Innocent Fire (29 page)

The next morning Miranda awoke with love in her heart, and she lay for a minute thinking about her husband and how much she loved him. He was already gone, to cut timber for their new home. She sighed. It was time for her to get up, too. She sat up, then stood, and a wave of nausea overwhelmed her.

She barely made it out of the wickiup before she began retching uncontrollably. After the spasms had passed, she lay still, curled on her side, naked, so sick that she was afraid to move. She knew she was deathly ill.

She lay there for hours, afraid to drag herself back inside, until she fell asleep. When she awoke she was startled to find herself outside, sleeping, with no clothes on, until she remembered what had happened. She sat, a touch groggy, but otherwise fine. What had been wrong with her?

She listened to the sound of a tree crashing not far away, then straightened and went inside to dress and begin her day’s chores. She was immensely relieved that whatever had struck her was gone as soon as it had come.

The next morning she was ill again, but this time she had gotten dressed and made it to the creek before the dreadful sickness began. It was there that Derek found her. The day before he had felled enough lumber for the cabin
frame, today he was hauling it into their camp. He saw her, dropped the horses’ reins, and came running.

“Miranda, what’s wrong?” he cried, panic-stricken, crouching beside her and about to take her into his arms.

“Don’t touch me,” she moaned, and then she moaned again.

But he did anyway. “You’re sick. Let me get you inside,” he said grimly, lifting her.

“No! Oh!” She began retching violently, and Derek promptly sank to the ground, waiting until it had passed.

“Is it just nausea?” he asked, his face tight, carrying her rapidly to the wickiup.

Miranda was afraid to talk. She was going to be violently sick again if he didn’t stop. But then he gently laid her down on the bed. She curled up, moaning.

“Miranda, has this happened before?” Derek asked curtly, standing above her.

“Yes,” she whispered, and closed her eyes tightly.

“I’ll bring you some herb tea that will help,” he said, wheeling and striding out. He felt incredibly angry as he yanked the herbs Apache used for morning sickness. He did not want to raise this child. He did not want to see Miranda grow big and swollen with this child; to go through the agony of childbirth for this bastard, the product of another man’s violence and lust.

“Damn!” His fist hit the trunk of the tree he was kneeling before. The pain felt good. He wanted to break the damn tree, maybe even his hand.

Every time he looked at that child, he would remember how Chavez had raped his wife. Every time.

When he brought back a tea made with the leaves, Miranda was sleeping, so he let her be. He went to the horses, still standing with six huge pine logs attached to a makeshift harness, and led them down creek, to the site they had decided on for their house. Here the meadow spread out endlessly. It was actually part of a valley, and the vista was incredible, the sky etched by green-forested, white-tipped mountain peaks. The valley was lush and dense, too rocky for crops except on a small scale to meet their own needs, but perfect grazing for cattle. In fact, he mused, longhorn survived on much less than this. Maybe
he would do some crossbreeding, something better for beef that would gain the longhorn’s incredible durability.

But in the back of his mind he kept thinking about the child.

Miranda was preparing their noonday meal when he returned later, hot and sweaty and too angry to speak. He sat down wordlessly, saw her smile, but refused to acknowledge it. He felt like his whole perfect world had just crashed in.

“Derek? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She paused. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I feel fine now.” Her gaze searched his closed face innocently. Why was he so hard-looking?

“Haven’t you ever heard of morning sickness, Miranda?” he snapped.

She flinched at his tone. “Are you mad at me?” Her voice trembled.

He stood, dropping his plate and kicking it aside. “No, Miranda, I’m thrilled to death to have you bear Chavez’s bastard. Can’t you tell?”

Her eyes grew wide, and there was no mistaking her shock. “Are you sure?”

“Dammit, yes! Women in the early stages of pregnancy have morning sickness, just what you have.” He turned stiffly. “I’m not hungry. I’m going back to work.”

