by Linda Ford
After a bit, his emotions back in order, Brand hunkered down beside the blazing fire, forced to sit a good distance away to avoid being scorched.
Dawg stretched out at his side.
For a time Brand stared into the flames.
“Dawg, you should have seen the commotion.” He didn’t know if he meant the runaway horses or the reaction to his rescue of Sybil.
“Miss Sybil just stood there as if frozen.” He’d seen her eyes. Expected the fear he saw. But there was something more—a watchfulness that surprised him. There was something intriguing about the golden miss.
He dug his fingers into Dawg’s fur. “Could be it’s because she’s such a fine looking woman that I can hardly keep my eyes off her.” But his gut said it was more than that. Something that made him consider turning his back on the facts of his life and living recklessly free for a few days, just so he could enjoy spending time with her.
He reminded his gut that to do so would put her in danger. Association with a Duggan—even one not involved in the unsavory exploits of the gang—would sully her name.
Trouble with his gut was it never listened to reason.
* * *
How mortifying to be pressed so intimately close to a complete stranger. A big, strong, deep-voiced stranger. Sybil had struggled with trying to decide if she should swoon or fight, when in truth she didn’t care to do either. What she’d been tempted to do was so strange, so foreign, she wondered if she’d momentarily taken leave of her senses. She wanted to look into his face and memorize every detail.
Surely her reactions were confused because of the thudding stampede of horses she felt certain would run over her.
She and Mercy had joined the cowboys crowded against the heavy rail fence cheering for the man riding the wild horse. She hadn’t felt like cheering. Instead, she’d shuddered as the animal bucked and twisted and snorted in an attempt to dislodge the man on his back. How did he stay glued to the saddle? And didn’t all that jolting hurt every bone in his body? Here was a man who thrived on danger. Yet, as she watched him clinging to the back of the wild horse, something tickled her insides. Excitement? Fear? Admiration? She couldn’t find words to describe it. And she fancied herself a writer!
The horse had stopped bucking and stood quivering as the big man brushed his hand along its neck and murmured words she couldn’t hear, but that stirred her deep inside.
Then a crack as loud as a gunshot had jolted through the air.
A dozen horses had crowded against a split gate. It swayed and then crashed to the ground. The sound of hoofbeats thundered. Frightened horses squealed. The animals were a blur of wild eyes and flying manes.
Sybil had taken a step back, her mouth dry. The noise boomed inside her chest. Dust clogged her nostrils. Uncertain which way to flee, she’d frozen in fear at the melee.
And then she’d been swept off her feet. Rescued from the screaming horses.
No wonder her heart thudded as if she’d run a mile, and she couldn’t look away from his face.
But she could not avoid the truth about how unusual her reaction had been, nor could she face the others until she had herself under control. As soon as she reached the big ranch house she excused herself to go to the room down the hall from the kitchen.
Life in the West was certainly different from the one she’d known back in England.
At the thought of where she’d come from, her tension returned. She sat on the edge of her bed and pressed cool fingers to her hot cheeks. Of course she was upset. Her fear had immobilized her. She would have been trampled to death if the bronc buster hadn’t swept her off her feet and pressed her to his chest.
A very broad, comforting chest.
Sybil, stop it. It doesn’t matter if the chest was broad or fat or sweaty or...
But it wasn’t. He smelled of leather and horses and wild grass. A very pleasing blend of aromas.
That doesn’t matter. He means nothing to you and will mean nothing to you. Besides, didn’t Eddie say the man would stay only long enough to break some horses? And hadn’t Eddie further said the man gave no last name?
Quite the sort of fellow any woman would do well to avoid.
Not that Sybil Bannerman had any intention of doing otherwise. In her twenty years, she’d had her fill of people being snatched from her life or simply leaving of their own will, breaking off pieces of her heart in the process.
She bent over her knees as painful memories assailed her.
At only twelve years of age, Suzette, her dearest friend in the whole world, had drowned, leaving Sybil, also twelve at the time, lost, afraid and missing a very large portion of her heart.
She’d recovered enough at age sixteen to give her heart to Colin, the preacher’s son. They’d spent hours talking of their hopes and plans, and dreaming of a future together. She’d finally found a soul mate to replace Suzette. She had opened her heart to Colin, expecting his attention to grow into a formal courtship. She even dreamed of the frothy white dress she’d wear at their wedding, and considered where they might live. For the first time since Suzette’s death she’d felt whole and eager to share her thoughts and dreams.
No one had warned her it was temporary. Colin had never hinted that he’d changed his mind about how he felt about her, but a year after they met he left without a word of explanation. He never wrote or made any effort to keep in touch.
Another slice of her heart was cut off.
Losing her parents to fever a year and a half ago, within a few weeks of each other, had been the final blow.
From now on, she vowed, she would guard her heart, though she had very little of it left.
