drew her tongue slowly across her lip. “Will you? Would you kiss me, again?”
Ben took another step toward her and leaned down until his lips brushed over hers. His hands settled on her hips and he pulled her close. Their lips met again, this time with more force, and he allowed one hand to roam slowly up her back until his fingers tangled into her hair. Her tongue teased its way inside of him, fanning flames already dangerously hot. His mind fought every part of his body, forcing him to pull away.
She smiled up at him, her lips trembling a little. He caressed her soft cheek, brushing his finger back over the ear he would have liked to nibble. He swallowed hard, reminding himself that he was a gentleman and Miranda was too young to understand what she was doing to him.
Ben’s eyes went to her hands as she worked down the front of her shirt. “No one knows I’m here,” she said.
“Wait.” Ben stared at her. “Stop,” he heard himself say, although it was the last thing he wanted her to do. “Miranda, what are you doing?”
“You want me, I think.” She frowned up at him, intensely serious.
“No,” he snapped, “I—” But he couldn’t force the words from his lips, because the fact was she was right. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first seen her swirling her spoon through her soup.
Her eyes dropped to the floor, and he reached a finger under her chin, lifting her face so that he could see tears pooling in her eyes. His resolve vanished like a cool mist under the heat of the morning sun. “You can’t know how much I want you,” he whispered.
She pulled her shirt away, revealing the curve of her breasts against the white cotton of her chemise; her nipples stood out like small pearls against the thin fabric. “Then, please . . .”
He forced himself back a step. “How . . . old are you?”
“I’m twenty years old. Did you think I was a child?”
“No.” Ben’s response was nearly a groan. “I can see that you’re no child.”
“Then show me.” She lifted her chin and favored him with a timid smile. “Please. Show me what it feels like to be a woman.”
It took one long stride before he had her in his arms, pulled tight against him; her supple breasts pressed against his ribs. He covered her mouth with his and drank of her soft, full lips. His hand found the hem of her chemise and skimmed up, under the fabric over her warm skin; he traced her ribs until he found her small, firm breast. He ached with pleasure at the weight of that gem against his palm. Fire burned through him with an unexpected fury.
He groaned with need and ripped her chemise up and over her head, bending to suckle her breast. He lifted her easily in his arms. She was weightless, lighter than air—this beautiful nymph of a girl, and he wanted her as he could not remember wanting anything.
He set her on his bed, naked from the waist up, her hair flying in every direction and her lips and cheeks rosy from his caresses. She sprawled out, opening to him, pulling her skirt up to ready herself for him. Her legs were bare from the top of her boots to the tangle of yellow curls that protected her womanly places.
He tugged at the buttons of his pants, pulling the first two out with so much force the buttons dropped to the floor.
“Damn,” Ben muttered, feeling like an eager adolescent. Silently admonishing himself to slow down, he bent to unfasten the other buttons more carefully. Holding the waist of his pants up, he looked back to Miranda’s beautiful face. Her bright eyes glowed with fear.
Ben sucked in a breath and turned his back to her, pulling his pants back up around him. He walked to the window and leaned out, breathing in the cool autumn air, desperately trying to gain control of himself. What in perdition was he doing? What had he nearly done to her?
“Get out!” His voice was harsh with anger. He pulled in another breath and forced his voice to quiet. “Please, leave.”
He heard her behind him, gathering her clothing; perhaps she was dressing herself. He dared not look, but continued leaning out the window, breathing, forcing himself not to picture the small pink circles on the peaks of her breasts. How he wanted to kiss those breasts, to taste them and feel their tenderness.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “So sorry.”
“Please, go.” He fought to keep his voice calm, not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had. He heard her walk to the door and slip quietly into the hall before he turned around, leaned against the wall, and sank to the floor. He closed his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, though he knew she was gone.
 
 
Miranda slipped out the back door of Rita’s. She couldn’t go through the saloon or the kitchen, for fear Rita, or someone else she knew, would see her and figure out she’d been up to the guest rooms. There wasn’t a good reason for her to be up there. Whatever they imagined she might have been doing, it would be no worse than what she’d actually done.
