by Brenda Joyce
And as the wedding approached, as her apprehension grew, a part of her became eager, restless, anticipating. Bragg would be arriving any day now. He was not only John’s best man, he was also going to give her away.
Chapter 26
The Texas Rangers were always busy. There were always Indians, usually Comanche, and Comancheros, robbers, and outlaws to track, pursue, and destroy. Justice was harshly dealt, and usually took the form of an instant execution. Even when there was no assignment of pursuit, there was always reconnaissance and patrol. As the saying went, a Ranger had to “ride like a Mexican, track like a Comanche, shoot like a Kentuckian, and fight like a devil.” Usually they worked in small groups of two and three, or even alone.
Now, beneath the darkening sky, Bragg puffed a cheroot and gazed at the small, smokeless fire while his two partners, Pecos and Lakely, did likewise. An easy silence surrounded them, broken only by the whisper of the soft night breeze, an owl’s lonely hoot, and far, far away, the yelping of a coyote pack closing in on the kill.
“Reckon we have to catch up to them redskins tomorrow, Cap,” Pecos drawled lazily. He was taller than Bragg, as thin as a rail, and as fine a Ranger as any. Like Bragg and many other Rangers, he had ridden for Sam Houston in the Texas War for Independence.
Bragg had been thinking the same thing, with irritation. He had to finish this assignment soon or leave his two men to do it without him. All because of the damn wedding. “Reckon so,” Bragg said harshly.
Pecos grinned. “You been in one bad mood ever since you got back from babysitting the English lady, Cap. I ain’t heard you say one soft-spoken word in two long weeks.”
“Your imagination is getting the best of you,” Bragg returned, puffing on the cigar. In a few days Miranda was going to be John’s wife. He hated the thought. He knew that was why he was in such a hard, angry mood. Selfish bastard, aren’t I, he thought.
“Is she really as pretty as you said?” Pecos asked eagerly. “If she is, let’s finish off these bastard Injuns, because I want to get a peek at her myself.”
Bragg scowled at him. “She’s the most beautiful lady in Texas,” he said.
Pecos laughed and slapped his thigh. “So now it’s not just pretty but most beautiful! What does she look like?”
Of course he was curious; it was natural for his men to want to know what the woman he had escorted looked like. Bragg sighed. “Small and slim, white skin, thick black hair that comes to her hips.” He smiled despite himself. Memories assailed him. He felt his groin tightening.
“And her eyes?”
“Purple,” Bragg said.
“I know what’s wrong with the cap now.” Pecos laughed. “He’s horny for John Barrington’s bride!”
Bragg clenched his jaw tightly and refused to be sucked into any more revealing talk about Miranda.
“I’m right!” Pecos laughed, enjoying himself.
“Shut up, Pecos,” Lakely said. He rarely spoke, and now he was pulling up his blanket. He was fully dressed, from his hat to his boots. He even wore his two Colts. He lay flat on his back and would begin snoring in two minutes.
Bragg flicked his cigar into the flames, then he rose and began to put out the fire. He was aware of Pecos studying him from beneath the brim of his hat. Pecos knew him too well. Instead of denying Pecos’s accusation, he would not bother responding. Without another word, he unbuckled his guns, placing them within an instant’s reach, took off his hat, and slid into his bedroll.
They rode hard the next day. Bragg had kept the chest-nut, for he had proven himself a tough, tireless beast. They were tracking a war party of twenty Comanche who had attacked the Bennetts a week ago. It had been a typical Comanche attack. The Bennetts were isolated, living half-way between San Antonio and San Felipe. The family had two sons—a teenager and a child—and a baby girl. The Comanche had appeared from nowhere and caught the menfolk in the fields, immediately killing and scalping the younger boy. The wife had barricaded herself in their log home with her daughter. The father and older son had managed to gain the sanctuary of the barn, the father wounded by an arrow in his shoulder. The Comanche had left as quickly as they had appeared, taking some cattle and grain.
