Wyoming Bride

by Joan Johnston

  There was no sense leaving Hannah ignorant of where he was going. There had been enough confusion and misunderstanding already. He wrote:

  Gone to check at the roundup for Ransom and Emaline. Wait here. Back for supper.

  Flint

  Hopefully she’d do as he asked and stay home until he got back.

  Flint set the note on the kitchen table where Hannah would be sure to see it, then took a big gulp of coffee that burned his tongue. He put on his coat and hat and blew out the lantern. He had his hand on the back door when he heard a female gasp.

  Flint turned and made out Hannah’s face in the moonlight. “It’s me,” he said.

  Her eyes were large and luminous. Her hair was tousled, curls falling down around her shoulders. She looked like a woman who’d just gotten out of bed after making love to her man.

  That last part, of course, was his imagination at work. They hadn’t so much as hugged since their wedding.

  She was dressed in an open-throated nightgown she’d borrowed from Emaline, which was too short for her and revealed her bare feet. She’d thrown a shawl over her shoulders for warmth.

  He didn’t want to desire her. But he did. He resisted the urge to take the few steps that separated them, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until they were both panting with need.

  “I woke up and you were gone,” she said in a wary voice. She lifted her chin and said, “I thought you might have been mad at me because I didn’t want to …” Her voice drifted off. “I’m not ignoring your needs, Flint. I really have been tired.”

  And sleep is a good way of avoiding my attentions in bed. He realized he was being unreasonable. Of course she was tired, the way he’d been dragging her around the countryside. He was surprised she’d said anything at all about the lack of touching between them. But she must have been as aware as he was that they’d been husband and wife for two days—and two nights—and hadn’t consummated the marriage.

  He wanted to go to her but made himself stay where he was. This wasn’t the time. The moon was going to be up barely long enough for him to see his way to the roundup camp. He didn’t have time to dally here, even if the temptation to bed Hannah was enormous.

  To his surprise, she took the few steps to close the distance between them, so her entire face was lit by the moonlight coming in through the window over the copper sink. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He pointed to the table. “I left a note.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then back at him, and asked, “What does it say?”

  “I’m going out to the roundup to see if Ransom and Emaline are there.”

  “You couldn’t wait till morning?”

  Instead of explaining, he simply shook his head.

  She reached out and pulled the two sides of his shearling coat together and began attaching the leather thongs over the horn buttons.

  He didn’t know why he stood there, like a bump on a log, doing nothing. He could damn well close his own coat, if he wanted it closed. But he would have felt churlish stopping her, so he stood there like a six-year-old and let her finish, his fists clenched at his sides, to keep him from reaching out to her.

  When she was done, she flattened the collar over his shoulders, smoothing it with her palms, looking him in the eye the entire time. “Be careful out there. I don’t want to lose another husband.”

  He’d forgotten she was a widow. Amazing how the idea of another man making love to her could slip his mind. He quashed the image of a naked Hannah in the throes of lovemaking with a faceless man. “You need to stay at the house,” he said, his voice harsh with the sexual frustration he was feeling. “I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.”

  She tilted her head and smiled up at him. “You’d worry about me?”

  “You’re my wife,” he said curtly. He wasn’t about to go through the trouble of finding another one. Besides, where would he find another one with dimples like hers?

  Her smile disappeared, along with the dimples, and he felt like a wretch. He didn’t want to leave her feeling unhappy. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, then caught her by the nape, leaned down, and brushed her lips with his.

  And felt his whole body shudder with need.

  He took her into his arms after all, pulling her tight against him. But she’d buttoned the damned coat, and he couldn’t feel her body next to his the way he wanted. He thrust her from him, tore at the thongs until he was free of the coat, shoved it off his shoulders, and threw it aside as he took her back in his arms.

  He felt hungry, and she was sustenance. He could feel her unrestrained breasts soft against his chest. He could feel her breath against his cheek. He caught her buttocks with both hands and pressed her close, as his body came alive.

  He slid his tongue into her mouth, and felt her hands grasp his hair, holding tight, returning his intrusion with her tongue, thrust for thrust.

  Flint wasn’t thinking, he simply knew he had to have her. He reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it off over her head. He quivered with expectation when he saw her naked.

  Her body was silvery in the moonlight, lush and shapely. He caught her by the waist with one hand and palmed a breast in the other, leaning down to suckle it.

  Her knees buckled, and he thought she’d swooned. He glanced at her face and saw her eyes were heavy-lidded, her mouth open to gasp needed air. Her hands were busy at his waist, unbuttoning his jeans and shoving at them. A moment later she had his long johns down and her insistent hands were gripping his naked buttocks, pulling him close.

  Flint didn’t need more invitation than that.

  He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. He turned and pressed her against the back door, thrusting upward as she reached down to help him find his way home.

  He made a guttural sound at the warmth and tightness and wetness of her. She bit his neck, but the pain felt good, and he buried his face in her hair and lost himself in a deluge of sensation. He emptied himself inside her with a primal cry of pleasure and satisfaction.

