Natchez Flame (16 page)

Stuart fought a stab of anger that they had traveled the prairie alone.

“Why don’t I take you inside?” he said to Priscilla,
not really expecting an answer. “Jaimie,” he called to the red-haired cowhand, a hard-working employee of the last five years. A shame the man was too damned soft to take Barker’s place as foreman. “See that Mr. Trask is fed and taken to the bunkhouse. He can rest there as long as he likes.”

“I’ll be leaving as soon as I eat,” Trask said.

Stuart didn’t argue. For a moment, Priscilla looked as though she might, but in the end didn’t. “I’ll bring the money you’ve earned out to the cookhouse.”

“I’ll take the horse and saddle as payment, if that’s all right with you. I’ll need a few provisions, some bedding, and some fresh ammunition.”

“I’ll see you get it—along with a full month’s pay.”

Trask tensed for a moment, then shrugged his wide shoulders. “Money’s the reason I took the job in the first place. That’s more than fair.”

Stuart recognized the lie for what it was, and his irritation grew stronger.

Trask turned and walked to his saddlebags. “There’s a couple of dresses in here, Miss Wills, and a few other things I managed to find back at the wagon.”

“Jaimie can fetch them,” Stuart said, “and see that the animal is cared for.”

Priscilla glanced up at her fiancé, then left his side and walked woodenly to the place beside Brendan. All morning she had prepared herself for this moment, but now that it had come, she wasn’t sure how she’d get through it. She watched his long fingers work the buckle on one side of the saddlebag, lift the flap, and pull out a length of ivory silk. Frothy ivory lace fell softly across his dark hand.

“My wedding gown,” Priscilla whispered. “I thought the Indians had taken it.”

Wetting her suddenly dry lips, she turned toward Brendan’s dear handsome face. He hadn’t shaved today, as if the stubble of beard he wore was the first step in returning to the hard-edged man he’d been before. In his journey back to solitude, how long would it take him to forget her?

Brendan extended the gown and Priscilla reached for it. Their hands touched. His skin felt rough and warm, a contrast to the smooth cool feel of the silk. Her throat closed up and she blinked against a sudden well of tears.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Sorry it’s so wrinkled.”

“It was kind of you to bring it.” Her hand shook as she draped it across her arm. She fingered the wedding gown, the beads and lace she had stitched so carefully, so lovingly. It seemed inconceivable she would wear this dress for a man she didn’t know, not the caring, passionate man who stood so tall and proud before her.

“Good luck, Miss Wills,” he said. She didn’t miss the huskiness in his voice, or the warm way his eyes ran over her, then lifted to settle on her face.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

His hand touched her cheek, but only for a moment, then it dropped back down to his side. “You’ll be all right, you know. You can conquer this land if you want to.”

I could if I had you.
“I’ll do my best to remember the things you taught me. To look for the beauty and not just the harshness.”
I’ll look at the color of the
sky, enjoy the animals, listen for the sounds of the insects. Mostly I’ll remember what I felt when you touched me.
“Where will you go from here?”

“I always wanted to see San Antone.”

I don’t want you to go.
“What about the Indians? That’s the way they were headed, wasn’t it?”

He flashed a sad, weary smile. “They got what they were after. All except you.”

And I got what I was after—all except you.
She thought of the time they’d spent together, of the gentleness that always appeared whenever she needed it, of the passion he fought to control.

He’d been more of a man than any she had ever met, more giving, more caring—willing even to risk his life to protect her.

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

Brendan cleared his throat and glanced away. She noticed the slight inflection of the muscle in his jaw and thought of the way his skin had felt beneath her fingers, the warmth of his mouth over hers.

When he spoke, the words sounded raw, husky. “I’ll have a hard time forgetting you, too.”

Priscilla closed her eyes. If he didn’t leave this minute she would surely disgrace herself. “I’d better go,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. “Stuart is waiting.”

Brendan’s eyes grew distant. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he said, so softly that only she could hear. “I’ve yet to meet the man who does.”

She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. Trask didn’t want her—and she certainly didn’t want him.

Liar. You’re in love with him.
“Thank you again. For everything.”

