Читать книгу Dreaming Of A Western Christmas - Carol Arens - Страница 16

Chapter Seven

Suzannah dragged her tired body into the saddle and gripped the reins in her floppy-fingered leather gloves. Breakfast had been half a dry biscuit and more cold, tough slices of jerky, but no coffee. She realized with a jolt that she had started every morning since she was thirteen years old with at least one cup of coffee, and sometimes two. The absence of the brew this morning had left her headachy and short-tempered.

She wondered if Brand felt the deprivation as keenly as she did. Probably not. Nothing seemed to bother the man riding ahead of her, his wide-brimmed sand-colored hat tipped at a jaunty angle over his dark head, his broad shoulders relaxed. At least he wasn’t humming “Oh, Susanna.”

But he was setting a bone-jarring pace on the narrow path down the mountain. Only once in the past hour had he glanced back to check on her; she could tumble off the edge of the cliff and he would never know.

“Lean back in the saddle when you’re goin’ downhill,” he called. “Helps the horse keep its balance.”

She nodded, but he had already refocused his gaze on the trail ahead. She pressed her lips together and swallowed back the angry words that threatened to tumble out of her mouth.

When the trail leveled out near the bottom, Brand drew rein and waited for her to catch up. “Whoever is following us is ahead of us now,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”

Suzannah blinked. This was the first time he had shared any information about anything with her. Why now? All at once a terrible suspicion crept into her mind.

“We are in danger, aren’t we?”

He wouldn’t look at her, and that told her more than any words he might come up with.

“Well, are we?” she persisted.

“Yeah, maybe.” His lips were unsmiling, his eyes were troubled and he had a strange, set look on his tanned face.

“What is it?” she said. “What is wrong?”

“Need to find out who’s following us. That means—” He broke off and spit to one side. “Oh, hell, Suzannah, that might mean putting you in danger.”

“How? I mean, what would doing whatever it is you propose require?”

He rolled his lower lip inward over his teeth and heaved out a sigh. “Some hard riding, and then some long waiting. We need to get around in front of them and—”

“I see.” She cut him off with a decisive nod.

But she didn’t see. For one thing, he hadn’t paid the slightest attention to her while she had struggled with long hours in the saddle, thirst, even hunger. Forcing her horse up this mountain as fast as she could ride had not caused him to slow down or even look back at her.

She studied his impassive expression. Unless she was very much mistaken, he was hiding something. Well, she was hiding something, too. Major Brand Wyler was short-spoken to the point of rudeness. He had rough manners—no, he had bad manners. But in spite of everything she was beginning to like him.

She liked the way his lips quirked when he was trying not to laugh at her. She liked the calm, steady way he went about things, making coffee in the morning or saddling the horses or even plopping her in the cold creek as he had that first night.

And she trusted him.

“What do you propose?” she repeated. “Tell me.”

He looked off across the sunbaked valley stretching before them, his gray eyes narrowed. “I propose we make a wide detour—” he tipped his head to the right “—then cut back to the trail ahead of them and lie in wait.”

“Them?”

“You said you heard three shots. More’n likely there’s more than one of them.”

“What do you think they want?”

“You. The money you’re carrying in that cloth belt around your waist. And the rest, the gold that Colonel Clarke insisted I carry in the bottom of my saddlebag.”

Her breath caught. “How do you know where I keep my money?”

“Felt it last night when I—”

“When you what?” she demanded.

“When I laid my arm over your middle. You were moaning some in your sleep. Thought you were scared.”

Suzannah stared at him. Was that a touch of color under his tan? It was. It surely was. The man was blushing!

Her insides went all squishy. The last thing she would have expected from this taciturn, hard-bitten man was concern for her feelings. She had discovered something about Brand Wyler, something she felt certain he worked hard to keep hidden. The man had a softer side. Wonder of wonders, Major Wyler wasn’t all hurry-it-up and don’t-ask-questions—the man was actually capable of human feelings.

“And,” she said hesitantly, “you were going to protect me, is that it?”

“Still am.”

Tears stung under her eyelids. No one had ever said that to her, promised they would protect her, even during the worst of the war years. Not even her fiancé.

“Very well, Brand. Do whatever you think best. I will try hard to keep up.”

They rode down into the dry, cold valley and swung a wide arc to the north, pushing the horses hard. Suzannah was as good as her word. She managed to keep up with him, how he didn’t know, since she was such an inexperienced horsewoman. But with each passing mile his respect for her grew. Sure was a fast learner. Either that or she’d be half-dead by the time he called a halt.

Brand knew exactly where he wanted to be when they cut back to the trail, a rock-strewn flat-topped hill he’d often used for reconnaissance. From the top he could see for miles in any direction, screened from view by a dribble of granite boulders. Clarke’s Castle, he called it. And it was still a good twenty miles ahead of them.

They stopped only once to refill the canteens. By the time both winded horses clattered up the mountainside, the wind was chilling the back of his neck and his mouth was so dry he couldn’t work up enough moisture to spit.

He rode on, pushing the black straight up the incline. Behind him he could hear Suzannah’s harsh breathing. It sounded more like sobbing, but she was hanging on. Warmth bloomed under his breastbone. She was one helluva woman.

Her horse stumbled, and he shot a glance behind him. Her braid had come loose and strands of wheat-colored hair straggled around her face. Under the hat brim her face looked dead white with exhaustion. But damn, she kneed that mare as if she’d been riding up mountains all her life. For a gently bred Southern belle, she sure was surprising.

At the top of his castle lookout, he dismounted and waited for her. When she came into view she was bent over the saddle horn, gasping for air, and his throat closed up tight. He grabbed his canteen, unscrewed the cap and sloshed some water into his palm. Then he kicked her boot out of the stirrup and stood up on the metal bar to reach her.

“Look up,” he commanded.

She lifted her head and he slathered his wet hand over her face and around the back of her neck. He thought about the front of her neck, where her shirt gapped open, but decided against it.

“Better?”

She nodded. He held his canteen to her lips and suppressed a smile. No Southern lady ever gulped water like she was doing now. Finally she handed the container back to him and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. The gesture was so unladylike it made him want to cheer.

He stepped down from the stirrup and reached up for her. With a hoarse sigh she tipped sideways into his arms, and he carried her to the cluster of sheltering boulders on the rim and settled her on the ground with her back against a flat rock. He unsaddled the horses, dropped the saddles and both saddlebags next to her, grabbed a double handful of dry grass, and wiped the animals down. Then he hand-fed them some oats.

Before he could join her, she surprised him.

“Can you see them anywhere?” She was still winded, but she managed to huff out the question.

He grabbed the canteen and moved to the lip of the plateau. Not a sign of a horse or a rider, not even a telltale puff of dust. Thank the Lord for that; at the moment he could use some food. And some rest.

“No sign of anyone,” he said. But as he ate the jerky he sliced off, he kept one eye on the valley below them.

Suzannah gobbled down the rounds of jerky as fast as he could pare them off. Last night he’d thought she didn’t much like it, but she was sure wolfing it down now. Again he had to smile. Was it possible that if you scratched the surface of an over-refined Southern belle you might find a human being?

He glanced over at her. Not just any human being, he amended, but Suzannah Cumberland.