Dreaming Of A Western Christmas. Carol Arens
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up all the way. He kinda felt sorry for her since he didn’t plan to slow the pace today. Or any other day. Served her right, getting herself involved with a man she hardly knew.
* * *
Today, Suzannah decided, was even worse than yesterday. After ten minutes on horseback, her body rebelled; after six hours in the saddle she suspected she would not survive this journey. Why, why had John not accepted her father’s offer? Surely being part owner of a plantation was an honorable calling? Had he done so, she would now be safe and comfortable at home and John would be joining her in South Carolina for Christmas, not the other way around.
She forced herself to forget her fiancé for the moment and concentrate on riding the huge animal beneath her. Despite its size, she rather liked her horse. It didn’t talk back. Did not bark out orders. And it certainly did not disapprove of the fact that she was from the South. She detected disapproval in every comment Mr. Wyler made, when he deigned to make any at all. Which was annoyingly rare.
She wasn’t used to being ignored. She was used to being catered to, taken care of by faithful servants who had loved her from the moment of her birth. Hattie would commiserate with her over this disastrous turn of events. Imagine, her hired driver being murdered and then finding herself thrust upon this uncivilized ruffian of a Yankee army officer. A major, Colonel Clarke had said.
Only the Union Army would promote such a man. Her father’s regiment would not have stood for it. Of course Papa’s regiment had been shelled into oblivion, but even so there must be honorable men in the Union Army—just look at her John!
Before the sun had climbed halfway to noon, her shirt was sticky with perspiration and droplets of moisture rolled off her neck and dribbled down between her breasts. Even her head felt hot. She snaked off her hat and used it to fan her damp face until Major Wyler shouted at her.
“Put that damn hat back on! You want to die of sunstroke?”
“At the moment, Major, that does not seem like such a bad idea. Besides, it’s December. The sun doesn’t burn in winter.”
“It does at this altitude. Put your hat on.”
All morning he just kept clopping along ahead of her. She began to watch the way he rode. He had a loose-jointed, relaxed way of sitting on his shiny black mount, and he moved with the animal as if he was part of it.
She was making a supreme effort to keep her spine straight, as Mama had taught her, but it was an effort. Being so proper was earning her a stiff back and a sore derriere.
She was beginning to realize how different things were out here in this godforsaken country. Burning sun. Few trees. Scrawny bushes. And some kind of screechy birds that seemed to be following them.
And only the occasional creek. Already her canteen was practically empty, and surely the horses must be thirsty? She studied the baked earth as she passed over it. All at once Mr. Wyler was there beside her.
“Another hour and we’ll stop to water the horses.”
He was still worried about the horses, not the people? All she could manage was a nod. Her throat felt so dry and dust-clogged she doubted she could utter a word.
“Here.” He shoved a red bandanna into her hand. “Dust’s getting bad. Tie this over your nose and mouth.”
She did as he directed, but still he did not ride on ahead.
“Better yet, stay beside me.”
Again she nodded, and he fell in next to her. But he did not talk. Men out here were definitely not good conversationalists.
The wind picked up. Her eyes teared as flecks of dirt scratched under her lids. She dribbled the last of the water from her canteen into her cupped palm and tried to splash it into her eye sockets. He watched her for a few minutes, then ostentatiously wet his own bandanna, a blue one, with his canteen and wiped his eyes with it.
Oh.
“Don’t use too much water,” he ordered. “The stream up ahead might be dried up.”
Her spirits plummeted. “What will we do then?”
“Rest the horses and ride on.”
“When do we stop for lunch?”
He shot her a hard look. “When I say so.”
Goodness, he was gruff! She would bet the contents of her piggy bank he had never been...
“Are you married, Mr. Wyler?”
“Nope.”
“Were you ever married?”
“Nope.”
Why was she not surprised? He was the most unsociable male she had ever had the bad luck to encounter.
“The next question most folks ask is why not?”
She felt his gaze on her and she stiffened. “I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Very well, I will ask. Why are you not married?” And if you say it is none of my business I will scream good and loud.
“Never met a woman I couldn’t live without.”
She stifled a laugh. She would wager there had been legions of them. “Possibly the candidates felt the same,” she retorted.
His laugh startled a chattering squirrel on a pine branch.
“Possibly,” he allowed.
Suddenly he drew up and pulled a long shiny rifle from the leather scabbard at his side. “Rein in,” he murmured. “And don’t move.”
Her heart kicked hard against her rib cage. “What is it?”
“Hush up!”
Well!
He aimed the rifle at something off to the left and waited so long she thought he was just pretending. Then he squeezed the trigger, and a deafening crack sounded next to her ear. Her horse jerked and sidestepped. His did not move a single muscle.
“Supper,” he intoned. “Stay here.” He slid the gun back into the case and stepped his horse forward.
She pressed her lips together. Stay here. Go there. Do this. Do that. The man was impossible. No wonder he wasn’t married.
She watched him dismount and bend to pick up something off the ground. When he returned, a limp furry creature hung from one hand. A spot of crimson spread across its neck, and blood dripped from the wound onto the ground.
He shot her a glance and saw her shock, but he only shrugged. “Let’s move out.”
Watching Suzannah out of the corner of his eye, Brand knew she was so exhausted she could barely stay in the saddle. The stream should be just over the next hill, but he wondered if she could hold on that long.
“You all right?” he ventured.
Her chin came up. “I am quite all right, thank you.”
But she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Maybe the glare. Or maybe she was holding on with the last of her strength.
He didn’t like her much, but he had to admire her guts. Except she wouldn’t say “guts.” She’d have some fancy-ass term like courage. Or maybe perseverance. Yeah, she’d like that one. More syllables.
By the time they made camp and he’d fed the horses and wiped them down, she had settled herself beside the stream with her bare feet in the water. Her head drooped onto her bent knees. One thing he’d say about the lady from the Southern plantation, she didn’t complain. In fact, she’d hardly said a word since he shot the rabbit.
He