  It took a few moments to realize where he was. And what he’d done. Never had he been so inconsiderate of a woman as to have sex with her standing up, braced against a wooden door. And this woman was his wife.

  He blurted, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  When Hannah spoke, he leaned back to look at her face, at the sheen of sweat on her skin, at the glazed eyes, at the panting mouth, and realized no apology was necessary.

  She glanced up at him almost shyly and said, “That was … nice.”

  Flint chuckled. “Nice. Yeah. It was, wasn’t it?” He eased her legs down to the floor, quickly rearranged his own clothes, then found her nightgown and straightened it out.

  “I don’t want you to catch a chill.” She raised her arms like a child as he slipped the garment over her head.

  She grinned and said, “I’m feeling pretty warm at the moment.”

  He picked her up in his arms, not yet ready to let her go, but knowing he needed to leave. “You should go back to bed.”

  “You don’t have to carry me.”

  “The floor’s cold, and you’re barefoot.” It made a better excuse than saying he wanted to feel her warmth next to him. That he was grateful for the pleasure she’d given him and didn’t know how to thank her for it. And that he was feeling flustered, because a man shouldn’t have to thank his wife for having sex.

  Or should he? Emaline certainly wasn’t offering it to Ransom as part of the marriage bargain. And Flint couldn’t, in his wildest dreams, fathom Emaline accepting the sort of spontaneous, against-the-door romp he’d just enjoyed, and enjoyed heartily, with his wife.

  He glanced down at the woman in his arms, feeling torn between his months-in-the-making love for Emaline and his very confused, brand-new—but very strong—feelings for Hannah. “Let’s get you back to bed,” he said. “If I don’t get moving, I’ll lose the moonlight.”

  “Put
me down, Flint. I can walk. And you’ll be gone that much sooner.”

  He ignored her request and headed back up the dark staircase. He carried her all the way to the bedroom and laid her on the bed and pulled the covers all the way to her neck. “Don’t leave the house until I get back, Hannah. I mean it.”

  She caught his hand and held it to her cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Flint. I’ll be waiting right here.”

  As Flint headed back downstairs, he felt worried down to his bones. About Ransom. About Emaline. And about Hannah, who’d given him that totally unexpected gift of lovemaking in the kitchen. It felt like a betrayal of his supposed love for Emaline to have been so satisfied by his wife.

  He was a married man. He’d better start rearranging his feelings to suit the reality of his situation.

  As Flint mounted his horse and rode off into the darkness, he found himself pondering whether it was really possible to tell your heart where it should love. His heart and mind and soul had fixed on Emaline long months ago. What kind of man did it make him if he could so easily transfer his affections to a woman he hadn’t even known existed a week ago?

  Of course, the whole point of marrying Hannah had been to give himself the means to avoid coveting his brother’s bride. Hannah was holding up her part of the bargain. Maybe it would be for the best if he made an effort to care a little less about Emaline.

  The moment Flint had that thought, he felt a sharp pang of loss. He hated giving up or giving in. It wasn’t in his nature. Besides, who would be hurt if he continued loving Emaline in secret?

  No one but him.

  Hannah would never know. He would take care of her and respect her and make babies with her. They would have a good life together. He just wasn’t sure he could—or ever would—fall in love with her, the way he had with Emaline Simmons. Hannah was welcome to his mind and body. But Emaline would always possess his heart and soul.

  Flint felt reassured when he saw the fire in the distance. Then the whistling wind changed direction, and he caught the smell of death. His stomach knotted. A body, or bodies, had been left unburied. And that meant there had been some sort of disaster.

  His horse sidestepped, and he urged Buck forward at a walk, pulling his Winchester from the boot and cocking it, the sound ominous in the silent night. He approached from downwind, not wanting to alert any horses that might be at the camp to his presence, in case those he found there were enemies, rather than friends.

  He heard voices carried on the wind. A man’s. And a woman’s. So Emaline was here and alive. He listened hard to the man’s voice, hoping it was Ransom’s. But the sound was distorted by distance, and he couldn’t tell who it was.

  Flint debated whether to dismount, so he could approach more quietly, but decided there was too much advantage to staying on horseback. He kept Buck at a walk and closed the distance until he could hear the conversation taking place. Unfortunately the man’s face was in too much shadow to be identified.

  Flint could see at least three men on horseback besides the faceless man on foot by the fire. Emaline was standing across from him, her arms folded over her chest.

  “You need to come with me, Miss Simmons. You can’t spend the night out here all alone,” the man said.

  So the woman was Emaline. But alone? Where were the Double C cowhands? Where was Ransom?

  “I’m not alone,” Emaline replied. “Ransom is here.”

  “Along with a lot of dead bodies.”

  Flint’s heart lurched. A lot of dead bodies?

  “Ransom isn’t dead,” Emaline said.

  “He will be soon,” the man replied. “I’ve seen wounds like his in the war. If the hole in his chest doesn’t get him, the fever will.”

  “You could help me get him home,” Emaline said.

  “It would kill him for sure to put him on a horse.”

  “There’s a wagon.”

  “Turned over, with no mules to pull it. Leave him,” the man urged. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “I’m staying right here until Flint shows up.”

