Mesmerized, Arabella urged the horse closer. Almost under the gelding’s belly, a flock of prairie chickens whirred out of the grass. The nervous horse screamed, reared and bucked. Arabella flew off the sidesaddle, her boot catching in the single stirrup. Hot pain shot up her leg as her foot pulled loose. She lay on the ground, writhing as the horse bolted over the hill and vanished from sight.
The dog circled her, uttering agitated little barks, almost as if it wanted to play. Arabella’s hat lay nearby, where it had fallen. Seizing the hat in its jaws, the big mutt bounded off through the grass.
“Come back here!” Arabella shouted. But her cry was lost in the great silence of the prairie.
* * *
Stewart peered through his binoculars, scanning the hills for any sign of stray calves. The smaller ones, even with their mothers standing guard, were easy prey for wolves and coyotes. It was vital that he bring them in to the safety of the pasture. This afternoon he saw none. But as he lowered the glass, he noticed a low, brown shape moving through the distant grass. A solitary wolf? He raised the binoculars and sharpened the focus.
Blasted dog. He’d always been a roamer, but what was he doing clear out here? Swinging out of the saddle he gave a sharp whistle. Tail flying, the dog bounded toward him. Stewart dropped to one knee as sixty pounds of burr-tangled canine hurled itself joyfully at his chest. Although Slocum was Stewart’s dog, he was equally attached to Sally and made regular visits to her new home. But he didn’t usually venture this far out alone.
“You old rascal, what’re you— What the hell is this? Did you bring me a present?” Stewart worked the crumpled hat free of the dog’s dripping jaws. It was like no hat or bonnet he’d ever seen, woven of fine dark straw that was almost as soft as linen. The ridiculous feather sewn into the grosgrain band had suffered from Slocum’s drooling grip, but it was clearly meant to be something special.
Stewart swore out loud. Only one person he knew within fifty miles would wear a hat as silly as this one. Still muttering he swung back into the saddle.
“Come on, boy. Show me where you found this.”
* * *
Arabella dragged herself forward through the long, prickly grass. She’d tried walking in the direction the horse had gone, but between her missing boot and her throbbing ankle, she could barely take a step. Given the choice between lying where she’d fallen and crawling as far as she could make it, she’d chosen the latter.
The gray gelding was bound to find its way home. When it arrived with her boot hanging from the stirrup, someone would know she was in trouble. Charles would have riders out combing the prairie for her.
Surely they’d find her and everything would turn out all right. But what if something went wrong? What if it was all up to her? She couldn’t just wait to be saved. She had to keep moving.
The hot rays of the afternoon sun beat down on her. To protect her fragile skin, she’d slipped off her light jacket and draped it over her head and neck. It kept her from burning, but the underside was like an oven. Sweat had glued her thin cotton blouse to her skin. Her palms were scraped raw from the sharp grass and prickly weeds. The dry membranes of her throat felt as if they were cracking and curling like old paint.
She yelped as her hand came down on something sharp. Her stomach clenched in fear; but it was only a thorn. Dizzy with relief, she used her teeth to pull it out of her skin. She’d heard there were rattlesnakes on the prairie, as well as wolves and coyotes. And Stewart had mentioned something about Indians. Maybe he’d only said it to scare her. That would be like Stewart. But the dangers out here were real and deadly. Not least among them was the chance that she could die of thirst and exposure before anyone found her.
Arabella could feel her strength ebbing. Fighting the urge to rest, she inched forward, dragging her body along the ground. She’d lost track of time, but the angle of the sun told her it was getting late in the day. The thought of spending the night out here, alone in the dark, filled her with terror. And what if it stormed? She’d heard tales of terrible thunderstorms on the prairie. Nothing scared her more.
Now she could hear something coming toward her, approaching light and swift through the long grass. Was it a wolf? An Indian? Too weak to run or fight, she hunkered low and braced herself for the attack.
