Two Brothers (35 page)

Tristan arched one eyebrow. “What sort of understanding?”

“I was—well, I was wondering whether we’re going to sleep in the same bed. After we’re married, I mean.”

He couldn’t quite suppress the grin that lifted his mouth at one corner. “Don’t all married people share a bed?” he
asked, and though she knew he was teasing her, that did nothing to calm her racing heartbeat.

She looked away, looked back. “We didn’t. My husband and I.”

That announcement struck him with a visible impact. “Not ever?”

Emily shook her head. “He was old. He wanted a servant, not a wife.”

“Then you’re a virgin?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening her spine. Her dignity, such as it was, was all she had to cling to at the moment.

“That,” he said, cupping her face in both hands, “is good news. Not that I would have thought less of you, because I wouldn’t have. But I do like knowing that I’ll be the only man who has ever taken you to his bed.”

She was afraid he would kiss her, afraid he wouldn’t. If he did, she couldn’t be certain
what
she might say or do. She felt his breath fan warm and sweet over her mouth, setting her lips to tingling. “I don’t—I don’t know how,” she faltered.

He brushed her lips with his own. “I’ll teach you,” he promised.

A hot tremor went through her. “You’d better go now,” she said, pulling away from him and bounding out of her chair as though there was a hot coal on the seat.

He caught hold of her hand. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he told her. Then he pulled her down onto his lap, and she did not have the will to resist him. His tone was low, rumbling, mesmerizing. “The first time can be uncomfortable, but I’ll never hurt you. I swear it.”

She couldn’t say anything, and though she tried to summon the will to pull away, it simply wasn’t there to draw upon.

“I’ll make it good,” he went on. With the back of his knuckles, he lightly, ever-so-lightly, brushed the fabric covering the hard points of her breasts. “Let me show you, Emily.”

Her head was swimming; the fire was a flickering blur on the hearth, and every nerve in her body was alive with a need so elemental, so primitive, that it frightened her. “Tristan,” she whimpered.

He bent his head to her bosom and nibbled softly at one of the hidden nipples, and in that moment she became a part of the fire. Then he gave a raspy sigh and set her back on her feet, holding her by the waist for the several moments it took to regain her balance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the legs of his chair scraped the floor as he stood. The deeds to the huge ranch bordering his lay scattered on the rug, and Emily bent to gather them up so swiftly that she nearly fell on her head.

He steadied her again, this time grasping her shoulders.

She handed him the papers, taking refuge among the last shreds of her pride. “Why apologize?” she asked, with a slight edge. “You did say you planned to seduce me.”

He folded the documents, tapped them against the palm of one hand. “I wouldn’t respect myself at all if I didn’t try,” he said. “Do you mind if I go upstairs for blankets and a set of long Johns? It’s cold in the barn.”

She averted her eyes and gestured generously toward the stairs. “Help yourself,” she said, and he laughed hoarsely as he left her.

Emily had expected her ardor to cool by morning, but when Tristan came in for breakfast, without Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher, her attraction to him was as strong as ever. She served him coffee and salt pork and leftover cornbread, and he watched her with a smile in his eyes while he ate.

“You’ll be going to Powder Creek this morning?” The question had the tone of a statement. A sort of bleak resignation came over her. “Alone.”

“Black Eagle and a few of his friends are going to ride along with me,” he said. “And Powder Creek is the Double Crescent now. It’s part of this place.”

There it was again, that subject they were both avoiding.
It just seemed that there was always something more important to discuss.

“You’re determined to get yourself killed,” she accused, in a burst of fear, unable to keep up the pretense of being calm any longer. Tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked desperately to force them back.

Tristan rose slowly from the bench at the table and came to her, laying gentle hands on her shoulders. “On the contrary,” he said, “I’ve never wanted to live more than I do right now. But there are times when a man has to stand up for what’s his, and this is one of them.”

She knew he was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to send him off to deal with people who weren’t above shooting him. She slipped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest, and he held her, tentatively at first, then with a sort of possessive strength. He placed a light kiss on her temple.

“I’ll be back in no time,” he said. Then he hooked a finger under her chin and raised her face so he could look into her eyes. “Don’t fret, Emily.”

She sniffled and nodded her head, and they both knew it was a lie. She
would
worry, terribly.

He’d only been gone for a few minutes when she hurried upstairs, put on the trousers and shirt she’d been wearing when she arrived a few days before, and made for the barn. Walter was there, in her stall, growing lazier by the hour in her idleness.

Emily pulled a bridle over the mare’s head and mounted, not troubling with a saddle. Tristan and Black Eagle were well ahead, accompanied by five other men, and she followed, staying well behind them. Should Tristan spot her, he’d make her go back if he had to hog-tie her and throw her over a saddle, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he was capable of just such drastic action.

The ride grew steeper as she progressed, her heart thundering at the base of her throat. She was scared of what might take place at the former Powder Creek, and even more
frightened of not knowing, not seeing for herself what was happening.

Eventually, Tristan and his companions disappeared from view, swallowed by the dense woods that banded the hill in oak and fir, maple and birch. The leaves were bright yellow and russet, just beginning to turn. Emily kept her distance, guided by the trail of hoofprints pressed into the soft ground. Beyond the trees was a high meadow, and she was forced to rein Walter in and wait at the edge of the forest. If she went farther, she would be out in the open and certain to be noticed.

The house Tristan had bought was the largest Emily had ever seen, a magnificent structure of natural stone, with a score of windows and a veranda that wrapped around one side of it like a steamboat rail. A windmill turned slowly in the breeze, and she could see a massive barn as well, and a corral full of fretful horses. It was plain that, like Emily herself, they smelled trouble, even though there was no one in sight besides Tristan and Black Eagle and the braves riding a short distance behind them.