She stared, watching him pace with tense, coiled strides, his body rigid with anger. He went over to the team, leading them into the woods for the felled lumber. Tears rose in her eyes. Dear God, she thought, why?

Why did You give me a child conceived out of violent, cruel rape? Why?

She held her belly self-consciously and tried to figure out how far along she was. Two tears trickled down her cheeks as she watched her husband disappear into the woods. We’ve only just discovered each other, and now this, she thought. I don’t want a child conceived out of violence and brutality. I want my husband’s child. She started to cry.

The tears were soft, helpless, self-pitying. When she had gotten them all out, she felt better, stronger. She gathered their laundry and took it down to the creek, all
the while thinking about God’s will, and how no man could possibly understand it. This child was His will, and He worked in mysterious ways. There was a reason. She didn’t know what that reason was, but she did know that this babe was completely innocent of any wrongs his father had done. She felt a surge of protective maternal warmth, and realized that she wanted this child.

As she pounded the clothes with a large paddle, she thought of Derek’s son, and was struck by instant understanding. His son was half Apache, raised by Comanche. This boy was partly Comanche, and would be raised by a man with Apache blood. She almost threw the paddle aside. It was as if God was giving Derek back his son.

He returned later than he ever had before, almost at dusk, and she’d begun to worry he had had an accident. He had not come back with any lumber, so she didn’t know what he had been doing. But when he sat down, she saw instantly that he had been drinking. She could smell an alelike odor, although he was not staggering. She had waited to eat with him, but he didn’t speak. Barely glancing at her, he ate ravenously. She felt incredibly hurt, and wanted to cry.

This isn’t my fault, she wanted to say. Why are you being so cold and mean?

After their meal, he put out the fire, leaving her with all the cleanup, and stalked into the wickiup. He always helped her at night, and if he was trying to get his point across, he was doing very well. When she crawled into bed with him she knew he was awake. He was lying on his back, staring into space. She wanted to crawl close and seek the warmth of his body, wanted to be reassured that he still loved her. She was afraid, because since their marriage he had been nothing but kind and gentle. Still, she slid toward him, placing one hand on his chest, her head on his shoulder.

He rolled over onto his side, his back to her. “Not tonight, Miranda,” he said.

She rolled over too, facing away, and silent tears welled up in her eyes and fell.

“Would you consider giving the child to some childless family?”

Miranda stared, horrified. “No!”

His jaw clenched. “Just thought I’d ask.” He turned away.

She grabbed his sleeve, not about to let him go. She had been too ill to discuss this with him earlier, but she was fine now. “I want to talk.”

He glanced at her, his face expressionless. “There’s not much to talk about.”

“Yes, there is! Derek, I’m going to have another man’s child, and you’re treating me as if it’s my fault.”

He softened slightly. “I know it’s not your fault.”

“Then stop being so cold and cruel! I can’t take it!”

He stared. “I’m only a man, Miranda, not a saint. What do you want, for me to be thrilled to raise some bastard as my own?”

Miranda slapped him across the face. “Don’t you ever refer to my child that way again!”

He stood a moment, shocked, and then he said, “I apologize.” He turned on his heel. “I’ve got work to do.” He strode away.

She was angry—angry and upset. How long was he going to be like this? For the rest of his life? Was he going
to take out his anger and hatred on the child when it was born? She ran after him.

“Not now, Miranda,” he said, not looking at her.

She was out of breath, and she clung to him with both hands until he stopped. “Yes, now!” she exclaimed, panting.

“All right.” He wouldn’t give an inch.

“The baby is innocent, Derek, innocent, and it’s God’s will.”

He grimaced. “I don’t believe in God’s will.”

“But surely you agree the babe is innocent.”

He nodded. “What’s the point?”

“Will you be a father to this child? Will you give him your name, protection, and caring? Will you?” Her voice rose. She had to know.

“I told you, dammit, I am no saint. Every time I look at this child I’m going to remember what Chavez did to you, and I’ll be filled with anger and hate. Yes, I’ll give the child my name. But don’t ask me to give him love, because it’s not in me to give!”

