“Yeah, I did all that, and more. Guess you might say I didn’t have your fancy upbringing.”
“Where did you grow up, Brand?”
“Before I lit out from home or after?”
She blinked. “Before. Where were you born?”
“Philadelphia. Wrong side of town, though. When I left I ended up in Ohio, and then I joined the Union Army.”
“Did you...did you ever fight in South Carolina?”
“Nope. But I fought everywhere else—Vicksburg, Bull Run, Chancellorsville. War is a bloody, awful business. Glad it’s over.”
She studied his face but saw no bitterness, only resignation. “Yes, the war was truly terrible. After it was over it was worse for the South, so many of our boys killed or wounded. Over half the men of Roseboro never came home.”
“And one night your father just up and invited a Yankee officer to a ball at your plantation?”
“Well, yes, he did. Papa said the fighting was over and now we should all try to get along with each other. It wasn’t a ball like we had before the war, though, with an orchestra and everything. After the war we tried to keep our spirits up, and we could still dance a Virginia reel.”
“Bet he regretted it when you left home to follow your Yankee officer out west.”
“Papa never knew. He died in a riding accident only a month after meeting John. Mama pitched a fit, though. It was hard to leave her so soon after Papa’s death, but John was so insistent, I...did what he said.”
Brand chased the last blackberry around and around on his plate. “I came out west to fight Indians.”
“You must have been successful since you were promoted to major.”
“Not so much. Like I said, war is pretty awful. After it was over, I scouted for Colonel Clarke for a while.”
“And then?”
“Then I got to like some of the Indians better than my own men, so I mustered out. Doesn’t pay to see your enemies as human beings sometimes.”
“On the contrary, I think it always pays to do so.”
He laughed softly. “You mean ‘love your neighbor’ kind of thing?”
“Yes, exactly. I am quite sure my John feels the same.”
“But you don’t know,” he said, his voice hard. “Bet you never got around to discussing it.”
“Well, no, we never did,” she said in a small voice.
“And now you’re goin’ all the way out to Oregon to marry this man you never discussed anything with.” It wasn’t a question. It came out sounding like an accusation.
“Yes, I am. I am going to Oregon to marry him, and don’t you dare say one more thing about it!”
He tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Suzannah, I have to tell you I think you’re makin’ a big mistake.”
She clenched her teeth. “You listen to me, Brand Wyler. There is more to a relationship than...well, than kisses.”
“Yeah.” He looked straight at her, his face set. “But that’s a good start. If they’re good kisses, that’s an important indication of something.”
“That is shallow and superficial. Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it is good.” Lordy, how straitlaced and prim she sounded.
He did not look away. “What’s wrong with feeling good?”
Suzannah swallowed. She wished he would look somewhere else. She knew her cheeks were flushing; her whole face felt hot. “Nothing is wrong with it, I guess. But that is not how I was raised. I was brought up to expect that a man would have high regard for my person and my breeding and my good name. One false step and a girl could be ruined.”
“You mean,” he said dryly, keeping his eyes on her face, “that your reputation as a respectable virgin would be compromised.”
“Yes, exactly. That is what happened to your sister, was it not?”
“Not exactly. This scoundrel, Jack something, took advantage of Marcy. He promised to marry her, then he never showed up for the wedding. She wrote me about it, said she was devastated.”
“Poor girl,” Suzannah murmured. “Poor, foolish girl.”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“Brand, why are we talking about all this? I know my fiancé is an honorable man. Furthermore, I know exactly what I am doing.”
“Like hell you do.” He stood up suddenly and paced around the camp with his hands jammed in his back pockets. Finally he stopped in front of her.
“Suzannah, I think you have to know a man, really know him, before you decide to spend your life with him. I think you have to like that man, and I think you have to like that man’s kisses...and I think you have to feel like you want more than that.”
She jumped to her feet and confronted him, hands on her hips. “Well! I do not care one whit what you think, Brandon Wyler. So let that be an end to it.”
