Dreaming of a Western Christmas: His Christmas BelleThe Cowboy of Christmas PastSnowbound with the Cowboy Read online

  He swallowed and led both horses up to the porch. “Here’s your mount. Name’s Lady.”

  She nodded. Brand picked up her saddlebag and slung it behind the saddle, then waited.

  She didn’t move.

  “Come on, Miss Cumberland. We’re wasting daylight.”

  “I—I did not expect the horse to be so large,” she said. The quaver in her voice made Brand’s gut tense. Oh, for cryin’ out loud.

  “All horses are ‘large.’”

  “Yes, I see.” Still she didn’t move.

  “You want to change your mind?” he prompted.

  “N-no. I will adjust.”

  Adjust! Riding a horse took a lot more than “adjusting.” What she needed to do was get on the damn horse.

  Slowly she descended the wide porch steps and edged over to where he stood holding her mare’s bridle. “How do I... I mean, is there a method for mounting?”

  “Yep. Put your left foot in this stirrup and grab onto the saddle horn, that little knob in front of the saddle.”

  She did as instructed, and he laid one hand on her behind to boost her up. It was so warm and plump under his palm he broke out in a sweat.

  She peered down at him. “It is quite far to the ground. Farther than I thought.”

  “Hold on to your reins and for God’s sake don’t kick the horse.” He mounted the black, leaned over and lifted the reins out of her white-knuckled grip. “Relax. I’m going to lead your horse till you get used to ridin’.” He touched his boot heels to the gelding’s sides and moved forward. The gray mare stepped after him, and Miss Cumberland let out a screech.

  “It’s moving!”

  “Damn right,” he said dryly. “Horses do this all the time. Just hang on.”

  He walked both mounts past the goggle-eyed sentry and out the gate while she clung to the saddle horn with both hands and made little moany sounds. God, four hundred miles of this was going to be pure hell.

  After a couple of miles he pulled up and laid the gray’s reins in her hands. The gloves Jase had picked out for her were so large the ends of her fingers were floppy. He didn’t want to think about those soft lily-white hands getting sweaty inside the leather.

  He didn’t want to think about her at all. Either she’d get used to the rigors of the trail or she wouldn’t. Wouldn’t be his fault if she suffered. This wasn’t his idea, and it sure wasn’t his choice.

  * * *

  Suzannah detested this man. He was blunt and overbearing and ungracious as only a Yankee could be. A Yankee with no social graces. If it weren’t for her beloved John’s letter, written in haste before a campaign, she would turn tail and run back to Mama and the plantation she loved.

  Her back ached. Her derriere had gone numb hours ago, and the need to relieve herself was beginning to feel overpowering. Did this man never rest? How much longer could she stay in the saddle without begging him to stop? She caught her lower lip between her teeth. How humiliating it would be to beg!

  But...humiliating or not, in a short time she would be reduced to doing just that. A very short time. She could scarcely imagine begging a Yankee for anything. Papa would turn in his grave.

  The man—Brandon, he’d said his name was—had led her horse for an hour this morning, but then he’d stopped, grunted something and handed the reins to her. From then on she was on her own. He had not spared her so much as a single glance of those hard gray eyes. No approval of her desperate efforts at controlling this huge gray beast. Not a word of encouragement.

  She eyed his lean, blue-shirted frame moving easily on the shiny black horse in front of her. Not once had he looked over his shoulder to see if she was still plodding along behind him. Odious man! Her beloved John would never, never treat a lady this way. Never.

  She was concentrating so hard on the dust-swirled trail ahead of her she failed to see his raised arm and the signal to stop until she almost blundered into him.

  “Water ahead,” he said. “Gotta rest the horses.”

  “The horses! What about the riders?”

  “Water’s for them, too.” He spoke the words while gazing ahead to a single spindly-looking tree, more dirty gray than green. Never once did he look at her. Fury battled with desperation as she tried to estimate how long it would take to reach the shade. And personal relief. Too long.

  “Could we not move a bit faster?” she called.

  He didn’t answer, just kicked his mount into a trot. She touched her boot heels to the horse’s sides as he did, and it jolted forward. With a cry she hurtled up level with him and would have passed him had he not leaned sideways out of the saddle and grabbed her reins.

  “Whoa, girl. Whoa.” He then proceeded to walk both animals toward the tree as if he had all the time in the world. Well, she didn’t.

  He pulled up by a stream tumbling over large flat rocks, and Suzannah gritted her teeth. The sound of running water triggered something in her body, and without thinking she swung her leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the ground.

  Her legs buckled. She grabbed onto the dangling stirrup and suddenly there he was behind her, one hand gripping her leather belt.

  “I have to—”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Over there.” He laid his hand on her back and shoved her toward the tree.

  There was no privacy at all. The tree trunk looked no wider than a sleeve press, and the sparse branches would not screen a four-year-old child.

  “I trust you will turn your back, Mr. Wyler?”

  “We’ll take turns. You first.”

  It was so much easier for a man, she fumed. Just unbutton and... She, on the other hand, would have to shimmy her jeans down over her hips, then lower her underdrawers and squat practically in plain sight.

  She perched on her haunches with her bare bottom exposed and watched to be sure he didn’t peek. While she did her business, he brought their horses to the stream and bent to fill his canteen. He did keep his back to her, for which she thanked the Lord who created men and women.

  His voice startled her. “You finished?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Come on over here, then. Fill up your canteen.”