Miranda stood trembling, feeling sick deep within her heart. He was cool. “Anything else?’

She shook her head, watching him leave. She walked back to their camp, everything a blur. I never knew this man, she thought. He is not who I thought he was. He is a selfish beast, like any other man. He is kind only when it suits him. What am I going to do?

It was all she could think about all day. How could she raise this child with a father who would hate him, or at the very least be coldly indifferent? She knew she couldn’t, and her heart ached unbearably with that knowledge. There was only one solution, one that broke her heart. She brought it up after supper.

“Derek?”

He was sitting in the growing twilight, his profile to her, looking amazingly handsome, his bronzed face still. He glanced at her.

She was afraid. Her heart was pounding wildly. But she had to do this for the baby. She wet her lips. “Derek? I would like to return to England.”

He stared, completely attentive. “What?”

“I would like to return to England…please. It would be for the best.” She looked into his stunned eyes and wanted to cry. She didn’t, with great effort.

He regained instant control, looking away out over the mountains. “I see.”

Did he? She should speak, explain, but no words came.

“You choose the child over me.” The words were final. He looked at her. His gaze was so cold, so remote.

Miranda took a deep breath. “The child is innocent and defenseless. You can survive without me—easily.”

He laughed, shortly, with bitterness. He looked away. “And if I refuse? We were married in the church—your church, more than mine. There are no divorces.”

“Why would you refuse?”

He stood. “The answer is no.” His gaze was hard, steady, a look she knew well. There was no compromise in it.

“You’re not being fair,” she cried, standing.

“No one said life was fair.” He walked away.

Miranda felt defeated. A part of her felt relieved—and she knew she still loved him. But she had the child to think of. How could she get to San Antonio without him to begin her journey back to England? It was impossible, and she knew it.

She had just fallen asleep when she felt him slide into bed next to her, and she was instantly awake, frozen, pretending sleep. She felt him looking at her. Then she felt his hands, stroking down her arm, her hip. She was shocked. It wasn’t possible, with all the anger between them, that he should want to exercise his rights tonight.

His lips brushed her temple, her ear. She twisted to face him. “No,” she said firmly.

He took advantage, catching her face with both hands and kissing her. She tried to turn her head; it was impossible. The kiss deepened, and she tried to push him away. He grabbed her hair with one hand, coiling it around his wrist, the other holding her tightly around her waist. He threw one thigh over hers, pinning her. What was he trying to prove?

Miranda stopped caring. Her body began to respond eagerly, as if it had been years since they had been with
each other, not a day or two. She pressed against him, accepted his tongue, probed his mouth with her own. She was desperate, starved, frantic. His passion matched hers. They kissed wildly, savagely, and she moaned. His breathing was ragged and harsh. He pulled up her skirt and thrust into her. She cried out with the sheer splendor of union. He plunged almost viciously, and she wanted it faster, harder. He sensed it, and drove himself like a rutting bull. She climaxed first, crying out wildly, and then he joined her, groaning, shuddering, collapsing.

She listened to their heartbeats, holding him lightly, and found her fingers stroking his hair. She wanted to weep with sadness. She wanted to break down the wall the child had created, but she didn’t know how. She wanted to love him.

He rolled off her, and she waited anxiously for some tender sign, some words of love. He lay still on his back, eyes closed, breathing even. She moved to him. His arm curled around her. She lay her head on his chest, glad at least that he hadn’t turned away, and sad that there was no tender, loving aftermath. She listened to his breathing, and realized he had fallen asleep.

He was bitter, still, that she was choosing the baby over him. It proved to him that she didn’t love him, and that was a stabbing truth. He felt less angry today. It was as if her asking him if she could return to England had jolted him back to his senses. But the bitterness was there, hurting.