It came in the form of muddy feet and a slobbering tongue as the dog bowled her over. Struggling to right herself, Arabella heard the snort of a horse and a grating voice she knew all too well.
“What the devil are you doing out here?”
She would never have believed she could be so glad to see Stewart McIntyre.
He was off his horse now, crouching beside her. One strong hand lifted her, propping her back against his knee. The other hand tipped an open canteen to her mouth. Arabella drank greedily, gulping water like a winded horse.
“Easy…easy there…” He tilted the canteen away. “You’ll make yourself sick. What happened?”
Her voice emerged as a croak. “Horse spooked and threw me. My boot caught in the stirrup—twisted my ankle when it tore loose. Hurts too much to walk.”
“You were out riding alone?”
“Should I have taken Charles up on his offer to come with me?”
His look darkened as her barb hit home. “Never mind. Sit back and give me your foot. I’ll have a look at that ankle.”
Kneeling, he peeled off the dirty, threadbare remnant of her stocking which had dragged along the ground as she crawled. Cradling her foot in one hand, he pulled loose the stickers embedded in her tender flesh. For such a rough-spoken brute of a man, he had an amazingly gentle touch. Arabella closed her eyes as his big, callused fingers worked their way up her foot toward her ankle. Her breath hissed inward as he pressed the swollen spot.
“There?” He probed cautiously. Arabella clenched her teeth to keep from crying out. Stewart probably thought of her as a spoiled baby. She wanted to prove him wrong.
“It doesn’t feel broken,” he said, “but I’d guess you’ve got a nasty sprain.” His free hand stripped the bandanna from around his neck. “We’ll wrap it as best we can. When we get back to my house, we can cold pack it.”
“Your house?”
“We need to get you out of the sun, and it’s the closest place. I’ll send a man to Charlie’s to tell them you’re safe.” Stewart’s hands wrapped the folded bandanna under the arch of her foot and twice around the ankle. The dog sat close by, watching.
“Is that your dog?” Arabella winced as he tightened the wrapping.
“I feed him. But Slocum’s pretty much his own animal. You’re lucky he decided to be yours today.” Stewart tied the ends in a snug knot, then stood and pulled her to her feet. “It’s too far to go for the wagon. You’ll have to ride behind me.”
As she balanced on her solid right foot, he lifted off his weathered felt hat and dropped it onto her head. “That should do a better job of shading you than that silly gewgaw the dog brought me.”
She glowered from under the outsized rim. “I’ll have you know that hat’s the latest fashion in Boston. I paid a pretty penny for it.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” With a mutter, he climbed into the saddle. One hand seized her arm and swung her up behind him, as if she weighed no more than a rag doll.
“Hold on tight.” Tucking her jacket into a saddlebag, he kneed the buckskin to a brisk trot. For the first instant, the momentum threw Arabella backward. Recovering, she flung her arms around his ribs and hung on tight. Her straddled legs nested behind his.
A breeze had sprung out of the west, rippling across the long grass. How like the sea the prairie was, Arabella thought. Beautiful, dangerous, always changing yet always the same, not unlike the man who’d just rescued her.
Stewart’s body was as solid as the trunk of an oak. He rode with ease, his big hands skilled a
nd sure. His body smelled of prairie grass and clean, masculine sweat. Only the wide brim of the hat saved Arabella from the impulse to press her face against his back and inhale him into her senses. He was, in his own way, a compelling man, as powerfully male as the huge buffalo bulls she’d seen rumbling out of the hollow.
She’d always told herself she preferred gentle, refined men, like Charles, but Stewart’s masculine closeness was having a strange effect on her. Where her pelvis rested against his taut rump, a delicious heat was spreading outward into her thighs. Enhanced by the motion of the horse, the tingling sensation spiraled upward into the core of her body. She
stifled a moan. Common sense told her this was wicked, and that she should pull away. But without falling off the horse, she had no place to go. Besides, the sensation was… Heaven help her, she didn’t want it to stop. Was this how girls like Sally got into trouble?
