Dreaming Of A Western Christmas: His Christmas Belle / The Cowboy of Christmas Past / Snowbound with the Cowboy. Lynna Banning
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in my saddlebag for my whiskey flask and some linen for bandages. And the jerky,” he added. “All of a sudden I’m damn hungry.”
Her relief was so obvious he had to laugh. “You cannot be at death’s door if you are hungry,” she quipped.
“Coffee ’bout ready?”
“After I tend to your shoulder.” She found the bandages and the whiskey and settled beside him. “Lean forward.”
She stripped off his bloody shirt while he clenched his jaw. She peered at him. “Do you want some whiskey?”
“No. Save it for...just save it.”
“There doesn’t seem to be very much blood,” she said.
“Bullet must have gone clean through.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Like a son of a— Yeah, it hurts.”
She twisted her hands together. “What should I do now?”
“Pour the whiskey over it.”
She uncorked the flask, clamped her teeth together and dribbled the contents over his bloody shoulder while he hissed in his breath and swore.
“Such language!” she remarked when his fist released her shirt-sleeve.
Brand closed his eyes while she rustled around the camp getting out mugs for the coffee. “Any whiskey left?”
“Yes. But save some for me, please.”
For her! Lord save them, the trail to Oregon was corrupting his Southern belle. He heard the coffee dribble out of the pot and, still keeping his eyes closed, he reached for a mug. It was hot and strong and so full of grounds he ended up chewing most of the first mouthful, but he didn’t say a word, just gulped down swallow after swallow while she unfolded his pocketknife and did her best to saw off rounds of jerky.
“Open your mouth,” she ordered. She laid a piece of the salty-tasting dried meat on his tongue. He chewed it up and swallowed it down. His shoulder throbbed like a son of a gun, but he tried not to think about it. Instead, he closed his eyes and thought about Suzannah while she fed him sips of coffee and more jerky as if she’d done it all her life.
“You know something, Suzannah?”
“I know a great many things, Brand. I was very well educated when I was a girl. Papa had acres of books. What would you like to know?”
“Nothing that’s in any book,” he growled. “I wanted to say that, fancy education or not, you are one extraordinary woman.”
“Oh, I do hope so. I do want to make John a good wife.”
He snapped his lids open. “Hand me the whiskey.”
But three slugs of the liquor didn’t take away the sour taste of John’s name on her lips. He listened to her pouring coffee for herself and slicing off more rounds of jerky and wondered why the whiskey wasn’t working.
“How do you know you really want to marry this man?” he heard himself say. “You’ve only known him for two days.”
“I just know. John was so dashing and so personable, and attentive and, well, flattering...with such fine manners. I just know.”
For some reason her words made him mad. “That’s what it takes to get a girl like you, huh? Fancy manners and flattery?”
Her mouth dropped open.
“I have—” He sucked in a breath. “I had a younger sister. She fell in love with some damn flashy army officer who was just toying with her. He left her at the altar, and—” he swallowed over the rock in his throat “—she, uh, she drowned herself.”
Her face changed. “Oh, Brand, what a terrible thing.”
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s why I believe in long engagements. Gives a couple of lovers time to get to know each other.”
She was silent for a long minute. “You think I am foolish, do you not?”
“I think... Doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Yes, it does. Tell me.”
He began playing with his pocketknife, turning it over and over in his hand and rubbing his thumb over the smooth handle.
“Seems to me like a man and a woman have two choices. They can fall into bed with each other and damn the consequences. Or they can do what men and women do to spend time together—takin’ walks by the river and dancin’ with each other and goin’ on picnics and all those things. Then they can—”
“Fall into bed with each other,” she supplied.
His laugh stuttered into the quiet.
“It is the same in the end, is it not?” Her voice told him he should drop the subject, but something inside him wouldn’t let it go.
“Might not be the same, no. Might be that if she looked hard enough at a man she’d see something in him that should warn her off.”
“And you wish your sister had done just that.”
Brand looked past her hunched shoulder into the soft darkness. “Yeah. If she had, she’d be alive today. If I ever meet up with the bastard who destroyed her, I’m going to kill him.”
She hesitated. “What good will that do?”
“It’d get him off the face of the earth, for one thing. And it might make me feel better about my sister.”
Suzannah said nothing. After a while she refilled his coffee and then her own and sat sipping it slowly. He watched her slim, delicate fingers cradle the tin mug. An army wife? He didn’t think so. Even an officer’s wife, like the colonel’s lady, Violet McLeod got pretty well ground down between sandstorms and Indian skirmishes and God knew what else out here in the West.
“There’s precious little to compensate a gently reared woman at an army post,” he said carefully.
“There is her husband,” Suzannah insisted. “There is always the love of her husband.”
What the hell, her mind was made up. She didn’t want to see the danger staring her in the face. And anyway, what difference did it make if she wanted to throw her life away out in Oregon? But it ate at him just the same.
Something he said must have whanged into her because she sat looking down at him for a long time, her eyes troubled. Slowly he reached up and touched her shoulder, spread his fingers against her warmth and drew her down to him.
His lips grazed her forehead, moved to her cheek and then hovered a scant inch from her mouth.
“Suzannah,” he murmured. “Don’t do it, Suzannah. Don’t marry him.”
If she lived to be a hundred, Suzannah would never understand her feelings at this moment. Brand slipped his hand behind her neck and tugged her down until his mouth met hers. His lips were warm and firm and gentle with restraint, but she could feel his wanting. She tasted salt and coffee and hunger, such a deep hunger that her breath stopped.
He made a sound in his throat and wound his fingers into her hair. Colors danced under her closed eyelids, like starbursts, and she felt his heartbeat grow ragged. What is happening?
“Brand...”
“Don’t talk,” he whispered against her lips. He kissed her again, and then again, each time inviting. Enticing. This is glorious. Unbelievable.
Surely she was dreaming! His hand cradled her head and his mouth...his mouth was so insistent, so delicious on hers. Was this how a man and a woman felt when...when...?