Natchez Flame (15 page)

“Don’t, Priscilla. Don’t do that to yourself.” He sat cross-legged on the ground beside her, a careful distance away, smoking a thin cigar he had found among the scattered debris left by the Comanche.

While Priscilla had waited, Brendan had gone back to the grisly scene of the attack to retrieve his lost pistols and salvage what was left of her clothing and their supplies, which wasn’t much, but something for her to wear and all they could carry.

Afterward, they’d camped near the closest water, eaten the rabbit he had shot—though Priscilla didn’t have much appetite—and now sat quietly watching the fire.

“You pulled that trigger because you had no
choice,” he was saying. “You were only trying to protect yourself.”

“I’ll never forget it, not as long as I live.” She picked up another dead leaf and studied the dry brown veins. “It made me feel sick inside, like I’d killed a part of myself. No matter the reason, I’ll never do it again, even to save my own life.” She tossed the leaf into the flames and watched it wither and blacken. It crackled harshly in the still night air.

Priscilla glanced across at him. “And something else happened out there. It was something I can’t explain. Something … I don’t know … it was like I was lost in some terrible abyss. All I could see was blood and death. All I could feel was terror and pain.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can live like this, Brendan, if I can face this kind of life day after day. After all that’s happened … I just don’t know.”

An ember hissed in the fire, filling the uneasy silence. Brendan’s long sigh nearly matched the sound. “Killing a man is
never
easy,” he said. “No matter how right you are, no matter how necessary it is.”

She raised her eyes to his face. “Would you stop if you could?”

A muscle bunched in his jaw. “As much as you may think so, I don’t kill people unless I have to—not for money or any other reason. Texas is a lawless country. It’s young and wild—but it’s also growing. That’s the reason I came here in the first place. Parts of it are more settled than others, all of it will be someday.
In the meantime, it takes a hard man to hold on to what’s his.”

He met her searching look squarely. “Some men go a lot further. They take more than their share, even if they have to lie, cheat, and steal to get it.” He started to say something more, but in the end just clamped the cheroot between his even white teeth and stared into the flickering red-orange flames.

“How’s your arm?” she asked gently, though it was the other one he unconsciously rubbed. It was a habit she had noticed before, whenever he was upset or uncertain.

“Not bad,” he replied. One corner of his mouth curved upward. “I needed a scar on my right arm to match the one on my left.”

She smiled softly. “I’ll check it again before we set off for the ranch.”

The lightness in his eyes seemed to fade. He tossed his cheroot into the flames. “Way I’ve got it figured, we’ll arrive sometime before noon … not exactly in fine fiddle, the way I intended, but alive.” His face looked taut. He seemed remote, more distant than he’d been before.

“Once you’re there,” he continued, in that strange distant fashion, “Egan and his men will look after you. I’m sure he’ll be generous, see you get new clothes, anything at all you might need. You won’t have to be afraid, Priscilla.”
At least not of Indians.

“What about you? What will you do?”

He took the branch she held and poked it into the flames, sending a shower of sparks into the black Texas sky. Above them, a veil of stars lit the heavens,
and Priscilla felt the vastness, saw some of the untamed beauty that Brendan so loved.

“I’ll do what I always do. Move on. Find someplace to light for a while. Then move on again.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? Why not?”

“You’re a good man, Brendan. Surely you want more out of life than what you’ve got now.”

“Maybe I did once. Times change. Things happen. After the war, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.”

“What could have been so terrible that it could keep you running?”

“Who says I’m running?”

“Aren’t you?”

Brendan didn’t answer, just stared into the darkness beyond the fire. A cricket sang in the shadows, a melodic lament she had never really noticed before.

“It’s time we got some sleep,” he finally said. “Things always look brighter in the morning.”

Wishing he could take the advice about sleeping he had earlier given to Priscilla, Brendan listened to the hoot of an owl, decided it really was a bird and not an Indian, and relaxed once more against the saddle serving as his pillow.