Brand stood eye to eye with her. She was good and mad now, but he didn’t care. He wished someone had talked some sense into Marcy; to his dying day he’d regret that he hadn’t been there to do that. Maybe she wouldn’t have paid any attention, kinda like Suzannah was doing now, digging in her heels and refusing to listen. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t let it alone.
And maybe it’s more than that.
He pivoted on one heel and gazed out across the hills, now glowing purple as the sun sank in the west. He couldn’t figure out how this overprotected slip of a woman from a South he never wanted to see again could raise his hackles so fast. She was stubborn and argumentative and so damn convinced she was right it set his teeth on edge.
Ah, hell, why should he care?
He didn’t, really. Or at least he told himself he didn’t. But he sure couldn’t ignore what had happened to him when he’d kissed her. Something inside his chest swelled up until it hurt, and the next thing he knew he felt as though he was flying.
“Time to turn in,” he barked. Without glancing at her, he unrolled his blanket, positioned his saddle at his head and shucked his boots. She marched around camp for a good quarter of an hour, then spread her bedroll about as far away from him as she could get.
Better that way, he acknowledged. He didn’t want to see her curled up in a ball with just the top of her blond head peeking out, or hear those little sighs she made in her sleep, or smell the violet scent of her hair.
Long after the fire burned down to a handful of faint orange coals, he lay awake calculating not how many days it would take them to reach Fort Klamath, but how many hours.
And every one, one too many.
Chapter Twelve
Shortly after dawn Suzannah felt something hard poke her derriere. She ignored it, and a moment later it poked again.
“Wake up,” Brand ordered.
She groaned and snuggled deeper under her blanket.
Something metallic clanked beside her and she inhaled the pungent smell of frying meat. Opening one eyelid, she saw a tin plate loaded with slices of steaming-hot jerky and two fat, fluffy biscuits. Beside it sat a brimming mug of hot coffee.
She propped up on one elbow and leaned over to sniff the meat.
“It’s fried,” Brand explained from the other side of the fire. “Maybe not as good as bacon, but we don’t have any bacon.”
She reached for a slice, gobbled it along with one of the biscuits and washed it all down with a swallow of coffee. Despite all his maddening male know-it-all faults, she had to admit Brand made excellent coffee, now that she’d come to like it.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Got to get goin’ before the sun’s up.”
Had she ever known a more annoying man? He was all nag-nag-nag and push-push-push, and she was heartily sick of it.
“Let me alone,” she protested.
“Can’t. You want to get to Fort Klamath, and I want to—”
He broke off, but she knew what he’d been about to say. He wanted to be rid of her. The feeling was most certainly mutual.
“Suzannah...”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “Do stop badgering me, Brand. You’re worse than
Mama at her most officious moments.”
His dark eyebrows went up. “Your momma bossed you around?”
“Well, she tried to. I don’t guess I ‘bossed’ very well.”
His laugh surprised her. Brand might be an overbearing bully, but at least he had a nice laugh—rich and rumbly.
She dragged herself upright, stuffed her feet into her boots and noticed that her blisters no longer hurt. Then she slipped three more slices of fried jerky past her lips and devoured another biscuit. Besides coffee, Brand made very fine biscuits.
She supposed that, being an army wife, she must learn to cook, but somehow the prospect was daunting. She hadn’t thought to pack one of Hattie’s receipt books, but frying slices of jerky couldn’t be too difficult, could it?
Brand appeared to be in a real fizz to be on their way. He packed up both bedrolls, fed the horses and hovered at her elbow while she finished the last of her biscuits. Before she swallowed the remains of her coffee, he tramped off to the creek to wash the tin plates, then packed them into his saddlebag.
She had to scramble to fit in her necessary morning stop and splash cold water on her face before Brand herded her over to the mare.
“Want a boost up?” he asked.
