Maverick Heart

by Joan Johnston

  “It’s broad daylight.”

  “That never stopped us before.”

  The only time they had made love in the daylight was the very first time they had made love. It was hard to believe how long ago that had been. “You loved me then. And I loved you.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, Verity. I haven’t forgotten anything. But if you feel more comfortable waiting till dark …”

  She nodded jerkily. “I would.”

  He released her and took a step back. It was a reprieve, not a pardon.

  Verity edged away from Miles, grabbed her basque-waist, slipped it on and buttoned it to the throat, then stepped into the riding skirt and fastened it at her waist.

  “Miles, is there any way I can get a message to Colonel Peters at the fort?”

  “What sort of message?”

  “About Rand and Freddy.” She stopped dressing to focus her eyes on his. “I know you don’t believe they’re still alive, but if there’s even the slightest chance …”

  “There’s paper and pen on the desk. Write your message. I’ll have Frog deliver it this afternoon.”

  “Frog is back already?”

  “He and Red turned up this morning.”

  “Did they see any sign of … of …”

  “They didn’t see any sign of the Sioux, or of Rand and Freddy. I’m sorry, Verity.”

  Her shoulders slumped. It was getting harder to hang on to hope. But Tom wasn’t back yet. Maybe he would bring word of them.

  When she sat down on the bed to slip on her stockings, Miles leaned back against the log wall, his arms and legs crossed in a nonchalant pose that she was distressed to see was only a pose. His jaw was rigid, his eyes heavy-lidded. She recognized the signs of arousal and hurried to finish and escape the room before he changed his mind about waiting.

  The fire had already been started in the stove and, unless her nose deceived her, coffee was brewing. She hadn’t a notion what to do to prepare a late afternoon breakfast. Where did one find the eggs, the kidneys, the bread with which to make toast?

  Her stomach growled. She glanced over her shoulder at Miles, who was stretched out with his arms extended from the lintel above the bedroom doorway. Even at forty-three, he was an impressive-looking man. He had donned a new buckskin shirt that stretched across his broad chest. The fringed leggings showed off his flat stomach and muscular thighs. Their eyes met, and she felt the slow curl of desire in the pit of her belly.

  “Are you hungry?” Miles asked.

  It was plain from the way he said it that he didn’t mean for food. “I’m starving,” she said. Her answer was equally loaded with innuendo. “For breakfast,” she added, in an attempt to curtail the growing aura of sensuality between them.

  “Cookie came in early and fixed something for me. I think there’s enough left for you.”

  “That was thoughtful of him.” She lifted the lid on several pots. Beef and beans. Again. And in the dutch oven, a sort of scone. “Is this all there is?”

  “That’s it. Unless you want to cook something else for yourself.”

  Since she had no idea how to cook and no intention of reminding Miles of that fact, Verity said, “I’ll eat this.”

  He sat down across from her at the table and watched every bite into her mouth until her stomach was so upset she had to stop eating. She looked for a napkin but didn’t see one, so she daintily licked her lips clean. When she looked up, Miles was staring at her.

  She thought she must still have a spot of food somewhere because he reached across the table and brushed his thumb across her lower lip.

  “Is there something …?”

  She looked up into his face and found his eyes focused on her mouth. Slowly, lazily, his thumb grazed the length of her dampened lower lip.

  A frisson of awareness sizzled through her. “Please don’t, Miles.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want something more from you, with you, than physical satisfaction,” she said.

  His gaze hardened, his jaw tightened. “I can’t ever feel for you again what I felt for you in the past,” he said. “That love died, Verity. You killed it.”

  She winced in pain at his accusation. “Without love, what’s left for us?” she asked.

  “You’ll have a home, a husband, children.”

  All she had ever wished for, all she had ever dreamed. Except her dream had included love.

  “That’s not enough, Miles. Not nearly enough.”

  He stood, his whole body vibrating with tension. “It’s all I have to offer.”

  “I want more,” she insisted.

  But he didn’t offer more.

  She thought he would reach for her anyway, but some unseen tether held him back. Abruptly he turned on his heel, stalked out the front door, and slammed it hard enough behind him that one of the hinges broke. The door creaked back open and hung there lopsided.

  The war was on. It was a battle for their future. And Verity didn’t intend to lose.

  She crossed to the makeshift desk and sat down to write her note to Colonel Peters, but her thoughts were on the battle soon to be waged.

  Miles had made no effort to hide the fact he wanted her, but he was equally honest about the fact he didn’t love her. Should she give herself to him and hope that sex would grow into love? If Chester’s long string of mistresses was any guide, that way lay sorrow. But sex could also be a powerful expression of love. Should she deny herself and Miles that closeness?

  A knock on the broken door distracted her. “Who is it?”

  A bared head of gray hair appeared in the open doorway. “Frog, ma’am. Boss said you had a letter goin’ to the fort.”

  “Come in, Frog.”

  The door scraped open across the floor, and he stepped inside, clutching a battered hat to his chest. He stayed near the door, obviously uncomfortable alone with her.

  She finished her letter, sealed it, and handed it to him. “Please deliver this to Colonel Peters.”

