Good heavens, she sounded like a fool, stumbling around in the morass of her own silly words. She shook off the condemnation in his hard black eyes and forced herself to continue. “You’ll be well looked after. I can assure you of that.”
“In the hospital?” He uttered the last word with the vehemence of a curse. Then, without waiting for her to respond, he rolled off her lap into the wagon bed and pushed himself to a shaky sitting position.
The lights from the fort were much closer now. Miranda could make out the low, blocky outlines of buildings and see the flare of torchlight on adobe walls.
“Stop the wagon,” Ahkeah said, looking as if he were about to faint. “I’m getting out right here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Miranda snapped, reaching out to steady him. “You’re badly hurt. You need to be examined by a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine. If not, my own people can take care of me.” He shook off the clasp of her steadying hand. His jaw tightened as he gripped the side board of the bouncing wagon and struggled to stand. “I know my rights, Miss Howell. I’ve broken no rules, and you can’t force me to—”
The driver glanced back over his shoulder. “Everything all right back there, miss?”
“Yes. Fine.” Miranda’s upward glance confirmed that he wasn’t reaching for his rifle. “Just get us to the fort. Hurry!”
Spurred by the urgency in her voice, the young corporal slapped the reins down on the backs of the mules. “Ha!” The buckboard shot forward as the tired animals broke into a trot. Wheels bounced and flew along the rocky surface of the road as they pushed the outriders ahead of them.
When Miranda’s gaze returned to Ahkeah, she saw that he had gained his feet and was standing in a half crouch, his leather-clad legs braced apart to support him in the jouncing wagon. His face was ashen in the moonlight, his mouth a grim line of tightly controlled pain.
“Tell your driver to stop,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“Don’t be a fool!” Miranda snapped, glaring up at him. “You need medical attention. You need—”
“Tell him to stop! Tell him now, damn it, or I jump out on the count of three!” The whites of his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “One…two…” His legs quivered unsteadily, and his eyes had taken on a glaze. “Three…” Ahkeah’s voice trailed off as he reeled and tumbled forward into Miranda’s arms.
Chapter Three
Miranda reacted instinctively, bracing herself against Ahkeah’s falling weight and reaching up to protect his head. Having cared for men with head injuries, she’d known what to expect when he tried to get up too soon. Ahkeah’s fainting had not surprised her.
Now, as the buckboard careened down the road, the tall Navajo lay across her lap, his head on her bosom, her arms supporting his chest and shoulders. His gaunt ribs were as distinct as the tines of a pitchfork through the thin cotton tunic. Wildness was in the feel of him, in the smoky scent of his hair, the sharpness of his bones and the wind-burned tautness of his skin. Miranda cradled his unconscious form gently, aware of his face pressing against her breast. She felt the tightness in her body, felt the liquid heat that pulsed from the deep core of her womanhood, stirring, strangely restless.
What was wrong with her? At the hospital, when she’d held injured youths in her arms to ease their pain, she had felt nothing but pity. And Phillip—yes, she had embraced him, kissed him ever so chastely on the lips and felt a safe, abiding sweetness that she judged to be love. But holding Ahkeah in her arms was like holding a broken eagle that, at any moment, might wake up and fly at her with its deadly beak and talons. The sense of danger shimmered like wine in her blood.
He stirred against her, moaning softly, his chin pressing her nipple through the thin serge of her jacket. Miranda’s lips parted in a little gasp as hot, tingling sensations flooded her body. Oh, this was wrong—she was engaged, almost married. And this man—he was a savage who’d likely pillaged and murdered and done heaven knows what. She had to put a stop to what was happening. But the exquisite pressure of his touch held her captive. She was powerless to move. Heat and color crept upward to flood her face. She struggled to breathe. A moment more, and—
“Say, looks like we got ourselves a welcomin’ party!” The corporal leaned to one side and spat over the side of the wagon. “Good thing we didn’t git you here any later, Miss Howell, or we woulda’ been strung up by our hocks like a passel o’ spring hams.”
Straining upward, Miranda peered past him over the seat of the buckboard. Her searching eyes caught the glint of moonlight on metal a quarter mile ahead, and then, as it materialized out of the night, a solid, moving black shape that she judged to be a close-riding troop of cavalry. As they came into full view she recognized the unmistakable tall-in-the-saddle frame and outsize Stetson of her father, Major Iron Bill Howell. He was riding at the head of the column, pushing his rangy buckskin mount to a gallop.
Miranda’s arms had frozen around Ahkeah’s inert body. As the outriders hailed the column, her first impulse was to roll the Navajo discreetly away from her, onto the planks. But the buckboard was bouncing crazily and the man was injured, she reminded herself. She could not risk his coming to further harm for the sake of appearances.
Carefully she eased his dark face away from her breast. Then, still supporting him in her arms, she steeled herself against the coming onslaught.
“What the hell took you so long?” Bill Howell’s voice boomed above the swirl of dust, wind and horses as the two groups mingled. “You were supposed to be back before nightfall! And where the devil is my daughter?”
“I’m here!” Miranda called out from the back of the wagon. “There’s nothing to be concerned about, Father. Everything is perfectly…fine.”
The all-too-familiar knot in Miranda’s stomach tightened as she saw him pushing his mount through the swarm of men and animals. As a child she had always been a little afraid of her father. He was so large and forceful, always looming above her like the giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Not once in her memory had he ever bent down to her eye level or lifted her up to his. He had been—and was—a tower of authority, gruff and unbending. Maybe that was part of the reason Miranda’s gentle mother had remained in the East, refusing to follow him to his remote postings as many officers’ wives did.
Someone had lit a torch. In its blazing yellow light she saw him looming above her once more—older now, by nearly four years, than when she’d last set eyes on him. The leathery creases around his eyes had deepened and the bristling sideburns that failed to hide his outsize ears were streaked with gray. But his penetrating granite eyes were exactly as Miranda remembered them.
Now those eyes were staring down at the man Miranda held in her arms—a man he undoubtedly knew and probably hated.
“What in blazes is going on here, Miranda?” he growled without so much as a nod of greeting. “What are you doing with this Indian?”
“He’s hurt.” Miranda forced herself to meet her father’s angry gaze. “If we’d left him by the road with a storm blowing in, he could have died of exposure.”
“Not the worst thing that could happen, by a long shot!” Iron Bill snapped. “If you ask me, the whole damned reservation, even the Navajos, would be better off without the troublemaking bastard!” Before Miranda could respond, he turned abruptly to the sergeant. “What happened, soldier? And who allowed my daughter to get involved with this vermin?”
The sergeant’s Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed and spoke. “Ahkeah,