Her hands shook as she checked the buttons of her shirt. She had offered herself to a man thinking he wanted her. Thinking this was her chance to find that magical pleasure Mercy had described to her. After months of promising herself to keep away from men, to stay out of trouble, she’d jumped with both feet right into a kettle of hot water.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She moved down the alley into the shadow of Rita’s storage shed. Again, she checked her buttons and looked down to be sure her skirt was straight. Breathing in and out deliberately, she willed her hands to stop shaking. Nothing torn, no outward evidence of Ben’s touch. She pulled the blue ribbon off her hair and rearranged it, binding her wild locks tight into the same ribbon. Her fingers brushed over her cheek, which was still tender from rubbing against the stubble on Ben’s face. Likely her face would be pink, but riding in the sun usually left her rosy. No one would notice the difference, she hoped.
Her index finger moved over her raw lip, remembering his lips on hers. She felt tears pooling in her eyes again. No sense in crying. Miranda cleared her throat. He’d been warm against her—and hard—pressing with the force and fury of desperation. But not desperate enough for the likes of her, apparently. He had wanted her, then something changed. She’d done something to displease him.
She thought back; everything had been fine until she was on the bed. Lawrence had always urged her to be ready. He hated waiting and blamed her if he didn’t get hard. Sometimes he seemed ready, hard and full of desire, but he’d go soft and that was always her fault, too.
Ben had still been wearing his trousers, but she could see he was ready to come inside her. She’d done her best to hurry. Had even lifted her skirt so that he didn’t have to. One tear escaped, then another. There was only one explanation. It wasn’t anything she’d done. When he’d looked at her face, he’d been so repulsed he couldn’t even look at her as she left the room.
Chapter 12
It seemed strange to Miranda seeing cowboys rounding up cattle for branding without Mercy there bossing them. Her older sister had taken charge every spring and summer since their family had started this ranch. Working with the cattle could be dangerous, so Mercy had decided to stay home rather than risk hurting the baby she was carrying. Miranda was glad to be able to help with the roundup, but she envied her sister, too.
Miranda watched Thad work with Buck to cut a calf from the herd and head him over to the cowboys who were doing the branding. The roundup was for counting and sorting the beef stock from the breeders. The male animals chosen for meat would also need special treatment. Miranda shuddered thinking about what they would do to that poor calf once they got him down on the ground. At least it was quick. The men thought nothing of it; they even enjoyed eating the . . . male parts they’d removed.
The same coals that kept the branding irons red hot also served to fry up their special delicacy. As far back as Miranda could recall, roundup was the only time that Buck took charge of cooking. He used a big iron skillet over the coals to cook up the prairie oysters for the men.
Miranda had come along to do the real cooking, but she stayed away from this special ritual. She didn’t want to watch; but more important, the men preferred for the women to stay away. Even Mercy had always managed to find something else to occupy herself with when Buck took out his skillet.
“O’Neill, you take the first one,” Buck shouted as he stabbed a fork into a hot piece of meat.
Miranda glanced over at the cowboys. O’Neill had just turned sixteen, and the men had been teasing him all week about his lack of experience with the ladies. They all swore they would provide him with the cure. Once he’d eaten the magical prairie oyster, women would line up to be with him.
Miranda retreated about fifty yards away to the cook wagon, where she had the makings of a real supper. A hearty beef stew, corn bread, and apple cobbler. For some reason, eating a bull’s private parts never seemed to diminish the cowboys’ appetites. Miranda reckoned their increased manliness simply required more food. She chuckled at the thought.
What they did with the added masculinity they thought they’d acquired was another matter.
Manliness
. She’d had enough experience with it to be wary. Some men worked to prove their masculinity, for others it came naturally. A pair of broad shoulders on a lean body shoved into her mind. No question about it—Benjamin Lansing was all man. He didn’t need any special food, or a magical elixir. If his kiss told the half of it, he could please a woman in the way Mercy had described—a shooting star ride. Hell, flying through the sky was pure fantasy— the thrill of Ben’s kisses was very real. Miranda could only imagine what it would be like to have all of him. If he hadn’t found her repulsive, she might well know for certain.