  Frog nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” He backed out of the room, dragging the door closed behind him.

  She crossed to the trestle table and began gathering up the dishes. She might as well get started with the simple things first. Eventually she would learn how to do it all.

  There was a pump and a sink near the stove, and she carried the dishes there to rinse them off. The pump screeched, but no water came out.

  “You have to prime it first.”

  She whirled and saw Miles silhouetted in the doorway.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I know that.” She had seen Mrs. Peters do it. She found the can of water near the pump and dumped it in, then pushed the handle a couple more times. Water came gushing out, splattering her clothing, the sink and the dirty plates.

  “I need some soap and a cloth, or something to wash the dishes with.” She began looking for both in the sideboard and found neither.

  “I’m out of soap, and you can wipe off the dishes with your hands.”

  She turned to him, frowning. “With my hands?”

  He shrugged. “It’s good enough for me.”

  “Well, I need soap. And I refuse to wipe off food with my fingers.”

  He tried to open the door to leave, swore when it tilted crazily toward him, caught it and said, “I’ll have Frog get another hinge for this door, too.” He stuck his head out the door and yelled, “Frog!”

  A moment later she heard boots on the wooden porch.

  “Get a hinge for this door from the sutler,” Miles ordered.

  “And some soap,” Verity reminded him.

  “And some soap,” Miles repeated. “Have him put it on my bill.”

  “Sure, boss. What kind of soap?”

  “For dishes.” He paused a moment and said, “Better get some sweet-smelling stuff, too, if he’s got any. Something a lady would use.”

  Frog’s voice sounded even croakier. “Tark’s gonna give me a hard time, I ask for somethin’ like that.”


  “Tell him it’s for my wife.”

  “Do I have to, boss?”

  “I’d appreciate it, Frog,” Verity said from a spot behind Miles’s shoulder.

  Frog’s color heightened. “Yes, ma’am. It’ll be a pleasure, ma’am.”

  A moment later Frog was gone.

  “Thank you, Miles,” Verity said, backing away from him as he turned toward her, his hand on the door holding it upright.

  “Tark will give him a hard time.”

  “Maybe you should buy soap more often. Then it wouldn’t be such a novelty.”

  Miles laughed. “Touché.”

  She realized he was going to leave again. “Miles?”

  “What is it, Verity? I’ve got work to do.”

  “What am I supposed to do around here?” she asked.

  “Whatever needs doing.” He paused and said, “If you like, you can start by attending a funeral service with me.”

  “What?”

  “For the man who was killed in the first Indian raid. And for Shorty. We’re gathering at the cemetery this morning so I can say a few words over them.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “I’ll come.”

  Miles held the door open so Verity could precede him. He walked beside her toward the small graveyard behind the house. She saw several primitive crosses and wondered who else was buried there. The men were already assembled, including Frog, who had delayed his trip to the fort long enough to be present at the service.

  Verity stood beside Miles, aware that the seven cowboys were looking everywhere but at her.

  When Miles took off his hat, the other men followed, clutching a variety of headgear against their chests or legs. “Lord,” Miles began, “we’ll miss having Pete around, but I expect he’s up in heaven talking your ear off. Take good care of him. Shorty wasn’t much for praying, but he lived by the Commandments. He was a good friend and a good man. Take care of him, too. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the cowboys chorused.

  “Day’s wasting,” Miles said.

  The cowboys wandered off, leaving Miles and Verity alone with the new graves. It was frightening to think a man could live and die with only a brief eulogy to mark his passing. Shorty had died too young. And who was Pete? How old had he been? Had he come here with hopes and dreams as she had?

  The ragged wound in the earth where Pete lay buried was marked with a crude wooden cross that had his name burned into it. No dates of birth or death. No words of love and regard. The ceremony for the two men had been so pitifully short, Verity wondered why they had bothered having it at all.

  She knelt in the knee-high grass between the two graves and began crumbling the large clods of dirt, smoothing out the surfaces of the graves. It seemed sad that there was no one here who cared enough to do it.

  “Who was Pete?” she asked Miles.

  “He showed up a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t ask him where he came from, and he didn’t volunteer.”

  “So you didn’t really know him.”

  “I’ve known a hundred like him.” Miles knelt on one knee beside her and reached for a large clod of dirt, which he crushed in his fist. He let the dust sieve back through his fingers onto Shorty’s grave.

  “This place isn’t anything like England. It’s so … unforgiving,” Verity said.

  “It’s what England was a thousand years ago. Out here a man is forced to find out what he’s made of inside. You carve yourself a place and live one day at a time. You don’t have time to think about whether you’re happy or sad, you’re too busy trying to survive.”

  Verity placed her hand in the one Miles held outstretched to her and allowed him to help her to her feet. She left her hand in his as he walked her back to the house.

  “If we live for today, does that mean we forget the past?” she asked as he shoved open the front door and ushered her inside. “Are you suggesting we pretend it never happened?”

  “We put it away,” he said, lifting the door and fitting it evenly into the frame. “And live for today.”

