Two Brothers

by Linda Lael Miller

  Emily’s pulses pounded, and it took all the self-control she possessed not to wade straight into the center of the fray, but she was not without a measure of common sense. The situation was a powder keg, and one impulsive move could bring on an explosion.

  A flash from an upstairs window of the hotel caught her eye, and Emily squinted in disbelief. An old woman was bending over the sill, sighting in a rifle with obvious expertise. Cowhands came out of the Yellow Garter Saloon, while other men appeared in front of the feed-and-grain and the livery stable.

  Emily recognized several of the ranchers who had dined at her kitchen table that very morning. The group converged to form a broad half-circle around the angry riders.

  One of them stepped forward and spoke in a strong voice. “Don’t you boys go thinkin’ you can shoot the marshal and ride out without takin’ the consequences,” he said. It was Elmer Stanton, the gray-haired fellow who’d eaten three stacks of pancakes. He served as the spokesman, just as he had earlier in the day. “You ride out of here and let us handle our own troubles.”

  “But they’ve got sheep!” one of the mounted men argued.

  “Like I said, that’s between them and us. It’s got nothin’ to do with you, now that you ain’t part of the Powder Creek outfit anymore. And now, well, it’s time you boys moved on to someplace where you ain’t got a reputation. We’ve got no use for you around here.”

  Emily leaned against the doorframe, her fingers and Aislinn’s interlaced as they waited. The golden wedding band, so recently donned, seemed to sear her flesh. She wanted nothing in that moment—nothing—but to go home with Tristan, her husband. To be alone with him, to lie in his arms, to lay her head upon his chest and hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. Knowing that any one of the men gathered in the street had the power to still that heart forever only made the prospect more poignant.

  Tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked them back furiously.

  “I ain’t gettin’ myself kilt over a few sheep,” one of the younger riders announced, in a clear voice. “There’s work up in Montana. I’m headed that way, if anybody wants to come along.” With that, he wheeled his gray speckled pony away from the others, and the barrier of armed men who’d come to intercede parted to let him pass.

  It was the lead man who shot him, square in the back. Emily saw a puff of smoke from the old woman’s rifle before she heard the report of a second bullet, and watched in horror as the slayer fell forward, out of the saddle, dead before he struck the ground.

  For a few moments, panic reigned; pistols and shotguns were brandished, and Emily was terrified that there would be more shooting.

  Then Shay’s yell rose over it all. “Damn it, don’t anybody fire another shot! This thing has gotten out of hand as it is!”

  Several of the first man’s friends had gone to check on him; he was wounded, and there was copious blood, but when they hoisted him to his feet and shuffled him off in the direction of the doctor’s office, it seemed likely that he’d survive. The second one, the ringleader, was not so fortunate. Tristan crouched before him and pressed two fingers to the base of the man’s throat.

  “He’s dead,” he said, addressing Shay.

  “Damn it all to hell,” Shay replied, irritated. Then he stepped toward the remaining riders. “Any of you fellows want to pass the night in my new jail? If you don’t, then I’d advise you to get out of here before I lose my temper!”

  Emily dared to glance at Aislinn.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” whispered the latter.

  Emily smiled, but she wasn’t thinking about Shay, either; her mind was on Tristan. He was alive and unhurt. He was her husband. “Oh, yes,” she agreed, and she wasn’t talking about Shay. “There’s no one like him, anywhere.”

  The riders scattered, however reluctantly, and Shay and Tristan went forward to confer with the ranchers who had come to their rescue. Emily, suddenly reminded of the strain her sister-in-law had been under, took Aislinn’s arm. “We’d better get you home now,” she said.

  Aislinn nodded, and let Emily assist her to the house at the other end of the street, where the boys, Thomas and Mark, waited wide-eyed on the front step, while Dorrie looked after the baby inside.

  “We heard shots,” Thomas said, hurrying toward his sister. “Is Shay—?”

  Aislinn ruffled her brother’s thick chestnut hair. “He’s fine. So is Tristan. There was some trouble, but things are fine now.”