When Stuart started walking in their direction, Brendan’s face closed up even more. He touched the brim of his hat in farewell. “Good-bye, Miss Wills.”

“Good-bye … Brendan.” She shouldn’t have used his first name, but she couldn’t let him leave without knowing how special he was, how much she cared. He flashed her a last brief glance she couldn’t quite read, turned, and silently walked away.

Priscilla watched him go, her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her dusty blue skirt. God in heaven, why must this be?

Priscilla felt Stuart’s hand at her waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

“I’m sorry this had to happen. If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t we go inside and you can tell me the whole story. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.”

Priscilla nodded, relieved he should care. Forcing her eyes not to search for Brendan one last time, she let Stuart guide her toward the house. As they walked along the stone path, she told him about the rattlesnake and the way Brendan had looked after her. She told him about the men at the trading post and how he had saved her, then explained how he had fought off the Indians.

“He took very good care of me,” she said with a sad little smile.

“I’m sure he did, my dear.” Stuart listened with careful attention, seething inside all the while.

As his housekeeper, Consuela, showed Priscilla to her upstairs room, he sent for Jaimie, who should have been tending the brood mares in the stable, but
instead loitered near the porch for a better look at Priscilla.

“Pick a couple of men you think can get the information I need. Send one to Corpus Christi, one to San Antonio. I want to know everything you can find out about Brendan Trask. And I want to know what happened to Barker—go all the way to Galveston, if that’s what it takes.”

“Yes, sir, boss.” Jaimie lifted his sweaty gray hat and blotted his forehead in the crook of one wiry arm. “Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. We know where he’s headed. We can find him if we need to.”

Jaimie nodded and, as always, did as he was told.

“You have everything you need,
Señorita
Wills?”

“Yes, Consuela, thank you. You’ve been very kind.” Priscilla stood at the window of her elegant bedchamber surveying the courtyard below. She had bathed, washed and dried her hair and pulled it back from her face, then changed into borrowed clothing.

“I will take care of your dresses,” Consuela promised. “I hope you do not mind wearing Dolores’s things until yours are ready.”

“They’re fine.” A bright red skirt and simple peasant blouse, her own sturdy shoes and a pair of white stockings Brendan had managed to salvage. “Tell your daughter I appreciate her kindness.”

Consuela nodded her black-haired head, stepped out into the hallway, her plump figure filling it, and quietly closed the door.

The room was furnished in grand style—pink damask draperies, a four-poster bed with matching pink
counterpane, marble-topped dressers and rosewood armoire, a fancy French desk in the corner, and Oriental rugs on the wide-planked oak floors. Watching for Brendan as she had been for the past half hour, Priscilla turned back to the wide, shuttered window that overlooked a small covered porch off the master bedchamber next door.

It wasn’t long before she saw him riding across the courtyard, sitting tall and proud, the big black horse beneath him as imposing as its master. He looked neither right nor left, just kept his eyes fixed ahead until he had passed through the gate. Then he settled his hat a little lower across his brow, and urged the big horse into a gallop.

Priscilla’s throat closed up as she watched him ride away. Even with his back turned to her, she noticed the supple grace with which he rode, the easy command he had of the powerful animal. She watched without moving, her throat aching and hot tears rolling down her cheeks. All too soon he became just a speck on the horizon, then he disappeared from her vision.

Priscilla swallowed past the painful lump but couldn’t make it go away. How lonely she felt. How desperately, achingly lonely.

How could that be when the man she would marry waited in the elegant rooms downstairs?

Priscilla took a last brief look at the horizon, saw only a flat brown line broken by chaparral, and moved away from the window with an iron resolve. There was nothing left for it now but to make the best of things. She had pledged to marry Stuart Egan—
come heaven or high water, that was what she would do.

She thought of Stuart’s concern and reassurance. He was everything she had imagined—and more. He had described himself perfectly—sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a fair complexion—all in a pleasantly masculine face. Handsome, Aunt Maddie had said, and he was.

Not in the same disconcerting way as Brendan, she thought with a twinge of pain. Not rugged and chiseled, not tanned and lean and hard. Stuart looked to be some years older, somewhere nearing forty, but he stood almost as tall, was solidly built and obviously intelligent.

