by Linda Ford
They drew closer. Dawg whined and looked back.
“Do you want to play with them?” Brand asked.
The dog gave a little bark.
“Go ahead. Suit yourself.” He never would have guessed Dawg would want this.
But Dawg yapped and ran toward the children, his wounds completely forgotten. The youngsters halted and waited, uncertain about Dawg’s behavior. Thor bounced a safe distance away and watched the dog with wide eyes.
“He wants to play,” Brand said.
Neil crouched down and held out a hand.
Dawg went eagerly, squirming with excitement. Suddenly all the children surrounded him, then backed away, calling him, as Dawg ran from one to the other, barking happily.
Daisy turned toward the adults. “Do you want to play tag?”
Sybil grabbed Brand’s arm. Her fingers dug into his muscle. He couldn’t tell if it signaled fear or anticipation. Was she afraid of the children? Or did she long to play with them? He was about to say no when Billy tagged Sybil.
“You’re it and you can’t catch me.”
The children closed around them, teasing her to catch them. Brand had instinctively stepped away from her so he became part of the circle.
In the moonlight her eyes were dark and unreadable, but her lips were parted as if surprise held her immobile.
Billy darted toward her. “Catch me if you can.”
She scrubbed her lips together, considering the challenge, and then darted toward the boy.
He shrieked and ran away. The other children scattered.
Brand ran, too. He’d played this game many times as a child. Often with Cyrus thudding after him. His heart clenched. He missed Cyrus. Not the man who had become part of the Duggan gang, but the big brother who had played with him. He lost his concentration and turned to look up the hill toward the little graveyard. Even if the sun shone overhead he couldn’t see from where he stood, but he knew the exact location of Pa and Cyrus’s final resting place. Would he see them both along with Ma in the hereafter?
He realized footsteps raced toward him, and ducked away.
They played a rowdy game of tag with the children, catching and being caught their share of times.
He was it again, having been tagged by Neil. The children raced off, disappearing in the shadows. But Sybil’s golden hair caught the moonlight and gave away her position. He knew if he raced toward her, she would run the opposite direction, so he tiptoed in a roundabout way until he came up behind her. She strained forward, listening for his approach, ready to take flight. For a heartbeat, two, three, he didn’t move. He simply stood there taking in the fact of his freedom. For the first time in many years he could take part in a simple game of tag without glancing over his shoulder, fearing the Duggan gang.
Grinning for a dozen different reasons, he tiptoed forward.
Sybil must have heard him, for she turned just as he reached forward to tag her. His hand caught her arm. “You’re it.”
Was that hoarse voice his?
“Oh, you. Sneaking up on a girl like that.”
“All’s fair.” In love and war. He felt suspended between the two. The war of outrunning Pa and Cyrus was over. But he was not ready to believe he could love and be loved. He hadn’t felt that way since Ma died. Not that that was the sort of love he ached for. When had his thoughts gotten so muddled? He released her arm and called, “Sybil’s it.”
The children dashed by her, teasing and tempting her to chase them.
The game continued in the cool, moon-drenched evening until a rectangle of light shone from either end of the ranch and Linette and Cassie called out to their respective children. “Come in now. It’s bedtime.”
The little ones stopped their play and sighed. Then, calling good-night over their shoulders, they trotted home.
Sybil chuckled. “That was fun. It’s the first time I played tag.”
He stared at her. “You’re joshing.”
“No, really.”
“That’s positively unnatural. Tag is a favorite children’s game.” They fell in step, side by side, and walked to the bridge.
She shrugged one shoulder. “I had other amusements.”
“Like what?”
“My books and papers. I loved making my own paper dolls.”
He thought it best not to say that a normal childhood had its share of rowdy play.
“These children are very fortunate.” Her voice carried a note of wistfulness.
He could name a number of ways that was true, but wanted to know what she meant, and asked her.
“They are loved by people who haven’t any obligation to love them.”
“That’s a fact. Linette is to have a baby soon. Won’t Grady feel misplaced?”
Sybil laughed gently. “Linette and Eddie aren’t like that. Nor are Roper and Cassie. A child of their union won’t cause them to love the other children any less.”
“How can you be so certain?”
She looked into his face, studying him, perhaps wondering if there was a reason behind his question. Maybe there was. Pa had loved him, of that he was certain. But his love was on again, off again, depending on whether or not Pa felt Brand did what he wanted. And because Brand mostly hadn’t, he’d often felt his father didn’t really love him. Not like he did Cyrus.
Sybil rubbed her warm palm along Brand’s arm. “My father taught me love is both a feeling and a choice. Even when you don’t feel the emotion, you choose to love.”
“That sounds pretend.”
“No. It sounds real.”
He decided to change the subject. “I expect there is someone back in England hoping to marry you.” She’d never mentioned it, but he could imagine many suitors beat a pathway to her door.
