Innocent Fire by Brenda Joyce Page B

terribly wrong. He glimpsed a long, slim leg, the curve of her belly, one soft, high breast. Her skin wasn’t white, it was red—an angry red. He instantly realized she was rubbing handfuls of coarse sand on herself. From the vicious, frantic look she wore he saw that she was performing a kind of self-flagellation.
    A cry of outrage came from his lips. Dropping the pheasant, he grabbed her hands to stop her from inflicting more pain on herself.
    “No!” she screamed, wrenching free with a hysterical strength that took him completely by surprise. “No! No!” Before he knew it, her nails had raked down the side of his face, drawing blood.
    He caught her wrists firmly. “Stop it!” he yelled. “Stopit, Miranda, stop!” He shook her. She was twisting like a wild animal, panting and giving little cries, trying to kick him. They had both risen to their feet, and he shoved one leg between her thighs and wrapped the other behind her right leg, pinning her to him. “Stop it!”
    Miranda froze against him and began to weep softly, her head falling limply against his chest. He relaxed his hold and lifted her to carry her to the blanket. Then he saw the extent of what she had done. Her skin was an angry red from her neck to her toes, even her breasts. And the insides of her knees were bloody. He felt sick. Her quiet weeping gave way to a moan, and he laid her gently down on the blanket. “Why, Miranda?” he said. “Why did you have to hurt yourself like this?”
    “Chavez,” she moaned. “He touched me.”
    Of course Bragg understood. He rose and went to his saddlebags. He knew she’d gone through them, although he didn’t know what she’d been looking for. He took the loincloth he carried as a spare blanket and laid it on top of her, covering her from her thighs to her breasts. He brought water back from the stream, and when he knelt at her feet, she had stopped crying, although tears glistened on her face.
    “I’m going to clean up these blisters,” he told her evenly. He reached down and gently tried to move her legs apart.
    “No,” she said, sitting up, holding the buckskin cloth over her breasts and trying to push his hand away. For once, she didn’t blush. “I’ll do it.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said sharply. He tucked the loincloth between her thighs, ignoring her gasp. He was careful not to touch her womanhood, but his hand trembled, and he brushed her by accident. “You’re completely covered,” he said harshly, dismayed with himself once more. “Goddammit! Why didn’t you tell me you were getting blisters?”
    “I didn’t know,” she whispered.
    He studiously avoided her face, knowing that she was embarrassed. He was determined to clean her up and ignore his own involuntary desire. He bathed her legs and rubbed on grease containing healing herbs. He could feelhow tense she was at his touch, but he was glad that her fragile skin was no longer so red. He was furious with her for hurting herself.
    “Miranda, I want you to put this all over your body.” He handed her the jar.
    She gasped.
    “I’m going to make a fire. I want you to do it. It’s healing,” he added, standing.
    She stared at him, looking aghast.
    “Everywhere, Miranda, and if you don’t do it, I will.” He started to turn, then put his hands on his hips, facing her. The thought had occurred to him that Chavez had probably hurt her while raping her. “Everywhere Chavez touched you,” he said. He looked right into her eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    When she flushed, Bragg knew she understood. He knelt and made a small fire, all the while listening to her movements, as quiet as they were. He kept his back to her and began to prepare the pheasant. Finally, he said, “If you take off that damn loincloth it will be easier, Miranda.”
    She gasped. She had left it on and was rubbing the grease onto her belly beneath the buckskin cloth. “You’re looking!”
    “No, I just know you, that’s