by Candace Camp
Victoria set her jaw. She refused to sit here like a ninny and worry over the things she couldn’t change. She had tended lots of fevers, and the person had always gotten better. She was capable of handling Slater’s illness, even in the middle of nowhere.
She heard the jingle of metal, and Victoria’s head snapped up. She peered through the gathering gloom all around them. She jumped, and her heart began to pound wildly. A tall, dark shape was moving toward her from the south. Victoria snatched up her rifle and moved behind the fire so that she wouldn’t be silhouetted against the light. She held the rifle ready, waiting, her senses alive to the slightest sound or movement. The figure came closer and resolved into a man on a horse. Victoria raised her rifle to her shoulder and waited. The rider stopped several feet away from them. He held his hands up in the air, palms open, to show that he had no weapon.
“Hello, ma’am.” It was a young man’s voice, and cheerful, considering that he was facing a gun.
“Hello.”
“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. Saw your camp fire and thought I’d get acquainted.” His gaze went to Slater. “Looks like you could use some help. What’s the matter with him?”
“Fever,” Victoria replied shortly. She didn’t know what to do. The man didn’t appear to be a threat. Maybe he would help her. On the other hand, he could be trying to lull her so that she’d let down her guard. “Who are you?”
“Dennis Miles. Mind if I get down?”
“Go ahead.”
He slid off the horse and came closer to the fire, still keeping his hands up. He looked to be in his twenties, with a boyish, clean-shaven face. Victoria relaxed a little. He certainly didn’t look like a desperado. He was staring at her in a slightly stunned way that she was quite familiar with and would normally have found amusing.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
She glanced at his waist. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt. His rifle was still on his saddle. She nodded. “All right.”
“This is pretty lonely country for y’all to be in. Did ya get lost?”
“No.”
Miles nodded toward Slater. “That your husband? When’d he take sick?”
“Last night.” Victoria answered the easier question, slipping by the first one. She could well imagine what he’d think if she told him Slater wasn’t her husband.
The young man ambled over to Slater and stared down at him. “He looks powerful sick.” He turned back. “You know, our house ain’t no more’n a hour or so from here. If he could make it there, my Ma would be happy to have you stay a spell.”
Victoria relaxed even further at the mention of his mother. Surely someone bent on harm wouldn’t invite her to his mother’s house. She lowered her rifle.
“She could help you,” Miles went on eagerly. “She’s real good at physickin’ folks.”
Relief swept through Victoria. “Thank you,” she said, a smile breaking across her face like sunshine. “You’re very kind to invite us into your home. I’d be most grateful for your mother’s help.”
Chapter Six
Brody jerked awake. It took him a second to realize what had awakened him. The warmth of Amy’s body was no longer against his back. He whirled around. Amy’s side of the blanket was empty. She was gone.
A feeling of deep betrayal stabbed through him. He’d been a fool. She’d tricked him, lulled him into thinking she cared, and when he had come to trust her, she had run. Probably straight to that Texas Ranger to turn him in. Brody jumped to his feet, furious, yanked on his boots and grabbed his gun belt. He started toward the horse, buckling on the belt, and it was then that he realized that both their horses were still there.
The fury in him eased. She wouldn’t have left on foot, not in this wild country. He glanced around. There was no sign of her. He walked back slowly to the blanket. She hadn’t run away. She must have gone off to where she could be private; she was a modest woman. He let out his breath slowly. He hadn’t realized until then that he had been holding it in, or that his muscles were clenched tightly.
He adjusted his boots and tucked his shirt into his trousers. He finished buckling the gun belt and tied the holster around his thigh. Then he sat down on the blanket and waited. Amy didn’t return. Suspicion began to blossom in him again. She shouldn’t be taking this long. Could she have decided to set out on foot? It seemed crazy. More likely something had happened to her.
He leaped to his feet and looked for signs of her. He saw her small, shallow footprints in the dust, leading into the trees, and followed them. His heart hammered harder in his chest with each step. He imagined Amy stumbling and twisting her ankle, falling down, unable to walk. He imagined a rattlesnake striking her, or wild animals attacking her. He sped up until he was trotting.
He emerged from the trees into a clearing. It was blanketed with wildflowers. In the middle of it Amy sat cross-legged, perfectly still, leaning forward intently.
He stopped, going limp with relief. Then irritation spurted up in him. What the hell was she doing? She’d scared him to death. He started forward, opening his mouth to call her name, but Amy turned, saw him and held her forefinger to her lips for silence.
Frowning, he move forward cautiously. When he drew near enough, Amy took his hand, tugging at it to pull him down beside her. She smiled into his eyes and pointed in front of her. Less than two feet away, poised on the head of a bluebonnet, was a huge black-and-yellow butterfly. Was that what she was looking at? The reason she’d motioned to him to be quiet? He glanced back at her, and she smiled.
Stretching up, Amy whispered in his ear, “Isn’t it beautiful?”
He gaped at her, astonished. She was his prisoner, but she hadn’t run. She’d been chasing butterflies. Brody turned his eyes back to the insect. It clung to the flower, its velvety yellow wings beating. The butterfly reminded him of Amy: beautiful and fragile, vulnerable to the roughness of the world. He could crush it in an instant. He could crush her.
