Dreaming Of A Western Christmas. Carol Arens

it scare you, just grip it tight.” He saw her knuckles whiten as she tightened her grasp on his Colt.

      “Brand?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Thank you.”

      He just plain didn’t know what to say to that. He was so damn proud of her he wanted to pat her shoulder or shake her hand or something. Hell, he wanted to kiss her.

      He squashed that thought and got to his feet. “Suzannah, you gonna be all right up here?”

      “I will be perfectly all right. Well—” she gave a little laugh “—maybe not ‘perfectly,’ but all right enough.” She laid the Colt down and gingerly shoved it under her saddlebag.

      Brand picked up his saddle and moved to the large boulder where he’d picketed the horses. With his back to her he checked his revolver, grabbed the gelding’s reins and hauled himself up into the saddle.

      Suzannah crawled out of her bedroll and stood watching him, a half resigned, half pensive look on her face. Looking down at her, something began to crack inside his chest. He picked up the reins, then tossed them down and dismounted.

      He reached her in two long strides, grasped her shoulders and kissed her. Hard. God forgive him, he wanted to do it again, and for a lot longer, but he forced himself to release her and remounted without looking at her.

      He reined the horse away, and when he glanced back she was standing motionless right where he’d left her, the fingers of one hand covering her lips.

      The knot in his chest cracked all the way open.

      * * *

      He kissed me! And it was wonderful, heart-thumpingly, stupendously wonderful! No man had ever kissed her like that, not even John.

      She watched his horse disappear down the steep hillside and still she did not move. She was trembling all over, and then she was crying, and then... Oh, she simply couldn’t think straight.

       But why did he do that? Why?

      Slowly she walked back to her bedroll, absentmindedly patted the saddlebag where she’d hidden Brand’s revolver and stretched out on top of the blanket. In another hour the stars would come out.

      She would lie here quietly and wait. And try not to think about what had just happened.

      * * *

      He saw the campfire glow from a long way off and slowed his horse to a walk. When he got close enough, he dismounted, tied the black to a cottonwood tree and started off on foot.

      It didn’t take long. There were three men. He could take two easy, but three, he didn’t know for sure. He drew his revolver, held it down close to his thigh and moved into the circle of firelight.

       Chapter Nine

      “Gentlemen.”

      “What the—?” The heavyset man facing Brand across the fire leaped to his feet. “Who the hell are you?”

      “Name’s Brandon Wyler. And you?”

      One of the other men twisted on the log he sat on and surveyed Brand with hard black eyes. His matted hair hung past the open neck of a grimy shirt, and Brand couldn’t help noticing his necklace of elk’s teeth. The third man, younger than his companions, looked downright skinny and his blond hair hung in greasy-looking strands past his fuzzy chin.

      Silence.

      He kept his revolver trained on the heavy one. “Talk to me,” Brand snapped. “What are you doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere?”

      “H-hunting,” the blond kid answered. He didn’t sound too sure. “That—that’s right, isn’t it, Jim?”

      “Shut up, Granger.”

      “Hunting what?” Brand pursued.

      The heavyset man propped his pudgy hands on his hips. “What’s it to you, mister?”

      “Nothin’ much. I’m hunting, too. Didn’t want my horse to scare your quarry away.” He paused long enough to take a look at the silent third man. Round-shouldered, dark-skinned, with a drooping black mustache.

      “I’m chasin’ after a woman,” Brand continued. “Following her, actually. Pretty. Blond hair. Came out from Missouri with a wagon train, but I lost track of her after Fort Hall. Colonel there told me she picked up a guide and started south to Texas. That’s where I’m headed. You run across her?”

      “Nope,” Fatso said quickly. “Uh, how come you’re tryin’ to find her?”

      “Money. She’s carrying a lot of cash and she owes me for a horse I sold her.” He watched the three men look at each other, then at him.

      “Texas, huh?” Fatso said.

      “Yeah. Hired a guide, like I said. Lost track of them a couple days ago, but I figure I can pick up their trail. Used to live halfway between here and Texas, so I know the trails. Maybe you fellas could use some company?” Brand carefully made a show of putting his gun away.

      Again the men exchanged glances, and Brand knew they’d taken the bait. Already the skinny kid was edging toward a saddled pinto at the edge of their camp.

      But Fatso pinned Brand with small, hostile eyes that were too close together. “We don’t want company, mister. Why don’t you just ride on outta here?”

      “Sure thing. Maybe I’ll see you fellas on the trail.”

      “Don’t look too hard. Like I said, we don’t want company.”

      Brand faked anger. “Hey, I don’t want you hornin’ in on my quarry. Don’t want to share the goods with anybody, know what I mean?”

      “Sure do. Now, turn around, mister, and vamoose.”

      Brand pivoted and headed for his horse. Behind him he heard Fatso’s voice. “Granger, Jim, saddle up! We’re ridin’ out.”

      Good riddance, he thought. He could hardly wait to get back to Suzannah. But just as he stuffed his boot into the stirrup, he heard the sound of a gun cocking and then the roar of its discharge. A bullet slammed into him. White-hot pain tore through his right shoulder and he sucked in his breath.

      “Got ’im,” someone shouted. “He won’t be botherin’ us anymore.”

      He had to mount, but he couldn’t grab the saddle horn and haul himself up by brute strength. He had to get back to the top of Clarke’s Castle and Suzannah. He gritted his teeth and reached up again.

      * * *

      Someone is coming. Suzannah listened for a moment, then jolted upright and fished under her saddlebag for the revolver. Lifting it in both hands, she pointed the barrel toward the noise, careful not to touch her finger to the trigger.

      What was it, an animal? A wolf? The hair on the back of her neck rose. Could it be a bear? Did bears live on hilltops?

      The sound came closer. Her mare shifted nervously, and Suzannah held her breath. Could she aim accurately in the dark? Even if she did, could she kill anything?

      A horse! She heard hoofbeats, moving slowly, just beyond the boulders. Very slow hoofbeats, and... Oh, God. She tried to control her shaking hands, slipped off the safety and slid her forefinger over the trigger.

      And then she heard something odd, someone whistling through his teeth—“Oh, Susanna.”

      “Brand?”

      “Yeah,” came a tired voice.

      She was on her feet and running as his head appeared over the rocks. “Brand!”

      “Suzannah,” he rasped. “For God’s sake, put the gun