Dreaming Of A Western Christmas. Carol Arens

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      Brand studied the curtained doorway. “Yeah? What kind of problem?”

      “You’ll see. Whynt’cha go on back?”

      “Jase, I can’t help wondering why this isn’t Colonel Clarke’s concern and not mine.”

      “You’ll see, Brand. C’mon, I’ll show ya.”

      Brand followed his old friend through the dusty curtain and stopped short. A young woman made an attempt to straighten up on the rush chair Jase had provided, then gave up and hunched over her belly, her arms clasped across her waist.

      Jase laid one leathery hand on her shoulder. “Miz Cumberland, ma’am?”

      She jerked up as if somebody’d just shot an arrow into her spine, but she said nothing.

      “She sick?”

      “Don’t think so, Brand. She’s damned scared is what she is. Kinda like battle-tired, I guess you’d say.”

      Brand studied her. No apron. Faded blue dress. Shoes that hadn’t been walked in that much. Not sunburned. That was odd. Nobody, especially not women out here in the West, escaped the punishing rays of the sun.

      He looked closer. Her skin appeared pale and as smooth as cream. Even the hands clasped tight across her middle were white and soft-looking. No red knuckles, and no telltale freckles. Looked as though she’d never washed a plate in her life. A hothouse rose if there ever was one.

      He stepped back and spoke to Jase, keeping his voice low. “How’d you get mixed up with her?”

      Jase sighed and went a little pink. “Jes’ lucky, I guess.”

      “She alone?”

      “She is now. Fella drivin’ her wagon out from Independence got killed. Shot through the heart. She drove the wagon to the fort with him in it.”

      “Husband?”

      “Don’t reckon so. Kept callin’ him Mr. Monroe,” Jase said. “She ain’t said more’n two words since she got here. Wagon was pretty well burned up. Burial detail took the body.”

      Brand leveled a long look at the man he’d slogged through the war with. “So why’d you signal me? Nothing I can do to bring this Monroe back, and you say the wagon’s destroyed.”

      “Yeah.” Jase scraped the toe of one boot back and forth across the plank floor. “Thought you might be willin’ to—”

      “No.”

      “Ah, hell, Brand, she’s all alone. Said she’s on her way to Oregon to get married. You bein’ a tracker an’ a damn good guide, I thought mebbe—”

      “Double no.” The last place on earth he ever wanted to see again was Oregon.

      But just then the woman looked up. Damned eyes were like two pools of emerald-green water. Shiny. As if she was gonna cry. Or already was.

      Ah, hell. He squatted in front of her. “Miss Cumberland? My name’s Brandon Wyler.”

      “How do you do, Mr. Wyler.” Her voice sounded scratchy.

      “I’ll make this short, ma’am. You got two choices. One is to head back where you came from. Two is to stay here at Fort Hall until a detail goes east. The colonel’s got guest quarters, and maybe Jase here could use some help in his store.”

      She studied him, working even white teeth over her lower lip. “I wish to go on to Oregon. My fiancé is expecting me.”

      “I can’t help you, ma’am.”

      “Oh, but—” She sent Jase a desperate look. “Mr. Brownell said you might—”

      “Yeah, well, Mr. Brownell didn’t check with me first. I’m not goin’ to Oregon this late in the season. Besides, I’m heading in the opposite direction.”

      Jase bumped his arm. “No ya ain’t, Brand. Colonel said he’s sendin’ you to Fort Klamath.”

      “Colonel didn’t check with me, either,” Brand growled.

      “I have money, Mr. Wyler.”

      “So have I, Miss Cumberland. Don’t need yours.”

      “But...”

      “Sorry.”

      Jase edged toward the curtained doorway and signaled Brand to follow. “Ya might wanna check with the colonel, Brand.”

      Brand’s heart sank right down to his boot tops. “You know somethin’ I don’t, Jase?”

      * * *

      “At ease, Major Wyler.”

      Brand rolled onto the balls of his feet and stared at the photograph behind Colonel Clarke’s bald head. His wife, maybe.

      The colonel tented his stubby fingers under his chin. “We wouldn’t want to leave a lady in distress, now, would we? That’s not the army way.”

      “Colonel, I don’t think—”

      “This is the army, Brand. You’re not paid to think. Now, you’ve got your orders.”

      “Well, hell, Colonel, I’m not in the army. Not anymore.”

      “Prove it.”

      “Now, wait a damn minute...”

      “That’s an order, Major,” he snapped. “Dismissed.”

       Chapter Two

      “Yeah, she’s waitin’ for ya, Brand. Ain’t too happy, but she’s waitin’.”

      Brand glanced at the slim figure pacing determinedly back and forth in front of the sutler’s canned goods display. Small as they were, her leather shoes made sharp staccato sounds on the wood floor, and her white hands were clenched at her sides. Looked as if she was as mad as hell.

      Well, so was he. Every bone in his tired body was shouting don’t do this. But the colonel had other ideas. His only hope was to get her to change her mind about going to Oregon.

      “Jase, lay out some flannel shirts about her size and some jeans and a boy-sized pair of boots.” While the older man selected the items and piled them up on the counter, Brand approached his charge.

      “Miss Cumberland?”

      She stopped pacing and spun to face him. Her face had lost that dazed look she’d had an hour ago. Now her green eyes flashed with anger.

      “Yes? What is it, Mr. Wyler?”

      “I’m taking you to Oregon, like you wanted.”

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