  “Flint’s not going to get here anytime soon. At least come back to my ranch.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Patton.”

  Flint’s blood froze in his veins. Ashley Patton must have come here right after Flint had spoken with him this evening. Was he responsible for the death and destruction? Had the rancher known what he would find here? Had he suspected this was where Emaline might be? Why else would Patton come out to the Double C camp in the middle of the night?

  Flint stayed beyond the reach of the light from the campfire and called out, “Patton.”

  Patton’s head jerked around. “Creed? Is that you?”

  “My Winchester’s cocked and ready. All of you, keep your guns holstered,” he ordered.

  “Flint?” Emaline said. “Thank God you came!”

  “Patton, take your men and get out of here,” Flint said. “I’ll take care of Miss Simmons and my brother.”

  “Your brother’s a dead man,” Patton said. “And I’m wondering what the colonel is going to say when I tell him you’ve got his daughter all alone at your house.”

  “You’re forgetting my wife,” Flint said.

  Patton looked thunderstruck. He swore under his breath. He turned and said, “Let’s go, boys.”

  “Before you leave,” Flint said, “how about a little help righting Cookie’s wagon.”

  Patton glanced at Emaline, scowled, then said, “Sure. Why not?”

  Flint held his rifle in the crook of his arm while Patton, Tucker, and the two cowhands with them levered Cookie’s wagon back onto its wheels.

  “Unsaddle two of your horses and harness them to the wagon,” Flint instructed. “Then empty out the back of that wagon and lift Ransom—carefully—into it.”

  Flint knew the only thing keeping Patton compliant was Emaline’s presence. Patton needed her good opinion, because he hoped to convince her to marry him once Ransom was dead. He couldn’t afford to do anything that might cause her to reject him as a suitor.

  While Patton didn’t do the work himself, he stood by without complaint as Tucker and his two henchmen emptied the wagon. He watched silently as Emaline arranged a pallet for Ransom inside. He stood aside as one of the cowboys slid his hands under Ransom’s arms and the other took his feet. They carried him over to the wagon and settled him on the pallet inside.

  When they were done, one of the cowboys said plaintively, “What are we supposed to do now? Walk back?”

  “That’s up to your boss,” Flint said. “You can ride double or hoof it home. I don’t give a damn, so long as you’re off my land by morning. If you’re still here, I’ll figure you’re trespassers here to rustle my cattle, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Stealin’ horses is a hangin’ offense,” Tucker said with a sneer.

  Flint met Patton’s eyes and said, “I’ll tell the members of the Association how you helped me out by loaning me a couple of horses when I needed them.” The threat was there, that if Patton didn’t agree to “loan” the horses, Flint would also pass along that message at the Association meeting next week.

  “I’ll return your horses and saddles after I get Ransom home. Now get the hell off my land.”

  “What about Miss Simmons?” Patton asked.

  Emaline scooted off the tailgate of the cook wagon, faced Patton, and said, “I’m going with Flint and Ransom.”

  “I’m sure your father will be interested to hear about this,” Patton said.

  “Feel free to tell him,” Emaline replied scornfully. “I’m sure he’ll thank you for lending me assistance—after Flint held a rifle on you and forced you to help.”

  Patton turned and mounted up. Tucker mounted his horse as well. For a moment, Flint thought Patton would make the two cowboys walk home. He must have thought better of it, because he held out a hand, and one of the cowboys put a foot in Patton’s empty stirrup and settled on the horse beh
ind him. Tucker followed suit with the other cowboy.

  Flint sat on Buck, rifle in hand, until their silhouettes passed over a rise in the distance and disappeared from sight. Then he nudged his horse into the firelight and dismounted.

  A moment later, Emaline was in his arms.

  She clutched his waist, sobbing. “I was so afraid he would make me go with him. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Flint rocked her and crooned, “It’s all right, Emaline. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  But so many things about this were all wrong.

  When her sobs subsided, Flint caught her shoulders and pushed her away. “How is Ransom, really?”

  “The wound in his chest is bad, but I sewed it up.”

  “You sewed it up?”

  “Of course!”

  “I didn’t know you’d done any nursing.”

  “I haven’t,” she admitted. “Those are the first stitches I’ve set in flesh. But it had to be done. So I did it.”

  Flint stared at her. The “delicate” lady he couldn’t imagine spending a night on the prairie with a bunch of cowhands had not only been camped out here on her own, but her presence of mind and willingness to do the hard thing had probably saved his brother’s life.

  “How is he?” Flint asked.

  “There’s a shallow crease at his neck that bled a lot, but it’s nothing. The wound in his chest is bad. And the fever …” She met his gaze and said, “He’s so hot. I’ve been trying to cool him with a wet cloth, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much good.”

  He watched her blink back the tears that brimmed in her eyes. She brushed at a strand of hair that had come out of her bun, and he realized it was the first time he’d seen her less than perfectly put together. It only made her more human. And his feelings more conflicted.

  At least Ransom was still alive. But for how long?

  “We’d better get started home,” he said.

  “I’ll ride in back with Ransom.”