Bandera's Bride. Mary McBride
sunshine fingered through the clouds.
“Thank God,” Emily breathed into the wet sleeve that was still shielding her head. Only now was she truly aware of the warm weight upon her. She tried in vain to move, to turn.
“John?” It came as no surprise that her voice was trembling along with all the rest of her. “John, are you all right?”
He shifted a bit, but it was another moment before he answered. “Fine. You? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so. My God, that was close.”
He grunted in reply— “Too close!”—and rolled to his left, allowing Emily to sit up. After she blinked the grit from her eyes and looked around, all she could do was moan softly. “Oh, my God.”
For as far as she could see in every direction, the ground was covered with white balls of ice, some of them almost as big around as grapefruits. She’d seen hail before but never anything bigger than peas or marbles. This was the eeriest sight she’d ever witnessed as the sun began to filter through the clouds and to glisten on the bleak ice field around them.
Why, the landscape was so pearly white they could have been on the moon, for all she knew. Where in the world was the wagon? And where were the horses? Where was…well…everything? Even the few mesquite trees still standing nearby were bent in the direction of the storm and nearly barren of their leaves.
Emily tried to stand up only to discover that her liquid knees would not support her, so she collapsed back in a heap of wet and muddy skirts.
“Here.” John had gotten to his feet and now he extended his open hand to her. “Come on.”
His grip was warm and firm when he pulled her up, but as he did, Emily heard his sharp intake of breath and the Spanish curse he bit off.
“What is it, John?”
“It’s nothing. I’m okay.” His amber eyes searched her face, before his gaze traveled the length of her. “And you? No broken bones? Bruises?”
Emily shook her head and tried to mount a small smile. “Just quaking knees. That was the worst storm I’ve ever seen. It’s a miracle we weren’t killed.”
He was surveying the landscape around them now, glaring at the chunks of ice as if they were animate things still capable of doing damage. His breathing, Emily noticed, was shallow and his lips drawn together in a hard line. She could tell he was in pain, and could see that he was trying to conceal it from her.
“John?”
He swore softly again and stepped up out of the little, ice-covered creek bed. “Come on. If you’re steady enough to walk, we’ll look for the horses and the wagon. It won’t be long before it gets too dark to find them.”
“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