She sat up. Why was she having this argument with herself? It wasn’t as if being rescued by Brand meant anything. As he said, he was simply in the right place at the right time. It made sense that she would feel some type of bond with a man who saved her life. But that’s all it was.
Intending to calm herself, she pulled a notebook to her lap, just as Mercy rapped on the door and entered, without waiting for an invitation to do so.
Mercy nodded at the journal. “I’m guessing you’re writing all about that handsome cowboy.”
Her friends knew she made short notes about each day in her diary. They would never believe she wrote for publication. She’d never told them. Most people she knew didn’t think a young woman should have her name mentioned in such a public way.
She didn’t mind that as much as knowing most people didn’t think a young woman would have anything of value or interest to say. That had been the comment of the only editor she’d been brave enough to speak to, a couple years back.
But surely Mercy would understand. She didn’t share the same sense of outrage at women doing different things.
Sybil retrieved papers she’d secreted away earlier. “I’m writing a story.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember reading that article written by Ellis West? You know. The one that described the ship’s captain from our journey here.”
Mercy laughed. “He really made us see the pompous man.”
“I’m Ellis West.”
Mercy snorted. “Ellis West is a man.”
“No. It’s a pseudonym I use.”
Her friend’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Are you sure?”
Sybil laughed. “Of course I’m sure. Why do you find it so hard to accept?” Was she wrong in thinking Mercy would understand?
“You?” Mercy shook her head. “It just seems so out of character.”
“Look at this if you don’t believe me.” She held out her notes for an article about the life of a cowboy.
Mercy read them through. “You wrote this?”
Sybil sighed. “What does it take to convince you? Remember Mrs. Page on the boat? She’s secreta
ry to the editor of a newspaper back East. She saw me writing and asked about it. I showed her what I’d written about the captain. She asked if I had more. I gave her four stories I’d composed, mostly for the fun of it.” Though even after the rude rejection by the one editor Sybil had seen, the desire to write just wouldn’t leave her. “She took them immediately to the editor, who offered to publish them. I gave him half a dozen stories before I left the ship.” They’d been published and she’d sent several more describing the West and the inhabitants of the territory. She expected they might have already appeared in the Toronto paper. The newspapers didn’t reach Edendale for several weeks after they appeared back East.
Mercy hugged her. “How exciting.”
“The editor has asked me to find a bigger-than-life cowboy and write his story.” He’d offered a nice sum of money for such an article.
An idea flared through her head. She’d had recent experience with a bigger-than-life cowboy, a hero, as she’d said. “Brand—best bronc breaker in the country—fits the bill to perfection.”
Mercy bounced up and down on the bed. “He’s exactly what you need. I say write his story.”
“But how am I to get the details of his life?” Sure, Sybil could ask others what they knew. Certainly make her own observations. But the best source was the man himself.
Her skin burned. Her lungs refused to do their job. There was no way she could ever approach this man and ask personal questions. There was something about him that threatened the locks on her heart.
You’re being silly. He is just a man. Observe. Ask questions. That’s all you need to do. He doesn’t have to know that you’re writing something about him. Besides, she’d learned people were more honest, their answers more raw, if they weren’t aware they were being interviewed. And who would suspect a woman of interviewing them for a story, anyway?
She could not let this opportunity pass. Or let her natural reticence—or as Mercy insisted, her fear—get in the way of this story.
“All you have to do is ask him questions. You’re very good at that. People seem to trust you.” Mercy flung herself back on Sybil’s bed. “With good reason. You are a good person.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so.” Sybil listened distractedly as her friend chattered on about whom she’d seen and talked to, and how she meant to pursue certain activities, until Sybil caught the words, “learn to trick ride.”
She spun around to confront her. “Tell me I didn’t hear you say you mean to learn to trick ride.”
“Okay. You didn’t hear me say that.” Mercy grinned.
“Good. Honestly, sometimes you scare me with your rash words and even rasher actions.”
Mercy regarded her with a teasing grin. “No more than you worry me with your careful way of living. Sybil, my friend, if you’re not cautious you’ll end up living a barren life, when there is so much to know and enjoy out here.” She waved her arms in a wide circle as if encompassing the world.
“I’d sooner be safe.” Sybil hoped Mercy would never learn that barrenness felt better than having your heart shredded. Besides, she experienced lots of adventures through the stories others told her. All without the risk to herself.
Mercy laughed. “And I’d sooner have fun.” She draped an arm about Sybil’s shoulders and rested her forehead against hers. “We are an odd pair and yet you are my best friend.”
“What about Jayne?” Jayne Gardiner Collins had been good friends with her and Mercy for several years...since they’d met at a tea party given by a dowager of London society. Despite their differences in nature, they got along well, and the three of them had crossed the ocean and traveled across most of Canada together. Sybil had allowed herself these friendships, knowing from the start they wouldn’t last forever. The three of them would go their separate ways. Some to marriage. Likely they would lose touch. Truth was, Sybil simply kept most of her heart safely protected from the pain she knew she’d experience by allowing any friendship to grow.
