Читать книгу Dreaming Of A Western Christmas - Carol Arens - Страница 12

Chapter Three

Brand surreptitiously glanced back at her whenever the trail had a twist in it. She was working hard to stay upright in the saddle, but he could see she wouldn’t last much longer. Good. Maybe she’d think better of her crazy plan and turn tail back to Fort Hall.

But he had to admit that even though she drooped lower and lower over the saddle horn, he didn’t hear a whimper out of her. She might be hurting, but she sure had sand. He’d known women who’d be bawlin’ and beggin’ by this time.

An hour passed, and still the woman on the mare behind him made no sound. Aw, hell. She’d been through a lot, and he knew she was hurting; maybe he should cut her some slack.

Up ahead he spotted a copse of cottonwoods and a clear, rushing stream. End of the trail for today. He dismounted, looped the reins over a willow branch and walked back to the mare and its rider.

Her eyes were closed, her face sweaty and dust-streaked under the brim of her hat. She’d need help standing up.

He moved the toe of her boot out of the stirrup, reached up and settled his hands at her waist. With one smooth motion he lifted her down and moved toward the creek.

“Miss Cumberland, I’m gonna set you down in the cold water. Be good for your sore muscles.”

“Mmm...” she groaned.

He went down on one knee to lower her body into a wide part of the creek. The water was ice-cold and she jerked when it soaked up her jeans.

“This will help,” he muttered. “Just sit quiet. I’ll come get you out in a while.”

She nodded without opening her eyes. He left her lolling in the deep pool and went to tend the horses and roll out the bedrolls. Supper would be canned beans and coffee, and if she didn’t like it, that was tough. There weren’t any silver spoons on the trail.

He built a fire, boiled up some coffee and pried open the tin of beans. Then he tramped back to the creek and lifted a dripping Suzannah Cumberland into his arms. Even wet and shivering, she felt damn womanly. He settled her beside the fire and folded her hands around a tin mug of coffee. “Hope you don’t take milk or sugar.”

She made no answer. Brand lifted the beans off the warming rock and jammed in the spoon. “Guess we’ll have to share. Only packed one spoon.”

He sneaked a look at her face and bit his tongue. Her eyes were closed. She was beyond caring about spoons or beans or anything else. As he watched, moisture seeped out from under her eyelids and smudged her dirty cheeks.

He dug the spoon into their supper and lifted it to her lips. “Open your mouth.”

Obediently she parted her lips and he shoveled in a spoonful, devoured a bit himself, then fed her another. Alternating between her and himself, he soon scraped the bottom of the can. He held the mug of coffee to her mouth, but she shook her head.

When her body began to tilt to one side, he knew she was finished. Quickly he grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around her and tipped her backward until she lay next to the fire. Her clothes were almost dry.

He cleaned up the camp, fed the horses and dropped another thick branch onto the fire, then stretched out on his bedroll. He laid his rifle next to him and stuffed his Colt under the saddle he used as a pillow. For a long time he lay unmoving, listening to her breathing even out.

What the hell had he gotten himself into? Nursemaiding a spoiled Southern belle across a rugged, dry land so she could meet up with her intended. Poor bastard.

An owl tu-whooed in the pine tree and Suzannah stirred uneasily. It flapped two branches closer and called again.

“Whazzat?” she muttered sleepily.

Before he could answer, she had dropped off again. Then a coyote barked, quite close to their camp, and she jolted to a half-sitting position. “What was that?”

“Coyote,” he said. Carefully he pressed her shoulder and after a moment she lay back down.

“Do they bite?”

“Bite?”

“You know, do they attack people?”

“Only if they’re...” He was going to say rabid, but thought better of it. “Cornered,” he substituted.

“Why on earth would anyone want to corner a coyote?”

He chose not to answer, and in a few minutes he knew she’d fallen asleep again. She sure was an odd woman. It was obvious she was more at home in a fancy front parlor than the harsh, wind-scoured land of eastern Idaho. Sure was crazy what some women would do for love.

He sucked in a breath as pain slammed into his heart. His sister was dead because she had loved someone, or thought she did. Her last letter burned in his shirt pocket. He no longer wants me, Brand. I can’t live without him.

Jack Walters was his name. He’d seduced her, then abandoned her at the altar. If he ever laid eyes on the man, he’d kill him.