Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  She saw him, and rushed into his arms, clinging, trembling, crying his name.

  “You’re alive,” Derek groaned. “Oh God…”

  “Derek, Derek, I thought they killed you,” she wept.

  “I’ll never let you out of my sight again,” he said harshly. And a second later, he felt a steel barrel in his back.

  “Let her go,” Cleve said.

  Derek froze, releasing Miranda.

  “Cleeve, he’s my husband, don’t!” Miranda cried.

  “You gonna leave by yourself?” Cleeve drawled. “Or do I escort you outside?”

  Derek stared at him.

  Cleeve smiled slightly, waving the gun barrel. “Get lost, mister.”

  Derek saw her moving before he could stop her. With a look of rage, she leaped for Cleeve, her nails going for his face. As Cleeve tried to defend himself, Derek knocked the gun away. He grabbed his wife like a striking snake, one arm clamping around her waist, pulling her off Cleeve, holding her against his body, his other hand drawing his Colt. Miranda relaxed against him. The men at the table nearest them leaped up and away from their chairs. Cleeve stared, and everyone in the saloon turned their attention to him.

  “My name is Derek Bragg,” Derek said to Cleeve. “And in case my reputation hasn’t preceded me, I’m a Ranger.” He paused to let the implication sink in. “This is my wife. Anyone who tries to stop me will precipitate mass slaughter, because nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot up this saloon and everyone in it.”

  There was absolute silence. No one moved. Derek smiled grimly. Then a woman in black satin stepped into the space where the bar ended.

  “What’s going on?” Mollie demanded, stepping forward into the middle of the saloon. “Release my niece at once!”

  “This is not your niece, ma’am,” Derek said, “but my wife. And right now I’m not taking too kindly to finding her here, whoring for you.”

  Mollie was quick. “Miranda only serves drinks, ask anyone. She needed a job. I gave her one, out of the kindness of my heart.”

  Derek didn’t take his eyes off the men in front of him. “Miranda?”

  “I never…never, Derek.”

  He smiled grimly. “It’s your lucky day. You have earned the right to live by not allowing her to whore for you, but don’t press your luck. My trigger finger is itching.”

  “Humph,” Mollie said.

  Derek backed out of the saloon with Miranda pressed tightly against him, daring anyone to even think of trying to stop him. No one did.

  He set her up on his horse, then leaped behind her, clutching her firmly again. He wheeled the horse, and they rode off.

  Chapter 75

  Derek looked at Miranda, choking up from deep inside. They were in a hotel room in Galveston. She was weeping. “I thought you were dead. They took me away, and I thought you were dying.” She rushed to him. “Oh, Derek, thank God you’re alive!”

  “I’m alive,” he said huskily. “Very much so. I couldn’t possibly die without rescuing you first.” He felt something wet on his face and was shocked when he realized it was his own tears.

  “I wanted to die,” she moaned into his chest. “I didn’t care anymore, not without you. We rode for a day, days, I have no idea how long.”

  He held her tighter. “Miranda, are you all right?” He had to know.

  “Oh God, yes!”

  He caught her face before she could press her mouth to his. “The Comanche—did they hurt you? And the child?”

  Her eyes met his. “I wasn’t raped. They sold me right away, and the man who bought me was afraid of me—he thought I was crazy.”

  His breath expelled. “And the baby?”

  Miranda searched his gaze. “He’s fine.”

  For a moment he just closed his eyes. “I have you back,” Derek said, the relief in his voice immense. He cupped her face.

  “No,” she cried. “I have you back.” She slipped her hands up into his hair, clutching it. Pulling his head down, she kissed him frantically.

  He was surprised, even more so when she forced his mouth open and began a fierce assault with her tongue.

  “Miranda…”

  “Love me,” she gasped, pulling him down onto the bed. “Love me!”

  She still held his head, and she was partly on his chest, seeking his mouth again, desperately. She kissed his face all over, his eyes and his nose, his cheeks and then his mouth, and he exploded in response to her passion, needing her as much as she needed him. Desperate, mindless, except for the soaring, overwhelming sensation of loving each other so completely, they shed their clothes, stroking each other frantically, reeling, gasping, their tongues entwined.

  “I love you,” Derek cried, shuddering, holding her face still in both his hands so he could imprision her mouth with his.

  “I love you, too,” Miranda breathed, and he caught her hips, pulling her down to where he wanted her, kneeling between her thighs, poising his thick, straining shaft against her wet pink flesh. He looked into her eyes and she gazed back breathlessly. “I love you,” he said again, and then he glided into her.

  As his length and width slowly filled her, he saw tears start, and she began to cry, harder and harder. “Miranda,” he gasped, not understanding, about to spiral out of control.

  “I love you so much,” she sobbed, holding his head tightly, kissing him. He could taste her tears. “Never, Derek,” she said, her face still wet. “Never leave me—I never want us to be apart.”

  “I’ll never leave you,” he said huskily, meaning it. He wrapped her in his arms, closing his eyes, thinking, feeling, knowing how much he loved her. And then his life seed burst from him in an explosion, draining, emptying. He shuddered into her, giving her everything he had, everything he could, and they were truly one.