There was a peace parley scheduled for March in San Antonio between three Comanche chiefs and Ranger Colonel Henry Karnes. Because the Comanche bands were so independent of each other, the Rangers could not know if this attack had been carried out by one of the chiefs intending to participate in the parley. Right now, that didn’t matter—it was a question for the men who determined policy. Bragg’s assignment was easier—seek and destroy.
They closed in on the war party around midmorning. Bragg promptly made quick plans, giving precise orders, and the three dispersed. They slipped past the Comanche and ambushed them in a gorge, each Ranger at a different vantage point. By the time the fighting was finished, half the party lay in the gorge below, wounded or dead, the rest having escaped, many wounded as well. The Rangers rode down to finish them off.
Bragg was hoping that one of the braves was conscious. They found a young brave of about sixteen, wounded, but that didn’t make him any less deadly. He had been hit twice and was losing a lot of blood. Bragg disarmed him cautiously, searching him for a hidden knife. He found one in the Indian’s moccasin and tucked it in his own belt. He heard a shot, then another, and knew that his men had finished off the wounded. It was cold-blooded, but a live Comanche was too dangerous—and this was war. He squatted next to the boy.
“Who’s your chief?” he demanded in the Comanche language.
The brave looked at him with contempt.
Bragg smiled. “I’m half Apache. I have no qualms about torturing you all night long until you speak. You can die fast—or slow.” He spoke only part of the truth. He would get the information out of the brave, and hurt him to do it, but he did not like torture and never practiced it. He did not allow any men under his command to torture, either. Fortunately, few Rangers liked to torture. Instead, when enraged, they killed quickly and fiercely.
The light of fear flickered in the brave’s eyes, then grew masked. “Go ahead.”
Bragg stood, and nodded at Pecos and Lakely. They pulled brush from beneath a tree while the brave watched stoically. Bragg was irritated. Very few Indians of any kind would break under threat of torture, or even torture itself. He himself would die a slow and painful death rather than betray his honor. Pecos and Lakely grabbed the Comanche, ignoring his pain, and hung him upside down from an oak, over the wood and brush.
“Who is your chief?” Bragg said.
The Comanche spit.
Bragg wiped the spittle off his face and looked at Lakely. Lakely lit the brush. The brave’s thick braid hung about a foot over the wood, by plan. Bragg did not want him to be touched by the fire—he wanted information. The kindling caught and sparked and began to burn.
The Comanche twirled slowly upside down in the breeze.
“Who is your chief?” Bragg said.
The brave looked at him with fearless eyes. And even though the Comanche was his enemy—the more so because of what had been done to his wife and son—Bragg felt respect for him. The flames leaped higher, and soon his hair would catch. Bragg knew he would not talk.
“Is Chavez alive?” he heard himself say.
Caught by surprise, the brave’s eyes showed confusion, but no recognition of the name. Bragg pulled out his Colt, seeing, in that split second, the relief in the warrior’s eyes just before he killed him.
“I’m sure glad you don’t have more of that Apache blood in your veins,” Pecos drawled.
Bragg ignored him. He cut the brave down while Lakely doused the fire. They left the dead Indians; giving the brave a quick death was as far as he would go. They mounted and rode out.
“Who is Chavez?” Pecos asked as they cantered swiftly southwest.
Bragg frowned, but related the entire incident. His partners listened intently, with growing anger. Pecos’s blue eyes sparked with fir
e, while Lakely’s gray gaze became as cold as ice. His men were Rangers and Texans. They were outraged by what had happened to Miranda. Bragg knew that if any of them ever came across Chavez by accident, they would kill him.
“I want Chavez myself,” Bragg said grimly after he had finished. “If either of you ever come across him, you save him for me.”
Pecos and Lakely nodded, and then Pecos spoke. “Just what do you have in mind for him?” His blue eyes were very sharp.
Bragg smiled. It was not a particularly pleasant smile. “He will die a death no man would ever want to die.”
