by Brenda Joyce
He knew that if he could not forget Chavez, there was no way she could. The fact that she had those damn nightmares kept what had happened very alive for both of them. And it was the strongest reason for his self-control, which he had never even known he had. After all, he’d never gone celibate in his life until now. He’d never tested his capacity for self-denial. And, hopefully, he would never have to again.
The next morning, before she was up, he went hunting to test the bow he had made. He returned at midday with a wild turkey and two hares. He saw that Miranda was making him a pair of pants out of doeskin that he’d said she could have. He felt strangely warmed by the sight of her. She was wearing the buckskin dress and moccasins, her hair in two braids. Her skin was a pale peach now, but she was no less attractive. In fact, to him, every day she grew more beautiful. He worried about how thin she was, though. He knew she had lost weight since her capture by Chavez. If he had to, he would force-feed her, because she was not going to fall ill and waste away…not ever.
“Morning,” he called out, depositing his game by the hides that were stretched and drying.
Miranda gave him a short glance, with no smile. He wondered what was wrong. He strolled over. “Good morning,” he repeated.
She set aside the pieces of buckskin that she had cut and had just started sewing. She met his gaze. Her face was troubled and wan, and he hated seeing dark shadows beneath her eyes. “Are you sick?” He was immediately anxious.
“No.”
He studied her, but she was toying with the leather, and he shrugged. Something was wrong, he knew it. Was she angry with him for making demands on her yesterday? Hell, it was his right. As far as he was concerned, he had gone beyond the bounds called for. No husband could possibly be more understanding or considerate than he was. He walked away and decided to clean the rabbits first, surprised when she followed him and knelt opposite him.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to learn,” she said. “Cleaning game is women’s work. Will you teach me?”
He suddenly smiled, wondering why she wanted to do it. “Miranda, it’s okay. I’ll do it.”
“But wouldn’t you rather I be able to do it?” Her violet gaze was direct.
He had never lied to her, and he certainly wouldn’t start now. “Yes.”
She smiled slightly. “Then show me.”
Bragg studied her, shrugged, and decapitated the rabbit with one stroke of his blade. He didn’t look at her, but he could feel her dismay. He quickly and efficiently sliced off the four paws. In another instant, he had slit the skin on the back of the four limbs and from the chest to the anus. In one more instant, he pulled the hide off completely.
Miranda cried out and turned away, stumbling and retching.
Bragg sat back on his heels. He had warned her. She was far too dainty for this. He reached into the belly cavity and pulled out the guts, tossing them in the pile of refuse, then set the hare aside.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said, turning back to face him. She looked truly miserable.
“Forget it,” he said. “I told you, I don’t mind cleaning the game.” He picked up the other hare, setting it in front. He was about to decapitate it, then looked up when she was still standing there. “Why don’t you go back to what you were doing?”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I want to do it.”
“Miranda.”
She walked resolutely over to him, kneeling and taking the knife out of his hand. She was pale. She swallowed with obvious difficulty. He sat back on his heels, amused, and waited. A few moments passed. “Well?”
“It’s still warm.”
He took the knife out of her hand. “There’s no reason for you to do this,” he said. “Your sensibilities are too fine. I don’t think I want you any other way.”
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Give me the knife,” she said.
He was amazed. “What the hell are you trying to prove?”
She took the knife. With clenched teeth, she made an incision along the neck.
“Lower,” Bragg corrected. “In one slice.”
She moved the blade lower on the animal’s fur, hesitating. Blood appeared as she slowly, timidly pressed. Bragg glanced at her face and saw tears spilling out of her lashes. He angrily took the knife away and stood, pulling her up with him. “That’s enough. This is ridiculous.”
Miranda didn’t look at him, but wiped her eyes with her bare forearm and pulled free of his hold. He watched her walk stiffly away to where she had been sewing, and sit, blindly picking up the doeskin. What was that all about? Perturbed, he sat and cleaned the hare, then moved on to the turkey.
Bragg didn’t understand her and began to feel guilty. He was making her into a squaw when she should be a fine lady. He paused as he pulled out feathers, thinking. He had wanted to bring her up here because it was beautiful, cleansing, healing. With just the two of them, they could start their marriage over. But had he made a mistake?
He imagined a beautiful home. It had always been on his mind, that if she became happy, he would take up ranching and build her a fine home to raise their children in. They would sell the JB easily, giving them some extra funds. Wild cattle were everywhere for the taking, so it would be easy to get started. He looked over at her.
Miranda was sewing determinedly, skillfully. Her beauty and vulnerability twisted at him. Yes, she deserved a ranch, and they would have children….
Suddenly he stopped what he was doing, remembering how she had gotten sick, which made him think of pregnancy. What if she was already pregnant? He strode over to her, hard and tense.
“Miranda, when was your last monthly flow?” he demanded.
“What?” She dropped her sewing, startled. He repeated the question, his face dark.
“What…what is this about?”
“I’m your husband, and I have a right to know. When was it?” He watched her hesitate.
“Six weeks ago.”
He felt as if he’d been shot. For a moment he couldn’t speak. All he could think was, She’s pregnant with Chavez’s child.