  Chapter 76

  He leaned on one elbow and smiled down at her. She met his gaze and smiled back; they held hands. “I love you,” he said huskily.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He reached out to touch her cheek. He let his hand drift down to cup her breasts, feeling hunger rising in him again. He stroked the smooth, swollen flesh, marveling at her beauty. He ran his hand down her torso, to the slight swell of her abdomen. He rested it there, then slowly began to rub the faint mound.

  “I was afraid you had died before I could ever tell you how much I love you,” she said.

  “Tell me now.”

  “I could never live without you,” she said. Their eyes met, held.

  “Your skin is so smooth,” he whispered, exploring her belly, fascinated with its shape, its firmness, its silkiness. He bent over to flick a nipple into hardness with his tongue. She let out a breath. He took it into his mouth, sucking gently. His encircling caresses expanded, dropping lower. He slid a finger into the wet, moist valley below. She trembled.

  He stroked her gently, his mouth playing with her nipple. She clutched his head and spread her thighs, arching for him. Gently, he rolled her onto her side, her back to his chest. She was confused.

  “Raise your leg,” he murmured, lifting her upper leg so it was bent at the knee. And then he eased into her wet, throbbing passage from behind, cupping her hips, pausing, full and heavy and straining inside her.

  “Oh, Derek,” Miranda breathed.

  He chuckled, a laugh of sexual power and desire. He moved slowly, languidly. “How does it feel?”

  “So full. Derek…”

  He reached up to fondle her breast as he stroked her slowly. He kissed the nape of her neck, her shoulder, the side of her throat. She gasped, unable to move because of their position, but wanting to, wanting more. She whimpered.

  He understood, moved harder, with more determination. His hand stroked downward from her breast, over her belly, to the swollen pearl. He began moving faster and faster. When she cried out, he wrapped his arms around her, thrusting once, twice, shuddering, emptying all of himself into her, as much as he had to give. They lay damp and still except for the
ir heavy breathing and their pounding hearts.

  She turned onto her back. “And to think I once thought our lovemaking wrong.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  Her eyes were older, wiser, hinting of sadness, tragedy. “Am I a fool?”

  He wished he had been able to spare her the trials she had suffered. He put his arm around her, kissed her lightly.

  “Derek?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t seem distressed anymore about my child.”

  He took her hands. “I won’t lie to you. It’s hard. But I think I’ve conquered my anger, mostly.” He gazed at her seriously. “I’ll do my best, Miranda. I swear.”

  “I know you will,” she said, smiling, faith glowing in her eyes, faith and love. “I think of your son sometimes,” she added.

  He suddenly remembered a dream in which his newborn son had changed into Chavez’s son. He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It occurred to me a long time ago that some Comanche family is raising your boy, and you’re going to raise a child with Comanche blood. Maybe this child is a gift from God.”

  He stared at her. He didn’t believe this baby was a gift from God to replace his own child, but it struck him how the situations were exactly reversed—almost too much so to be coincidence. He was part Apache, Chavez part Comanche….

  “God does work in mysterious ways.”

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “forget about God for a minute. Someone took in my boy and raised him as their own, undoubtedly needing him for lack of sons. Someone gave him care, and hopefully love.” He stared out the window.

  “Just like you’re going to raise our child and care for him,” Miranda said. She knew he was struck by the coincidence of the parallel situations. She knew it was meant to be, and one day he would realize it, too.

  He pulled her closer. “I can’t wait to take you home.”

  She raised herself up. “Home?”

  He looked into her eyes and saw her distress. “We’ll rebuild the JB,” he said. “It will be much safer than my own land, being close to San Antonio. That other time was a fluke, Mir—”

  “No!”

  They stared at each other, his heart sinking, her face fearful and set. When he spoke again, his voice was very calm. “Miranda, the JB was attacked because of Chavez—”

  “No!” She was sitting, pulling the covers up. “I can’t. Derek, I love you. But I hate this land.”

  He was afraid. “What would you like to do?”

  “Let’s live in the city—any city. Even San Antonio. But I won’t, Derek, I won’t go live in that godforsaken wilderness, not now, not after I’ve found you again, not with the baby—Derek, you were almost killed!”

  “I see,” he said.

  Miranda reached for him. “Please. For me. Please.”

  He tried to smile and failed. “All right, princess. You know I would never force you to do something against your will.”

  With a sob of relief, she catapulted into his arms.

  He held her, wondering how they were going to make their marriage work. He then vowed that he would, no matter what.

  Chapter 77

  Derek took her back to San Antonio, then proceeded to rebuild the JB.

  Miranda’s protests were at first vocal, then silent. He left her in the care of an elderly seamstress, a widow, who lived in town. On the journey back he had realized he’d never be happy living in the city—nor could he let her go back to England. Not ever. He would rebuild the JB, which was close to San Antonio and had never—until Chavez—had a problem with the Comanche, because of its size and location. And somehow he would get her to change her mind, no matter how long it took.