Neither man asked him any further questions, and Bragg was confident that if they ever came across Chavez without him, they would capture him, or trail him, and send word to Bragg. It was a pleasant thought.
In that one respect, Bragg knew he was completely Apache. Vengeance was the Apache way.
Chapter 27
It was truly ridiculous, but as Bragg dismounted in front of the house, he could feel his heart thudding as if he’d just run a long distance or been in a long fight. He looped the chestnut’s reins over the hitching post and walked silently up the steps and across the veranda. He had made the wedding with plenty of time—it would be on the day after tomorrow.
He knocked on the door as if he were a stranger and waited. It opened, and John’s face broke into a broad grin. “Derek! You rascal! We were worrying you wouldn’t make it!” He slapped him heartily on the back. “What are you doing standing on my front porch? You lost your wits? Look at the flowers,” he added proudly.
Of course Bragg had noticed the neat, transplanted wildflowers the moment he had been within fifty yards of the house. They bordered the stone-rimmed path up to the house and the veranda.
“Miranda did that,” John exclaimed. “In fact, she did it herself. I think she’s out back in the vegetable patch right now. Come on in.”
Bragg followed him in, immediately noticing her touch everywhere. Not only were there fresh-cut flowers, but there were drapes in the living room where before had been bare windows, and a plush, bright blue carpet bordered with roses and vines covered most of the floor. The sofa was missing, but there were other items of furniture in the room—end tables, a divan, lamps, a card table, and two chairs.
“Sofa’s being reupholstered,” John said, gesturing at the bare spot where it had stood. “I’ll go get Miranda.” He rushed out, walking a bit stiffly but no longer using his cane.
Bragg’s heart increased its pace, and he turned to look out the window. He noticed that the furniture on the porch had been whitewashed and fitted with cheerful print cushions, and that there were flower boxes and planters, too. Inanely he wondered what would happen to the cushions when it rained or snowed. Someone would have to remember to take them inside.
He heard her light, running footsteps and turned as she burst into the room, a few paces ahead of her fiancé. The expression on her face made his heart stand still. Her eyes were bright with joy, and she was smiling with delight, a flush of pleasure on her cheeks. “Derek!”
For an instant, Bragg’s own eyes betrayed him, lighting up with unbelievable pleasure. Then he suddenly quenched the feelings she had aroused, guarding his expression, thinking that the little fool was wearing her heart on her sleeve for the entire world to see—she looked as if she cared for him. John’s face had become incredulous as he looked from his fiancée to his best friend, a dawning light in his eyes.
Bianca burst in. “Señor Bragg!” She stopped, beaming.
Bragg hadn’t smiled, and he nodded coolly at Miranda, the urge to take her in his arms overwhelming. He glanced at Bianca and flashed a reflexive but nevertheless disarming smile, one that made Bianca’s face light up. Bragg looked casually at Miranda and saw that she was stricken, her hurt showing in her wide, pained eyes and trembling mouth. She seemed about to cry.
“How’s betrothed life treating you, John?” Bragg said easily, hating himself for hurting her.
John had gained control of his own expression, but now he looked grim. “Great,” he said shortly. “You must be tired. Bianca, see to whatever Derek needs.”
“A bath, señor? Food?”
“Fine,” Bragg said, “Both. Up in my room.”
She smiled into his eyes with anticipation and looked at John. “Should I bring you any refreshments here?”
“Only if Miranda wants something,” John said harshly.
Miranda was pale, and her eyes seemed moist. “No,” she said stiffly. “I’m glad you could make it, Captain,” she murmured, forcing a pained smile.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Bragg lied, wishing he were anywhere else.
“If you don’t mind”—she turned to John—“I’m tired from all the weeding.”
“Go ahead, dear,” he said.
Bragg felt like wincing at the endearment and refused to allow himself to look at her as she went upstairs, holding her head high with dignity. He hoped she wasn’t going to cry. Why had she acted so damn glad to see him?
John poured them both healthy doses of brandy, and they drained the glasses silently. He refilled them immediately. The silence was tense, heavy.