It was for the best he’d rejected her. She’d given herself to two men. To Harold Pearson, she’d given her heart. He’d left her for another woman. Still reeling from Harold’s rejection, she’d given her body to Lawrence Frimm. Their coupling had always felt awkward to her. She’d tried so damn hard to please him but had never quite managed it. And he’d found ways to punish her for her failings. If she hadn’t felt obligated to marry him, she’d have left him the first time he hit her.
Her past failures with men should have been enough to warn her away from conjuring up ideas about her and Ben. Even if he’d wanted her, he was leaving Fort Victory as soon as he concluded his business. And then where would she be? Good sense aside, there was something arousing about the idea of a man’s strength directed at pleasing her rather than hurting her.
She thought back to Ben’s kisses. His probing touch, the strength of his long, solid body against hers, and something else—the warm and inviting way he held her. Tenderness. That was it. A gentle touch that told her all that strength was under control.
Restraint and power was a potent combination. Even the thought of Ben made her knees go weak. When he’d kissed her in the barn, she’d have landed on her seat if he hadn’t been there holding her up. Despite all her misgivings, she’d wanted more. Had hoped for more. Hell, she’d gone into town and thrown herself into his arms. A sure sign she’d lost her mind entirely.
She turned back to the men. They’d finished their snack and were back to work. It was time to get the stew started. She pulled out a board and commenced chopping the carrots. Miranda could work the cattle as well as any of the men out there, but she could cook a far sight better than any of the cowboys. She’d had one helluva year away, when all was said and done. But one good thing had come of it. Everyone was glad to have her back in charge of the kitchen. It was mighty nice to be appreciated.
She glanced back over to the men. A movement coming out of the hills to the west caught her eye—horsemen riding like the devil was chasing them. She called out to Buck, but Thad and Buck were already positioning themselves between the cattle and the approaching horsemen.
Miranda climbed into the wagon and grabbed the old Sharps rifle a heartbeat before the shooting started.
Rustlers!
Only they weren’t going after the unbranded cattle. What the hell were they trying to do?
Another pair of riders came thundering toward Miranda from the south. She turned, aimed, and fired.
 
 
Ben stopped to get his bearings. Mercy had told him it would take around an hour riding directly southwest from the house before he came to the herd. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket and verified that he’d been riding nearly an hour.
With the sun almost directly overhead, he might have lost his direction, though Mercy had told him to use the
C
mountain as a landmark. He looked at the mountains ahead and found the peak she’d pointed out to him. It looked almost as if someone had chiseled a
C
shape out of one side just below the peak.
He continued riding toward the mountain until he came to a stand of cottonwoods. He thought about going around when the sound of gunfire drew his attention. He rode into the trees, ducking his head to avoid the branches. The full array of autumn-colored leaves offered plenty of cover. Ben drew his pistol and bent low over his horse’s neck, moving toward the popping sounds. It might be prudent to leave the area, but not until he could be certain he was avoiding trouble, rather than riding into it.
His heart raced as the cacophony of bellowing cows, shouting men, and more gunfire reached his ears. From the relative safety of the trees, he watched across the meadow as a group of riders stormed down the hill toward Thad Buchanan and his men. Before he could decide whether to assist Buchanan, a mass of wild blond hair drew his attention to his right.
Miranda knelt in a wagon bed, aiming a rifle toward the oncoming horsemen. She wisely held her fire; the attackers were within range, but it would be difficult to distinguish friend from foe in the confusion. Suddenly, another pair of men came charging at Miranda from Ben’s left. Before Ben cleared the trees, Miranda fired off two rounds. She missed the riders, but at least she caused them to veer away from her.
“Good girl,” Ben mumbled as he urged Lightning forward, intent on giving chase. As he burst into the open, another rider emerged from the trees to his right. The man raised his gun, aiming in Miranda’s direction.
“Miranda, get down!” a man shouted from behind her.
A bullet splintered the side of the wagon inches from her head as Miranda dropped flat. Her racing heartbeat stopped for an instant before galloping on. She scrambled to reload the Sharps with shaking fingers as gunfire exploded around her.
