Authors: Linda Ford
He reminded his gut that to do so would put her in danger. Association with a Dugganâeven one not involved in the unsavory exploits of the gangâwould sully her name.
Trouble with his gut was it never listened to reason.
* * *
How mortifying to be pressed so intimately close to a complete stranger. A big, strong, deep-voiced stranger. Sybil had struggled with trying to decide if she should swoon or fight, when in truth she didn't care to do either. What she'd been tempted to do was so strange, so foreign, she wondered if she'd momentarily taken leave of her senses. She wanted to look into his face and memorize every detail.
Surely her reactions were confused because of the thudding stampede of horses she felt certain would run over her.
She and Mercy had joined the cowboys crowded against the heavy rail fence cheering for the man riding the wild horse. She hadn't felt like cheering. Instead, she'd shuddered as the animal bucked and twisted and snorted in an attempt to dislodge the man on his back. How did he stay glued to the saddle? And didn't all that jolting hurt every bone in his body? Here was a man who thrived on danger. Yet, as she watched him clinging to the back of the wild horse, something tickled her insides. Excitement? Fear? Admiration? She couldn't find words to describe it. And she fancied herself a writer!
The horse had stopped bucking and stood quivering as the big man brushed his hand along its neck and murmured words she couldn't hear, but that stirred her deep inside.
Then a crack as loud as a gunshot had jolted through the air.
A dozen horses had crowded against a split gate. It swayed and then crashed to the ground. The sound of hoofbeats thundered. Frightened horses squealed. The animals were a blur of wild eyes and flying manes.
Sybil had taken a step back, her mouth dry. The noise boomed inside her chest. Dust clogged her nostrils. Uncertain which way to flee, she'd frozen in fear at the melee.
And then she'd been swept off her feet. Rescued from the screaming horses.
No wonder her heart thudded as if she'd run a mile, and she couldn't look away from his face.
But she could not avoid the truth about how unusual her reaction had been, nor could she face the others until she had herself under control. As soon as she reached the big ranch house she excused herself to go to the room down the hall from the kitchen.
Life in the West was certainly different from the one she'd known back in England.
At the thought of where she'd come from, her tension returned. She sat on the edge of her bed and pressed cool fingers to her hot cheeks. Of course she was upset. Her fear had immobilized her. She would have been trampled to death if the bronc buster hadn't swept her off her feet and pressed her to his chest.
A very broad, comforting chest.
Sybil, stop it. It doesn't matter if the chest was broad or fat or sweaty or...
But it wasn't. He smelled of leather and horses and wild grass. A very pleasing blend of aromas.
That doesn't matter. He means nothing to you and will mean nothing to you. Besides, didn't Eddie say the man would stay only long enough to break some horses? And hadn't Eddie further said the man gave no last name?
Quite the sort of fellow any woman would do well to avoid.
Not that Sybil Bannerman had any intention of doing otherwise. In her twenty years, she'd had her fill of people being snatched from her life or simply leaving of their own will, breaking off pieces of her heart in the process.
She bent over her knees as painful memories assailed her.
At only twelve years of age, Suzette, her dearest friend in the whole world, had drowned, leaving Sybil, also twelve at the time, lost, afraid and missing a very large portion of her heart.
She'd recovered enough at age sixteen to give her heart to Colin, the preacher's son. They'd spent hours talking of their hopes and plans, and dreaming of a future together. She'd finally found a soul mate to replace Suzette. She had opened her heart to Colin, expecting his attention to grow into a formal courtship. She even dreamed of the frothy white dress she'd wear at their wedding, and considered where they might live. For the first time since Suzette's death she'd felt whole and eager to share her thoughts and dreams.
No one had warned her it was temporary. Colin had never hinted that he'd changed his mind about how he felt about her, but a year after they met he left without a word of explanation. He never wrote or made any effort to keep in touch.
Another slice of her heart was cut off.
Losing her parents to fever a year and a half ago, within a few weeks of each other, had been the final blow.
From now on, she vowed, she would guard her heart, though she had very little of it left.
She sat up. Why was she having this argument with herself? It wasn't as if being rescued by Brand meant anything. As he said, he was simply in the right place at the right time. It made sense that she would feel some type of bond with a man who saved her life. But that's all it was.
Intending to calm herself, she pulled a notebook to her lap, just as Mercy rapped on the door and entered, without waiting for an invitation to do so.
Mercy nodded at the journal. “I'm guessing you're writing all about that handsome cowboy.”
