Bandera's Bride

“I’m steady enough,” she said. “But you—”

“Good,” he said, cutting her off. He grasped her elbow then to keep her from slipping on the melting carpet of ice. “Let’s go.”

The sun was just about to slide over the western horizon and darkness was coming on fast from the east when John finally, grudgingly admitted defeat.

They weren’t going to find the wagon, and even if they did manage to locate it, it wasn’t going to be in one piece. The damn thing had probably been blown to bits, and all of those bits were probably whirled and scattered over five counties. He didn’t even want to consider the whereabouts of his favorite mare or the fate of the poor gelding.

Nor did he want to think too much about his own condition. As the hours progressed and his pain increased substantially, he’d concluded that one of those cannonball hailstones had broken at least one of his ribs. It was his punishment, no doubt, for bringing Emily along today and putting her in harm’s way. And now he’d be paying even more for his crime tonight when they’d have to sleep here, in the open, together.

He’d have paid double the contents of his safe right now for a bottle of tequila to ease his pain and to turn his thoughts away from the woman who’d been walking by his side for the last few hours, uncomplaining, even cheerful, in contrast to his increasingly black mood.

“We’ll stop here,” he told her.

“Yes,” she answered with a sigh. “I suppose we should.”

She sounded tired now, more than John had realized. Even so, she managed to smile.

“I’ve never camped out before, you know.” She looked up at the darkening sky. “I’ve never slept under the stars.”

He knew. It was something they’d discussed back and forth in their letters. She envied him, she’d written, for being able to sleep under heaven’s starry canopy. And John had often dreamed about just this, sharing these same stars with his Emmy and introducing her to Polaris and Cassiopeia and Orion, one arm draped around her delicate shoulders and the other arm pointing skyward, knowing it would never happen. Only now it was.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said gruffly. “I’ll have you back to the house tomorrow. Back to a decent bed.” And then, just under his breath, he added, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry!” she exclaimed. “Why, John Bandera, I honestly believe you’re holding yourself personally responsible for the storm. It’s little wonder you and Price make such good partners. I believe he’d have a similar reaction.”

She wagged a finger at him, then laughed gaily. “But Price has assured me that sleeping out under the stars is better than any church for being close to God.”

Recognizing his own heartfelt words, John scowled. “I didn’t know my partner was such a philosopher.”

“I’m sure there’s quite a lot about him you don’t know.” There was no smugness in her voice. Merely certainty. And an undisguised affection. “I believe men tend to open up their feelings more readily to the opposite sex.”

“Maybe so.”

She gave him a look that was part pity, part female curiosity. “I take it, then, that you’ve never philosophized or shared any of your tender feelings with another?”

“You take it any way you see fit, Emily. Me and my tender feelings need to gather up some firewood now before it’s too dark.”

He stalked away from her as well as a man with a bashed rib cage could stalk. By the time he’d gathered ample brush and had coaxed it into a decent fire, John could feel the flames warming the sheen of sweat on his face. His side felt as if there was an arrow buried deep within it. There was no use ignoring it anymore, or pretending that he wasn’t hurt and even in some degree of danger. If that invisible arrow of a rib were to shift and puncture his lung, his Emmy was going to be in big trouble.

He lowered himself gingerly to the ground and began to unbutton his shirt just as Emily came up behind him with an armload of brush.

“I knew it,” she exclaimed, dropping her bundle of firewood and then dropping herself in a heap of skirts beside him. “You are injured, John. What is it? How bad is it? What can I do to help?”

She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and the touch instantly reverberated throughout John’s body. Now, in addition to his broken rib and bruised muscles, he suffered the piercing and indescribable pain of desire.

“It’s not so serious,” he said, trying not to wince when he eased his shirttails from under his belt. “Just a bruised rib, I think. I’m going to tear up my shirt and use it as a binding.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” She shot to her feet. “I won’t allow it.”

He gritted his teeth, then lofted his gaze to the starry sky, seeking the patience he didn’t feel just then. He was aching too damn much to spare Miss Emily Russell’s delicate feelings of politeness and prudery.

“Look,” he said bluntly, “I’m a stranger to you. I know that. And I know it isn’t polite or fitting to take off my shirt in front of you. But you’re going to have to trust me about this, Emily. It’s very, very necessary.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, John.”

She was standing behind him so he couldn’t see her expression or just what she was doing, but the next sounds he heard were the unmistakable rustlings of a woman divesting herself of a petticoat or two.

“What I meant was,” she continued, “that it’s foolish for you to rip up your shirt when I have all this silk and muslin doing nothing but puffing out my skirt.”

She plopped back down beside him, her arms full of white lacy garments. “There. You see? Now, please just tell me how wide I should tear the strips.”

Her voice, as well as the brass tack glitter in her eyes, brooked no argument, so John held up his thumb and forefinger, indicating a decent width for a bandage.

“Two inches, give or take, I’d say,” he murmured.

“All right.” She began ripping. And ripping. No sooner had she shredded one petticoat than she began on the other. John watched in appreciative silence while her fingers fairly flew. In a matter of minutes, she was done with the ripping and had begun knotting the lacy strips together.

He stole a glance or two at her determined face. Her mouth was a study in purposefulness, and when her tongue peeked out a fraction to wet her lips, he felt his body tighten instantly at the sight. The thought of how he’d react if he actually kissed those lips made his mouth so dry he almost couldn’t speak. Not the words he wanted to say, anyway.

“I’m grateful, Emily,” he said at last. “I’ll repay you for your loss as soon as we get back to the ranch.”

“Nonsense. I’ll be glad not to have to carry the weight of these petticoats on our walk tomorrow.” She pulled the final white knot tight. “There. Now let’s get you out of that shirt.”

He started to shrug out of it on his own, but then there were her hands all of a sudden and her cool fingertips guiding him, gliding down his back and arms while her mouth made all sorts of soft and sympathetic little noises.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such bruises. Especially here.”

Her light touch on the site of his injured rib was as exquisite as it was painful. John sucked in his breath.

“I can manage,” he said, reaching for one end of the long knotted strip.

Emily jerked it out of his hand. “I’m sure you can, but I suspect I’ll manage better. Just tell me whether it’s too tight. It should be tight, shouldn’t it, if it’s to do you any good?”

She was already beginning to wind the petticoat strips around his chest, her hair brushing his skin, her breath warm and sweet on his cheek, his neck, his shoulders. For a moment John felt almost guilty, as if he had deliberately conjured up the violent storm and its aftermath for the sole sake of this moment of intimacy. He closed his eyes the better to savor it. He’d dreamed of this—her!—so very long.

“There.” She wove the ragged end of the bandage through the strips already in place. “That ought to do it. For now at least.”

John drew in a tentative breath, deeper than the shallow ones he’d been practicing for the last few hours. It was better. He let the breath out as a rough sigh of relief.

“Much better,” he said. “Muchas gracias, Emily. I’m in your debt.”

She sat back now and laughed. “De nada, John. Did I say that right?”

He nodded, trying to suppress a smile.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I don’t think Price would ever forgive me if I didn’t do all I could for his partner when he was in trouble, do you?”

He could feel his expression alter and hoped she wouldn’t be able to read the disappointment that seemed to wash over his face at the mention of Price’s name. Their moment of intimacy, so precious to John, had just blown away like smoke.

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