Dreaming Of A Western Christmas: His Christmas Belle / The Cowboy of Christmas Past / Snowbound with the Cowboy. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ sound too sure. “That—that’s right, isn’t it, Jim?”

      “Shut up, Granger.”

      “Hunting what?” Brand pursued.

      The heavyset man propped his pudgy hands on his hips. “What’s it to you, mister?”

      “Nothin’ much. I’m hunting, too. Didn’t want my horse to scare your quarry away.” He paused long enough to take a look at the silent third man. Round-shouldered, dark-skinned, with a drooping black mustache.

      “I’m chasin’ after a woman,” Brand continued. “Following her, actually. Pretty. Blond hair. Came out from Missouri with a wagon train, but I lost track of her after Fort Hall. Colonel there told me she picked up a guide and started south to Texas. That’s where I’m headed. You run across her?”

      “Nope,” Fatso said quickly. “Uh, how come you’re tryin’ to find her?”

      “Money. She’s carrying a lot of cash and she owes me for a horse I sold her.” He watched the three men look at each other, then at him.

      “Texas, huh?” Fatso said.

      “Yeah. Hired a guide, like I said. Lost track of them a couple days ago, but I figure I can pick up their trail. Used to live halfway between here and Texas, so I know the trails. Maybe you fellas could use some company?” Brand carefully made a show of putting his gun away.

      Again the men exchanged glances, and Brand knew they’d taken the bait. Already the skinny kid was edging toward a saddled pinto at the edge of their camp.

      But Fatso pinned Brand with small, hostile eyes that were too close together. “We don’t want company, mister. Why don’t you just ride on outta here?”

      “Sure thing. Maybe I’ll see you fellas on the trail.”

      “Don’t look too hard. Like I said, we don’t want company.”

      Brand faked anger. “Hey, I don’t want you hornin’ in on my quarry. Don’t want to share the goods with anybody, know what I mean?”

      “Sure do. Now, turn around, mister, and vamoose.”

      Brand pivoted and headed for his horse. Behind him he heard Fatso’s voice. “Granger, Jim, saddle up! We’re ridin’ out.”

      Good riddance, he thought. He could hardly wait to get back to Suzannah. But just as he stuffed his boot into the stirrup, he heard the sound of a gun cocking and then the roar of its discharge. A bullet slammed into him. White-hot pain tore through his right shoulder and he sucked in his breath.

      “Got ’im,” someone shouted. “He won’t be botherin’ us anymore.”

      He had to mount, but he couldn’t grab the saddle horn and haul himself up by brute strength. He had to get back to the top of Clarke’s Castle and Suzannah. He gritted his teeth and reached up again.

      * * *

      Someone is coming. Suzannah listened for a moment, then jolted upright and fished under her saddlebag for the revolver. Lifting it in both hands, she pointed the barrel toward the noise, careful not to touch her finger to the trigger.

      What was it, an animal? A wolf? The hair on the back of her neck rose. Could it be a bear? Did bears live on hilltops?

      The sound came closer. Her mare shifted nervously, and Suzannah held her breath. Could she aim accurately in the dark? Even if she did, could she kill anything?

      A horse! She heard hoofbeats, moving slowly, just beyond the boulders. Very slow hoofbeats, and... Oh, God. She tried to control her shaking hands, slipped off the safety and slid her forefinger over the trigger.

      And then she heard something odd, someone whistling through his teeth—“Oh, Susanna.”

      “Brand?”

      “Yeah,” came a tired voice.

      She was on her feet and running as his head appeared over the rocks. “Brand!”

      “Suzannah,” he rasped. “For God’s sake, put the gun down.”

      She tossed it onto the ground and kept moving toward him.

      “Gotta help me down, Suzannah. My shoulder’s hurt.” He dropped the reins, brought his leg over the saddle horn and reached down to her with one arm. With a groan he latched on to her extended hands and slid to the ground.

      He staggered, and she grabbed him around the waist. “Easy, easy,” he panted. “Don’t bump my arm.”

      “Which arm?”

      “Right. It’s my shoulder, really. Gunshot.”

      She cried out, then clapped her free hand over her mouth.

      “Walk me over to my bedroll, will you?”

      Step by halting step she guided him the twenty feet to his blankets, and he dropped to his knees. “Think you could unsaddle my horse?”

      After some fumbling she figured out how to loosen the cinch under the animal’s belly and dragged off the saddle. She staggered under the weight.

      “Make some coffee, will you?” he called.

      “I thought you were afraid of smoke being seen.”

      “Dig a fire pit. Use the shovel tied on my horse. Scoop down about ten inches.”

      Brand watched his ladylike lady dig what had to be the first hole she’d made in the earth since making mud pies when she was a girl. She followed his instructions, and when the coffee was bubbling over on her scrabbled-together fire, he asked for the final thing he needed.

      “Look in my saddlebag for my whiskey flask and some linen for bandages. And the jerky,” he added. “All of a sudden I’m damn hungry.”

      Her relief was so obvious he had to laugh. “You cannot be at death’s door if you are hungry,” she quipped.

      “Coffee ’bout ready?”

      “After I tend to your shoulder.” She found the bandages and the whiskey and settled beside him. “Lean forward.”

      She stripped off his bloody shirt while he clenched his jaw. She peered at him. “Do you want some whiskey?”

      “No. Save it for...just save it.”

      “There doesn’t seem to be very much blood,” she said.

      “Bullet must have gone clean through.”

      “Does it hurt?”

      “Like a son of a— Yeah, it hurts.”

      She twisted her hands together. “What should I do now?”

      “Pour the whiskey over it.”

      She uncorked the flask, СКАЧАТЬ