Apache Caress (2 page)

One thing was certain, he would not go to his grave without a fight. Deep in his heart, he knew he had no chance of making it all the way back to the West. Only a few miles from here lay that big river, the Mississippi, and it was too wide to swim. By Usen, he could not win, but he would not quit. When they killed him, he would go down fighting. That was what made the whites hate him so; he wouldn’t conform. He wouldn’t bend, and they couldn’t break him. Cholla, like the desert cactus he was named for, was tough, dangerous to tangle with.

He rested until dark and then began to travel. Tired and hungry as his brawny body was, his mind was clear. Many times he had been in bad situations, but his level head and bravery had saved him. Not only the Army but armed citizens would be searching for him, eager to kill. If he were to have any chance at all, he had to get the chains off. But to do that, he needed tools; blacksmith’s tools or maybe an axe. Where were such tools found?

Farms.
Cholla looked down at the chains on his wrists and ankles. He must find a farm where there were no dogs to scent him and give the alarm. Most whites owned dogs. When the creatures barked, men came out with guns.

He tried to maintain a slow trot, the chains jangling as he moved. Lithe as a puma, though a big man, Cholla concentrated on putting distance between him and where he had jumped from the train. And then what? he thought ruefully. If he managed to travel all those miles back to the big river, how would he get across? He could hardly walk across that giant bridge. Maybe he could sneak aboard a freight train headed west across it.

With that thought, he paused when he saw the rails gleaming in the moonlight. Yes, maybe he could follow the tracks back, almost to the giant river, and sneak aboard a train. It might take the white men several days to get tracker dogs. Right now, his first priority was getting the chains off.

He walked along the tracks, headed west. Several times he stopped and scouted out a farm, hoping to find tools and food. But always the distant barking of dogs or the sight of men in farmhouse windows, made him decide to move on, seek an easier target. One thing was certain, he needed to be unfettered and on his way before daylight.

His belly growled, and his body ached. Dried blood stained his headband. But Cholla was used to hardship. His father had been killed by drunken warriors in a raid, and he, Delzhinne, and Mother had nearly starved before Mother began to clean and cook at the white soldiers’ fort. Cholla had grown up among whites. The last several years, he had scouted for the Army because he knew that leaders like Geronimo would only prolong his peoples’ ordeal. General Crook had given his word that they could stay in their beloved country.

However, General Miles had taken over and the promises Gray Fox Crook had made were no good. All the Apaches had been betrayed and gathered up to be shipped away to prison, even those who had served as Army scouts. Anger at the injustice burned deep in Cholla’s heart as he moved across the dark countryside. Never again would he trust the whites. He who had been lied to, mistreated, and shown no mercy would respond in kind.

Around him, crickets chirped in the dark night and somewhere a dog howled. The lonely sound echoed through the stillness, making him think of his own dog, Ke’jaa. Cholla winced when he remembered the chaotic scene at the railroad station as the Apaches were forced on board the train. Hundreds of the Indians’ dogs had run about in the confusion, barking and whimpering, trying to follow their masters onto the train. They had been beaten back by the soldiers.

Cholla had put his face against the window as the train pulled away. His friend, Sergeant Mooney, stood forlornly on the platform, the dogs barking and milling about, running after the departing cars. Ke’jaa. The name meant “dog” in his language. Big and half-coyote, his pet had run alongside the train for miles, trying vainly to keep up with Cholla while Lieutenant Gillen had laughed about the fate of the Apaches’ dogs once the train was gone. No doubt Ke’jaa had been shot along with hundreds of other dogs.

At least Gillen wouldn’t be riding Cholla’s fine stallion now. The Apache took some satisfaction in that thought as he paused and caught his breath. In the moonlight, he tried to get his bearings. Where was he and how far had he come?

Up ahead lay a farm. He could see faint light streaming through the windows of the small house near the train tracks.
Were there dogs?
If not, maybe he could steal some tools from the barn, or even a horse. If he were lucky, there might be a smokehouse with some ham or bacon. Though Apaches weren’t fond of pork, Cholla had lived too long with the whites to like mule meat and some of the other delicacies the wild Apaches relished.

Cautiously, Cholla slipped closer to the house. Out front was a small, canvas-covered wagon, the type a peddler might use. There was something familiar about this place, but he had passed a hundred such scrabble-poor farms on the long train trip.

He moved along, silent as a shadow, listening for a dog or maybe a man’s voice drifting through the open windows.
Nothing.
Out behind the house, a small barn stood silhouetted against the moon. He remembered then why the place looked familiar to him.

In his mind, he stood on the swaying train platform again, returning the stare of an ebony-haired girl in a black dress. She had glared at him, curious and yet hostile. Cholla remembered the hatred in her tanned face and wondered about it. It had been a long time since he had lain with a woman. But Apaches had a taboo against rape. They were afraid that evil spirits would haunt them for taking an unwilling woman. Still, the thought of the girl drew him slowly toward the small house.