Her friends knew she made short notes about each day in her diary. They would never believe she wrote for publication. She'd never told them. Most people she knew didn't think a young woman should have her name mentioned in such a public way.
She didn't mind that as much as knowing most people didn't think a young woman would have anything of value or interest to say. That had been the comment of the only editor she'd been brave enough to speak to, a couple years back.
But surely Mercy would understand. She didn't share the same sense of outrage at women doing different things.
Sybil retrieved papers she'd secreted away earlier. “I'm writing a story.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember reading that article written by Ellis West? You know. The one that described the ship's captain from our journey here.”
Mercy laughed. “He really made us see the pompous man.”
“I'm Ellis West.”
Mercy snorted. “Ellis West is a man.”
“No. It's a pseudonym I use.”
Her friend's eyes widened, then narrowed. “Are you sure?”
Sybil laughed. “Of course I'm sure. Why do you find it so hard to accept?” Was she wrong in thinking Mercy would understand?
“You?” Mercy shook her head. “It just seems so out of character.”
“Look at this if you don't believe me.” She held out her notes for an article about the life of a cowboy.
Mercy read them through. “You wrote this?”
Sybil sighed. “What does it take to convince you? Remember Mrs. Page on the boat? She's secretary to the editor of a newspaper back East. She saw me writing and asked about it. I showed her what I'd written about the captain. She asked if I had more. I gave her four stories I'd composed, mostly for the fun of it.” Though even after the rude rejection by the one editor Sybil had seen, the desire to write just wouldn't leave her. “She took them immediately to the editor, who offered to publish them. I gave him half a dozen stories before I left the ship.” They'd been published and she'd sent several more describing the West and the inhabitants of the territory. She expected they might have already appeared in the Toronto paper. The newspapers didn't reach Edendale for several weeks after they appeared back East.
Mercy hugged her. “How exciting.”
“The editor has asked me to find a bigger-than-life cowboy and write his story.” He'd offered a nice sum of money for such an article.
An idea flared through her head. She'd had recent experience with a bigger-than-life cowboy, a hero, as she'd said. “Brandâbest bronc breaker in the countryâfits the bill to perfection.”
Mercy bounced up and down on the bed. “He's exactly what you need. I say write his story.”
“But how am I to get the details of his life?” Sure, Sybil could ask others what they knew. Certainly make her own observations. But the best source was the man himself.
Her skin burned. Her lungs refused to do their job. There was no way she could ever approach this man and ask personal questions. There was something about him that threatened the locks on her heart.
You're being silly. He is just a man. Observe. Ask questions. That's all you need to do. He doesn't have to know that you're writing something about him.
Besides, she'd learned people were more honest, their answers more raw, if they weren't aware they were being interviewed. And who would suspect a woman of interviewing them for a story, anyway?
She could not let this opportunity pass. Or let her natural reticenceâor as Mercy insisted, her fearâget in the way of this story.
“All you have to do is ask him questions. You're very good at that. People seem to trust you.” Mercy flung herself back on Sybil's bed. “With good reason. You are a good person.”
“It's very kind of you to say so.” Sybil listened distractedly as her friend chattered on about whom she'd seen and talked to, and how she meant to pursue certain activities, until Sybil caught the words,
“learn to trick ride.”
She spun around to confront her. “Tell me I didn't hear you say you mean to learn to trick ride.”
“Okay. You didn't hear me say that.” Mercy grinned.
“Good. Honestly, sometimes you scare me with your rash words and even rasher actions.”
Mercy regarded her with a teasing grin. “No more than you worry me with your careful way of living. Sybil, my friend, if you're not cautious you'll end up living a barren life, when there is so much to know and enjoy out here.” She waved her arms in a wide circle as if encompassing the world.
“I'd sooner be safe.” Sybil hoped Mercy would never learn that barrenness felt better than having your heart shredded. Besides, she experienced lots of adventures through the stories others told her. All without the risk to herself.
Mercy laughed. “And I'd sooner have fun.” She draped an arm about Sybil's shoulders and rested her forehead against hers. “We are an odd pair and yet you are my best friend.”
“What about Jayne?” Jayne Gardiner Collins had been good friends with her and Mercy for several years...since they'd met at a tea party given by a dowager of London society. Despite their differences in nature, they got along well, and the three of them had crossed the ocean and traveled across most of Canada together. Sybil had allowed herself these friendships, knowing from the start they wouldn't last forever. The three of them would go their separate ways. Some to marriage. Likely they would lose touch. Truth was, Sybil simply kept most of her heart safely protected from the pain she knew she'd experience by allowing any friendship to grow.
