Dreaming Of A Western Christmas: His Christmas Belle / The Cowboy of Christmas Past / Snowbound with the Cowboy. Lynna Banning
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“Go on,” he said softly. “I know you’re wearing underclothes, and I’ve seen women’s duds before.”
“Turn around,” she said sharply.
He pivoted on one boot heel and propped his hands on his lean hips.
“You are no gentleman, Mr. Wyler,” she said to his broad back.
“I don’t have to be.”
“If you want my cooperation, it would help if you were at least polite.”
“Just for the record, Miss Cumberland, out here on the trail all I have to be is prepared for anything, and—” he started a gusty whistle between his teeth “—patient as a damn saint.”
She made quick work of rinsing out her shirt and had it buttoned back on before he finished the second verse. “That’s a song sung by some of the workers on the plantation,” she said uncomfortably.
“So?” One eyebrow quirked. “You never sang ‘Oh, Susanna’ in school?”
“Certainly not. I had tutors. Besides, I was not allowed to sing except in church.”
“Bet you didn’t have much fun growing up, didja?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it so fast her teeth clicked. No, she had not had fun. She had played with the young children on the plantation until one day Mama put a stop to it, and from then on she spent all her free time on lessons in deportment and learning how to give a proper tea party.
Until the war. After the war there was no reason for tea parties.
Brand tried not to look too hard at the outline of her breasts where the wet shirt was plastered to her skin. She wasn’t much fun, but she sure was pretty.
“Mount up,” he barked. “Got a long ride ahead.”
When she saluted smartly he laughed out loud. Maybe he was wrong about the fun part.
By midafternoon they still had not stopped to eat or rest the horses, or do any of the things he had done the previous day. Suzannah was too tired to ask why, and anyway, she thought she knew. Mr. Wyler was trying his darnedest to get her to turn back.
Well, she would not. She would pull up her socks and grit her teeth and keep going just to spite him. And, of course, to reach Fort Klamath and her beloved John. Her arrival would be such a surprise for him, a real Christmas present.
Her fiancé would never, ever treat her in such an inhumane manner. John was a thousand times more gentlemanly than Major Brandon Wyler. Her fiancé might be a Northerner and only a lieutenant in the army, but he was a far, far better man. And not only that—
Suddenly Mr. Wyler halted his horse and raised his hand. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of a meal at last.
“I hope we are stopping for lunch,” she ventured.
He did not answer, just dismounted and walked back past her a good thirty paces, studying the ground. Then he straightened and stood looking off toward the hills, his eyes narrowed. With a shake of his head he strode back to his horse and slipped the rifle out of the leather case.
Oh, she did hope it was another rabbit! She was so hungry she would eat it half-cooked. Or even not cooked.
But he did not raise the gun or aim it at anything. He just stood without moving, looking back the way they had come.
Suzannah shifted in her saddle. “What is wrong?” she called.
“Shut up!” he hissed. Still he did not move, and then he slowly raised the rifle, pointed it at something off to their right and sighted down the barrel. The back of her neck began to prickle.
Minutes passed and nothing happened except for the raucous cry of a crow somewhere over her head. She squinted her eyes and peered in the direction the gun barrel was pointed, but she could see nothing but scrubby brush and sparse clumps of trees.
And then she noticed a faint puff of gray dust far off in the distance. It seemed to be moving, and abruptly Mr. Wyler lifted his rifle and walked back to the horses.
“We’re being followed.”
Her body went cold. “What? Are you sure?”
He pinned her with a look that straightened her spine. “Lady, if I say someone’s following us, you can bet your diamond earrings there’s a rider on our trail.”
“But who is it?”
“Don’t know.” He swung into the saddle and positioned his horse nose to tail with hers. “Do you know who shot your driver, Mr. Monroe?”
“N-no.”
“Hate to ask this, Suzannah, but what did the wound look like?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Was there more than one shot? Where did the bullet enter? Was the flesh clean or ragged around the—”
The color left her face and Brand broke off.
“He was sitting on the driver’s bench,” she said unsteadily, “driving the oxen, and I heard a crack and he tipped over to one side and fell off onto the ground. I climbed down and...and there was a lot of blood. I dragged him to the wagon and I...I don’t know how I got him inside, but I did.”
“You see anybody?”
“No. I was inside the wagon when it happened.”
“Did you hear more than one gunshot?”
“Y-yes. Three, perhaps. Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Trying to figure out who killed Monroe. And why. Who knew that you were carrying a large amount of money?”
“Mr. Monroe did. I paid him in cash, in advance.”
“In private? Did anyone see the transaction?”
“I don’t think so. It took place at the bank in Independence.”
Brand nodded. “Pretty public place, the bank in Independence.”
“Could it have been Indians?”
“Indians would have whooped and hollered and probably taken the man’s scalp. And you.”
“Me!”
He leveled a scathing look at her. “Well, hell, lady, think about it! A pretty woman way out on the plain. Shouldn’t have to paint you a picture.”
“Oh. Well.” She was quiet for a long moment. “Then who do you think it was?”
“Had СКАЧАТЬ