She gave his arm a harmless tap, then withdrew her hand.
Funny how he suddenly felt cold. And alone.
“Do you really think I’d go out walking with you if someone back home had asked for my hand?”
“No. Why are you walking with me?” He wanted to slam his head against the nearest post. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut around her?
“Why do you think?”
He turned her so the moonlight fell directly on her face. He saw uncertainty in her eyes and something more. Was it...? No. It couldn’t be.
But before he could marshal a response, she tucked her arm around his elbow and drew him along the path.
“I enjoy the children here. I’ve never been around many before. I hope to marry someday, and have more than one child, so they wouldn’t be lonely. But that’s in God’s hands, isn’t it?”
Brand’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. What was in God’s hands? Marriage or children?
They reached the top of the hill and stopped. She turned her face up to him with an expectant look. Did she want to be kissed? He couldn’t believe that’s what her glance meant. But had all this talk of children and new beginnings made her forget that Brand was a Duggan? A homeless, penniless cowboy? He’d kissed her once. Out of gratitude. If he kissed her now it would be for an entirely different reason. Would she welcome his interest? Or find him presumptuous and far too bold? He weighed his options.
She sighed and turned away. “We should be getting back.”
He’d waited too long. The opportunity had passed. Probably a good thing, but he found no comfort in the thought.
He escorted her to within a few feet of the door. “Good night,” he murmured. His instinct was to run down the hill, throw himself on the back of his horse and leave, while he still had an ounce of good sense left. But he was through running from the Duggan name and his fears. He’d go only if someone made it clear he should.
In the meantime, he didn’t intend to walk away until Sybil was safely indoors.
“Good night,” she whispered, her hand brushing his arm. “I enjoyed the evening.”
Before he could pull a word or question from his brain, she stepped inside. Did she enjoy the evening because the children played tag with them or because of their moonlit walk?
Perhaps it was best not to know. That way he could allow himself to dream a few dreams.
* * *
Sybil’s thoughts tangled like knotted yarn. Did Brand care about her? How could she make him understand how she felt?
Hoping to sort out her troubled thoughts, she reached for her Bible. The book fell open at Proverbs, but she continued to turn pages until she reached the Song of Solomon...a lover’s song. Surely it would answer her questions.
But after a few minutes she closed her Bible, as mixed up as ever. She wrote in her notebook. I need wisdom from above. God, please guide my path.
She pulled out her notes on Brand. She had so many questions, but the answers weren’t for her story. They were for her heart. She studied the pages. It was a good story. One her editor would like. But she couldn’t bring herself to send it. What she knew about Brand seemed like a trust he’d given her. She didn’t want to dishonor that.
She put the pages back in the drawer, then lay back on the bed, recalling every moment of the evening. Playing tag had been so much fun. Seeing the children enjoying each other...
A story idea sprang into her head, and she grabbed paper and pencil and wrote for two hours before turning out the lamp and crawling into bed.
Brand had asked her about her dream of publishing her stories. She’d thought the dream had died, but found it had lain dormant as it grew and matured.
Over the next couple days Sybil found it impossible to explain this drive in her, this urgency to see Brand, to spend as much time with him as possible. She stopped trying to justify it to herself and others. She stopped trying to make excuses, and simply rushed down the hill every evening to where he waited.
Sometimes the children came out and played tag with them. Always she and Brand walked. And she asked questions. What was his favorite color?
“Gold,” he said. “The same shade of gold as your hair.” His answer brought pleasant warmth to her cheeks.
She wanted to know the name of every place he’d worked or lived.
He hesitated at first, then told her of the many places. Some where he’d wished he could stay longer but hadn’t dared. Others where he couldn’t wait to move on. Only when she pressed did he admit that not everyone welcomed a stranger who wouldn’t reveal his last name.
“It didn’t matter to Eddie,” she said.
“Eddie is a good man, a fair boss.”
Then she wanted to know about every injury he’d incurred, no matter how minor. “Like the banging your leg took when Cal brought in that outlaw horse.”
Brand laughed, draped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her close. “Sybil, bumps and bruises are an everyday part of my work, and ranch life in general. I don’t take note of such minor things.”
She turned to observe his face. “How about the major ones?”
At first she thought he would give the same answer, then his mouth twisted in a wry grin. “They only count if they mean I can’t ride.”
“Do you mean ride wild horses or ride away?”
He nodded. “Yup.”
She laughed and nudged him in the ribs.
He groaned and pretended to be hurt.
“How many times have you been unable to ride?”
“Twice.” She heard the regret in his voice. “Once I cut my foot on a tin can someone had carelessly tossed into a pasture. It got infected and I had to rest a few days. Even when I left, I couldn’t put my boot on. Carried it over the saddle horn.”
She joined him in laughing about the situation, though her insides tightened at the idea of his suffering and the risk he took riding with an unhealed foot. “And the other time?”
