by Brenda Joyce
Whatever was he doing in here, anyway? Had he gone hunting, on foot? Dismay welled up in her, and then she thought she saw something move in the clearing ahead. She pushed forward.
She came upon the clearing and saw him immediately, and had to grab the trunk of a tree to prevent herself from collapsing. Bianca was clinging to his arm, pressing her full breasts against him, talking softly, seductively.
Tears rose in Miranda’s eyes, and pain stabbed through her. She knew she should move, run, leave, but she couldn’t; she could barely breathe, and all the while her eyes were glued to the two of them….
Then she realized that Bragg was angry. Bianca had touched his face lingeringly, but he pushed her hand away, his face and expression dark. His words carried to her ears. “Not now, Bianca, dammit.”
The words echoed—Not now, not now. With her new knowledge, his implication was clear.
The tears in her eyes made everything blur, and they fell freely down her face. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure they would hear it. Trembling, she shifted her weight. A twig snapped.
Bragg’s head shot up and he looked directly at her. His eyes widened in amazement.
There was no need for her to sneak away now. With a small cry, she turned and fled noisily through the woods.
Chapter 29
John closed the doors to his study, and Bragg felt relieved. Still, his keen ears heard her footsteps as she went up the stairs to her bedroom. Although he had acted as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t seen him with Bianca, dinner had been very difficult for him.
He didn’t understand why she had been crying. He was sure she had followed him to the clearing—but for what reason? His mind ran riot with speculation, and a silly kind of elation. At the same time, her tears disturbed him greatly. It was ridiculous that he should care. She was getting married tomorrow, and what he did, and with whom, was none of her business.
He had never before given more than a brief thought to a woman’s feelings. Like almost all men, he believed that a woman was there to serve his needs, to bear and raise children. He had never treated women unkindly, because it wasn’t in his nature—he didn’t treat his horse unkindly either. But since he had met Miranda, he had felt a most unfamiliar concern and compassion for her. He did care, terribly, that she had seen him with Bianca and had guessed their relationship. What was even worse, he was ashamed. He couldn’t even begin to fathom why. He was a man, he had needs, it was natural.
Since he had met Miranda, he was very aware that his bouts of lovemaking had become more infrequent and that he never felt sated like he used to. In fact, he had turned down several women who had practically thrown themselves at him, much to Pecos’s interest and shock. In the old days when a woman sat on his lap and grabbed him, it was all he could do not to take her right then and there, regardless of who was watching. Now he found it hard to become interested, and his desire was aroused only after days of celibacy.
For some men, this would be usual. For him, it definitely was not. He had always been the kind of man to have a woman to share his bed on a nightly basis. He had a favorite whore in almost every town. When he had been married he had come to his wife almost every night. How could he not be aware of what seemed to him a sudden lack of virility?
Why had Miranda been crying?
Had she somehow come to care for him? Had the sight of him with another woman hurt her to the point of tears? Or had she gone into the woods already crying, seeking privacy? And if that were the case, which seemed more likely, was she crying because of the wedding? Homesickness? What was upsetting her? Why did he care? Why did he feel like a caged wild animal, barely able to restrain his frenzied energy?
Bragg recognized his tension as frustration. He would die before hurting her. But he had been at the ranch not more than twenty-four hours, and he had already hurt her at least once. Sorrow, shame, and anger roiled together in one heaving, confusing mass of emotion.
Bragg accepted a brandy from John and sprawled out in a chair facing him. “Nervous?”
John smiled. “No. Excited, beyond belief.”
Bragg studied his brandy, swirling it in the glass. John had been his old self today, cheerful and warm, so Bragg knew he had convinced himself that Miranda’s joy at seeing him meant nothing. But did it mean nothing? Of course it did, it was just that she was a guileless young woman, glad to see an acquaintance again. It was just as well. He wanted Miranda to be happy, and he knew John could make her happy. As he never could. He was too crude and untamed; John was kind and caring.
John sighed. “I was hoping that Miranda would become more used to me, but she’s still so shy.”
Bragg reached for John’s cigar box and opened it, extracting one. “You want a cigar?” He didn’t want to talk about Miranda.
“Sure.”
They lit their cigars and puffed together in silence for a few moments. “She’s the perfect wife,” John said. “This place has needed a woman’s touch for a long time.”
Bragg exhaled. “I’m happy for you both, John.” His words were soft, and although he felt a deep hurt in his heart, he meant them.
John met his gaze steadily, searchingly. He didn’t speak for a long time. “Let’s talk,” he said.
Bragg was instantly alert. “About what?”
“I have a few things I want to say to you, Derek, and something I want to ask you.”
Bragg knew then that John hadn’t forgotten at all how Miranda had greeted him. He wondered if John was going to ask him to stay away after the wedding. It didn’t matter if he did. Bragg already planned on staying far away, if he could. “Shoot.”
“I’d like to remind you that we’re blood brothers,” John said, surprising Bragg. “Apache blood brothers.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked suspiciously.
John seemed at ease, but he set aside his brandy and leaned forward very intently. “I know you’re a Texan before anything else. But sometimes you’re very Apache, in some ways. I want to remind you of your Apache obligations…to my wife.”