  “Can we go see?” Mark wanted to know.

  “Absolutely not,” Aislinn answered. She was looking a bit wan, though Emily knew how strong she was, and figured she’d be right as rain after a few days of taking things easy. “You’ll just have to wait until Shay comes home. He’ll tell you the whole story, I’m sure.”

  The screen door squeaked on its hinges as Dorrie appeared on the threshold. “I see by your face that my brother is still among the living,” she said to Aislinn, as coolly as if she’d been through the same ordeal a hundred times before. “The babe’s sleeping like a little angel, but you look a mite the worse for wear.” She came outside and, between the two of them, she and Emily got Aislinn inside and up the stairs to bed.

  In the large kitchen, Dorrie brewed a pot of tea and joined Emily at the round oak table. She glanced tellingly at the band on Emily’s finger. “So he’s taken a wife at last, has he?” she murmured, and for a few moments it was impossible to tell whether the older woman was pleased or displeased by this turn of events.

  Emily twisted the ring round and round. Why didn’t Tristan come and fetch her? Surely it was time to go home and—what would they do when they reached the ranch? She wished she were an experienced woman, knowledgeable in the ways of the flesh, but she was woefully ignorant in such matters.

  A blinding smile broke across Dome’s otherwise plain face. “It’s time and past that Tristan Saint-Laurent settled down. He wants a family in the worst way, that young man. That’s why he stayed on after he got his money back. His brother was here. He didn’t want to leave Shay.”

  Emily bit her lower lip. She certainly understood Tristan’s desire to be close to his only blood kin; it was not pleasant to be alone in the world, however self-sufficient one might be. “It would be a fine thing to have a brother or a sister,” she said, and cleared her throat because her voice had turned rusty all of the sudden.

  Briefly, Dorrie looked sad. “Usually,” she agreed, and then her smile was back. “No sense in looking back,” she said musingly, as though speaking to herself. She patted Emily’s hand. “You have choices in life, for all that you’re a woman. Choose to be happy, and you will be.”

  Aislinn had told Emily about Dorrie’s lost love during their long conversation the day before, but she didn’t want to ask about the choices the other woman had made.

  Dorrie beamed. “You’re wondering about me, aren’t you? Whether or not I’m happy?”

  Emily lowered her gaze briefly, embarrassed, and did not reply.

  Her companion laughed. “Don’t you fret, Mrs. Saint-Laurent. I’ve got a good life here in Prominence—Aislinn and Shay need me. There’s the baby, and those motherless boys, to look after. The store takes up a lot of my time, too. I reckon I’ve got more to be thankful for than most.”

  It was the first time anyone had addressed her by her married name; she loved being called “Mrs. Saint-Laurent.” Her mind was eased, too, at least where Dorrie’s welfare was concerned. Hearing Tristan and Shay entering at the front of the house, her thoughts turned to other matters. She swallowed and looked away.

  Dorrie patted her hand again. “You picked a good man,” she said, in a reassuring whisper. “He’ll know when to be gentle and when to be rough.”

  “Emily?” Tristan’s voice rang through the house.

  After a farewell word to Dorrie, she went to find him. They met in the dining room, stopped about ten paces apart, like gunfighters meeting in the street.

  “Ready to go home, Mrs. Saint-Laurent?” he asked. His
voice was husky, and his blue eyes burned into her, making promises. It was only midafternoon, but autumn was coming on fast, and it would be dark in a few hours.

  She nodded, suddenly shy. Tristan had sworn he would not force her into conjugal relations, and she trusted him wholeheartedly. Still, he had made it clear that he expected to lie beside her in their marriage bed, and he’d never been secretive with regard to his intention to seduce her. She wanted him, perhaps even loved him, but the reality was a fearsome thing. Suppose she was a disappointment to him? Suppose intercourse was painful and degrading, as some women hinted that it was?

  Seeming to read her thoughts, he took her hand and smiled. “No hurry,” he said softly, and led her outside. The wagon, left behind at the churchyard when the Powder Creek men came looking for trouble, had been brought to the McQuillans’ gate, where it waited, stately as a glass carriage come to fetch a princess back to her castle.