I need to see if there are men on this place who might come out to the barn if they hear a noise, he told himself. Then he remembered that the woman had worn a black dress, the sign of a widow. Still there might be brothers or a father or some other male relatives who would shoot at him. He had better investigate the scene before he tried to take tools or food.

Cholla went to the window and looked in. The woman stood within, clad in a flimsy white garment, a photo in her hand. As he watched, she bent over a trunk, put the small framed photo inside, took out a hairbrush, and straightened. On the table were an oil lamp and one lone plate and cup. The scent of frying bacon and hot bread drifted from the stone fireplace through the open windows.

His heart pounded harder. The woman was alone. The one plate told him that. Alone and defenseless. His gaze swept the room looking for weapons. He saw none. Besides the trunk, there were boxes stacked about as if she were packing to leave.

His attention returned to the woman. The chemise was so sheer, Cholla saw the dark circles of her nipples through the fabric. Her skin was tan except where dresses protected it, and her pale breasts swelled beneath the white underthing. While he watched, she took the pins from her ebony hair, shook the locks out, and began to brush them.

Cholla watched the light reflect on her hair as she brushed, her breasts moving with each stroke. He had a sudden vision of her lying on the small rug before the fire, the thin chemise pulled up around her hips, her long black hair spread under her. Her mouth looked as soft and full as her breasts. He saw himself walking toward her as she smiled and reached up to him, spreading her thighs. He would lie down on her, covering her small, pale body with his big dark one. He would tangle one hand in her hair and lift her face up to his while his other hand pushed down the chemise. As he had thought, her breasts and belly were milky white where the sun had not touched her skin.

Cholla took a breath and then sighed, feeling his manhood hard and aching, wanting the relief the girl’s body could offer. She turned suddenly and stared toward the window as if she had heard the sound. He held his breath and did not move. Then she shrugged, as if convincing herself that it was only her imagination, and resumed brushing her hair. With each stroke her breasts moved, and Cholla imagined how they would feel when he closed his big, callused hands over them, the nipples erect against his palms.

He looked down at the fetters on his wrists and ankles. His very life and freedom were at stake; he had no time to think of women. His arm was bleeding again, but he couldn’t do anything about that right now. He moved as carefully as he could to keep from rattling the chains.

Turning, he crept toward the barn. Maybe he would find some blacksmith’s tools or at least an axe there. There must also be a horse, or the wagon wouldn’t be out front. It looked as if she was loading it to leave on the morrow. When he had first seen her from the train, the pure hatred in her stare had mystified him. She’d be even angrier tomorrow when she found a horse and some meat from the smokehouse missing. He could travel many miles before the widow found that someone had been about in the night.

Cholla paused at the open barn door, breathing in the scent of sweet hay and leather harness. An animal snorted and stamped its hooves in a shadowy stall as he crept toward it. He put his hand on the top rail, guiding himself through the darkness. As a scout, Cholla had had a lot of experience with cavalry mounts.

The animal snorted again. “Easy, boy,” he soothed. “Be still. Once I get these chains off, we’re leaving.”

Then Cholla brushed against something on the top rail, something fluffy and feathered that set up a terrible, loud squawking and wing-flapping.

A chicken
. He had awakened a stray barnyard hen perched on the rail, and she’d set up a racket as if a fox were after her. As Cholla paused, uncertain what to do, the chicken squawked and flapped, further exciting the creature that was snorting, maybe at scenting the fresh blood on Cholla. The animal now began an ungodly heehawing.

By Usen, a mule. A damned mule.
That creature and the noisy hen were making enough racket to be heard for miles.

What to do now? Cholla looked toward the house. Would the woman come out to investigate the racket? Maybe she hadn’t heard it.

She came to the window, peered out uncertainly. Cholla watched her, hoping she would stay inside. Even though she had looked at him earlier with eyes full of hatred, he didn’t want to kill her. He glanced at the chains on his wrists. By looping them over her head, he could break her neck before she had any chance to cry out.

In the darkness Cholla pressed his back up against the wall and held his breath. He heard a sound and twisted his head to look. The woman stood in the doorway of the small house. She held a rifle and a lamp. For a long moment, she hesitated as if afraid, then started toward the barn.

Cursing silently, Cholla pressed himself against the inside wall, listening to her footsteps coming closer. He had never hurt a woman, but there was no way out of it now. To insure his own safety, he would have to kill the one with the hate-filled eyes.

Sierra stood by the trunk in her chemise, holding the small photo and staring at Robert’s handsome face. It had been a whirlwind courtship and such a brief marriage before the dashing lieutenant was sent to Arizona Territory. Robert. He wasn’t the type to be called Bob. Under the shock of blondish hair, his almost turquoise-colored eyes stared back at her as cold and remote as his personality.