“Well, that was entirely my fault.”
“What did you do?” She pushed her shoulder against his chest as if the movement could force the words from him.
“I let myself be distracted momentarily while working with a horse. Ended up getting kicked.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, the kick didn’t hurt that much. But I was mad and I got back on the horse. I was not in the frame of mind I needed to be in when dealing with a wild animal. He threw me before I found my balance. Right into the boards. Knocked me out and cut my head.” Brand bent and showed her where the cut had been, just above his left ear.
She parted his hair to examine his head under the light from the lantern by the barn door. She couldn’t see anything, but touching him like that made the air feel light as butterfly wings. “Glad to see you survived.” Her voice was husky.
“Couldn’t see straight for two days. Had a sore head for a long time.”
“Ah.” That was all she said.
He squinted at her. “Ah? What does that mean?”
She shrugged. “Only that it explains a few things.”
He caught her elbows. “Like what?” His own voice had grown low.
She pretended to try and wriggle free, though she hoped he wouldn’t take her seriously and drop his hands. “Now I understand why you act so thickheaded at times.”
“When have I ever done that?”
Her thoughts stalled. Only one thing came to mind and she wasn’t sure she should mention it.
He shook her gently. “Tell me.”
“Well, if you insist, I’d have to say that to keep running from the Duggan gang when it no longer exists is pretty thickheaded.”
He dropped his hands to his sides and studied her long and hard. “I’m through running.”
She touched his arm. “I’m glad.”
One more question burned to be asked. “Have you ever left a brokenhearted girl behind?”
“No. Never.”
“Really? No love interests?” Sybil could hardly believe it.
“Once I thought myself in love.” He told her about May.
Sybil sensed how hurt he’d been, and wrapped her arm around his as they walked along the path toward the bridge, where they stopped. She raised her face to him as she did every evening, on the pretext of deep interest in something he said. It wasn’t that her interest wasn’t real, but what she really hoped for was a sign of growing affection on his part.
A kiss from Brand would signal he felt the same thing.
But each time, he looked ready to accept her silent invitation...then blinked and shifted away. Perhaps he didn’t share her feelings. Perhaps she was wrong in thinking he cared.
Chapter Seventeen
Being part of a crew made Brand more nervous than riding a rank horse. He was never sure what to say. He’d forgotten how to sit at a table and make conversation. Sleeping in a bunkhouse with others made his skin twitch. But it was worth it to see Sybil every day. He often observed her helping Linette or visiting with Jayne during the day. And each evening, she joined him for a walk. He’d never known such sweet moments.
She stood before him this evening, her face upturned to him. He studied her expression, memorizing every feature, branding it indelibly on his memory. As long as he lived and drew breath he would remember these evenings with joy.
He touched a wayward curl and pulled in a breath at the satiny feel of her hair. A fine lady from high-class society. And yet she smiled at him. Tipped her face toward his touch.
“Sybil?” He whispered her name. Was he misreading the invitation in her eyes?
“Brand.” She lifted a hand and pressed her palm to his chest.
“You are a fine lady.”
Her smile widened. “And you are a fine gentleman.”
He grinned at
that. “I’m just a cowboy.”
“I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive.”
His smile spread further. “I suppose not.”
Her fingers teased the hair above his ear. Tingles of anticipation flooded his brain, even as more tingles raced up his arm and pounded through his heart. Was it possible she wanted what he wanted? A kiss? And so much more. A kiss would merely signal all the things he hoped for and dared not dream of. Love, acceptance, family, home...
“Sybil.” He whispered her name, again disturbing the curl on her forehead. For a moment it held his attention.
“Yes?” Her sweet breath brushed his face.
“Sybil, would you think me overly bold if I said I want to kiss you?”
“Mostly I would think it’s about time.”
He chuckled, delighted at her response, and slowly lowered his head, anxious to claim her lips, but wanting the moment to last forever.
She went up on her toes and met him halfway.
Her lips were warm and welcoming. Sweet as nectar.
He would have lingered, drowning in the million sensations and delights flooding through him, but he didn’t want to frighten her away, so he broke off the kiss and pressed her head to his shoulder.
She sighed.
And he knew satisfaction he’d never before experienced. He wished he could find words to describe it. “I can’t remember ever feeling like this.” It didn’t begin to say what he felt.
“What do you feel?”
“I think...” He swallowed hard, awed by the warm emotions flooding his heart and spreading to his limbs. Could this be love?
If he loved her, he would keep it secret. He didn’t deserve someone like her. “Sybil, I’m just a poor lonely cowboy.”
“Brand, I’m just a poor lonely English girl.”
“Poor?”
“Did you think I was rich?” She leaned back to study him. “I’m not. When my parents died I was left almost penniless.” She paused, her expression filled with questions. “Would it make a difference if I were rich?”
He studied the question. “You deserve a nice house and...”
