Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  Derek took her arm and led Miranda into the parlor, which boasted a couch in front of the hearth and two chairs, all purchased on credit. “We’ll just keep adding until the place is exactly the way you want it.”

  Miranda smiled. “I love it,” she told him, meaning it, surprised that she did. “I love it because you did all this by yourself, for us.” She rubbed her belly.

  Sometimes, every now and then, her maternal and expectant pride would cause a rising feeling of anguish, bitterness, and dismay in Derek. Like now. He quickly quelled it. He was going to be a good father. He was going to make Miranda happy.

  “I think you should lie down and rest,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom. “Elena can bring you in some lunch.”

  Miranda stared at the bedroom, the coziest room in the house. The bed was a four-poster of oak, and she knew it had been made to order in San Antonio from the Swedish cabinetmaker. There was a plush chair and footstool in front of the fireplace, and a fur rug both there and on one side of the bed—her side, Derek told her, so her feet wouldn’t get cold when she got up in the morning. A beautiful quilt coverd the bed, handmade, many different pieces sewn together. There were two windows on either side, both with cheerful curtains, tiny pink roses with green stems on a cream background. There was a small table on her side of the bed, too, with a candle and a book. In a far corner of the room, past a pine wardrobe, was a lacquered screen. Behind that was a washstand and chamber pot and a copper tub. The bedroom was by far the largest room in the house.

  She walked around the bed and picked up the book on the nightstand. It was a Bible. She felt tears rise, and she opened it and saw the inscription. “From your loving husband, always, Derek.”

  She turned to him. He was waiting, his eyes so intense, so warm and loving. “Thank you,” she whispered. “This is—so beautiful, Derek.” She clutched the Bible to her breast.

  He smiled. “I want to give you more, Miranda, and I will, one day. Jewels and silks and—”

  She reached him in time to cut him off, placing one finger on his lip. “This is enough.”

  He hesitated, then lowered his face, touching her mouth very softly with his. Their love enveloped them, soaring.

  Chapter 79

  A few days after he had brought her back to the JB, Derek was out riding to take a count of his stock to see what was left on his land, and where. He was about ten miles from the house, high on a ridge overlooking his valley. He turned his gaze to the northwest, disturbed, and instantly saw why. Some ten miles away, there was a great group of riders coming at an easy pace, probably a trot, indistinct except for the cloud of dust. An awful feeling seared him.

  His eye was trained. Even at such a distance, he could tell there must be two hundred riders. So many riders had to mean trouble. Miranda was back at the house—alone except for Elena and one teenage boy he had hired on for room and board and the promise of wages. He spurred the chestnut into a gallop and raced back to the ranch at breakneck speed.

  He couldn’t help but think: Comanche.

  They had been too quiet for the past few months. The twelve renegades who had attacked their camp on the Pecos didn’t count—that kind of raid was a part of Comanche life, the way they lived. There could be no other explanation for several hundred riders than a Comanche war party heading toward San Antonio. And the JB was almost in their path.

  He galloped into the yard, yelling for the boy, Jake, and immediately gave instructions. He shouted for Miranda, who had already come running when she heard him arrive. “Derek, what is it?” she cried.

  “Start pumping water,” he said, “and douse the house down.”

  “What’s happening?” She became frightened.

  “Now,” he roared. “Have Elena help you.”

  They closed the shutters on all the windows of the house, bolting them. The shutters were made of six-inch-thick oak, with just such an emergency in mind. The original house had been built to withstand a siege if something so unthinkable should ever occur, and Derek had rebuilt it the same way. All smoked meats were brought in from the smokehouse. The four horses were brought into the parlor and hobbled. Ammunition and guns were laid out. Then Derek and Jake helped the women throw pail after pail of water over the house. He was glad it wasn’t larger, and thanked God that it had rained the past two nights in a row.

  “It’s Comanche, isn’t it?” Miranda cried, leaning against a pillar and rubbing her back.

  “You’ve done enough,” he said sharply. “Go inside, stand by the hearth in the parlor. Do you remember how to load rifles, Miranda?”