  Tristan helped his bride up into the seat and then climbed up beside her. He released the brake with one foot and whistled to the team, and they were on their way home.

  Twilight was falling when they arrived. Emily got down without waiting for help and hurried toward the house, while Tristan took care of the team and wagon. In a backward glance, Emily saw to her consternation that he was smiling to himself.

  Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher were present at the evening meal, as usual, the man oblivious to the charge in the air, the boy awkwardly aware. Tristan ate slowly, moderately, without saying much, as he would have on any other night, but his eyes followed Emily while she pushed her food around on her plate with the back of a fork. And when she got up, in desperation, to begin a clamorous round of clearing and cleaning.

  “Come on, old man,” Fletcher said, when Polymarr would have settled back to light a pipe. “Let’s go out and make sure them Injuns is mindin’ the sheep the way they should.”

  Mildly befuddled, Mr. Polymarr rose, thanked Emily for a fine supper, and trundled outside. Fletcher lingered a moment, his color high, glancing from Emily to Tristan and back again.

  “Good night,” Tristan said, and while there was a point to his words, he did not speak unkindly. Emily thought he looked like some sort of pagan priest in the flickering light of the kerosene lantern behind him, in command of a rustic magic all his own.

  Fletcher nodded once and fled, and for a moment Emily’s heart followed him, sore with sympathy. He was so young, and could not know that the hurt he felt would soon melt away, like a mist at sunrise.

  She took up the rest of the plates and utensils.

  “Sit down, Emily,” Tristan said quietly. “I don’t expect you to wait on me like a servant.”

  She had already put dishwater on the stove to heat—the reservoir was nearly empty—and now she added soap and swirled it around once before adding dirty plates. Aware of Tristan in every part of her body and spirit, she turned to him at last, using the apron around her waist to dry her hands.

  He patted the bench beside him. “Come here,” he said.

  Over by the fire, Spud gave an expansive, contented sigh. He was old, had spent his days working hard, and he deserved the easy life of a pet.

  Emily patted her hair, as though it were elaborately coiffed instead of wound into a simple plait, then forced herself across the room. Now it would begin, the wooing, the seduction he had promised to accomplish. She sat on the very edge of the bench and held her breath, like someone about to be branded with a hot iron.

  Tristan traced the outlines of her cheeks with the backs of his fingers. “Did he hurt you?” he asked.

  She was taken aback by the question and for the briefest of moments she had no idea what he meant. Then it came to her that he was talking about Cyrus, about her previous marriage. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “Then why are you so scared?”

  She let out a shaky breath. His caress, innocent though it was, ignited fires in the farthest reaches of her being, and echoes of heat boomeranged to consume her at the core. “Lots of reasons,” she said. A sweet tremor went through her as he ran the pad of his thumb lightly across her lower lip, as though preparing the way for a kiss.

  A smile flirted with his mouth, flew upward into his knowing eyes. “Such as?” he prompted.

  She wanted to look away, but found she couldn’t. She was under his spell, as surely as a mongoose facing a cobra. Her voice came out scratchy. “You might—I’ve never done this before—”

  He leaned toward her. “I might—what?” A whisper, nothing more.

  She felt the blood rush to her face and pound there like thunder beating hard against the sky. “Be disappointed,” she blurted miserably.

  He chuckled. “That’s not likely,” he said, and kissed her lightly, teasingly, on the mouth. He stood, and what was a relief to Emily was also a tearing-away. “I’ve got a few things to do outside, then I’m going down to the spring to wash up.” He glanced at the clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece. “I’ll be about an hour, I reckon.”

  Emily knotted her hands together in her lap and nodded. Tristan wouldn’t be sleeping in the barn that night, or in the spare room, and he was reminding her of their agreement. They would share a marriage bed, and she was free to spurn his affections—if she could.

  And now she wasn’t even certain that she wanted to. What sort of woman was she? She had not known Tristan Saint-Laurent a full week, and husband or no, he was a virtual stranger.