Bragg stared speechlessly.
“If something happens to me, Derek, I expect you to fulfill those obligations.”
“Damn, John!” he erupted, finding his tongue. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“Oh, crap! You know this land better’n me! That bronc could have killed me—and that was just an accident.”
They stared steadily into each other’s eyes.
“If I’m killed, Derek, it’s your duty to provide for Miranda, marry her if she’ll have you, or see her married to the man of her choice. I’m reminding you of your duty, right now.”
Bragg stood abruptly. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, dammit!”
“Relax. I intend to live a long and healthy life, but if something does happen, I can die in peace knowing you’ll look after her. I want your promise.”
Bragg felt uncomfortable, upset, and angry. “You know I’d look after her no matter what.”
“Yes, I do.” John’s voice dropped.
Bragg turned and faced him, having heard the unmistakable inflection in his friend’s voice.
John smiled a bit sadly. “I don’t blame you. When I realized, I was upset. But you’re a man, and how could any man help falling in love with Miranda?”
Bragg was stunned, then he laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! Where in hell did you ever get that idea?” But even as he spoke, he had an uneasy feeling.
John just shrugged, his gaze enigmatic, then held out his hand. “Let’s seal it doubly, your word as a Texan.”
Bragg’s jaw tightened. The mere thought of anything happening to John was ludicrous. But John didn’t withdraw his hand, so Bragg took it. The promise was sealed.
Chapter 30
Guests began arriving a few hours after sunrise. Miranda stayed in her room, but when she looked outside she saw that the grounds around the house had been transformed into a village of wagons and families, most of whom woul
d camp there and spend the night after the celebration. She had stayed up half the night, trying to reconcile herself to her fate, and searching for the strength and goodness to do so as a lady—graciously. Now, as Bianca and Elena helped her dress, Miranda felt a bit like a sleepwalker. She was dazed from strain and fatigue and, yes, even disappointment. She was very pale, without a trace of color, and her eyes were huge. Her fear had congealed into a small knot in her stomach. She refused to eat, for she knew she couldn’t keep anything down.
Elena was a thin, vigorous woman who was also kind and caring. She had doted on Miranda from the moment she arrived, and it soon became clear that she doted as well on John, Bragg, and the three men who were employed at the ranch. “You are beautiful, querida,” she crooned, smiling. She was missing a front tooth, but it did not make her ugly.
Miranda didn’t even try to smile. She stared at her reflection, a serious young woman in white silk covered with white lace and pearls. The gown fit her perfectly. Her cleavage was lace-covered, as were her arms all the way up to her elbows. Although it was beneath lace, she had never displayed so much of her skin before—except, of course, to Bragg. Sadness tugged at her heart.
“Querida, hold still while we pin this headdress,” Elena said. There was no need—Miranda was hardly breathing.
“Tía Elena,” Bianca said, “is she all right?”
“Bianca, you go and see to the guests, we are fine.” Elena deftly pinned the seed-encrusted headdress, folding the veil back over Miranda’s head. “Querida, you are marrying a fine gentleman.”
Miranda nodded.
“Tell me, are you afraid of tonight?” The woman’s dark eyes were kind and perceptive.
Miranda met her gaze. “A bit.” Her voice was low and hushed.
“Do you know what to expect?”
Miranda nodded.
Elena smiled. “It will hurt the first time, but that is all. Do not be afraid. John loves you very much.”
“How long?” Miranda didn’t even bother to finish the sentence.
“A few minutes. I will go downstairs, unless of course you want me to wait. Already everyone is gathering. You wait here until I come back.”
Miranda nodded and waited for what seemed like an eternity, although in truth it was only fifteen minutes. She didn’t think. She could hear everyone downstairs, crowded into the living room where the ceremony was going to take place. There would be about fifty guests, John had said, including children. Miranda didn’t care. She was too numb to think.
A Catholic priest, one of the priests from the mission, was performing the service. He was her confessor, a kind man with a big belly and merry eyes. Father Miguel had not sounded distressed when he heard her full confession, which included everything that had happened on her travels across Texas. She had been given a light penance: a day’s fast and meditation and prayers, during which time she had kept to her room. He had reminded her last week that her duty to John as a single-minded, devoted wife was also her duty to God.
The knock came, and the knot in her stomach tightened. Elena opened the door, beaming. “Come, niña. Do not look so afraid. Señor Bragg is here to give you away.”
Miranda floated through the door as if in a trance. She met his golden eyes and saw a bright light leap into them—worry? appreciation? distress? She realized that he was wearing a suit and boots, with a fine white linen shirt, the collar and sleeves slightly ruffled. He said, “Miranda. Are you all right?”
She looked into his eyes. “Fine,” she said, her voice a bare whisper.
Bragg ignored Elena, sure that Miranda was going to faint at any moment. He took her shoulders in his hands, peering down into her face with concern. The Texas air had given her fair skin a soft ivory glow, but now she was as white as her gown. “Miranda? Are you going to faint?”
“No, of course not.”
Her voice disturbed him greatly. He turned to Elena. “Loosen her corset, dammit,” he snapped. “I’ll tell everyone to wait a minute.”