“How’s your ankle?” Stewart slowed the horse to a walk, easing the sweet torment on her body. There was a roughness to his voice. Had he been aware of her response to him? Was that why he’d slowed down?
“It’s no worse.” Arabella had almost forgotten about her injury. As she remembered, her ankle began to throb once more. “How far do we have to go?”
“Not much farther. My ranch is over that next hill.” He glanced at the sky, where clouds were scudding in from the west. “Good thing. Looks like it could rain in a bit. Have another drink.” He passed her the canteen. Arabella took her time, savoring the sweet, clear water until it was gone.
“I never asked you. What were you doing out on the prairie before you found me?”
“Looking for strays.”
“Did you find any?”
He chuckled, a surprising sound. “Just one.”
“I saw buffalo. A big herd of them.”
“Hope you didn’t get too close. Those big bulls would kill you given the chance. And where you find buffalo, there are liable to be Indians tracking them.”
Arabella shuddered. “Have you had much trouble with the Indians?”
He shook his head. “I stay out of their way, and they don’t bother me. But it wouldn’t take much to stir them up. A pretty red-haired woman, out there by herself…” He let the implication hang. “You were lucky this time, Arabella. You’re not to go riding alone again, understand?”
She tried to ignore the burst of pleasure she felt at his protective tone. “For a man who has no claim on me, you’re being downright bossy, Stewart McIntyre. Are you offering to go with me next time?”
“If that’s what it takes—and if I don’t ship you out on the stage before then.”
“Ship me out? You sound as if that’s your decision.”
“Believe me, nobody wants you gone more than I do.”
Though pleasantly spoken, the words stung. It shouldn’t matter that this gruff giant of a man didn’t want her around. But somehow it did.
They had come over the crest of the hill. Stewart’s ranch lay on the plain below. Arabella wasn’t sure what she’d expected, maybe a log cabin with a broken-down wagon in the yard and a deer hide hanging over the door. But the corral, barn and sheds looked immaculately built and tended. A small creek, bordered by willow and cottonwoods, ran through the property, shading a house that appeared to rise out of the land itself.
To please her, perhaps, Charles had remodeled his house to look like an Eastern home—the pillared porch, the white exterior with dark green shutters, the picket fence and paved walkway. Stewart’s rambling home, built low to the land was all logs and natural stone, with an overhanging shingled roof shading the wide front porch. It looked as if it belonged here, like a natural part of the vast Montana prairie.
“Did you build the house?” she asked Stewart.
“Every stick and stone of it. I started when I came here, after the war. This was a wild place then, before the railroad. In some ways, it still is.”
They started down the hill. The dog raced ahead of them, tail high through the grass. A hawk, circling overhead, flapped its wings and soared skyward. Beyond the outbuildings, cows and calves grazed in a fenced pasture. There was something welcoming about this spot, an air of peace that seemed to reach out to Arabella and embrace her. But how could that be, when its owner wanted nothing more than to see her gone?
She didn’t understand it at all.
* * *
Stewart dismounted at the corral where Miguel, the shy teenage boy who helped out around the place, was waiting to take the reins. After instructing the lad to deliver the news of Arabella’s rescue to Charlie’s Ranch, he reached up to lift her down from the horse.
Even after her long crawl through the weedy grass, she looked beautiful. Her russet curls tumbled over her shoulders, awakening an urge to curl the silken strands around his fingers. The way her damp blouse clung to every curve of her perfect little body was enough to make his mouth go dry. From under the brim of his hat, her eyes blazed green fire.
He’d been acutely aware of her on the ride. The pressure of her bouncing crotch against his rump had triggered a heat surge so intense that he’d slowed the horse rather than lose his dignity altogether. And she’d felt something, too. He’d sensed it in the tightening of her arms around his ribs and the rapid jerk of her breath. She’d been all but panting. His imagination had gone crazy.