They had both had their pictures made that day. She wondered idly what he had done with hers? It hadn’t been among the little package of personal items included with the medals and the letter of condolence from his commanding officer.

Was there a chance he might have been carrying it with him so it had been buried with his body? She could only hope he cared that much, but in reality she knew better.

She was a widow because of a bunch of bloodthirsty Apaches. It was ironic somehow. At her stern grandfather’s urging, she had married Robert, though with misgivings. Now both men were dead, and she faced the world alone.

With a tired sigh, Sierra bent over the small trunk and tucked the photo in the tray next to Robert’s medals and her hairbrush. At least Robert hadn’t shirked his duty. Somehow Sierra had figured him for a coward. She felt guilty about that. She had hoped she and Robert could be reconciled, but now that would never be.

Sierra took the hairbrush out of the tray and pulled hairpins out, shaking her long ebony hair down to brush it. So few things to take, really: personal items, clothes, scissors and sewing notions tucked deep in the trunk, a few household items. The furnishings would stay with the house when banker Toombs and the sheriff came to put her out tomorrow. She intended to be gone before they got here. She brushed her hair with angry strokes.

Abruptly, Sierra had the eeriest feeling that she was being watched. She paused, looked around, realizing that she stood in a skimpy chemise near an open window.

Then she chided herself for being a fool and reminded herself that Grandfather’s old rifle was in the cupboard. She could shoot fairly well for a woman, so she hadn’t been afraid to live alone this past summer. Besides, in all these years there had never been any trouble or thievery in this peaceful farming area.

Again, she seemed to feel someone watching her. It was almost as if a man’s big hands reached out and stroked her bare shoulders, gradually pulled the thin chemise down to expose her breasts.

Sierra, you ninny! Why are you having crazy thoughts like this?
Then she remembered the savage on the train late in the afternoon. He had stared at her in a way that made her feel as if he would like to put his hands all over her. . . .

She tossed the hairbrush into the trunk, closed it. Men. She supposed whatever their color, they were all alike. She had had such storybook ideas about marriage before Robert had deflowered her quickly and mechanically on their wedding night, then rolled over and gone to sleep.

She heard a sudden, surprised, squawk from the direction of the barn and ran to the window. Merciful heavens! Was there a varmint after her few remaining hens?

The mule brayed long and loud. Sierra hurried to get the rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded. The hens she could spare, but if the varmint was something big, like a bobcat, she was worried about the mule. She’d need that mule tomorrow. How she missed her old dog. She’d felt safe with Rex guarding the place, but he was dead now, too.

Still clutching the rifle, Sierra slipped on her shoes and reached for the kerosene lamp. She hesitated in the doorway, remembering the eerie feeling she’d had only moments before, and holding the lamp high, peered out toward the barn. Never had the night looked so black and ominous. The flickering lamp threw such a dim, small circle of light into the shadows.

When I get to the barn, she told herself, I’m going to find a possum or maybe a stray cat. Mercy, she was making too big a thing of this. Taking a deep breath for courage, Sierra checked the rifle again to make certain it was loaded, held her lamp high, and started forth.

Cholla looked around the edge of the barn door. By Usen, she had more courage than most women, she was coming out to investigate, and she carried a rifle. That made her dangerous.

He watched her walk toward the barn, her lamp a little flicker of light in the darkness. She must not see him yet. He had no desire to hurt a woman, but he might have to kill this one to keep her from killing him. Certainly he couldn’t let her see him and then escape to spread the alarm. Maybe she would only glance inside and then go back to the house. If so, he would steal some tools and the mule, and slip away in the night, even though he needed that rifle to survive.

Cholla flattened himself against the inner wall. His wounds were sore and caked with dried blood, and his belly again reminded him that he’d had no food, but he was used to hardship, hunger, and even burning thirst. Determined to survive against hostile conditions and varied enemies, he had lived on the edge, taking one risk after another. Tonight was no different. He held his breath, his muscles tense as he waited.

Cautiously, Sierra crept toward the barn, rifle at the ready. Her heart beat harder, even though she knew a possum or a small fox was no real danger except to stray hens. She paused in the doorway of the barn, holding her lamp high. The reassuring scent of hay drifted on the warm night air.

What was that dark, shiny spot on the barn floor, blackly scarlet against the yellow straw? She stared down at it a long moment A chill ran up and down her back like the stroking of a skeleton’s bony fingers. Blood. That was what it was; blood.

Oh, Lord, the possum had gotten the chicken after all. That was why the thing had squawked. The mule snorted at her from his stall, and Sierra sighed with relief. Well, it was too bad about the old hen, but probably the varmint had fled. She set the lamp on a box and looked around. The interior, except for her small circle of light, seemed as black as a witch’s soul.

