Читать книгу Dreaming Of A Western Christmas - Carol Arens - Страница 13
ОглавлениеSuzannah had scarcely opened her eyes, and maybe would not have had she not smelled coffee and frying bacon.
“I take it you’re from the South?” Mr. Wyler’s voice intruded into her before-breakfast thoughts. That was an impertinent way to start a conversation, especially so early in the morning with the sunlight just peeking through the tree branches.
“I was born in South Carolina,” she said, her voice drowsy with sleep. “My family had a plantation before the war. Afterward...” Well, she would not go into afterward, with Yankees overrunning the place. They had left the house untouched, but the fields were burned and the trees cut down for firewood. She struggled up on one elbow.
“That how you met this man at Fort Klamath you’re travelin’ to meet up with?”
“That,” she said in her best lofty voice, “is none of your business.”
He merely shrugged and forked over a slice of bacon. “Suit yourself.”
“Well, it isn’t,” she pursued. Then she found herself explaining about John. “I actually met him at a ball my father gave for some Yankee officers who had been kind to us after the war. He proposed, and shortly afterward he had to report back to duty.”
She pawed away the wool blanket she was wrapped up in and tried to sit upright. Lord in heaven, every muscle in her aching body screamed in protest. At the groan she tried to suppress he sent her a sharp look.
“Hurt some?”
“It hurts a great deal,” she corrected. “I feel as if I have picked cotton for a week.”
“Bet you never picked cotton or anything else for an hour in your whole life. Here.” He handed her a mug of coffee. “Don’t make it with chicory, like you rebs do. Don’t grow chicory much out here in the West.”
She took a tentative sip and wrinkled her nose. A vile brew, worse than Hattie’s on one of her uncooperative days.
“That bad, huh?”
“Oh, no, it’s just that...” Oh, why should she prevaricate with this man? “It is a little strong, yes.”
“Good. It’ll keep you awake for the next ten hours.”
She gasped. Ten hours? On horseback? She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t.
He handed her a tin plate with crisp bacon slices and two misshapen biscuits. She looked around for a fork and met his amused gray eyes.
“Fingers,” he said in a dry voice. “Or, if you want to feel cultured, you can crook your pinkie.” He said nothing more, just gulped down three audible swallows of coffee and reached for a biscuit. The underside was scorched, she noted, but she did wonder how he had managed to make biscuits in the first place.
“Baked on a hot rock,” he said as if she had spoken the question aloud. “Indians do it.”
“Indians make biscuits?”
“Nope. They make bread out of acorn meal. Same thing.”
Oh, no, it wasn’t. No Indian culinary creation would ever cross her lips. He munched up seven slices of the crisp bacon and scooped another biscuit off the flat rock near the fire.
“Mr. Wyler, where is your home?”
“Don’t have one. I was born in Pennsylvania, but...”
“You moved out west,” she supplied.
“Not exactly. I ran away from home when I was about nine because my pa was drunk most of the time and my momma died. Got to Missouri and holed up till I was old enough to join the army. I was fifteen.”
“I am surprised they accepted a boy that young.”
“Lied about my age.” He tossed the dregs of his coffee on the fire. “You finished?”
“Am I finished what?” she shot. “Questioning? Or eating?”
He laughed at that. She noticed his teeth, white and straight against his tanned skin. Also he had a dimple, of all things. So he wasn’t always so grim—he must smile occasionally if he had worked up a dimple.
She gobbled the last of her bacon and one biscuit and managed another swallow of his awful coffee. Then she tried to stand up. A thousand swords poked at her defenseless muscles, and she almost—almost—let herself scream.
He stood and reached out his hand, but she waved it away. “I am not helpless.”
“Like hell.” He stepped in, caught the leather belt around her waist and hauled her to her feet. “Want me to walk you over behind a bush?”
“Certainly not.” She took a step and her knees buckled.
Brand didn’t say a word, just marched her over to a huckleberry bush. He thought about unbuttoning her jeans for her, but gave up the idea when she glared at him and shooed him away.
While she was occupied he packed up the camp, saddled the horses and stowed her bedroll and saddlebag. “Ready to ride?” he asked when she reappeared.
“Of course not. I have not yet washed my face.”
He gestured toward the rippling creek. “There’s the stream.”
She stood for a long moment eyeing the water, and he could hear the wheels turning in her head. Finally she lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug and shook her head. She’d braided her hair while she’d been behind the bush. Good move. He handed over her wide-brimmed hat.
“Which way are we goin’? West? Or back to Fort Hall?”
“West,” she said through her teeth. “I am not a quitter.”
“Never said you were. Just givin’ you a choice.”
“I choose to go on.”
Brand nodded, manhandled her over to the horse, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into the saddle. Sure didn’t weigh much.
With a sharp intake of breath, she clutched the saddle horn and leaned over it. Guess it hurt her to straighten up all the way. He kinda felt sorry for her since he didn’t plan to slow the pace today. Or any other day. Served her right, getting herself involved with a man she hardly knew.