Lord help him, if he had a brain in his head, he’d hitch up the wagon and have Miguel drive the woman back to Charlie’s place right now. But he could imagine the sympathy an injured Arabella might stir up there. Brotherly duty demanded that he keep the little bundle of temptation here with him.
Still sitting astride the horse, she lifted his hat off her curls and dropped it onto his head. Her hands braced against his shoulders as he swung her off the horse and caught her. She fit perfectly, her shoulders nested against his chest and her legs dangling over one arm. Since she couldn’t walk, it seemed only sensible to carry her to the house.
When Stewart had built his house it had been with a future family in mind. He’d even imagined carrying a bride up this very path. But the years had passed, and it hadn’t happened. Most of the women who came to this untamed country were either wives or whores, and the few eligible females were swiftly snatched up by more charming suitors. With time Stewart had come to accept his bachelorhood as a permanent state. After all, what could he offer a woman, with his scarred face and body and his solitary nature?
Sally’s arrival had saved him from becoming a recluse. His vulnerable young sister had brought out his tender instincts and given him someone to nurture and protect. He’d always known she’d grow up and marry one day. But he hadn’t anticipated the loneliness her absence would leave in his life.
Thunder, still faint, rumbled behind them as he carried Arabella toward the porch. Her head settled against his chest. His clasp tightened around her as he mounted the steps.
Arabella Spencer fit into his arms as if she belonged there. But she was an Eastern woman. She’d want an elegant Eastern husband—someone like Charlie who was soft, polished and courteous. She’d never choose a rough-spoken ex-soldier like him. Even if she weren’t a threat to Sally’s marriage, he’d be a fool to think of asking her to stay.
No matter how much he might want her to.
Chapter Four
Stewart’s ranch house was even more striking inside than outside. Arabella had grown up with flowered wallpaper, draped windows, crocheted doilies and ceramic whatnots on every shelf and table. It was the way people lived, especially if they had a little wealth to show off. By comparison, the interior of Stewart’s home was as stark as the prairie and, in its way, almost as beautiful.
Massive logs, oiled to a golden gleam, supported the walls and the open-beamed ceiling. The front, broken by wide glass windows, was formed of river stones, as was the cavernous fireplace at the room’s far end. Gin
gham pillows, braided rugs and a bright, crocheted afghan—touches most likely added by Sally—lent color and warmth.
“I’ve never seen anything like this!” Arabella gazed around the room as Stewart lowered her to the buffalo robe that covered the couch in front of the fireplace.
He tossed his hat onto a nearby chair. “I was studying architecture when the war broke out. I never went back to school, but I always wanted to build something using my own ideas. This is it.”
“But it’s so different—people would love it! You could make a lot of money building homes like this!”
He shook his head. “The business would take away the pleasure. As for the money, ranching gives me enough for my needs. Now, let’s have a look at your ankle.”
Stewart pulled up a low footstool and sat down. He was so tall that his knees jutted like a grasshopper’s. Arabella bit back a smile as he cradled her foot between his hands and began loosening the knotted bandanna. Such gentle hands. How would it feel, she wondered, to be loved by this big, gruff, surprisingly tender man?
But what was she thinking? Stewart viewed her as the enemy. The only thing he had in mind was to send her packing back to Boston.
She winced as he pulled the bandanna away. “The swelling’s worse,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll get some wrappings and some cold water.”
He left the room. Arabella heard him rummaging in what she presumed to be the kitchen. A moment later she heard the opening and closing of the back door. She waited, her ankle throbbing as her eyes explored the room.
Ceiling-high shelves crowded with books framed both sides of the fireplace. From where she sat, she could make out a few of the titles. There were books on history, architecture, travel and astronomy, novels by Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, Shakespeare’s plays, Greek myths and volumes of poetry. Arabella had always loved to read. If Stewart was a reader, his sister probably was, too. Maybe she’d underestimated Charles’s sweet, pigtailed bride.
Weddings Under a Western Sky: The Hand-Me-Down BrideThe Bride Wore BritchesSomething Borrowed, Something True Page 5