He’d been trying to fall asleep for the past three hours, but his mind had steadily refused. Instead he kept seeing Priscilla’s fragile body pinned beneath the Indian, kept feeling the awful, searing pain he had felt in knowing she was in danger.

When he wasn’t remembering that, he was thinking about her lovely cone-shaped breasts, the luscious way they pointed upward, the way they fit so
neatly into his hand. That memory made him hard and aching, so he fought the image down.

Lastly, he mulled over her words. Was he really running from his past? In truth, he knew he was. He was wanted in the Indian Territory, but the odds were good they wouldn’t hunt him in the wide-open spaces of Texas. He had money put away—quite a tidy sum, in fact. He was well-educated, far beyond most of the men he knew. He could change his life if he wanted.

But did he really want to?

Before he met Priscilla, the thought of settling down had never even crossed his mind. Oh, he’d had plans for the future, goals and dreams that every young man had. He’d thought about a career in the military—gotten as far as lieutenant before discovering that road didn’t suit him. Land and cattle appealed to him, and he’d pursued that goal for a while after the war, even gone as far as buying some property, but he’d never really felt like making a go of it.

Assuming Priscilla would even consider marrying him—which with what Egan could offer seemed highly unlikely—would marriage make a difference? And did he want it to?

Hell, he liked his independence, his carefree, no-strings existence. A woman was nothing but a millstone, a burden that tied a man down. Marriage would put an end to his freedom, saddle him with family and unwanted responsibilities.

He thought of the way Priscilla depended and looked up to him. In a way it felt good to be needed. In another way it scared him to death.

Brendan listened to the sounds of the night, let
them lull him as they usually did, and felt his weariness beginning to overtake him.

Egan was the man for Priscilla. He had money and power—and stability. Priscilla wanted children, so did Egan. She wanted a home—from what he’d heard, Egan lived in a damnable mansion. So she’d have to bend to her husband’s wishes—so did a thousand other wives.

Brendan inwardly scoffed, finding it hard to imagine Priscilla taking orders. He thought of her grit and intelligence, her gentleness, and determination. He thought of her shapely body, and a vision of another man’s hands roaming over her smooth pale flesh rose up to taunt him.

That he desired her, he didn’t deny.
A man always wants what he can’t have.
He’d get over her. He’d get on with his life as he had before. The last thing he needed was a rope around his neck—the hanging kind, or the kind that came with marriage. Free and easy, that’s the way he wanted it. Hard drinkin’, fast women, and easy money. Tomorrow he’d get Priscilla off his hands once and for all, and things would return to normal.

He’d travel north, see some places he hadn’t seen before. It wouldn’t take long to forget a too-fragile female who was nothing but trouble.

Brendan settled deeper into his bedroll, refusing to remember the loneliness that traveled that same road.

“Riders coming in!” The cry went up from the guard at the gate, a wide wooden structure that stood open unless there was trouble. A low stone wall extended from each side, forming a huge enclosure that surrounded the compound. It was a subtle means of defense, but protection just the same.

“They’ll be passin’ through the gate any minute!” Jaimie Walker, a red-haired man of twenty-six, galloped to the house on his small paint horse and slid to a stop in a whirl of dust and barking dogs.

“Can you tell who it is?” Stuart asked, standing in front of the heavy oak door leading into the marble-floored entry. Built of pinkish-white limestone, the thick-walled house stood two stories high, with balconies off the upstairs bedrooms and a wide, covered verandah out front.

It had been built twenty years ago by Don Pedro Dominguez in the grand Spanish manner. Stuart had remodeled the house, refined it, and added on. It was a magnificent structure he was excessively proud of.

“Just one horse,” Jaimie said. “Looks like two riders. At first I thought it was Hennessey, but I don’t think so. Maybe it’s Harding. He’s already a week overdue.”