Though Priscilla prided herself on being a quick judge of character, she found Stuart a difficult man to read. There was an aura of power about him, and something protective in his nature she found appealing. And yet … In the brief discussion they had had, she’d found nothing of the sensitive man he’d revealed in his letters.

She hoped that whatever kind feelings she held for him would nurture and grow. And that they would deal together well as man and wife.

Priscilla ran her fingers over the lovely pink counterpane covering the four-poster bed and tried to imagine Stuart as her husband. Instead, it was Brendan’s face she saw, Brendan who smiled back at her, Brendan who held her and kissed her, and set her body aflame.

Against her will, she imagined her wedding night, imagined lying beneath an expensive satin canopy instead of a veil of twinkling stars. She imagined Stuart’s
mouth over hers, not full and warm like Brendan’s, but cooler, his cool lips hard and unyielding. She thought of blunt pale fingers instead of slender brown ones, thought of them skimming over her flesh, teasing her nipples, lifting and molding her breasts.

Priscilla felt her stomach lurch and the bile rise up in her throat.
Dear Lord, why must it he this way?
For a moment she hated Brendan Trask for what he had done, for what he had made her feel. Then the dear lines of his face came back to her, and she had to blink away tears.

She’d get over him, she vowed. She’d make Stuart a fine wife and his children a good mother. She’d forget Brendan Trask and the sinful things he had made her feel.

She’d forget the passion she shouldn’t have discovered—and somehow she would go on.

Supper was an elegant affair, taken on gold-trimmed porcelain plates in the huge formal dining room. Standing in the entry, Priscilla apologized for her lack of appropriate attire, and Stuart was solicitous.

“Don’t be foolish, darling. Everyone understands what has happened. As soon as it’s feasible, we’ll send to San Antonio for a seamstress and bolts and bolts of fabric. You’ll be amazed at the quality of goods that make their way into the interior.”

Dressed in an expensive black frock coat, burgundy waistcoat, light gray trousers, and wide white stock, Stuart put an arm around her shoulders and led her in to supper. Priscilla felt even more self-conscious when she saw the table, a long Hepple
white mahogany surrounded by twelve beautifully carved, high-backed chairs; bayberry tapers glowing softly atop a crystal chandelier; and the two well-dressed gentlemen who stood at her approach.

“Judge Dodd, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Miss Wills.”

“Charmed, Miss Wills,” the white-haired man said with a cordial inclination of his head. He was dressed in black, his coat a little rumpled and not nearly as expensively cut as Stuart’s.

“And this is my son, Noble. Noble, your future stepmother, Miss Wills.”

“Hello, Miss Wills,” he said. “I’m glad you arrived safely. We’ve all been very worried.”

Thinking of her perilous journey, Priscilla’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid the trip was not without some trouble. I thank you for your concern.”

Stuart had spoken of his son in his letters, describing him as sincere and warmhearted. A boy who worked hard and respected his elders. As she regarded him standing there now, a miniature of his powerful father, Priscilla wondered what it felt like to walk in such a man’s shadow.

It occurred to her that she would soon find out.

“Why don’t we be seated?” Stuart said, guiding her to a place at one end of the table.

Stuart took a seat at the opposite end and waved his hand toward a tall Negro servant who stood by the door to the kitchen. The man quietly exited and in minutes the door swung open to admit a flurry of servants carrying platters of steaming corn, butter beans, and melon, heaping trays of chicken and beef, as well as baskets of fresh baked bread.

“Bread is a real luxury out here,” Stuart said. “Flour is difficult to come by. Most of the time we make do with cornmeal. We’ve our own grinding mill out in the rear of the compound.”

Servants poured wine into crystal goblets, and brought in slabs of fresh-churned butter.

“This all looks delicious,” Priscilla said, but when her plate had been filled, she found she could barely eat.

“We’re nearly self-sufficient here at the ranch,” Stuart told her. “We’ve a small dairy, which provides milk and butter, a blacksmith, a cooper, a smokehouse, the grinding mill I spoke of, and of course the soil is rich for vegetables.”