Miranda got hastily to her feet, seeing his expression. “Derek, wait. I’ve always been a bit…” She blushed. “A bit irregular. Sometimes I’ve missed my month completely.”
He stared, rigid. “You could be pregnant.”
She paled. “I hadn’t even thought about it,” she whispered. “No, I’m not, I know I’m not.”
He turned away. Then he looked back at her. “Maybe now is the time for you to say a prayer or two.” He was angry, frustrated. What would he do if she had Chavez’s child? How could he possibly be a father to a baby born of a man who had raped and hurt his wife? He strode away and finished plucking the turkey without thinking, in utter turmoil.
But he thought about her words. It was possible that she wasn’t pregnant. It was ridiculous to get upset now, over something he couldn’t control. But that was easier said than done. He looked over at her. She was bent over the doeskin, sewing fast and methodically. She had turned her back to him. He felt a pang of pity and an urge to protect her.
He couldn’t see her face, which was just as well. Miranda was white and strained, managing not to cry, but her mouth trembled, giving away her distress.
Chapter 58
Her happiness had vanished. She was tense and afraid and realized now how content she had been for a while.
First Derek was angry with her for not letting him exercise his husbandly rights. Since that afternoon when he had begged her to let him make love to her, he had been sleeping outside, a silent message of anger. She had been so upset when he had chosen this means of communicating his disapproval that she hadn’t been able to face him the next day.
Then she had failed again, and again. She so wanted to please him and be a good wife! She didn’t know why, but it was the most important thing in her life. She desperately missed his comforting presence in their bed at night. She had wanted to clean the game to be
a better wife, but he had laughed at her pitiful efforts, her weakness.
And he was raging over the possibility that she might be pregnant.
Miranda didn’t want to sleep alone again. He had disappeared after cleaning the game. She stuffed the turkey with cornmeal and herbs, then baked it in the oven Derek had made from a pit, not far from the outdoor cooking fire. She made fresh bread and rice to go with the turkey, and roasted the hares for another day. When she had finished sewing the pants and bathed her face, he finally returned from wherever he had gone.
It was still light out, although the sun would be setting shortly. He was covered with sweat, as if he had been engaged in a great deal of physical activity. She watched him anxiously as he strode into their camp, and their eyes met. He gave her a smile.
“God, this place smells great,” he said. “I could smell that turkey and stuffing two miles away. I’ll bathe in a flash.”
Miranda relaxed a little, absurdly pleased with the off-hand compliment, praying that she hadn’t overcooked the turkey. She busied herself around the fire until he returned from the creek. She tried not to watch as he approached, naked. What a magnificent man he was. He took the clothes she had laundered, now dry and a bit stiff, and slipped on the pants. He shrugged on a shirt and came to the fire barefoot.
They ate in silence. Derek always had an appetite, and tonight was no exception. She could see that he was absorbed in his thoughts. Brooding, she thought. But he smiled at her and praised her cooking. She felt her heart flip at his words. The turkey was a bit overdone, she thought, but just barely. Her cooking was improving. She would be a good wife to him; she had made herself that promise. She knew she wasn’t pregnant. She had prayed, as he had suggested. She also prayed he would come to her bed tonight.
Derek suddenly leaped to his feet.
“What is it?” she asked, turning to look in the direction he was staring. She saw a spiral of smoke some distance away. Her first feeling was terror. There were other humans, Indians, in the area!
Derek laughed. “Would you look at that!” he exclaimed.
“Derek, who do you think it is?” she asked anxiously.
“Apache,” he said. “My people.”
She gaped.
He made a very small fire and soon a thin trail of smoke was drifting up. He took a blanket and fanned the smoke into puffs, sending up smoke signals.
Miranda was stunned. “What are you saying?”
“I’m identifying myself. We don’t want to be slaughtered while we sleep.”
She stared. Then she looked at the puffs he was sending up, amazed that anyone could communicate by a code of smoke. She looked at the signals being sent from the Apache. “What do they say?”
Bragg didn’t speak for many minutes. Then he laughed. “It’s my brother’s people, Miranda. It’s Najilkhise’s band.”
“Your brother? Najilkhise?”
“I have a half brother,” Derek explained, putting out the small smoke fire. “My mother was married to his father, then was widowed and married my father. His father was head man, as he is.”
“I didn’t know you had any family alive. So he’s completely Indian.”
“Yes. I’ll go visit tomorrow or the next day.” He smiled at her. “I would like to take you if you’re up to it.”
Miranda shivered, possibly from the breeze and coming darkness. She was thinking about the brutal Comanche. Derek seemed to read her thoughts.
“The Apache are not dogs like the Comanche. They do not torture women and children, nor do they rape. Ever. Women prisoners usually marry Apache men, and children are adopted, eventually marrying into the tribe. It’s all quite civilized.” He was watching her. He would understand if she refused to meet his people, but he wanted her to accept his invitation.
“Of course I’ll go,” she said softly, gazing at him levelly, with tenderness.
Her look made him tremble—a look of caring, concern.