“Pshaw.” Mercy waved her hand dismissively. “She's no longer any fun. She's only interested in Seth. Honestly, I get tired of âSeth said this, Seth did that, Seth likes such and such.'”
Sybil giggled. “They're in love. What do you expect?”
Mercy laughed, too. “I'm never going to let her forget she had to shoot him to catch him.”
“It was an accident,” Sybil protested.
They fell back against the bed, laughing at the memory. “I tried to warn the pair of you that no good would come of shooting a gun.”
“And she proved you wrong.”
“I guess she did.”
“Goes to show you should live a little dangerously once in a while. It's worth the risks.”
Mercy left a few minutes later.
Sybil stared at the wall. Could she write Brand's story? Yes, of course she could. The bigger question was could she do it without endangering the carefully constructed walls about her already damaged heart? The man held inherent risks for her, as she'd already discovered by her reaction to being rescued by him.
Oh, stop fretting about that. You were frightened. Snatched into the arms of a tall, dark stranger. It was an unusual experience. Of course you had an unusual reaction.
She made up her mind. She'd write the story, keeping her eyes wide-open to both her initial, surprising response and her prior knowledge that he didn't mean to stay. Eddie said the man never did. He was a born wanderer. Forewarned was forearmed. This time, unlike her unfortunate experience with Colin, she knew what to expect.
She pulled out pen and paper and wrote a letter to the publisher.
I have exactly the man for the assignment you've offered. He is a bronc rider, a quiet loner, a strong and mysterious man. Certainly bigger than life in a world that is full of strong, bold men.
She would find ways to get information about him without letting her silly reaction to being rescued cloud her good sense.
Chapter Two
H
er resolve to pursue a story about this man firmly in place, Sybil went to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you weren't hurt?” Linette asked as she bustled about the large room. A big wooden table filled one corner; cupboards and shelves occupied the opposite corner. East windows on either side of the outer door allowed them to enjoy the sunrise as they ate breakfast. Another door opened to a spacious, well-stocked pantry, and a third doorway opened to the hall that led to the rest of the house. Another door, always closed, hid the formal dining room, which Linette refused to use.
Even though she expected a baby in a few months, it didn't slow her down. She never seemed to stop working.
“Frightened is all, but I'm fine now. What can I do to help?”
Mercy sliced carrots into a pot.
Roasting meat filled the room with enough aroma to make Sybil's mouth water. Food certainly tasted better when it came fresh from the garden and when she had a hand in preparing it. Something she'd never done before her arrival at the ranch.
Meeting a man like Brandâbig, strong, boldâwould have never happened back in England, either. The men she'd been acquainted with would pale in comparison.
Mercy paused. “That bronc buster is a fine-looking man.” She gave Sybil a glance that demanded a response.
“Can't say I really noticed.”
Mercy laughed. “Hard to see much with your face smashed against his shirtfront.”
“He was fast enough and brave enough to rescue me. I thank God for that.” Except she'd forgotten to thank Him and she made up for it on the spot, uttering silent thanks.
“I join in thanking God,” Linette said as she poured water from the boiled potatoes, saving it in a jar to use later, when she made bread.
Sybil watched everything Linette did. She'd found so much satisfaction in learning to cook meals, bake bread and cookies, and even preserve garden produce for the approaching winter months. She'd only meant the trip to western Canada as a chance to start over, to rebuild her heart and strengthen the barriers around it, but she'd found so much more. She'd found purpose in doing useful things.
“I regret Mr. Brand refused to come for supper,” Linette said. “But I've decided to send supper to him. Eddie said he'd be an hour yet. Would you two take a meal to Mr. Brand?”
“Of course,” Mercy said.
Sybil wanted to refuse, because her heart still beat a little too fast as she remembered being held so firmly. But it provided a chance to meet him in a less emotionally packed way and learn about him, so she could write a fine story. “Certainly we'll take a meal to him.” No need for her silly reaction to repeat itself. She knew how to control her emotions.
Linette piled a plate high with what looked to Sybil like enough food to feed a family. She couldn't get used to the amount a working cowboy ate. Linette must have noticed her surprise. She chuckled. “I'm guessing a man who makes his own meals around a campfire would enjoy a home-cooked meal.” She wrapped the plate in a cloth and handed the bundle to Sybil.
Sybil and Mercy left the house. They paused at the corrals, where the gate had been repaired and the wild horses had settled down. They asked where they could find Brand, and Eddie directed them to the east. They crossed the yard, the grass beaten down and brown after a summer of wear. What must it be like for Brand to eat and sleep outside as the nights grew colder? Sybil wondered. Any cowboy, not just him.