  She tried to stand, but her legs shook so they wouldn’t support her weight. She kept squatting near the ground and wondered how she could pull up her drawers and jeans without standing up. She hadn’t been this embarrassed since she fell in the mud hole under the cypress tree back home when she was nine.

  Think! She needed some way to pull herself upright, but... A low-hanging branch would do, but the tree’s foliage started several feet over her head. The tree trunk, that was it. She reached for it with both hands and managed to scrabble her fingers against the bark.

  “Miss Cumberland?”

  “Oh, leave me alone!” she cried. Inch by inch her fingers clawed their way up the trunk until she was halfway vertical. When her belt was once again cinched in the waist of her jeans she wanted to weep with relief.

  “Ma’am? You all right?”

  “I am perfectly all right, thank you.”

  “Kinda stiff, I’d guess.”

  She opened her mouth to lambaste him, but then heard the unmistakable sound of a stream of urine hitting the ground. Why, he wouldn’t dare!

  But he did. He stood in plain sight with his back to her. She turned away with a huff and after a minute he called that it was time to mount up.

  “I am coming, Mr. Wyler.” She took two steps toward the horses and realized she could scarcely move, much less mount her horse.

  He met her halfway, took one look at her crabbed walk and snorted. “You sure as hell are no horsewoman.”

  “And you sure as hell are no gentleman!” she blurted out. Oh, my! Mama would wash my mouth out with soap for that.

  “You got that right.” Then he chuckled and gave her a thorough once-over. “You look half-dead.”

  She did not deign to answer such an uncouth remark. Instead she lifted her chin and tried to edge past him.

&nb
sp; “Guess I should have stopped sooner,” he said.

  “You were paying no attention whatever to me, Mr. Wyler.”

  “Not true,” he replied. “Maybe not the fancy kind of attention you’re used to, but attention nevertheless.”

  Before she could draw breath, he scooped her up into his arms and plopped her into the saddle.

  “Ow!” It slipped out before she could catch herself.

  “Sore, huh?”

  She didn’t trust her voice, so she sat up as straight as she possibly could and nodded in what she hoped was a regal gesture.

  “Well, damn,” he said under his breath. “I plumb forgot how green you are.”

  He slung both canteens behind his cantle and swung up into the saddle. “Five more miles,” he said. “Think you can make it?”

  She nodded again, but he wasn’t looking. He walked his mount close to hers, caught up her reins and laid them in her lap. “Try to keep up.”

  She ached to slap him. She wanted to ask how long it would take to travel five more miles, but he spoke before she could form the question.

  “About another hour and a half.”

  She stifled a moan. In addition to being the most insufferable male she had ever encountered, he could read her mind, too.

  Chapter Three

  Brand surreptitiously glanced back at her whenever the trail had a twist in it. She was working hard to stay upright in the saddle, but he could see she wouldn’t last much longer. Good. Maybe she’d think better of her crazy plan and turn tail back to Fort Hall.

  But he had to admit that even though she drooped lower and lower over the saddle horn, he didn’t hear a whimper out of her. She might be hurting, but she sure had sand. He’d known women who’d be bawlin’ and beggin’ by this time.

  An hour passed, and still the woman on the mare behind him made no sound. Aw, hell. She’d been through a lot, and he knew she was hurting; maybe he should cut her some slack.

  Up ahead he spotted a copse of cottonwoods and a clear, rushing stream. End of the trail for today. He dismounted, looped the reins over a willow branch and walked back to the mare and its rider.

  Her eyes were closed, her face sweaty and dust-streaked under the brim of her hat. She’d need help standing up.

  He moved the toe of her boot out of the stirrup, reached up and settled his hands at her waist. With one smooth motion he lifted her down and moved toward the creek.

  “Miss Cumberland, I’m gonna set you down in the cold water. Be good for your sore muscles.”

  “Mmm...” she groaned.

  He went down on one knee to lower her body into a wide part of the creek. The water was ice-cold and she jerked when it soaked up her jeans.

  “This will help,” he muttered. “Just sit quiet. I’ll come get you out in a while.”

  She nodded without opening her eyes. He left her lolling in the deep pool and went to tend the horses and roll out the bedrolls. Supper would be canned beans and coffee, and if she didn’t like it, that was tough. There weren’t any silver spoons on the trail.

  He built a fire, boiled up some coffee and pried open the tin of beans. Then he tramped back to the creek and lifted a dripping Suzannah Cumberland into his arms. Even wet and shivering, she felt damn womanly. He settled her beside the fire and folded her hands around a tin mug of coffee. “Hope you don’t take milk or sugar.”

  She made no answer. Brand lifted the beans off the warming rock and jammed in the spoon. “Guess we’ll have to share. Only packed one spoon.”

  He sneaked a look at her face and bit his tongue. Her eyes were closed. She was beyond caring about spoons or beans or anything else. As he watched, moisture seeped out from under her eyelids and smudged her dirty cheeks.

  He dug the spoon into their supper and lifted it to her lips. “Open your mouth.”

  Obediently she parted her lips and he shoveled in a spoonful, devoured a bit himself, then fed her another. Alternating between her and himself, he soon scraped the bottom of the can. He held the mug of coffee to her mouth, but she shook her head.

  When her body began to tilt to one side, he knew she was finished. Quickly he grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around her and tipped her backward until she lay next to the fire. Her clothes were almost dry.

  He cleaned up the camp, fed the horses and dropped another thick branch onto the fire, then stretched out on his bedroll. He laid his rifle next to him and stuffed his Colt under the saddle he used 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.