* * *
Today, Suzannah decided, was even worse than yesterday. After ten minutes on horseback, her body rebelled; after six hours in the saddle she suspected she would not survive this journey. Why, why had John not accepted her father’s offer? Surely being part owner of a plantation was an honorable calling? Had he done so, she would now be safe and comfortable at home and John would be joining her in South Carolina for Christmas, not the other way around.
She forced herself to forget her fiancé for the moment and concentrate on riding the huge animal beneath her. Despite its size, she rather liked her horse. It didn’t talk back. Did not bark out orders. And it certainly did not disapprove of the fact that she was from the South. She detected disapproval in every comment Mr. Wyler made, when he deigned to make any at all. Which was annoyingly rare.
She wasn’t used to being ignored. She was used to being catered to, taken care of by faithful servants who had loved her from the moment of her birth. Hattie would commiserate with her over this disastrous turn of events. Imagine, her hired driver being murdered and then finding herself thrust upon this uncivilized ruffian of a Yankee army officer. A major, Colonel Clarke had said.
Only the Union Army would promote such a man. Her father’s regiment would not have stood for it. Of course Papa’s regiment had been shelled into oblivion, but even so there must be honorable men in the Union Army—just look at her John!
Before the sun had climbed halfway to noon, her shirt was sticky with perspiration and droplets of moisture rolled off her neck and dribbled down between her breasts. Even her head felt hot. She snaked off her hat and used it to fan her damp face until Major Wyler shouted at her.
“Put that damn hat back on! You want to die of sunstroke?”
“At the moment, Major, that does not seem like such a bad idea. Besides, it’s December. The sun doesn’t burn in winter.”
“It does at this altitude. Put your hat on.”
All morning he just kept clopping along ahead of her. She began to watch the way he rode. He had a loose-jointed, relaxed way of sitting on his shiny black mount, and he moved with the animal as if he was part of it.
She was making a supreme effort to keep her spine straight, as Mama had taught her, but it was an effort. Being so proper was earning her a stiff back and a sore derriere.
She was beginning to realize how different things were out here in this godforsaken country. Burning sun. Few trees. Scrawny bushes. And some kind of screechy birds that seemed to be following them.
And only the occasional creek. Already her canteen was practically empty, and surely the horses must be thirsty? She studied the baked earth as she passed over it. All at once Mr. Wyler was there beside her.
“Another hour and we’ll stop to water the horses.”
He was still worried about the horses, not the people? All she could manage was a nod. Her throat felt so dry and dust-clogged she doubted she could utter a word.
“Here.” He shoved a red bandanna into her hand. “Dust’s getting bad. Tie this over your nose and mouth.”
She did as he directed, but still he did not ride on ahead.
“Better yet, stay beside me.”
Again she nodded, and he fell in next to her. But he did not talk. Men out here were definitely not good conversationalists.
The wind picked up. Her eyes teared as flecks of dirt scratched under her lids. She dribbled the last of the water from her canteen into her cupped palm and tried to splash it into her eye sockets. He watched her for a few minutes, then ostentatiously wet his own bandanna, a blue one, with his canteen and wiped his eyes with it.
Oh.
“Don’t use too much water,” he ordered. “The stream up ahead might be dried up.”
Her spirits plummeted. “What will we do then?”
“Rest the horses and ride on.”
“When do we stop for lunch?”
He shot her a hard look. “When I say so.”
Goodness, he was gruff! She would bet the contents of her piggy bank he had never been...
“Are you married, Mr. Wyler?”
“Nope.”
“Were you ever married?”
“Nope.”
Why was she not surprised? He was the most unsociable male she had ever had the bad luck to encounter.
“The next question most folks ask is why not?”
She felt his gaze on her and she stiffened. “I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Very well, I will ask. Why are you not married?” And if you say it is none of my business I will scream good and loud.
“Never met a woman I couldn’t live without.”
She stifled a laugh. She would wager there had been legions of them. “Possibly the candidates felt the same,” she retorted.
His laugh startled a chattering squirrel on a pine branch.
“Possibly,” he allowed.
Suddenly he drew up and pulled a long shiny rifle from the leather scabbard at his side. “Rein in,” he murmured. “And don’t move.”
Her heart kicked hard against her rib cage. “What is it?”
“Hush up!”
Well!
He aimed the rifle at something off to the left and waited so long she thought he was just pretending. Then he squeezed the trigger, and a deafening crack sounded next to her ear. Her horse jerked and sidestepped. His did not move a single muscle.
“Supper,” he intoned. “Stay here.” He slid the gun back into the case and stepped his horse forward.
She pressed her lips together. Stay here. Go there. Do this. Do that. The man was impossible. No wonder he wasn’t married.
She watched him dismount and bend to pick up something off the ground. When he returned, a limp furry creature hung from one hand. A spot of crimson spread across its neck, and blood dripped from the wound onto the ground.
He shot her a glance and saw her shock, but he only shrugged. “Let’s move out.”