“No, I do not. Why are you in such an all-fired hurry this morning?”
“No reason.” He wouldn’t look at her, so she knew he was lying. Something was wrong. Her heart skipped some beats.
She pulled herself up into her saddle and shot him a look. “We are not being followed, are we?”
“Nope. Just want to get to Oregon before Christmas.”
“Christmas! Brand, for heaven’s sake, Christmas is days from now.”
He didn’t answer, just mounted and reined away. For the next three hours he rode ahead of her, and each time she tried to draw abreast of his black horse, he sped up.
“Brandon Wyler,” she called after him. “You are no gentleman.”
“You’re sure right about that,” he said. “You’ve mentioned that already.”
Oh, for mercy’s sake! She had to content herself with riding in his dusty wake, but under the calm, unflappable exterior she was trying so hard to maintain she was working up what Mama used to call a Suzannah-size head of steam.
When he started whistling “Oh, Susanna” between his teeth, the steam boiled over.
“Stop that!” she screamed. It was a most unladylike thing to do, but it did the trick. He hauled on his reins so hard his horse reared.
“What the hell is the matter?” he shouted.
“Everything!” she yelled back.
He turned his mount in a circle and trotted back to her. “Like what? Are you hurting?”
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“No.”
“Need a private minute behind a bush?”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Well, what, then?” His voice was like sand on steel, raspy and rude.
“I want you to slow down,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am tired of eating the dust your horse kicks up.”
“Okay. Trail widens out up ahead.” He turned another circle, fell in beside her and again started on “Oh, Susanna.”
“And stop whistling that song!”
This time when he drew rein he turned very slowly in his saddle and pinned her with eyes like two granite stones. “Can you say please?”
“Brand, so help me...”
“Drivin’ you crazy, am I?” Inexplicably he smiled. “Know what’s wrong with you, Suzannah?”
She stared at him. “There is nothing wrong with me that finally reaching Fort Klamath won’t cure.”
“Same here,” he said with a laugh. “Seems like a real long way to ride for improvement, though, doesn’t it?”
“It feels like going to the moon!”
He lifted the reins, then leaned sideways and laid a hand on her tense shoulder. “I figure this trip is hard on you for one reason, and hard on me for another. I’m tryin’ to make the best of it.”
Instantly she was curious. Hard on him for what reason? Because he wanted to be rid of her? Because he didn’t like her? A little pain lodged behind her breastbone.
The hurt was unexpected.
Chapter Thirteen
The trail grew steeper as it climbed into the foothills of the Bitterroot range, and it grew colder. The trees were taller and had thicker trunks; the bushes were greener and some had tiny flowers of pink and scarlet and deep gold. Suzannah wished she knew the names; she would love to have a garden when she and John set up housekeeping.
They climbed higher into the mountains and the path narrowed until the ruts that the pioneers’ covered wagons had cut into the earth were over a foot deep in places. The ground was rust-red and so hard the horses’ hooves sounded like gunshots as they clattered over it. The air felt crisp and the wind was sharp.
Up ahead she could see the way was wide enough for only one horse. Any minute now Brand would motion for her to ride single file, and she steeled herself for more dust. In anticipation she tied her red bandanna over her nose and mouth.
When he called a halt she willed herself not to complain but to accept the rear position with the grace her mother had instilled in her. At any rate, she would try. She sat her mare in the shade of a spreading larch and arranged her face to reveal nothing but acceptance with calm fortitude.
“Ride in front,” Brand called, tipping his canteen to his lips.
She blinked. “Really? Do you mean it?”
“Sure, I mean it. I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He poured water into his palm, removed his hat and slapped the liquid over his face and throat.
“Thank you, Brand.”
He didn’t answer, just replaced his sand-colored hat and motioned her ahead of him.
An hour later it started to rain. Fat wet drops splatted onto the ground and dampened her jeans and shirt until she felt cold and sticky all over. The trail grew wet, then slick and then muddy as water collected in the ruts and spilled over.
