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Dawg had trotted toward him as he reached the clearing. Brand bent and scrubbed his fingers through the dog’s silky fur now. This was all he could allow himself in the way of friendship.
He had no hope of a life full of peace and serenity. Nor did he intend to disturb Sybil’s sweet world.
It took a lot of kicking clumps of dirt and throwing wood on the fire for him to persuade himself he didn’t mind dealing with the truth of his life. Finally, he looked about, determined to find reasons to be grateful. Fall was in the air, filling it with deep-throated scents. Sure, it meant winter would soon be upon them, but he liked the color of the changing leaves, the cool night air and the migrating animals. He glanced up, hearing the honking of a V of geese overhead.
After a bit, his emotions back in order, Brand hunkered down beside the blazing fire, forced to sit a good distance away to avoid being scorched.
Dawg stretched out at his side.
For a time Brand stared into the flames.
“Dawg, you should have seen the commotion.” He didn’t know if he meant the runaway horses or the reaction to his rescue of Sybil.
“Miss Sybil just stood there as if frozen.” He’d seen her eyes. Expected the fear he saw. But there was something more—a watchfulness that surprised him. There was something intriguing about the golden miss.
He dug his fingers into Dawg’s fur. “Could be it’s because she’s such a fine looking woman that I can hardly keep my eyes off her.” But his gut said it was more than that. Something that made him consider turning his back on the facts of his life and living recklessly free for a few days, just so he could enjoy spending time with her.
He reminded his gut that to do so would put her in danger. Association with a Duggan—even one not involved in the unsavory exploits of the gang—would 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?