He couldn’t let her leave, because that would be giving up something more precious than his own life. He couldn’t imagine living without her, not after he’d had her and her love, even if for a short time. Last night he had wanted to show her how much she needed him, but he knew he wasn’t approaching her in the right way. If anyone knew the difference between lust and love, it was he. It was so ironic. He had lusted after women his whole life, then fallen in love with a complete innocent, who in return only lusted after him! If it wasn’t so heartbreaking, it would be funny.

He wanted things to be right between them. If it meant his accepting the baby, he would try like hell. He had seven months, maybe a bit less, to come to grips with raising Chavez’s son. He would turn to her. She could help him. But it was unfair of her to expect him to love the child as his own. That he couldn’t do. What he could do, what he could try to do, was care.

That afternoon, after she had recovered from her morn
ing sickness, he found her plucking the quail he had brought in that morning. He took her hand, stilling it. When she looked up at him, he saw the hope flaring in her eyes, and the anguish. He hated himself for being so selfish, for making her so unhappy. If he was unhappy, he resolved, he would keep it from her from now on.

“Miranda, I’ve been thinking.”

She looked deeply into his gaze, waiting. She was so vulnerable, he thought.

He exhaled. “I want things to be right between us. I’ll try to be a good father. I…I would never let harm come to any human being, not an innocent one, you know that, and that includes this baby. I can’t pretend I can love it, but I…I will be a good father. You can help me, show me how. Please.”

Miranda looked at him, and he saw sadness filter into her eyes.

“What is it? Haven’t I told you what you want to hear?” He heard the desperation in his tone.

“I never assumed you wouldn’t give my child protection and creature comforts, Derek. But you offer yourself because of me, not because of the child. What you want to do is right, but for the wrong reasons, selfish reasons.”

He heard her and knew she was right. “Miranda, how do I get your love back?”

“You don’t trade on love,” she said softly.

He felt miserable.

She saw his unhappiness. Her hand came out to touch his cheek, and he caught it, holding it there. “Derek, we’ll do the best we can.”

“I’m a selfish bastard,” he said. “I’ve always known it, but it never bothered me before. But when I met you, you became more important than my own needs. Or so I thought. Maybe I was wrong.”

“I don’t doubt your love,” she said. She sighed. “Maybe when the baby is born you will find it in your heart to love an innocent child.”

“Maybe you can help me.” But even as he said the words he felt torn—he didn’t want to love Chavez’s son, he just wanted to love his wife. But another side, a deeper side, told him to let go of his anger.

Suddenly he lifted his head, every nerve ending in his body alert.

“Derek, what is it?”

He grabbed her arm and began propelling her toward the pile of logs and the framed cabin. They had taken three strides when an Indian war cry split the air, and the ground thundered with pounding hoofbeats.

“Miranda, behind the logs!” Derek yelled, propelling her, dragging her, shoving her forward. There was no time to think of what Comanche were doing this far west. He saw Miranda dive behind the logs, then fired just as the Comanche released his spear, riding down on him. The spear took him high in the chest, then the Comanche fell, dead. Miranda screamed.

Derek turned, firing at another attacker. He hit him and the pony raced off, riderless.

Miranda screamed in warning. “Derek!”

Too late, he felt the knife in his back, driving him to his knees. He raised his gun and fired. The attacking brave slumped over his galloping pony’s side. Bragg hadn’t had a chance to see how many there were, and now he was too weak, too hurt, losing blood. He was starting to have difficulty focusing. Then he heard Miranda scream again.

He was on his side, half sitting, when he saw that he was being rushed by three Comanche on ponies, all with raised spears. With great effort he focused and fired once. One warrior fell, his aim deflected, and the other two missed, galloping past. He had only two shots left. He waited. The Comanche rushed, then raised his bow. Derek fired, hitting his target. He knew it was a lucky shot because his world was a blur.

He heard her scream again. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t see, heard thundering hoofbeats, close, retreating. Everything was gray and growing black.

“Derek!” It was a shriek.

“Derek!” Fainter.

“Derek!”