Dreaming Of A Western Christmas. Carol Arens

her mouth.

      “Suzannah,” he murmured. “Don’t do it, Suzannah. Don’t marry him.”

       Chapter Ten

      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...?

      She pulled away but hung mere inches from his mouth, listening to their breathing. His heart beat against her palm and she wondered if he could feel hers fluttering against his chest.

      “I’m not sorry I did that,” he said at last.

      I am not sorry, either, she sang inside. Not sorry at all.

      With a wry smile he let his hand fall to his side. “Must be dreamin’,” he breathed.

      Dreaming, yes, that was it. She had to be dreaming.

      “No more whiskey for either one of us,” she managed. Then she realized she had not had a single, solitary drop of liquor. Nevertheless, she still felt intoxicated.

      And now she understood what the Indians meant by “strong medicine.”

      * * *

      Brand woke near dawn to find Suzannah snuggled close to him, her head tucked between his chin and his good shoulder, her small hands folded under her chin. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs and he fought to keep his arm by his side and not wrap it around her sleeping form.

      He sure wasn’t thinking clearly when it came to this woman. She made him feel more off balance than he could ever remember, and sure as God made green grass and peach trees, he didn’t need this complicating his life.

      But he drifted off to sleep smelling her hair and remembering the feel of her mouth under his.

      In the morning he eased his aching body away from her and packed up everything one-handed, trying to keep his eyes off her sleeping form. He managed to make coffee before she woke up, and when she finally did open her eyes he busied himself with saddling both horses.

      She didn’t say a word while she downed her mug of coffee. Wouldn’t look at him, either. Guess he’d overstepped last night. Sure would like to overstep again, but they had about six days of riding ahead of them, and at the end he’d have to hand her over to another man. Smart thing would be to keep his hands off her.

      She braided up her hair like she always did, settled her hat on her head and pulled it so low he couldn’t see much of her face. Then she walked to her mare, stuck her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up into the saddle. She sat waiting while he slung both saddlebags on their mounts and kicked dirt over the fire.

      He moved out in the lead and tried not to think about another week on the trail with her. Looked like it’d be a long, long day today. Quiet, too.

      That lasted until the sun told him it was around ten o’clock and, even though they’d ridden side by side for the past three hours, she still hadn’t said a word. It was hell trying to figure out a woman, especially this woman. She was delicate and tough, and both smart and dumb; her head was stuck so deep in the sand over this John of hers she’d be ninety before she wised up.

      Each time they stopped to rest and water the horses, Brand kept a sharp eye out for a telltale puff of dust behind them. None showed, and he’d seen no sign of another living soul. His shoulder ached, and the longer he rode the stiffer it got. He tried to work his arm back and forth every hour or so and prayed it would heal clean. Last thing she’d need was a guide with a fever and a bum arm.

      By late afternoon Suzannah still hadn’t spoken a single word, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. He pulled air into his lungs and twisted to look at her.

      “Sure wish you’d say something.”

      “Very well.” Her voice reminded him of his mother’s primroses, all neat and proper with nary a petal out of place. “Do you think we are still being followed?” she asked.

      “Nope. I gulled them into turning south, heading for Texas. Forgot to tell you last night.”

      “How did you accomplish that?”

      “Told ’em a bunch of lies.”

      “How many were there?”

      “Lies? Or men?”

      She sniffed. “Men, of course.”

      “Three.”

      They rode across a valley and up into some green foothills, following a good-size stream. Dusk started to fall.

      Brand unsheathed his rifle. “I’m going hunting. Try to get a rabbit or a grouse. Keep riding and stay on the trail.”

      She said nothing, and he loped away into the trees. An hour later he caught up to her, a fat rabbit hanging off his saddle horn.

      “I did not hear a gunshot,” she remarked.

      “Used a snare. A shot might be heard.”

      He picked a campsite sheltered by larch trees where the creek they’d been following widened. Suzannah dismounted, stretched her aching back muscles and studied the stream. She was hot and tired and sticky with perspiration.

      “I’m going to take a bath.”

      “No, you’re not.”

      “Why not? I cannot stop thinking about how good that cool water would feel, and I could wash my hair and rinse out my shirt and—”

      “No.”

      “Brand, be reasonable. No one is following us—you said so yourself.”

      He tramped up and down beside the stream and finally turned to face her. “I want you where I can see you.”

      “That,” she replied, “would be highly improper.”

      “Maybe so, but it’s also highly safe. Take it or leave it.”

      “What will you be doing?”

      “Setting up camp. Tending the horses. Dressing out that rabbit for supper. I don’t want you too far out of sight.”

      She considered his words, then fixed her gaze on him and considered the man who spoke them. He wasn’t exactly honorable; after all, he’d kissed her twice without asking permission. But he was honest, and she trusted him.

      “Very well,” she agreed at last. She dug a bar of soap wrapped in tinfoil out of her saddlebag and unfolded a clean shirt. Green this time. She was sick of the red plaid and it was beginning to get dirty again. And anyway, if she washed it out and put it back on wet, he would look at her in that same hot way he’d done before. She surmised, somewhat shocked, that a wet shirt plastered to her skin must reveal her nipples.

      She found a spot where the creek bank gradually shelved off into the water and was screened by a leafy bush. She turned to see where Brand was.

      She could just see the top of his head as he moved around camp, and he was not looking at her. She unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged it off, then realized she had no towel. Well, she would simply have to