Stuart had sent one of his best men to Natchez to investigate rumors of a problem he might be facing
down there. He wished to hell it
was
Harding. He needed to know exactly what the situation was with his ex-partner, Caleb McLeary—and he needed to make it end.

Stuart took a last draw on his expensive Havana cigar and flipped it into the shrubbery beside the porch just as the big black gelding he recognized immediately as Barker Hennessey’s made its way through the gate. A slender, dark-haired woman sat forward in the saddle; a tall, broad-shouldered man rode behind.

Wearing his gray brocade waistcoat and a pair of black broadcloth trousers but no jacket, Stuart waited in the doorway for their approach, then stepped out on the wide, covered verandah to meet them.

Several dogs yapped at the horse’s heels, and the Juarez children, offspring of his Mexican overseer, tagged along behind.

“You Egan?” the tall man asked. He wore snug blue twill breeches and a homespun shirt, a pair of worn leather boots, and a wide-brimmed brown felt hat. The pistol at his hip looked to be a .36 Patterson belt model. It rode lower than any man’s he had ever seen.

“I’m Stuart Egan.”

The man swung down from the horse and reached up for the woman. She was slenderly built, with delicate features, a smooth complexion, and heavy-lashed wide brown eyes.

“Trask’s my name,” the rugged man said. “This is Priscilla Wills, your fiancée.”

Stuart allowed his surprise to show—but not his
irritation. “Priscilla,” he said, stepping down from the porch and across the dirt courtyard to grasp both her slender hands. “What in the world has happened? Where’s your traveling companion? And why aren’t you with Barker?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Hennessey is dead,” Trask replied for her. “He met with an accident in Galveston. Miss Wills persuaded me to bring her in his stead. As to her companion … the woman took sick a ways out of Cincinnati.”

Trask’s mouth looked grim. “On top of that, we’ve faced outlaws, snakes, and Indians. You’re lucky the lady got here at all.” There was censure in his voice, and it rankled Egan more than a little.

He turned his attention to Priscilla. “You have no idea how much this grieves me. If I’d had any idea there’d be trouble, I would have come for you myself.”

“I’m sure you would have,” she said softly. “As it is, Mr. Trask did the best he could. I believe he saved my life.”

“Is that so?” He glanced at Trask, whose expression remained inscrutable. “I’ll see Mr. Trask is well compensated for his trouble.”

Stuart’s gaze returned to Priscilla, taking in her torn blue muslin dress with its prim white collar, the thick braid of shiny dark hair that hung to the middle of her back, her narrow waist, and the subtle swell of her breasts. He noted her proud carriage, and an expression of uncertainty tinged with determination. She looked ragged and weary, but she had survived. It boded well for the sons she would bear.

“I apologize for my appearance,” she said, as if
she had read his thoughts. “The Indians destroyed my clothing, as well as my trousseau—what little they didn’t steal.” There was a subtle straightening of her spine. “We were both nearly killed.”

Stuart put his arm around her shoulders and gently drew her against him. “I’d give anything if this hadn’t happened. But now that you’re here, you’ll be safe. I promise you, Priscilla, you’ll have ten new dresses for every one you’ve lost. I’ll have the finest seamstress in Texas brought in.”

“I lost the things in my hope chest,” she said sadly. “Personal mementos, items I’d sewn for our wedding. Mr. Trask found only my locket.”

“Your locket?”

Her bottom lip trembled, the first show of weakness he had seen. “It’s very special to me. It contains my parents’ portraits.”

“It’s all right, my dear,” Stuart soothed. “Mr. Trask has brought you to my care, and from now on everything’s going to be fine.”

Priscilla glanced at Trask and something flickered in her eyes. She really was quite lovely, Stuart thought. Far more so than he had expected. Her figure looked tempting, as well.

He followed her gaze to the rough-looking stranger, noted his lean but powerful build and self-assured, catlike stance. Beneath the brim of his brown felt hat, light blue eyes watched cautiously from a beard-roughened face even a fool could recognize as handsome.