“Pshaw.” Mercy waved her hand dismissively. “She’s no longer any fun. She’s only interested in Seth. Honestly, I get tired of ‘Seth said this, Seth did that, Seth likes such and such.’”
Sybil giggled. “They’re in love. What do you expect?”
Mercy laughed, too. “I’m never going to let her forget she had to shoot him to catch him.”
“It was an accident,” Sybil protested.
They fell back against the bed, laughing at the memory. “I tried to warn the pair of you that no good would come of shooting a gun.”
“And she proved you wrong.”
“I guess she did.”
“Goes to show you should live a little dangerously once in a while. It’s worth the risks.”
Mercy left a few minutes later.
Sybil stared at the wall. Could she write Brand’s story? Yes, of course she could. The bigger question was could she do it without endangering the carefully constructed walls about her already damaged heart? The man held inherent risks for her, as she’d already discovered by her reaction to being rescued by him.
Oh, stop fretting about that. You were frightened. Snatched into the arms of a tall, dark stranger. It was an unusual experience. Of course you had an unusual reaction.
She made up her mind. She’d write the story, keeping her eyes wide-open to both her initial, surprising response and her prior knowledge that he didn’t mean to stay. Eddie said the man never did. He was a born wanderer. Forewarned was forearmed. This time, unlike her unfortunate experience with Colin, she knew what to expect.
She pulled out pen and paper and wrote a letter to the publisher.
I have exactly the man for the assignment you’ve offered. He is a bronc rider, a quiet loner, a strong and mysterious man. Certainly bigger than life in a world that is full of strong, bold men.
She would find ways to get information about him without letting her silly reaction to being rescued cloud her good sense.
Chapter Two
Her resolve to pursue a story about this man firmly in place, Sybil went to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you weren’t hurt?” Linette asked as she bustled about the large room. A big wooden table filled one corner; cupboards and shelves occupied the opposite corner. East windows on either side of the outer door allowed them to enjoy the sunrise as they ate breakfast. Another door opened to a spacious, well-stocked pantry, and a third doorway opened to the hall that led to the rest of the house. Another door, always closed, hid the formal dining room, which Linette refused to use.
Even though she expected a baby in a few months, it didn’t slow her down. She never seemed to stop working.
“Frightened is all, but I’m fine now. What can I do to help?”
Mercy sliced carrots into a pot.
Roasting meat filled the room with enough aroma to make Sybil’s mouth water. Food certainly tasted better when it came fresh from the garden and when she had a hand in preparing it. Something she’d never done before her arrival at the ranch.
Meeting a man like Brand—big, strong, bold—would have never happened back in England, either. The men she’d been acquainted with would pale in comparison.
Mercy paused. “That bronc buster is a fine-looking man.” She gave Sybil a glance that demanded a response.
“Can’t say I really noticed.”
Mercy laughed. “Hard to see much with your face smashed against his shirtfront.”
“He was fast enough and brave enough to rescue me. I thank God for that.” Except she’d forgotten to thank Him and she made up for it on the spot, uttering silent thanks.
“I join in thanking God,” Linette said as she poured water from the boiled potatoes, saving it in a jar to use later, when she made bread.
Sybil watched everything Linette did. She’d found so much satisfaction
in learning to cook meals, bake bread and cookies, and even preserve garden produce for the approaching winter months. She’d only meant the trip to western Canada as a chance to start over, to rebuild her heart and strengthen the barriers around it, but she’d found so much more. She’d found purpose in doing useful things.
“I regret Mr. Brand refused to come for supper,” Linette said. “But I’ve decided to send supper to him. Eddie said he’d be an hour yet. Would you two take a meal to Mr. Brand?”
“Of course,” Mercy said.
Sybil wanted to refuse, because her heart still beat a little too fast as she remembered being held so firmly. But it provided a chance to meet him in a less emotionally packed way and learn about him, so she could write a fine story. “Certainly we’ll take a meal to him.” No need for her silly reaction to repeat itself. She knew how to control her emotions.
Linette piled a plate high with what looked to Sybil like enough food to feed a family. She couldn’t get used to the amount a working cowboy ate. Linette must have noticed her surprise. She chuckled. “I’m guessing a man who makes his own meals around a campfire would enjoy a home-cooked meal.” She wrapped the plate in a cloth and handed the bundle to Sybil.
Sybil and Mercy left the house. They paused at the corrals, where the gate had been repaired and the wild horses had settled down. They asked where they could find Brand, and Eddie directed them to the east. They crossed the yard, the grass beaten down and brown after a summer of wear. What must it be like for Brand to eat and sleep outside as the nights grew colder? Sybil wondered. Any cowboy, not just him.
“You be sure and have a good look at him this time,” Mercy said as they climbed the hill and made their way through some trees.
