Mary Mcbride - Bandera's Bride

He wrenched his gaze from the approaching storm to look at her now, and her eyes met his as frankly as they always did, while her mouth curved into a lovely and contented smile.

“I’m so enjoying this, John. It’s hard to believe we’ve been traveling for over five hours and we’re still on your land.” Her smile grew even lovelier and warmer. “You and Price have done very well for yourselves.”

“I guess,” he said. “It’s not so hard, though, when one partner’s all money and the other’s all muscle.”

She gave him an odd look then, and John immediately realized he was quoting directly from a letter he had written her several years ago. A letter Price had written her.

“That’s what Price always said, anyway,” he added quickly. “What he says, I mean.”

Damnation! He was digging himself in deeper every time he opened his mouth. There was so much he couldn’t say that he couldn’t even begin to remember it all.

“Price loves this place,” she said. “Maybe he didn’t at first, but I’ve gotten the impression over the years that The Crippled B truly has come to be his home. I suspect it’s the same for you.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “I’ve been watching you today. Watching the way your eyes fairly drink in the landscape. The way you smile at the young calves chasing after their mothers and at the deer when they disappear into the brush. I saw the worry in your eyes when you pointed out those coyote tracks a few miles back.”

Now she tilted a little grin at him and wagged a finger. “You can’t fool me, John Bandera.”

“No?”

“No. You love this place every bit as much as Price does.”

“Maybe,” he said, remembering how his missing partner came to hate the dust that settled over everything and the relentless heat and, toward the end, even the sight of a longhorn. Price had even started talking about going back to Mississippi—the lesser of two evils, he had claimed—before he suddenly took off for parts unknown and no doubt just as evil once he arrived.

Emily closed her parasol now, for the sun had been obliterated by thick, churning clouds. A gust of wind tugged at her hair ribbon. “One thing Price mentioned that he especially loves here is being able to see weather coming in. He says…Oh, how did he describe it? That it’s a little like watching a herd of buffalo stampeding across the sky.” Her gaze lifted. “He’s right. I can see it for myself. It does look like a great wild herd of buffalo.”

Green buffalo, John thought. Fierce ones, too, and coming on fast. He and Emily were about to be trampled by their thundering hooves. He thought briefly of whipping the horse and trying to outrun the storm, but he realized it was no use. Though he’d only been in one twister before, years ago in Indian Territory, he’d learned only too well that you didn’t run from these wind devils. You hid.

The roiling clouds were beginning to dip all around them now and the wind was starting to pick up dust and dead leaves and dry sticks. The pressure in his ears shifted suddenly, and just then a bolt of lightning split the sky to the south, then another, and another.

He pulled the wagon up, and at the same time did a quick and desperate reckoning of the terrain. The dry, narrow bed of an arroyo lay just a hundred feet or so to the left. They could make it—maybe—if they ran.

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