  He rode into town once a week to see her. Because he had no cash—indeed, few Texans did—he had to rebuild alone, from scratch, and he started with the house. Because he was the legal owner of the JB, his credit was good for the supplies he needed. By early August the ranch house had been rebuilt, on a smaller scale—one story, three rooms, a kitchen and dining room, a parlor/study, and their bedroom. It helped that all the hearths were still standing. The house could be added on to later. His neighbors had come for a barn raising, and the smokehouse had been finished as well. He had framed the bunkhouse, but decided he would finish it at his leisure. He did need to hire hands to round up the JB cattle, but he had no money for wages, so until he could sell some beef, he would have to wait and do it himself. He sold his own land on the Pecos. After everything that had happened, he knew that he could never live there again—much less with Miranda.

  She was now obviously pregnant—five months, or more. It was so hard living apart from her, and his weekly visits were just not enough. He knew she felt the same way. He loved the way her eyes lit up when he appeared Sunday mornings to call on her. Sometimes, even though he was exhausted after a full day’s work, he would ride into town to see her on a Saturday night—take her to dinner and for a stroll in the moonlight. They would find a secluded spot down by the river and make love as if it were the first time. It was only when they were together that he felt complete, and even though she listened with polite interest to his report of how the rebuilding was going, he knew she was still upset by what he was doing. He didn’t know how he was going to get her to come around. He was rapidly reaching the point where he was losing his patience.

  Miranda had been spending part of her time helping Mrs. Leander, the seamstress, in exchange for her keep. She had offered to do so after the first two weeks, when she realized that Derek had no cash. She knew she was imposing on the woman—who was not immune to Derek’s charm—and she was excellent with needle and thread. Mrs. Leander was thrilled to have an assistant for the price of room and board.

  Miranda spent her spare time making maternity clothes for herself and clothes for the baby. Sometimes she and Derek would sit together in an easy silence and he would watch her knitting a pair of booties, her face glowing with an expectant mother’s joy. He had reached the point where he didn’t think he cared that the child wasn’t his, or at least not much. He was so glad to see her happy at times like these. If only she could be happy at his side, instead of living apart.

  The time came when he felt he had to put his foot down.

  The JB was ready. It was a warm summer morning, and Miranda flew into his arms when she saw him, surprised, for it was the middle of the week. “Derek—what are you doing here?”

  He held her firmly by the shoulders. “It’s time to pack your things, princess.”

  She stared.

  “I’m taking you home with me.”

  She backed away. “I told you—”

  “No, Miranda. You’re my wife and you belong at my side. You’re miserable without me, and I’m miserable without you. We can’t go on like this. I’m taking you back with me. I’d rather you have an open mind. I’d rather you want to please me, to make me happy the way I’ve bent over backwards to make you happy. But failing that, I’m taking you back anyway.”

  Their gazes locked. She flushed.

  He kept on, ruthlessly. “I’ve never asked much of you. I’ve treated you like the princess I think you are. When John died I gave you time, when I was so in love with you I couldn’t stand it. Even up on the Pecos, I didn’t push you—not when it would have been my right. I’ve accepted this child. Tried my damndest to feel like a father. I know I let you down a few times and damn, I’m sorry, I wish I could do it over. But now I’m asking something of you. I’ve never asked you for anything before. As your husband I’m not even required to ask you for anything, but I am. Please come home with me—please try to make a life with me, at my side.”

  Her beautiful violet eyes were wet, and two pink stains crept along her cheeks. “I’ll try, Derek,” she said softly.

  Chapter 78

  “Derek, it’s beautiful!”

  He smiled, ridiculously pleased, and swung down from the wagon. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do,” he said modestly, looking at h
er to see if she meant it. “Here.”

  Miranda slid over to him, and he carefully helped her down.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” He was worried. They had traveled at a snail’s pace, even though he had been assured by two doctors that a wagon ride would not hurt Miranda in her condition. Every rut had made him wince.

  “Fine,” she assured him, smiling and looking around. When she had said she’d try to make a life with him out here in the wilderness, by his side, she had meant it—thoroughly ashamed of herself when she realized that everything he had said was true. She loved Derek, and in the course of their relationship he had done nothing but give—while all she had done was take. Now she was going to give everything she had because she loved him so dearly.

  “Let me show you inside,” he said, taking her elbow.

  He showed her the kitchen. The hearth was as before, a great iron kettle hanging inside it. He had made a round table big enough for eight, and eight chairs, all of oak. The floors were oak planking. There was a large work space, and Derek had installed an indoor pump.

  “An indoor pump,” Miranda breathed, going over to it and trying it. She smiled when water dripped out into the tin basin on legs.

  “I don’t want you having to run back and forth to the well,” he said. He turned as Elena burst into the kitchen with a cry.

  “Soon a niño,” she cried, overjoyed. Like everyone else, she thought the child was Derek’s. “A big, brave boy, to grow to a big, brave man, like his father.”

  Miranda smiled, hugging her. “It’s so good to see you,” she cried. Derek had told her how Elena had hidden and survived Chavez’s raid. She had been living these past months in town, and had been eager to return to Miranda and the JB.