In his arm
1407 Words
*Briony*
When night falls, I ease as close to the fire as I dare and wrap the horse's blanket around myself. The wind comes up off the river, damp and frigid, and I shudder.
"Cold?"
I lift my gaze to the man sitting on the other side of the fire. He has found the horse and three of the mules. I have a feeling he's found the fourth mule as well. I heard a gunshot, but he hasn't brought any food back to our small camp. Tomorrow, we will comb the banks of the river to see what we can recover.
"A little," I admit, hating the way my teeth click together as I speak. I haven't been able to regain any warmth since he ended the kiss.
Watching him, if I didn't know better, I would think he's having an argument with someone. His brow furrows deeply, his jaw clenches, and with his finger, he draws something in the dirt. Then, like a man who has lost the battle, he shoves to his feet and walks around to my side of the fire.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I scramble to my knees to see what he's written. The light from the flames dances over Chase's brand.
Wade sits beside me, and I meet his gaze. "Why did you draw that?"
"As a reminder that he has a claim on you." He stretches out on the ground and opens his duster. "Come here."
I hesitate, my heart pounding. As an unmarried she-wolf betrothed to his brother, I know I should suffer through the cold, shouldn't welcome the warmth his body can provide. I close my hand around the watch, my gift to Chase that's still hidden in my pocket, and lie next to Wade.
He wraps his duster and one arm around me, crooking his other arm. "Here, use my arm as a pillow," he says quietly.
I scoot back, nestling my backside against his stomach and laying my head on his arm.
"Better?" he asks.
"Warmer," I respond and study his curled hand, the long, tanned fingers. I know the strength those fingers hold, having felt it this afternoon as he braced my face and lowered his mouth to mine. The pads and palms of his fingers are callused, and I resist the urge to place my hand over his, to press palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip.
"What will we do tomorrow?" I ask.
"See what we can salvage. Use the mules as pack animals."
I can’t help but saying. "I guess we should have waited to cross the river."
"Yeah."
I hear his sigh more than his word. "Why didn't we?"
Silence falls heavy between us. I roll over within his arms and feel him stiffen. "Why didn't we wait?"
"Because we'd already lost too much time," he states flatly.
"Why did you kiss me?" I ask.
He sighs. "Because I'm a fool."
I touch my fingers to his lips. He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand back.
"Don't do that," he says gruffly.
"We shouldn't have crossed the river. You shouldn't have kissed me. Yet, you did both. Why?" I enquire.
"Because it's been too damn long since I've been with a she-wolf. Don't read any feelings into what happened this afternoon. I'm a man and I've got needs. Needs any she-wolf would fill. Right now, you're the only she-wolf within two hundred miles."
I blink. "So it's not me specifically. It's only because I'm a she-wolf."
"That's right," he says curtly.
"And why did I kiss you back?" I ask.
I can feel him shrug slightly. "I reckon she-wolves have needs, too."
"And any man would do? That makes me no better than a whore." I mumble.
He releases my wrist. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," I say softly. "You think it's the circumstances and not the people that made us turn to each other this afternoon."
"That's right. You won't be turning to me once we get to the ranch. Once you're with Chase. Now go to sleep." He says softly.
I roll over, giving him my back. I watch the flames in the low fire flicker, just as my thoughts flicker. Was he right? Had I kissed him just because he was there? Because I'd been terrified? "Wade?"
*Wade*
She has been quiet for so long now that I'm certain she had fallen asleep. I have never before heard my name come from her lips as anything but a scream. My heart tightens, and I fight against the urge to pull her closer. "What?" I ask.
"What sort of man is Chase?" She asks.
A better man than me. I swallow, searching for words that will do my brother justice, true words that will ease her doubts. "He's the kind of man who casts a long shadow... a shadow that reaches out to touch everyone and everything. Years from now, people who never knew him will remember him."
She rolls over, pressing her face against my shoulder. "And my shadow will be short. I worry that the man I imagined in the letters doesn't really exist. He seems almost perfect."
"All I can tell you is that I couldn't ask for a finer brother, and I don't imagine you could ask for a finer husband."
"What if he's disappointed when he meets me?" She asks.
Tenderness fills me at her insecurity. "He won't be disappointed. I can give you my word on that." Reaching over her, I tuck my duster around her. "Now you'd best get to sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be another long day."
"I'm so grateful you were with me today," she says quietly as she closes her eyes.
I can't remember if anyone has ever before been grateful for my presence. My mother, I suppose. Certainly not my father.
Unlike Chase, I never measured up to my father's expectations. I was never strong enough, smart enough, or fast enough.
‘Swear to the Goddess, I ought to dress you in girl's clothing!’ my father had bellowed the day he discovered me holding a rag doll in the mercantile.
The doll had looked so lonely sprawled over the counter, where a little girl had left her while she browsed the assortment of candies. And so soft. I'd just wanted to see if she was as soft as she looked.
She had been. Her embroidered face had carried a permanent smile, a smile that had made me grin crookedly at her.
I realize now that the smile more than the doll had probably set my father off. Or maybe it had been both. Either way, my actions hadn't been of a manly nature in his eyes. When we had returned home, my father had taken a switch to my backside. A switch he'd made me find.
When the punishment ended, I had pulled my trousers up with as much dignity as I could muster. When I had turned, and my father had seen the silent tears coursing down my cheeks, he'd struck my face. The switch had cut into my tender young flesh, leaving a scar that ran the length of my cheek.
I hated the scar, and often wished it was gone. My mother had warned me to be wary of what I wished for.
When I was fifteen, my wish had come true. The artillery fire had blown the scar off my face, leaving a place for thicker scars to form. I haven't made a wish since.
But I find myself wishing now. Wishing that the arm holding Briony hadn't grown as numb as the left side of my face. I can no longer feel the warmth of her body, the sureness of her weight. My one chance to hold a decent she-wolf within my arms through the night, and my arm has fallen asleep.
I think about adjusting my position, but I don't want to wake her. My free hand hovers over her face, and like a moonbeam kissing the waters of a lake, I brush her hair away from her cheek. So soft. So incredibly soft. Like the rag doll I had held so long ago.
Only she isn't a doll. She's a she-wolf, flesh and blood, a she-wolf whom Chase has entrusted into my keeping.
A she-wolf with eyes the green of clover, hair the shade of an autumn moon.
And courage as boundless as the West Texas plains.
- Writer