  “I don’t know,” she said tightly, her face white.

  “Just go inside,” he said.

  “Jesus!” Jake yelled. “I can hear them!”

  So could Derek. The thundering was like an earthquake underfoot. He saw the mass of riders, and his heart leaped to his throat. He had been wrong. There weren’t two hundred, but twice that number. “Everyone inside,” he said, his voice even and cool now. He slammed the thick oak door behind him, bolting it, and he and Jake pulled all the furniture in front of it. “Jake, you take the bedroom,” he said.

  He went to stand by the one window in the parlor, now shuttered. Each shutter had a small window to fire from, something quite common in Texas. “Elena, you show Miranda how to load, in case she’s forgotten. I want both of you to keep a steady supply of loaded weapons for me and Jake.”

  “It’s done,” Elena said.

  Miranda couldn’t move. She was frozen with fear. She realized that Elena was talking to her, and she looked at her, staring without seeing. Then she heard the war cries, and Derek and Jake both firing.

  Something snapped inside her. Her husband, whom she loved, was standing there defending her, their baby, and their home from these savages. Anger rose in her, furious and boiling over. She reached down, picked up a rifle, and ran to the window to stand by Derek’s side.

  “What are you doing?” he said, glancing briefly at her.

  She gritted her teeth and poked the rifle through the square opening in the shutter, peering through. She gasped, fear filling her up again. Never had she seen so many Indians at once, all painted and screaming. They were shooting arrows at the house. A few had muskets, and a very few had modern rifles. They had torched the out-buildings, and were torching their home. Anger welled anew in Miranda’s heart. She aimed and fired, crying out when her target fell from his pony.

  “Great shot!” Derek exclaimed, tossing his Colt to Elena, picking up a rifle. He handed Miranda his other Colt. “Use this. You were always better with the six-shooter than the rifle.”

  They stood side by side for what seemed like hours to Miranda, but in truth was less than thirty minutes. Over half the Comanche had not even stopped when they rode up to the house, had kept on going toward San Antonio. The house did not catch fire. Miranda didn’t know how many Comanche Jake and Derek had shot, but she herself had hit at least six. Then as suddenly as they attacked, they wheeled and rode away, south.

  The yard was littered with wounded and dead Indians, two dozen or more.

  Miranda placed her Colt on the windowsill and brushed the sweat out of her eyes. She realized that Derek was staring at her, and she managed a wan smile. “My back is killing me,” she said.

  “Miranda,” Derek breathed. “Miranda, look what you did.”

  She looked at him and suddenly smiled, a smile so triumphant that his heart leaped wildly. “We showed them,” she said fiercely. “Those bastards will think twice about ever coming here again!”

  Derek threw back his head and roared with laughter, then swept her into his arms. “God, you’re magnificent,” he said.

  Chapter 80

  The war party of Comanche, numbering five hundred, swept past San Antonio to obliterate Victorio, then proceeded to destroy the coastal town of Linnville. The Comanche then headed back to their plains with two thousand stolen horses, leaving twenty-four Texans dead.

  Ev
ery able-bodied male Texan rallied, including Derek. At Plum Creek the Texans avenged their dead, killing fifty Comanche, not losing a single man. Derek returned home to the JB, but some ninety Texans pressed their advantage, riding deep into Comanche territory. In October they launched a surprise attack, killing some one hundred and thirty Comanche, including women and children. The policy for dealing with the Comanche became settled, one of aggressive obliteration. It was the end of the Comanche heyday.

  On New Year’s Eve, Miranda went into labor. It was a long and difficult labor, twenty-two hours, but she delivered a squalling boy into Elena’s waiting hands, with Derek white-faced at her side, encouraging her. The baby instantly howled his protest at entering the world. Miranda collapsed on the bed, exhausted. Derek closed his eyes, just as fatigued. Elena began speaking excitedly in Spanish as she washed off the child’s afterbirth, praising all his attributes.

  “Derek?”

  “I’m here,” he said hoarsely. Never, ever did he want to go through this again. Never. He held her hand. Never in his life had he been so helpless, able to do nothing but encourage his wife while she suffered in agony. He was thoroughly shaken.