“You be sure and have a good look at him this time,” Mercy said as they climbed the hill and made their way through some trees.
Sybil didn't need to give him a good look. She'd already done that and it had caused her heart to quiver. Instead, she concentrated on their surroundings. Dark pines stood like silent sentries. The golden leaves of the aspens swung to and fro, catching the sunlight in flashing brightness.
A dog growled and Mercy grabbed her arm.
“I don't fancy being torn up by a cross dog,” Sybil whispered. “Maybe we should go back.”
Mercy looked at the plate of food, then back down the trail.
Maybe she was doing the same as Sybil...measuring how fast they could run and considering if an angry dog would stop for the food if she dropped the plate.
“I know you're there. Come out and make yourself known,” Brand called out.
Her fingers clutching the plate so hard the china would certainly crack at any moment, Sybil ventured forward. “I'll throw the food at the dog if I have to,” she murmured to Mercy.
“Good idea.”
They stepped into a clearing. Wood smoke shimmered in the air. The smell pinched her nose.
A dog lunged toward them. Quite the ugliest dog she'd ever seen. Dirty brown with snapping black eyes and bared yellowed teeth. Not a big animal, but still a threat to life and limb. Only Brand's hand at the animal's neck restrained him.
Sybil squeaked. At the same time, she considered what sort of man kept such a dog.
“Quiet, Dawg,” Brand murmured, his voice so deep it seemed to echo the canine's growl. The animal settled into watchfulness that did nothing to ease Sybil's mind.
She swallowed hard and shifted her attention to the man. His cowboy hat was pulled low so all she saw of his face was a strong jaw and expressionless mouth.
She turned. “Come on, Mercy. No one is going to bite.” She faced Brand again. “I assume I am correct in saying that.” She indicated his dog, though maybe she meant more. Not that she expected Brand to bite, but he certainly filled the air with danger.
Or maybe it was her own heart calling out the silent warning.
“He won't bother you unless he thinks you're threatening me.”
The dog settled back on his haunches and watched them.
Mercy laughed nervously. “And how could we do that? We're two unarmed women.” She stepped closer, hesitated when Dawg growled louder, and turned her attention to the animal. “Nice doggie. I won't hurt you.” She put out a hand to touch the ugly dog. It lunged with a growl.
Mercy jerked back and Sybil almost dropped the plate of food.
Brand's large hand gripped the dog by the ruff. “Stay!” He gave a tug and the dog settled.
Sybil's heartbeat hammered erratically.
“Why do you keep such a cross creature?” Mercy asked.
Brand looked at Sybil as he answered, though she could not see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “He's my kind of friend.”
Again Mercy laughed. “I wonder what that says about you.”
Sybil thought the same thing. Judging by his quick, selfless actions that day, Brand deserved better company than a cross dog. But considering how he'd declined Linette's dinner invitation, maybe he preferred it that way. That would make an interesting twist to her story.
“Read it any way you want.”
Sybil narrowed her eyes and watched his face for clues.
He met her gaze. Something flickered in his eyes. An emotion she couldn't name. Perhaps he gave consideration to his chosen solitary state.
Having held a woman in his arms so recently, he longedâ
No. That wasn't what she'd write.
His isolation had been momentarily disturbed by his quick actions in saving a young woman, but he quickly reverted to his usual state. He and his dog...
Her thoughts abandoned her as she tried to free herself from his gaze. The way he hid behind his hat, the set of his jaw, even eating at a campfire when he'd been invited to share a meal said he either welcomed loneliness or it had been imposed upon him for some reason. She studied him as if she might be able to discern which it was.
He dipped his head.
She drew in a sharp breath. She'd been staring. But only because she wondered about the reason for his self-imposed solitary state.
She realized she still held the plate of food. “We brought you supper. Linette decided if you wouldn't come to the house for a meal, she'd send you one.”
After a moment's consideration of the offer, he nodded toward a stump. “Leave it there.”
Despite his dismissive words, his solitary state called out to Sybil. She stepped past the dog to put the plate on the stump he indicated. “Do you mind if we visit a few minutes?” Would she be able to discover the reason for his loneliness? Or perhaps something about his background?
“Suit yourself. Have a seat. Lots of grass to choose from, or pull up a log.” A smile flitted across his face so fast she almost missed it.
Sybil's curiosity about the man grew. She sank to the ground. Mercy sat a few feet away, her gaze never leaving the dog.