They were still climbing, and she slowed the mare. Behind her Brand started to whistle, broke it off and began again. It wasn’t “Oh, Susanna” this time, and she had to smile. Even if she had screamed at him a while back, it was good to know the man wasn’t deaf. He had heard her. He was paying at least some attention to her.
The rain increased. The drops fell harder and pounded onto the muddy ground until wide puddles bloomed on the trail. The horses moved even slower. Surely it was only a thundershower? Any minute it would cease.
But it didn’t. Instead, the heavens dumped buckets of water down on them, the veil of water so thick she could scarcely see ahead.
“Rein up at that grove of trees ahead,” Brand shouted. She pulled off the trail, halted her horse under a canopy of dripping oak and maple leaves, and waited for him.
“We’ll camp here,” he said when he rode up. “It’s as protected as any place.”
“Protected? Brand, raindrops are pounding those trees.” She pointed upward. “It sounds like a Gatling gun.”
“Now, how would you know what a Gatling gun sounds like?”
“My John demonstrated it with vocal sounds after supper when he visited.”
“Bet that made scintillating conversation.” He tipped his head at a spot farther off the trail and deeper in the trees. “Over there.”
Suzannah stared in dismay. The rain was so heavy the trees were shrouded in thick mist. Every square inch of ground was wet, and the tree leaves jerked and spun as the falling water hit them.
Brand dismounted and tramped to a likely spot under a huge big-leaf oak. Good enough.
“I’ve got a tent, Suzannah. Take me a minute to put it up.” It was his army-issue tent, made of tight-woven waterproof canvas. At least it’d been waterproof the last time he’d used it. “Stay under that tree and see if you can wrestle your poncho out of your saddlebag.”
“I don’t have a poncho.”
“Well,
I sure as... I bought one for you back at Fort Hall. What happened to it?”
“I didn’t bring it. I left it at Colonel Clarke’s house.”
He looked at her so long she shifted nervously in the saddle. Well, hell. He rummaged in his own saddlebag for his poncho, shook it out and walked over to her.
“Put this on. Stick your neck through the hole and fold the flap over your head.”
“But this is yours. What are you going to use?”
“A little water never hurt me.”
“It isn’t a little, Brand. It’s a lot of water.”
“Yeah, well. I won’t wash away.” He wrestled the tent out from behind his saddle, smoothed out the creases and set it up under the driest-looking tree.
“Not gonna make a fire,” he announced. “Wood’s too wet.”
“What about our supper?”
He sighed. “Cold biscuits and—”
“Jerky,” she finished, her voice resigned. “I might have guessed.”
Brand stepped back to assess the water dripping from the tree leaves onto the tent and closed his eyes with a groan.
“What’s wrong?” Suzannah demanded.
“My tent is, uh, kinda small.” His army tent was big enough for one man. Just one. He slung his saddlebag inside and went to unsaddle the horses and untie both bedrolls. Hell’s bells, only gonna need one set of blankets tonight.
“Look, Suzannah, it’s—”
“I know,” she said quietly. “We’ll have to squeeze in together.”
Squeeze. Did she say squeeze? He had to hand it to her. Another woman would get all fluffed up about the sleeping arrangement. Suzannah seemed to be taking it in her stride.
Now that he thought about it, she’d put up with everything except “Oh, Susanna” since they started on this trip. Those still Confederate waters sure ran deep.
He knelt at the tent entrance and unrolled the blankets so one layer of canvas was underneath and two dry blankets were on top. She had dismounted and now stood at his elbow, shielding his back and neck with one corner of the poncho. His throat got so thick he thought he’d choke.
“I’ll picket the horses.” He finished smoothing the blankets and looked up at her. “Crawl in there.”
Dreaming of a Western Christmas: His Christmas BelleThe Cowboy of Christmas PastSnowbound with the Cowboy Page 7