Brody looked at Amy. She was so beautiful and sweet that it made him hurt. Watching her, he could feel something giving way inside him, breaking up and dissolving. He wanted to enfold her in his arms and hold her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. He had to blink the moisture out of his eyes.
The butterfly rose from the flower and floated away. Amy watched it, entranced, and when it was out of sight, she turned to Brody, her smile sunny. “Wasn’t it lovely? Doesn’t it make you happy, Sam?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure whether he was happy or scared or what. This woman made him feel soft and crazy inside. Brody stood up and reached down a hand to Amy. She took it and rose lithely to her feet. To his surprise, she didn’t release his hand as soon as she was up, but kept hold of it as they started back toward the camp. He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t used to holding a woman’s hand. Whores had taken his hand to lead him to their rooms, but he couldn’t remember his hand being held in simple friendship or affection. At least, not since he was a boy, when his mother had sometimes clasped his hand as they walked through the Quarter.
He wanted to grip her hand so tightly that she couldn’t get away, but he was scared of hurting or frightening her. He thought she was like a shy animal that might bolt at the first hint of restraint, so he let her hand lie loosely in his, hoping she wouldn’t pull it away. She didn’t, seemingly content.
“I like to look at things. Do you?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“Most people don’t. At least, not as much as me. Do you think it’s silly?”
“No.”
She turned a pleased face up to him. “I’m glad. You like me, don’t you?”
The question took him aback, and he blinked. “Of course. I’m sure most people do.”
Amy shrugged. “I don’t know. Not like you. It’s different. You don’t act like I’m stupid or crazy. I know I’m a mess.” She cast a rueful expression at her dress, dusty and a
skew, leaves clinging to it, and reached up to smooth her tumbled hair. “But you haven’t scolded me once.”
“Why would I scold you?”
“Mrs. Donnelly usually does.”
“Who is this Mrs. Donnelly who’s so mean?”
“She’s my uncle’s housekeeper. She’s not mean, really. But she talks to me like I’m a child.” Her sunny smile nearly took his breath away. “You don’t. I’m glad. I like being with you.”
“You aren’t a child.” He was acutely aware of that.
“I know. But most people think I am.”
They strolled along in silence for a while. Brody wasn’t eager to reach their camp, not with her hand in his so trustingly.
“Why do you live with your uncle?” he asked her. He usually didn’t give a damn about people’s pasts, but he found that he was curious about everything to do with her.
A frown marred her forehead. “Because my parents died a long time ago, when I was a little girl. Comanches killed them. I don’t remember it. I don’t remember them.” She paused. “They say I was there, too, that a man found me later, hiding in the root cellar.” She shook her head. “I can’t remember anything before Uncle Edward’s. They say that’s why I’m strange, ‘cause I saw them killed. I don’t know.”
Pity stirred in Brody. It was a new and strange emotion to him. He didn’t know what to do about it. “I—I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand.
He understood her even less now. With that background, how could she not have been terrified by him and the violent way he had ridden off with her? How could she not be scared that he would hurt her? They reached the horses and their supplies. Reluctantly, Brody let go of her hand so that he could pack.
Amy said tentatively, “Could I help?”
“Sure.” He guessed by this time he shouldn’t be surprised by anything Amy did. He left her to roll up the blankets while he tended to the horses. Mounting, they rode west along the river. Around mid-day, they topped a rise, and Brody stopped. A small house nestled at the base of the hill, close to the river. Brody watched the place carefully.
“Are we going down there?” Amy asked, surprised. She had the impression that Sam steered clear of people.
“Yeah. I know the folks who live there. We can get real food and something for you to wear to protect your legs.”
“And a brush?” Amy asked eagerly. “Could I have a brush for my hair?”
He nodded. It made his loins tighten just to think about her brushing out the long, silky golden strands. He’d see if Beatriz had a ribbon for it, too. He wanted to give Amy a pretty bauble, something to decorate herself with. Just in the few minutes he’d seen her, he could tell that Amy’s cousin was probably the one who adorned herself with gifts from admirers. He wanted Amy to know what that felt like.
“Oh, thank you.” Her face glowed.
The slightest thing made her happy. Brody wanted to catch her in his arms and hold her close. Instead, he looked back down at the quiet farm below them. He could see no sign that anything was out of the ordinary, or that anyone was there besides Raul and his wife. There was only the tiny house, laundry flapping on a line behind it, and the corral beside it. Brody started down the hill, Amy following him. As they drew near the house, a woman came out onto the porch, shading her eyes to see them. A smile lit her face, and she hurried off the porch toward them.
“Brody!” she cried in a softly accent voice. She turned to call in the direction of the corral. “Raul, rapidamente. ¡Brody está aquí!”
Brody dismounted, smiling. “Beatriz! It’s good to see you. You’re more beautiful than ever.”
Amy felt a sharp stab of a very unpleasant emotion. She noticed how pretty the woman was, with her dark complexion, masses of thick black hair and brown, vivacious eyes. She wondered what her relationship was to Sam Brody.