  “A boy?”

  “Yes, princess, a boy.” He bent and brushed his mouth across her wet temple. He was ready to collapse. Watching his wife give birth had been worse than running seventy miles a day for days on end!

  “Señor,” Elena cried, and before Derek knew it, she had handed him the squalling red-faced infant, swathed in a thick white towel.

  He stared, stunned, at the baby in his arms. Just what in hell was he supposed to do? “Elena, I can’t…let me do that,” he said. Elena was cleaning up Miranda, but he wasn’t watching. Instead, he found himself staring at the tiny baby, who was still howling. Tiny fingers moved on tiny hands. Incredible. Had his own son been this small when he was born? He couldn’t remember. He found himself rocking the child—he couldn’t just let it cry. But the baby still howled. “I think he’s hungry,” he said in a soft voice. At the sound of his voice, the baby stopped crying, looking at him out of blue eyes. Derek smiled.

  “Derek,” Miranda whispered, too exhausted to speak any louder.

  He responded, moving quickly to her side, carefully handing her the infant, afraid that he might drop him, afraid the child would break by mere transferral. He watched Miranda take him into her arms, her eyes shining.

  “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  Personally, Derek thought he was rather unattractive, but he kept his opinion to himself. He looked at his wife’s face, then stared at her son, fascinated. The infant was making sucking motions with his mouth. “He’s hungry,” Derek said, somewhat awed.

  Miranda shifted her baby, and he found her breast and began to suck greedily.

  Derek watched and thought about his son, wondered where he was, if he was all right. He felt grief trying to raise itself from deep inside, and he was surprised. He thought he had conquered his loss a long time ago. Suddenly he felt a surge of protective warmth for this tiny, vulnerable baby.

  Miranda cooed to him, making motherly noises. The baby finished nursing, but he didn’t sleep. His little fists flayed against his mother’s breasts.

  “What does he want now?” Derek asked, sitting by her side, unable to stop staring at the child.

  “I don’t know,” Miranda said, looking at her husband and seeing both the pain and the warmth there. Her heart turned over. She had known Derek would love little Nicholas.

  “Nick,” Derek said, and he took his finger and touched the boy’s hand. Nick immediately grabbed the proffered finger, his tiny hand wrapping around it. Derek laughed, trying to move his hand away, but the baby wouldn’t let go. “Look at that! He’s a strong little fella.”

  Miranda smiled.

  “I think he likes me,” Derek said, his pleasure showing on his face as Nick still clutched his finger.

  Miranda had no intention of informing Derek that she’d been told that all infants seemed to have this grasping instinct. She just smiled, never having felt more serene in her life.

  “How are you feeling?” Derek asked, transferring his attention to his wife. He saw that her eyes were closed, and she had already fallen asleep. He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly, then paused to study the baby. He, too, had fallen asleep. He smiled, glanced at the door to make sure that Elena wasn’t about to burst in, and kissed Nick’s forehead. Then he crawled into bed on the other side of his wife and collapsed into a deep sleep.

  Epilogue

  The D&M

  West Texas, 1850

  “Pa, she’s following us!”

  Derek smiled. “And making enough noise to stampede a herd of buffalo,” he said softly. But he was exaggerating, and he was very proud of his daughter. Storm was barely making a sound as she followed Derek and Nick through the woods. Not only was she as silent as a deer, she was also as fast as one. Why, she was almost as capable as her brother. Even little Rathe moved like an Apache. Derek was filled with pride.

  “Pa,” Nick whispered tersely, his brown, gold-flecked eyes flashing. They both stood motionless, peering through the forest at the grizzly, which was standing very still—squatting, actually, and sniffing. He had sensed them.

  Derek touched Nick’s shoulder in unspoken communication, well aware of Storm’s precise location. He should punish her for disobeying his orders and following them while they hunted the killer bear, but he didn’t have it in his heart. At least Rathe was too young to be up to such mischief—but the instant he thought that, he knew it wasn’t true. That boy was always in trouble.