“It’s not tight, señor,” Elena said, scowling at his familiarity. “She is just afraid, poor baby. She is too young.”
Bragg turned his worried gaze on Miranda and found her staring at him steadily. It unnerved him more than ever. He wanted to hold and comfort her and give her some of his limitless strength. Ignoring Elena’s gasp, he cupped her face with one warm hand, running his finger along her cheek. He could smell the scent of lilies. A becoming flush rose in her cheeks. As if on cue, the piano began.
Her eyes widened. “Where did the piano come from?”
“Don’t you play?” Bragg asked, pleased to see her coming out of her stupor. He held out his arm, and she took it.
“Of course, I love playing.”
Bragg smiled. “I do believe you’ll have to ask your husband.” It was a gift, of course. They walked to the top of the stairs, and Bragg placed his other hand on top of her small one and patted it for a moment. “Don’t trip.”
The voices below were hushed. Bragg felt a ridiculous surge of pride, on top of a gut-eating sickness. Everyone was awed by her beauty.
Bragg led her down the stairs and gave her to John, stepping aside. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, so ethereal was she in her gown and veil. He barely heard the vows being exchanged. And then came the final words, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Father Miguel was beaming, the guests giving a wild Texas whoop and cry. John was smiling, his eyes full of love, lifting her veil and kissing her. Bragg looked away, hurting, and met Pecos’s astute gaze from across the room. He wondered if the pain in his heart showed in his eyes.
Everyone congratulated the bride and groom, then wandered outside where a dozen tables had been set up with food and drink, and a fiddler and a harmonica player were waiting to begin. Children were already racing around, playing tag, filching food, and shouting gleefully. Bragg walked outside alone, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He drained it quickly. It wasn’t his first that day.
“Beautiful wedding,” Pecos said. He helped himself to a drink.
Bragg nodded. He shifted uncomfortably—his feet hurt like hell in his stiff boots. It was a rare occasion that he wore anything but moccasins.
“You were right. Miranda is a beautiful woman,” Pecos said. “She seemed half frightened to death.”
Bragg didn’t reply. There was nothing to say. He was leaving as soon as possible.
“I understand,” Pecos said sympathetically and walked away to leave him to his own frustrated thoughts.
The party moved outside. In the yard people ate and drank and danced. John and Miranda held court to well-wishers. Miranda was flushed, and Bragg noted that she was sipping champagne. Good, he thought, it will make tonight easier for her. Then jealousy and anger knifed through him. He had a vivid image of Miranda moaning passionately in John’s arms, and he didn’t like it at all.
He made his way up to them when they were finally alone, walking stiffly in the boots. “Congratulations,” he said easily, embracing John.
“Thank you!” John beamed. The expression of sheer happiness hadn’t left his face all day.
“I’m leaving,” Bragg said. “I wish I could stay, but duty calls.”
John nodded, knowing it was a lie.
Bragg turned to Miranda. “Best wishes,” he said softly. “You’ve married the finest man I know. I’m glad.”
She stared up at him, her color high, her eyes bright. Her mouth was cherry red and parted slightly, breathlessly.
Bragg smiled softly, for a moment forgetting John, the wedding—everything and everyone except this woman who had somehow, insidiously, stolen his heart. He brushed his lips gently along the side of her face, almost lingering, his mouth touching the corner of hers. The urge to crush her to him and capture those lips with his own was almost uncontrollable. He smiled. “Goodbye, Miranda, John.”
“Goodbye,” she said softly, her eyes moist.
As he walked away, he wished they had had a chance to exchange a few wor
ds since he’d arrived. It was too late now.
Chapter 31
She eased under the covers, pulling them all the way up to her chin. She was in her own bed, but she could hear her husband moving restlessly in his room next to hers. She shivered, waiting with dread for him to come to her. Outside she could still hear the hearty laughter and conversation of a few staunch revelers, although the din had long since quieted down. She listened to the merrymaking and wondered if maybe John would not come. Maybe he was tired—he had been drinking quite a lot.
She had become ill earlier. The two glasses of champagne had gone right to her head, since she hadn’t eaten, and she had had to run back to the house. She had made it just in time, fortunately, to keep from disgracing herself in front of the guests. Now her head throbbed, and she was perspiring faintly. She was also as sober as the day she was born. Was he coming?
Could she bear his touch?
She would never hurt his feelings by letting him see her distaste for his touch, never. She would not cry out when he hurt her. John was kind and good, and she wanted to please him. She would bear his lovemaking the way a lady should.
She heard the door open and stiffened involuntarily.
“Miranda?” His footstep was already familiar, heavy with his bulk. A match flared.
“Oh no, please,” she begged, twisting away, wanting it to be dark.
“I want to see you,” John murmured. He held the match, and for a moment they could see each other’s faces. He saw her fear and cursed silently, shaking out the match. “All right, dear.”
Miranda took a deep breath, truly grateful that they would do this in the dark. He eased his weight beside her, the bed groaning, and Miranda felt as if she was made of wood. Every fiber of her being froze against her will. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. His body was warm and hard, but not as hard as Bragg’s.