  She waited for him to finish, to turn and seek out her eyes, before she said, “All right, Miles. I can do that.”

  “Does that mean you’re accepting the terms I offered?”

  “It means I won’t argue with you anymore about the subject.”

  She watched some emotion halfway between relief and triumph cross his face.

  Before he could reach for his prize, someone pounded on the door twice, and it fell inward and hung precariously on the single hinge. Red stood there, chest heaving. “You better come quick, boss. There’s trouble.”

  “We’ll finish this later,” Miles said.

  As he followed Red out the door, Verity wondered what disaster had befallen them now. A thought struck her. Maybe someone had found Rand and Freddy! Her heart leapt with hope as she hurried through the open doorway after the two men.

  11

  “What’s the problem, Red?” Miles said as he stepped onto the porch. The wind whipped at his Stetson, and he tugged it down to keep it from blowing away.

  “Prairie fire, boss. Probably started by lightning. ’Bout five miles west of the house. Coming this way in a hurry.”

  Miles felt paralyzed. So far he had been able to keep his crippling fear of fire a secret, but his men would expect him to work beside them putting out this fire. If he wanted to keep their respect, he was going to have to do just that.

  His stomach shifted. A wind-whipped fire could turn in an instant, and he knew the damage fire could do to human flesh. Despite the cooling breeze, perspiration dotted his brow and the area above his lip. Miles forced himself to give orders in a calm voice.

  “Load a couple of plows onto a wagon and get shovels and blankets,” he said. “Have everybody mount up. We’ll do what we can to keep the fire away from the ranch buildings.”

  “I can help.”

  Miles turned to find Verity standing on the porch, her hands holding her wind-blown hair out of her face. He saw her suddenly as she would look with her hair singed to the scalp, her eyelashes gone, her skin charred black.

  “You stay here,” he said in a hard voice.

  Her hands dropped to perch at her hips. “I’m your wife. I can help.”

  “You’d only be in the way.”

  “I’ll follow after you if you try to leave me behind.”

  “Damn it, Verity, how did you get so willful?”

  “I took a lesson from you.”

  She surprised a laugh out of him. Then he sobered. He knew the dangers involved. He doubted she did. At least if he had her with him, he could be sure she was out of the path of the fire. If it turned toward the house and they couldn’t stop it, she might be in more danger here than if she came with them.

  “All right, you can come,” he said. “But if I give an order, obey it like your life depends on it, because it probably does. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go saddle up.” He headed for the barn, not waiting to see if she followed.

  “I have no idea how to attach one of those Western saddles to a horse,” she said as she hurried along beside him.

  “Sully!” he shouted. “Throw some leather on Blackbeard for the lady.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Go watch him,” Miles ordered. “You might as well learn now as later.”

  Red had hitched a couple of mules to a wagon that was loaded with plow blades, shovels, blankets, and two barrels of water. Another brace of mules was tied behind the wagon. Minutes later, Cookie climbed up on the wagon bench. The rest mounted their horses, and they all headed off in the direction of the red glow that showed against the dark thunderclouds on the horizon.

  They crested a rise, and the jagged orange streak of fire and the blackened earth it left in its wake became visible in the distance. It stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions.

  “My God, Miles!” Verity cried. “How can you possibly h
ope to turn that fire?”

  Miles fought back the nausea that roiled in his stomach. His fingers clenched the reins until they were white-knuckled. “We have to try,” he said grimly. “You stay with the wagon. Be ready with water and an extra blanket if one of the men needs it.”

  Red unhitched the mules that had pulled the wagon and hitched them to one of the plows, while Pickles hitched the other plow to the team of mules that had been tied on behind. The two men separated their teams, and each began to plow parallel furrows about seventy-five feet apart. As soon as they had enough earth turned, the rest of the men set fire to the grass between the two furrows to burn it off and create a firebreak.

  They worked with shovels to widen the furrows and used blankets to control the fire within the man-made break. When the prairie fire reached the break, there would be nothing left to burn, and with any luck, it would die. Of course, that presumed the furrow was plowed wide enough that the gusting wind didn’t whip the fire across it.

  Miles stayed on horseback to allow him to move quickly between the working men and supervise the operation. Mobility was the only thing that kept his fear at bay. He told himself the fire couldn’t get to him, that he could outrun it on horseback, if need be.

  But he had heard enough stories of fleet-footed animals caught by a runaway prairie fire to know he was only kidding himself. He kept his bandanna across his nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the smoke, but tremors of fear raked his body every time he caught a whiff of burned flesh from rodents that couldn’t escape the blaze.

  It seemed impossible to Verity that Miles and his men could succeed in creating a wide enough firebreak before the flames reached them. Acrid smoke choked the air around her and made it hard to draw breath.

  Sully had stayed with her at the wagon. The whites showed around his brown eyes, and his nostrils flared. Verity wondered what awful memories the fire must conjure for him.

  “Sully?”

  It took him a moment to focus on her. “Ma’am?”

  “Will they be able to do it?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am.”

  She paced the length of the wagon and back in agitation. “I need to be doing something. I want to help them.”