  She sat at the table for a long while, torn between running away and offering herself to Tristan like a wanton. In the end, she compromised and took the middle ground. She cleaned up the kitchen, went upstairs to the master bedroom and lighted the lamp on the bedside table. She wondered, as she stripped off her clothes in a corner of the room, whether or not Tristan could see the window, glowing with welcome, from wherever he was.

  After a careful washing, she donned a prim nightgown, one of the garments Aislinn had given her, and carefully hung her bright yellow wedding dress from a peg on the wall. She had brushed her teeth and was lying in bed, waiting and reflecting on the events of the day, when the door opened and Tristan came in.

  She drew the covers up under her nose and peered at him over the edge.

  He grinned, kicking off one boot, then the other. His hair was damp and freshly brushed and even in the dim light, his eyes sparkled with mischief and amusement. Behind the sparkle, however, blue embers smoldered, just waiting to burst into a conflagration. “Tired?” he asked, as companionably as if they were an old couple who’d shared the same bed every night for years.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice muffled by the covers. Her gaze tracked Tristan as he unbuckled the gunbelt and crossed the room to set it on the bedside table beside the lamp, the .45 protruding ominously from the holster. Then he pushed down his suspenders, very methodically, and she noticed that his shirt was moist in front, where he’d splashed his bare chest with water and put the garment back on without using a towel. She did not dare to look at his trousers.

  “Hmmm,” he said, and pulled the shirt off over his head. After tossing that away, he reached for the buckle of his belt.

  Emily commanded herself to avert her eyes, and found she could not. His chest and shoulders were overwhelming enough; she did not need to see the rest of him to know that he was as magnificent, as inherently masculine, as any stallion, wild or otherwise.

  He stepped back from the side of the bed to push his trousers down over his hips, and Emily caught her breath. He was erect, and his size was intimidating; far out of proportion, she was certain, to its natural counterpart, her own feminine passage. Her eyes skittered to his face and she saw that he was utterly without self-consciousness; his expression was confident, but not arrogant, and amusement touched one corner of his mouth. He was, to Emily’s consternation, glorious.

  He turned the lamp down until the flame was almost out, and the room held more shadow than light. There was still enough illumination to see by, however.

 
“My turn,” he said, and tossed back the covers to reveal Emily’s nightgowned figure. He made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “Unfair. Here I stand, wearing what God gave me and nothing else, while you’re swathed to the throat in flannel.”

  Emily waxed defensive. “You didn’t say I had to be—to be naked. You said we were going to lie down together, that’s all.”

  “Take off the nightgown, Emily,” he said patiently. “Let me look at you.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tugged at the nightgown, baring her ankles, then her knees, then her thighs …

  Tristan stretched out beside her, and her knuckles went white, her fingers full of bunched flannel. “You’re headed in the right direction,” he prompted mischievously. “Keep going.”

  She could have refused him at any time, she knew that. But there was another part of her, hungry and eager, that would not countenance retreat. She pulled and, in one long, bumbling stroke, the nightgown was off, over her head. Away.

  Tristan let out a low whistle, his gaze moving over her at a leisurely pace before returning to her face. “I knew you were beautiful, Mrs. Saint-Laurent,” he said gruffly, “but it turns out that you’re more than that. You’re perfect.”

  Emily’s throat was tight, and tears burned along her lower lashes. She had never heard such words before, from anyone, and they were an elixir, mending tiny, forgotten fractures within, though there was something else she wanted him to say. “This seduction,” she said. “Does it involve touching?”

  Tristan’s grin flashed. “Oh, yes. Considerable touching,” he assured her. Then, as gently as he might take up an injured bird, he cupped her left breast in the palm of his hand. “Like this, for instance.”

  Emily let out a soft moan as he teased the nipple into a hard point with his thumb. Feverishly, she reached up to put her arms around his neck and draw him down to her mouth for the first of a series of ever-deepening kisses. All the while, he continued to fondle and caress her breast, rousing a new and piercing desire that was as elemental as lightning.