Beatriz grinned, obviously pleased by his remark, but swatted playfully at him. “Flatterer.” She glanced up at Amy curiously, but said nothing.
“Amy.” Brody came around, holding up his arms to help her down from the horse. Amy needed no help, but she took it anyway. He set her down beside him. “I want you to meet Señora Garcia. Beatriz, this is Miss Amy Stafford.”
“Señorita.” Beatriz smiled at her a little shyly. “I am happy to welcome you to my house.”
“Thank you, Señora. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Just then an older man hurried around the corner of the house from the corral. “Brody! He exclaimed and broke into a trot. “It is you. Dios, it’s been a long time!”
“Raul!” Brody and the man embraced like long lost friends, then stepped back to look at one another.
“Do you come for a visit, or do you need another horse?”
“No, it’s not a horse this time.” Brody explained in an aside to Amy, “Raul is the best trainer of horseflesh in the state.”
“In the state?” The man said with mock indignation. “No, no, my friend. All the way to California, I am the best.”
“And modest.”
Raul laughed. “Come. Come into my house. You have eaten?”
“Not real food.”
“Then you must eat. Beatriz, we must feed these hungry people.” The two men made their way into the house, joking and laughing. Amy watched them go. She hadn’t seen Brody like this before, relaxed and cheerful. He certainly hadn’t been this friendly with the men who rode beside him.
Amy glanced at Beatriz and found the woman studying her intently. Amy offered her a tentative smile. She hoped she wouldn’t do something wrong in front of Sam’s friends. She would hate to embarrass him. Beatriz started toward the house, and Amy fell in beside her.
“Raul and Brody, they know each other a long time,” Beatriz said as they walked. “Since before Raul and I married.”
Amy was swept with relief at the woman’s words. Beatriz was married to the other man, which meant there was nothing between her and Sam. “Really?”
“Yes. They worked together when Brody was a boy. My Raul taught Brody to ride.”
They entered the house, and Beatriz put a pot of beans on the fire. Brody moved close to Amy and took her by the arm, staring down at her with hard, intense eyes.
“You are not to say anything to these people,” he whispered.
Amy frowned, puzzled. “How can I not say anything?”
“About how you came to be with me, I mean. They won’t help you. They can’t.”
She was even more puzzled by his last words. Why was he angry at her? “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I thought we came here for help—for supplies and clothes and all.”
Brody’s brows rose, and he relaxed, a smile teasing at his lips. “Well, yes. Raul will give us those things—and a hairbrush, too.” Amy smiled, glad that she hadn’t displeased him. Brody cleared his throat and went on more soberly, “I meant help against me.”
“Against you?” Amy stared.
“Getting away from me.”
“But I don’t want to get away from you.” As she watched him, his face changed, puzzlement, then gratification chasing the sternness from his eyes, his mouth softening, and he smiled in a way that held, not amusement, but pleasure. “Where would I go?”
“Back home.”
“Oh.” Strangely enough, the prospect of going home didn’t fill her with as much happiness as she would have expected. She wanted to be with Victoria, of course. But she was enjoying the trip with Sam now that his men were gone. She would miss him when she had to leave. She shrugged. “Victoria will find me, but until then I’d rather be with you.”
“They won’t find you. I’ll make sure of that.” He paused. “You’re staying with me.”
He didn’t know Victoria, or he wouldn’t say that, Amy thought. No doubt he thought Victoria was just another silly girl like her. But she said nothing. It gave her a pleasant, warm feeling to know that Sam wanted her to remain with him.
Brody gazed down at her, and there was such longing and pain in his eyes that Amy laid a comforting hand against his cheek. She wished she could ease him, but she didn’t know how, and so she said what Victoria always told her when Amy herself was scared or in pain: “It’s all right. I’m here.”
He went still, with an odd little intake of breath, and for a moment she feared she had done the wrong thing, but then his eyes closed and he turned his face into her palm, rubbing against it like a cat. Amy smiled, pleased that her attempt at comfort had reached him, but she was also aware of an entirely different sort of pleasure that crept through her, hot and tingling.
Brody swallowed and drew back, his eyes avoiding hers as he turned and walked across the room to rejoin Raul. Amy looked after him, savoring the sensations running through her. How was it that watching him walk made her all warm and soft inside and somehow happier?
She pulled her eyes away and saw Beatriz watching her from where she sat by the fireplace, stirring a pot of food. Amy felt her cheeks flush a little, though she wasn’t entirely sure why she felt embarrassed. She crossed the room to the other woman. “May I help you?”
“Yes, of course. That would be nice. If you would watch the beans, I will make tortillas.”
Amy nodded and sat down on the low stool near the fireplace. She pulled the crane holding the pot out of the fire and stirred the beans, then shoved the metal rod with its burden back over the heat. Beatriz knelt on the floor, stirring a mixture of cornmeal and water until it was thick. She began to pat out the round, flat tortillas on the slab of stone before her. Amy watched with interest. She had eaten tortillas many times, but she had never watched them being made.
