Dreaming Of A Western Christmas. Carol Arens

as a pillow. For a long time he lay unmoving, listening to her breathing even out.

      What the hell had he gotten himself into? Nursemaiding a spoiled Southern belle across a rugged, dry land so she could meet up with her intended. Poor bastard.

      An owl tu-whooed in the pine tree and Suzannah stirred uneasily. It flapped two branches closer and called again.

      “Whazzat?” she muttered sleepily.

      Before he could answer, she had dropped off again. Then a coyote barked, quite close to their camp, and she jolted to a half-sitting position. “What was that?”

      “Coyote,” he said. Carefully he pressed her shoulder and after a moment she lay back down.

      “Do they bite?”

      “Bite?”

      “You know, do they attack people?”

      “Only if they’re...” He was going to say rabid, but thought better of it. “Cornered,” he substituted.

      “Why on earth would anyone want to corner a coyote?”

      He chose not to answer, and in a few minutes he knew she’d fallen asleep again. She sure was an odd woman. It was obvious she was more at home in a fancy front parlor than the harsh, wind-scoured land of eastern Idaho. Sure was crazy what some women would do for love.

      He sucked in a breath as pain slammed into his heart. His sister was dead because she had loved someone, or thought she did. Her last letter burned in his shirt pocket. He no longer wants me, Brand. I can’t live without him.

      Jack Walters was his name. He’d seduced her, then abandoned her at the altar. If he ever laid eyes on the man, he’d kill him.

       Chapter Four

      Suzannah had scarcely opened her eyes, and maybe would not have had she not smelled coffee and frying bacon.

      “I take it you’re from the South?” Mr. Wyler’s voice intruded into her before-breakfast thoughts. That was an impertinent way to start a conversation, especially so early in the morning with the sunlight just peeking through the tree branches.

      “I was born in South Carolina,” she said, her voice drowsy with sleep. “My family had a plantation before the war. Afterward...” Well, she would not go into afterward, with Yankees overrunning the place. They had left the house untouched, but the fields were burned and the trees cut down for firewood. She struggled up on one elbow.

      “That how you met this man at Fort Klamath you’re travelin’ to meet up with?”

      “That,” she said in her best lofty voice, “is none of your business.”

      He merely shrugged and forked over a slice of bacon. “Suit yourself.”

      “Well, it isn’t,” she pursued. Then she found herself explaining about John. “I actually met him at a ball my father gave for some Yankee officers who had been kind to us after the war. He proposed, and shortly afterward he had to report back to duty.”

      She pawed away the wool blanket she was wrapped up in and tried to sit upright. Lord in heaven, every muscle in her aching body screamed in protest. At the groan she tried to suppress he sent her a sharp look.

      “Hurt some?”

      “It hurts a great deal,” she corrected. “I feel as if I have picked cotton for a week.”

      “Bet you never picked cotton or anything else for an hour in your whole life. Here.” He handed her a mug of coffee. “Don’t make it with chicory, like you rebs do. Don’t grow chicory much out here in the West.”

      She took a tentative sip and wrinkled her nose. A vile brew, worse than Hattie’s on one of her uncooperative days.

      “That bad, huh?”

      “Oh, no, it’s just that...” Oh, why should she prevaricate with this man? “It is a little strong, yes.”

      “Good. It’ll keep you awake for the next ten hours.”

      She gasped. Ten hours? On horseback? She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t.

      He handed her a tin plate with crisp bacon slices and two misshapen biscuits. She looked around for a fork and met his amused gray eyes.

      “Fingers,” he said in a dry voice. “Or, if you want to feel cultured, you can crook your pinkie.” He said nothing more, just gulped down three audible swallows of coffee and reached for a biscuit. The underside was scorched, she noted, but she did wonder how he had managed to make biscuits in the first place.

      “Baked on a hot rock,” he said as if she had spoken the question aloud. “Indians do it.”

      “Indians make biscuits?”

      “Nope. They make bread out of acorn meal. Same thing.”

      Oh, no, it wasn’t. No Indian culinary creation would ever cross her lips. He munched up seven slices of the crisp bacon and scooped another biscuit off the flat rock near the fire.

      “Mr. Wyler, where is your home?”

      “Don’t have one. I was born in Pennsylvania, but...”

      “You moved out west,” she supplied.

      “Not exactly. I ran away from home when I was about nine because my pa was drunk most of the time and my momma died. Got to Missouri and holed up till I was old enough to join the army. I was fifteen.”

      “I am surprised they accepted a boy that young.”

      “Lied about my age.” He tossed the dregs of his coffee on the fire. “You finished?”

      “Am I finished what?” she shot. “Questioning? Or eating?”

      He laughed at that. She noticed his teeth, white and straight against his tanned skin. Also he had a dimple, of all things. So he wasn’t always so grim—he must smile occasionally if he had worked up a dimple.

      She gobbled the last of her bacon and one biscuit and managed another swallow of his awful coffee. Then she tried to stand up. A thousand swords poked at her defenseless muscles, and she almost—almost—let herself scream.

      He stood and reached out his hand, but she waved it away. “I am not helpless.”

      “Like hell.” He stepped in, caught the leather belt around her waist and hauled her to her feet. “Want me to walk you over behind a bush?”

      “Certainly not.” She took a step and her knees buckled.

      Brand didn’t say a word, just marched her over to a huckleberry bush. He thought about unbuttoning her jeans for her, but gave up the idea when she glared at him and shooed him away.

      While she was occupied he packed up the camp, saddled the horses and stowed her bedroll and saddlebag. “Ready to ride?” he asked when she reappeared.

      “Of course not. I have not yet washed my face.”

      He gestured toward the rippling creek. “There’s the stream.”

      She stood for a long moment eyeing the water, and he could hear the wheels turning in her head. Finally she lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug and shook her head. She’d braided her hair while she’d been behind the bush. Good move. He handed over her wide-brimmed hat.

      “Which way are we goin’? West? Or back to Fort Hall?”

      “West,” she said through her teeth. “I am not a quitter.”

      “Never said you were. Just givin’ you a choice.”

      “I choose to go on.”

      Brand nodded, manhandled her over to the horse, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into the