“To you and Miranda,” Bragg said.
Chapter 28
Miranda finally forced herself to stop weeping. How had she ever thought that he was her friend? How had she thought that beneath his Texas exterior, there were touches of kindness, gentility? He was a man like any other, completely selfish. His only interest in her had been because he found her attractive and he wanted to do those unspeakable things men did to women. He had never even acted as if he liked her; in fact, he was always angry around her.
She punched her bedspread, her face in the pillow. Why did his callous attitude pain her so much? Why did she want to cry and cry, as if her heart was broken? What did it matter that he disliked her, or didn’t even care at all about her? She wrapped her arms around the pillow and hugged it to her body. She had been looking forward so much to seeing him again, and he had come only because he was John’s best friend.
She washed carefully before dinner, making sure that all the dirt from the garden was gone. Even though she used gloves, soil always managed to trickle down her wrists. She changed her gown, pulling an amethyst silk dress with a high neck and long sleeves from the wardrobe. The gown had lace trim and a collar, and matched her eyes exactly. As she smoothed it down, she noted that her eyes were pink from all the weeping. She briefly debated feigning sickness, but realized it would be unpardonably rude. Hopefully no one would notice her eyes.
She dreaded seeing that awful man again. She tried not to think about how he had smiled at Bianca.
She came downstairs feeling doubly miserable, for Bragg’s visit had been the only bright light in her days as the wedding approached. Now she had nothing. Nothing…and no one.
Miranda sensed that something was wrong at dinner. Bragg was polite but aloof, and John was cold and withdrawn. Had they argued? she wondered. Both men seemed more interested in the wine than the meal. They spent the end of supper discussing a meeting that was to take place in March between the Comanche and Texas Rangers. Miranda excused herself, pleading a headache, and went to bed early.
She slept fitfully, not falling asleep until just before dawn, her mind wandering between Bragg and the wedding, the wedding and Bragg. She slept late, and it was just before noon when she awoke and bathed and dressed. John knocked on her door and came in.
“Are you all right?” he asked with worry. His face was soft and had lost the harsh lines of the night before.
“Yes.” She smiled. “I had difficulty sleeping last night. I guess that’s why I slept so late.”
“Bad dreams?” he asked, taking her hand and squeezing it.
“No, I just kept thinking.” Her voice trailed off.
“Well, I was worried, you’re such an early riser. I was afraid you were getting sick or something.” He patted her hand. His eyes were shining. Miranda knew it was because tomorrow was the we
dding, and he couldn’t wait. “I’m catching up on my ledgers this afternoon,” he told her, “but we’ll have a glass of champagne before dinner, to celebrate.”
He left, and Miranda sighed, walking to the window and gazing out blindly. She knew she was extremely lucky. John worshipped her and would never hurt her. But…tomorrow night she would be sharing his bed. She shuddered involuntarily. He was such a big man. Maybe he would hurt her without meaning to.
She tried not to think about it and wound up thinking about Bragg again. She wished they could talk, alone, just the two of them, the way they had done before, on the trail. It was impossible—and she knew it! It was improper to even think…
Miranda saw him walking lazily across the yard toward the barn, his strides long and graceful. Her heart contracted at the sight of him. She wondered if he was going riding, but then he walked behind the barn and into a cluster of trees, where he disappeared. Her heart was thumping. She saw her chance. If she really wanted to talk to him, she merely had to follow him. She knew it was wrong, but she was so frightened, and she wanted nothing more than to be able to tell him her fears and hear his warm assurances that everything would be all right. Without pausing to deliberate, knowing that if she did so she wouldn’t go, Miranda ran out of her room and hurried down the stairs.
She slowed her pace across the yard, so it wouldn’t look funny in case anyone saw her. But John was holed up in his study, and the women would be doing their chores. The three men who worked for John spent almost every day out on the range. She passed the barn and entered the clump of trees. Ahead she saw brighter light, and she stopped, assuming there was a clearing. She had no idea where he would have gone.