Miranda gripped her weapon and peered above the side of wagon. A riderless horse galloped past her. A few yards away, a lifeless body was sprawled on the ground with a familiar figure leaning over him.
Ben?
Men’s voices carried over the bellowing of the frightened cows. She sucked in a breath as a tall man in a fine dark suit approached the wagon.
“Miranda?” Ben called. “Are you hurt?”
She let the rifle slip out of her sweaty hands and stared at Ben’s face. He leaped up and knelt at her side, concern lining his brow. Miranda reminded herself to breathe.
“I’m all right.” She rose to her knees, looking around at the men trying to calm the cows and horses. “When did you . . . how . . . ?” She looked at the body on the ground and back up at Ben. Her stomach lurched.
Ben turned away from her toward the body. “He was one of O’Reilly’s men.”
“Is he . . . ?”
Ben wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. “I had to shoot him. He had a gun aimed at your back.”
Her eyes squeezed shut and in her mind’s eye she saw men galloping toward her, firing guns, and a deep voice shouting for her to get down. “It was you who warned me?” She looked up at him.
He nodded and took her hand in his. “You’re cold.”
“Miranda!” Thad called to her.
She jerked her hand away from him. “I’m fine, Mr. Lansing!” she snapped.
She turned to see Thad bent over O’Neill; the young cowboy lay still on the ground.
“Damn!” Miranda’s heart pounded as she jumped into the driver’s seat and snapped the reins over the frightened mule. “Ya!” she shouted to get the reluctant beast moving.
Miranda drove the wagon up the hill as close to the fallen man as she dared. She jumped down and rushed over to him, carrying the bag of supplies she’d assembled in case anyone was injured.
She knelt next to Thad, who was pressing his kerchief against the cowboy’s shoulder. The wounded man was as pale as a ghost. His eyes were wide with fear, his breath quick and shallow.
“I can do that.” Miranda knelt next to O’Neill and bent to tend to his wound.
“Miranda’s gonna take care of you, son.” Thad spoke softly to the young man. “You’re gonna be fine, understand?”
O’Neill nodded, and Thad walked over to join the other men.
“Whiskey first, I think.” Ben was there next to her, looking through Miranda’s bag.
She started to tell him to take his helpful suggestion on back to Boston, but she bit her lip. The man had just saved her life; she felt some obligation to be civil. Besides, another hand would be useful. “Give him a drink,” she said. “Then we’re gonna clean the wound and get this bleedin’ stopped.”
She kept pressure on the wound, while Ben helped O’Neill drink from the flask.
“Not too much, son.” Ben’s voice was quiet, but steady. “Won’t help if we make you sick.”
“Hurts like hell,” the cowboy said through clenched teeth.
“It’s going to be a lot worse when I use this to clean your wound,” Ben said while Miranda ripped the man’s shirt open to expose the wound. “I’ll tell you what,” he continued, “you keep your eyes on Miranda’s pretty face. That’ll keep your mind occupied.”
Miranda’s face heated at Ben’s words. “O’Neill’s wounded, he ain’t blind!” she snapped.
Before Ben could cover his mistake with another lie, Miranda poured whiskey over O’Neill’s wound. The curses the young man shouted made further conversation impossible.
Miranda clamped her jaw shut tight. When she was finished helping the wounded cowboy, she intended to give Ben a piece of her mind.
Pretty face, indeed!
 
 
Ben watched Miranda glaring at Thad. In other circumstances, it might be funny to watch a small woman challenge a man twice her size. He smiled. It was amusing except that Miranda was deadly serious.
“I don’t need a man guarding me!” She hefted the Sharps rifle. “I know how to use this.”
Thad crossed his arms over his chest and looked as though he was ready to dig in for a long fight. “I used to think your sister was stubborn,” he said.
Ben stepped closer. “It seems to me Miranda is right.”
Thad and Miranda both turned to glare at him.
“She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.” Ben raised a hand to keep Thad from interrupting. “On the other hand, it seems to me that someone should ride along to watch out for young O’Neill.” He pointed at the wagon and was pleased to see Miranda turn her head in that direction. “I could ride along behind and watch him while Miranda drives the wagon.”

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