Emily was jerked off the mare’s back, striking the ground hard, and before she could cry out, a callused hand clamped itself over her mouth. She struggled, and the assailant dug his thumb and forefinger into the hinges of her jaw, giving her head a painful shake.

“Settle yourself down, little lady,” an oily voice hissed. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” Emily was swamped with fear, but there was a quiet place inside her, a calm place where reason held fast. She obeyed the command and went completely limp, hoping her captor would think she had fainted and release her.

It didn’t work. He stuffed a wadded bandanna into her mouth the moment he moved his hand away, and then tied another around her head to secure the first. He bound her wrists behind her, then hurled her up onto the back of a horse with such force that for a moment she thought she would swallow the bandanna and choke to death.

She still hadn’t had a good look at the man who had ambushed her, but she didn’t need to see him to know he was one of the riders who had terrorized her two days before, when she and Spud and Mr. Polymarr were looking after the flock.

He mounted behind her, and she felt his sloppy bulk, smelled sweat and whiskey and rotting teeth. He forced his hat down onto her head, and it was as effective as a blindfold. Emily’s stomach roiled, and she fought the urge to vomit, knowing she might well strangle if she lost control.

After a while, revulsion gave way to sorrow. Tomorrow was Sunday, the day she was to have been married, and now everything was ruined. She might be dead by dawn, or wishing devoutly that she were. They would use her, these outlaws, as a weapon, or as bait for a trap. Once they’d drawn Tristan in, they would surely kill him.

Emily reminded herself that she must not panic. If she was watchful, an opportunity for escape might present itself, but hysteria—her first and most ardent inclination—could only work against her. And against Tristan.

Give me courage
, she prayed, and centered her thoughts on the sanctuary she had found within herself.

The hairs on the back of Tristan’s neck stood upright, and the horses pranced nervously. Black Eagle and his braves arranged themselves in a circle, facing outward, keeping their mounts under careful control.

Tristan drew his .45 and got down off the gelding. On the second floor of the house, he saw a curtain move, caught the glint of a polished gun barrel. Suddenly, all hell broke loose behind him, the Indians shrieking war cries and generally creating a disturbance.

Tristan used the distraction to make a run for the front door, and even then the ground behind him was peppered with bullets fired from the roof. He was glad to see, when he had a chance to look, that Black Eagle and the others had
taken cover behind water troughs and at the edge of the house itself, evidently unharmed. They had guns, and they gave back as good as they got.

Two men tumbled down from the roof, dead before they hit the ground.

Tristan pushed open the heavy front door, using it as a shield. “There’s nowhere to go from here,” he called. “Throw your guns out the window and we’ll take you in alive.”

The reply was another spray of gunfire, riddling the door.

“Hell,” Tristan muttered, frowning at the damage. He’d probably have to send to San Francisco for a replacement, or even Mexico.

“Where’s your bride, Saint-Laurent?” someone yelled from the upper floor. “You seen her lately?”

A chill trickled down Tristan’s backbone like a drop of January creek water. He would have liked to believe the bastard was bluffing, but his gut told him this was no idle taunt. He held up a hand, palm out, signaling Black Eagle and the others to hold their fire.

“If you’ve got something to say,” he shouted back, “say it straight out.”

Silence.

A stir at the edge of the meadow caught Tristan’s eye, and he let out a long breath when he recognized Emily’s mare, riderless, reins dangling. Until then, he’d thought she was at home, with Polymarr and Fletcher and the rest of Black Eagle’s crew to protect her. Now he knew she’d followed him, and they had her.

Bile scalded the back of his throat. Dear God, those sons of bitches had her.

He took a few moments to collect himself. Then he stepped into the spacious entryway and fired three shots through the ceiling. Overhead, somebody howled, and Tristan reloaded.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“You loco or somethin’, shootin’ up your own house?” It
was an aggrieved bellow. Word of the purchase had gotten around, apparently.

“I’ll burn it to the foundation if I have to,” Tristan replied, and he meant what he said. He’d roast the truth out of them if that was what it took to find out where Emily was.

“How do we know you won’t start shootin’ as soon as we show ourselves?”

“You don’t,” Tristan replied. “Where is she?”

Chapter 8

W
HEN THERE WAS A HITCH IN THE NEGOTIATIONS
, Tristan figured it was time to take decisive action. He found an old newspaper next to a nearby fireplace, rolled it up, lit it with a match, and set the drapes in the front parlor ablaze. They made a dark, acrid smoke, and as the house filled, the two men who’d been hiding out upstairs came stumbling down, choking and swearing.

Tristan got them both by the collar and flung them out the door. They pitched halfway across the veranda before landing, and when they hit the floorboards, he was there to send them flying again. They struck the dirt in a pile and squirmed there, howling as loudly as if they’d been shot full of arrows.

Several of the Indians rushed past into the house, presumably to put out the fire, while Tristan and Black Eagle stood over the whining no-accounts. Tristan shoved his .45 into the base of one man’s skull, while planting a knee in the middle of his partner’s back.

“One more chance,” he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke inside the house. “That’s all, and then there’s going to be a mess the likes of which this country has never seen.”

“We don’t know where she is!” squealed the one in the
greatest danger of getting the back of his head blown off. “I swear to God, they never told us!”

Tristan got the other one by the hair and yanked. Coupled with the pressure of his knee in the middle of the man’s spine—if indeed he
had
a spine—it got his point across. “There’s a line shack somewhere up in the hills,” he bawled. “It’s north of the Indian camp!”