  Nick and Derek crept forward for a clear shot, both holding their rifles ready. The bear stood, growling, and saw them. Nick stood side by side with Derek, both raising and cocking their rifles automatically. The bear gave a vicious cry of attack and lumbered toward them.

  Neither the man nor his son moved, or even flinched. The bear came into range. Nick’s bronzed face was sculpted with grim concentration. He sighted between the beast’s eyes. He fired.

  The beast gave a death roar and took two more steps before falling.

  “Great shot!” Derek cried, clapping Nick on his back. “Right between the eyes. Nick, I’m proud of you!”

  Nick grinned, flushed with his father’s praise, tossing a wave of black hair out of his eyes.

  “I could have done better,” Storm announced, coming out of the woods behind them.

  Nick snorted.

  “I’m just as good a shot as he is,” she cried. “Isn’t that so, Pa?”

  “You wish,” Nick said, but he was smiling in amusement, and so was Derek. They both exchanged glances, then simultaneously broke into laughter.

  “I’ve never met another girl with more braggadocio than five men put together,” Derek told his daughter, trying to look stern.

  “But I’m as good a shot, and as good a tracker, and a better rider!” Storm placed her hands on her buckskin-clad hips, blue eyes flashing. Except for her eyes, she had Derek’s incredible golden coloring.

  Nick smiled. “You’re in trouble, Storm,” he told her. “Pa, are you going to let her get away with this?”

  “Nope,” Derek said. “As long as you’re here, you can help Nick skin and butcher the bear.”

  Storm made a face. Nick grinned, and Derek supervised both children while they proceeded to obey him.

  Sometime later, the three of them rode across the valley and up to the sprawling, two-story ranch house, surrounded by barns, corrals, two bunkhouses, and a smokehouse. The land was green, spotted with oak, fir, and wildflowers. Five years ago they had sold the JB and built this ranch—their ranch.

  They dismounted, and Derek restrained Nick as Storm raced up the steps and across the veranda. Nick looked at his father questioningly. “You outdid yourself today,” Derek told him, slipping his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Nick grinned, and they walked in together.

  “Pa,” Storm shrieked, racing across the foyer to greet them at the
front door. “We have guests! Grandfather—and a cousin of Mother’s!”

  “Slow down,” Derek said, and followed his two excited children into the drawing room.

  Miranda rose immediately to her feet, and as always, he felt a flush of warmth at the sight of her. At twenty-seven she was rounder, shaplier than she had been, an incredibly breathtaking woman. He smiled, instantly feeling her distress, and understanding it. A long time ago Miranda had told him everything about her there was to know.

  “Derek, this is my father, Lord Shelton. And my cousin, Paul Langdon.”

  The two men stood. Shelton stepped forward, a tall, handsome man with silvery gray hair and sad eyes. “Bragg, this is a pleasure.”

  They shook hands. “My pleasure,” Derek said. “I’m so glad to finally meet you after all these years.”

  Shelton smiled. Derek meant it. Now that he was a father, he wanted to see Miranda reconciled with hers.

  Nick stepped forward, extending his hand. “I’m glad to meet you, sir,” he said with characteristic intensity.

  “And I am thrilled to meet you,” Shelton said softly, staring. He glanced at Derek.

  Derek felt anger rising up in him, defensive anger. Anytime someone compared him and his son, he knew they were wondering about Nick’s parentage, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Nick’s hair was blue black, darker than Miranda’s, his skin showing both Mexican and Indian blood. As Nick stepped back, Derek instinctively touched the boy’s shoulder, resting his hand there.

  “And you must be Angeline,” Shelton said, smiling.

  “Storm,” Storm said, grinning. “No one ever calls me Angeline. Except Ma, when she’s really mad.”

  Shelton laughed. “You have your father’s coloring but your mother’s eyes. Dark blue—almost purple. Your grandmother had those same eyes.” His voice was sad.

  Miranda saw and heard the sadness as he discussed her mother, and felt surprise. There was no mistaking the depth of his grief, even now, after so many years. In that instant, she felt she had been wrong about her father.