Miranda’s heart began to pound as she crawled into their bed in the wickiup. She strained her ears, listening to the night sounds—crickets and frogs. Bragg seemed to have recovered from the afternoon, and she wasn’t sure if he was still angry or not. She waited anxiously for him to come to her, hoping he would. Tonight she would let him become a true husband to her—because she wanted to please him. But he did not come.
After an hour or so she got to her feet and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, completely covering herself from head to ankle. If he would not come to her, she would go to him. She stepped outside.
She knew he slept just outside the door to the wickiup, a few yards away. She saw him there, on a blanket, lying on his back. Another blanket was pulled to his waist. His chest and shoulders and arms were bare; she knew he slept naked. She had never done so before, and had only disrobed in anticipation of letting him take her—as a husband takes his wife. She approached silently.
Miranda wondered if he could possibly be sleeping. The night was suddenly silent. The crickets and frogs seemed to have stopped their serenade. She could hear her own breathing. Could he really be asleep? It didn’t seem possible. She knew he slept with one eye open and one ear attuned. She paused at his side, studying him.
His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even. He was incredibly handsome, his features almost finely chiseled, his ruggedness adding to his appeal. Even as he slept, she felt the power of his beauty. He was the first man she had ever felt attracted to. Her mouth was dry, and she was breathless.
How should she do this? Should she just climb beneath his blanket and lay beside him? She was flushed, apprehensive, excited by her daring, but afraid. She hated the thought of the pain, but she would bear it to please him. She got to her knees, then cautiously lifted one corner of the blanket. She let her own blanket fall, and holding her breath, slid in next to him. His skin was silk and sand and incredibly hot against hers.
Miranda had just stretched out beside him when he said conversationally, “What are you doing?”
She gasped. From the tone of his voice she didn’t think he had been asleep at all. She couldn’t find her voice. She lay on her side, her knees and lower thighs touching his hip, the tips of her breasts suddenly hard and touching his shoulder.
He moved like a snake. She was suddenly on her back, and he had his arms around her, his chest on top of her breasts, crushing them. His face was inches from hers, his breath hot. “What are you doing?”
“You’re angry,” she whispered, finally finding her voice.
“I’m not angry,” he said huskily.
She became aware of his shaft, very hot and hard, throbbing against the outside of her thigh. There was a constriction in her chest. “You’re angry,” she said. “Because I denied you yesterday. Please. Don’t be angry with me, Derek.”
“I’m not angry,” he repeated, his mouth almost brushing hers. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I want to please you,” she said. “I want to be a good wife. You may…you may make love to me.”
He stared. For a long moment he didn’t move, didn’t speak. She could see how brightly his eyes glittered, could see the tension on his face. And she could feel his heart against hers, the coarse hairs of his chest on her breasts, the throbbing tip of him against her leg. She couldn’t breathe. She suddenly felt trapped. Images of Chavez fluttered through her mind, against her will. She tried to push them away. And at the same time the very core of her, her womanhood, was aching slightly, not unpleasantly. She closed her eyes.
“Do you want me?”
She opened her eyes in surprise.
“Do you want me, Miranda?” His voice was so hoarse. He threw his thigh over both of hers, and she felt his shaft between her tightly clenched legs.
“I don’t want you to be angry,” she whispered.
“I’m not angry,” he groaned. “Frustrated, not angry.”
“You slept outside last night.”
“Because, Miranda, holding you
is torture for my male body.” He claimed her lips.
She didn’t open them, her fright increasing. He moved insistently over them, shifting himself so that he was prodding between her legs. She clamped her thighs tighter together and lay stiff and unyielding in his arms. He stopped kissing her. She let out her breath, which she had been holding, in a sigh of relief.
He shuddered and rolled swiftly off her. “Dammit! Don’t come to me like some kind of sacrifice!”
Miranda sat up. “No, Derek, please, now you’re even angrier.”
“I want you to want me,” he said raggedly, staring at her with burning eyes. “And I chose to sleep out here because I haven’t had a woman since that damn birthday barbecue. If you come to my bed, at least act like you’re going to enjoy it! At least pretend!”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I can’t do anything right! Please, give me another chance.”
He stared, and then, before she could move, he grabbed her, pulling her against him and kissing her almost brutally. “Damn! I’m only human!” he cried, pushing her down, running his calloused hands over her breasts, kneeing her thighs apart before she could clamp them together. He kissed her so savagely she tasted blood.
All pleasant sensations were gone. She knew only fear, icy terror that he was going to hurt her terribly. His body shook on top of hers, his hands cupped and squeezed her breasts, and he groaned. He reached down and slipped his hand between her thighs, over her dry flesh.
“Damn,” he said, “damn!”
He couldn’t take her like this, not when she was frightened and cold, but he had no control left. He was beyond almost all rational thought. He clamped his mouth on hers, grabbed her hand, and placed it against his shaft. “Hold me,” he ordered harshly. Her fingers closed around him. He moved her hand rapidly up and down his throbbing length, and then he was lost, exploding, releasing his seed onto her belly. He collapsed on top of her, slipping his arms around her and holding her tightly.