Sybil smiled. At least her friend wouldn't be taking an inventory of Brand's looks and itemizing them for her later.
He snatched off his hat as if recalling his manners.
She stared, darted her gaze away. Against her better judgment, she brought it slowly back. Mercy was right. He was a fine-looking man, dark and mysterious. Black curly hair that was over long, deep brown eyes, a slightly crooked nose...
He met her look for a second. She saw a soul-deep sorrow that sucked at her resolve, diluted it and poured it out on the ground. She sought for reason. Perhaps she was taking her study of him too seriously...imagining how lonely it must be for him. But then, she wasn't him, so how would she know until she asked?
Before she could glance away, he shifted his attention to his dog, which was lying at his side, watching Mercy.
Sybil almost laughed aloud at the way her friend and the canine eyed each other. She'd never before seen this side of Mercy, who was usually adventuresome to the point of recklessness. At least that's how Sybil saw it, although she'd be the first to admit she was conservative in the extreme by comparison.
Still unsettled by what she'd seen in Brand's eyes, she shifted her attention back to him, wondering if she'd imagined it.
He stared at something on the ground at his feet. She looked toward the same spot. All she saw were blades of grass.
“They say you never get bucked off a horse. Is that right?” The question had sprung from her mouth unbidden...but not unwelcome.
He chuckled, cut it off abruptly. Was he not comfortable laughing? “I guess you could say that practice makes perfect.”
She smiled at how his answer said so much with so few words. “So you took a lot of spills before you got good at it?” Dawg stopped having a staring contest with Mercy and inched toward Sybil, his head between his paws. Poor thing meant no harm. He was likely as lonesome as his owner.
There you go again. Jumping to conclusions. You have no way of knowing if he's lonely or just likes to be alone
.
That was part of what she hoped to discover.
“I got tossed off many times.”
Remembering how she'd held her breath as he rode a bucking horse, and wondering how he could stand it, Sybil shuddered. Getting tossed off sounded even worse than riding. “Did you ever get hurt?”
Mercy leaned closer, earning her a growl from Dawg. She edged back. “It must be so exciting. I think I'll give it a try.”
Sybil gasped. “Mercy, you can't be serious.” She fixed a demanding, pleading look on Brand. “Tell her she could get hurt. Tell her it's foolish to think of riding a wild horse.” Why did Mercy think she must do something crazy and reckless all the time?
Brand choked slightly, as if keeping back another chuckle. “Ma'am, she's right. It takes a lot of practice and lots of good fortune to survive some of the wild horses. Sure would hate to see your neck all busted up.”
Mercy grinned widely. “Still, I just might see how I fare.”
“Have you ever been hurt?” The words squeaked from Sybil's throat. A man with a dangerous job. Likely that explained why he was alone. A woman or a friend would face the constant risk of seeing him hurt or killed by one of those angry horses. How many women would accept that kind of life? She certainly wouldn't. She'd marry at some point, because she wanted a home and family, but she'd want security and safety when she did.
And she didn't intend to involve what was left of her heart. Colin had made her see the folly of that.
Brand answered her question. “Nothing serious, seeing as I'm still here and still riding horses.”
“But you have been injured?”
Sybil, you don't need to know the particulars to see that this man should wear a big danger sign around his neck.
Details for her story. That was the only reason she wanted to know.
“A time or two. Once when I was ten.”
“Ten! You were hardly out of short pants.”
“Ma'am. I never wore short pants. And it was my older brother who thought it was a lark to throw me on a horse he was trying to break. I stuck until the ornery critter stopped bucking.”
Another chuckle that he made no attempt to hide. Interesting observation. It would make a nice addition to her story.
A loner of a man with a deep-throated laugh that broke out unexpectedly from time to time, surprising the cowboy as much as it did those who heard it.
“I felt so high and mighty about riding a horse my brother couldn't that I climbed to the loft and jumped out the open door.”
Mercy laughed as if it was the funniest thing ever.
Sybil gasped. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“I was ten. I didn't need a reason. But I guess I thought riding a wild horse made me invincible.”
Sybil laughed softly. “Let me guess. That's when you were injured.”
“My brother broke my fall, but I still busted my arm.” He held it out and had a good look at it.
Mercy leaned back on her hands, her gaze darting frequently to Dawg.
Sybil's mind raced with questions. How many could she ask before he refused to answer? “What happens when you get bucked off?”
“If I did get bucked offâ” he made it sound like a far-fetched possibility “âI'd just get right back on and finish the job.”