The mule snorted and stamped its hooves again.

“It’s all right, boy,” she said reassuringly. Cradling the rifle in the crook of her arm, she started across the barn to the stall.

She heard a sudden rattle of metal as if someone had dropped a bucket of horseshoes, and then something reached out of the shadows and grabbed her, yanking her through the darkness, the rifle clattering from her grasp.

In terror, Sierra tried to scream, but a hand went over her mouth and an arm yanked her back against a big body that felt hot against her almost naked skin. She even felt his heart beating against her as she struggled in the maze of chains wrapped around her.

“Stop it!” A deep voice ordered sternly. “Stop fighting, or I’ll kill you!”

Sierra obeyed numbly. It was like a nightmare; this faceless man with chains jangling pulled her slim body hard up against his almost naked one. One of his hands was clamped over her mouth, the other encircled her just under her breasts, holding her tightly.

An escaped convict.
Yes. With the chains, that’s what he was. She didn’t doubt he would make good his threat. Pulled up against him, she felt his rippling muscles, even his virile manhood.

She couldn’t see him, but his warm breath stirred her hair as he put his mouth close to her ear. “We’re going back to the house. You got food in there?”

Sierra nodded awkwardly, acutely aware of the heat of the arm pressing up under her breasts. She trembled in spite of herself.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered. “I watched you through the window for a while.”

The aroused tone of his voice left no doubt in her mind. He was going to do more than kill her. First he would rape her.

“Now, Dark Eyes, I’m going to take my hand away. If you scream, you’ll be sorry. Understand?”

Sierra nodded, too terrified even to think. He sounded desperate. What was he wanted for? Murder? If so, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

Very slowly, he took his hand away from her mouth, but the one around her middle remained in place. The chains rattled as he moved.

“P-please don’t hurt me,” Sierra gasped, “take the gun, or the mule, anything; just don’t hurt me.”

“By Usen, I meant to throttle you with my chains; don’t know why I hesitated. Now what will I do with you?” His breath felt warm on her bare shoulder.

Sierra didn’t dare move or look back at him as he kept her pulled up against him.
Rape.
Yes, of course he would rape her. “My–my husband and six brothers will be home in a few minutes. You’d better go while you can.”

He didn’t let go of her, but his other hand grasped her bare shoulder. “You’re lying, Dark Eyes. You’re here alone; I know that.”

He sounded angry and exhausted. She must not cry or panic or take any unnecessary risks. But her throat felt so dry, she wasn’t sure she could get any words out. “Who ... who are you?”

“What difference does it make? They call me Cholla.”

She repeated the word in her mind, the same way he’d pronounced it;
Chaw-yuh.
She couldn’t even guess what language it was.

He spun her around to face him, and the chains rattled again.

The moon came out and shone through the open barn door as Sierra looked up at him. Shadows hid his face, but he was almost a giant of a man with the widest pair of shoulders Sierra had ever seen. And he was naked from the waist up.

“Do you have an axe or some blacksmith tools out here?”

He meant to kill her.
“P-please,” she managed to say, “take the rifle and whatever else you want; just let me go.”

“The axe,” he insisted, his face still hidden by shadow. “I want to get these chains off.”

She almost gasped with relief. “There’s one by the woodpile next to the house.”

“Good. You lead the way.”

As Sierra watched, trembling with fear, he leaned over, grabbed up the rifle, caught her arm. “Okay, you pick up the lamp and let’s go.”

He held her so close against him, she could feel the heat of his bare skin as they started back up the path. Once she stumbled, and the sheer strength of the man kept her from falling.

Strong. Big. Dangerous.
What had he been thinking as he watched her through the window? Sierra tried to block that from her mind. If this escaped convict would only let her live, she would submit to him.

When she pointed out the woodpile, he insisted on carrying the axe along with the rifle.

They went inside.

“Set the lamp on the table,” he ordered. He sounded weary and desperate.

Gingerly, Sierra did as she was told. He let go of her arm, and she whirled away, cringing against a wall as she saw his face in the light. A savage. He was a half naked redskin!

Her horror and fear must have shown in her face because he smiled without mirth. “Every white woman’s worst nightmare, right?”

She was too afraid to answer or even move.

“I saw you from the train,” he said softly. When he laid the axe and the rifle on the table, the chains rattled.

The train.
In her mind, she stood by the wagon in the late afternoon, staring back at a handsome, half-naked man. How had he managed to get off that train? Every white woman’s worst nightmare? She doubted it, but she now had to face the reality of being raped
and
killed.

She took a good look at his massive body and saw the blood on his arm. “You’re hurt.”

He shrugged and slumped down on a chair. “I’m the winner. You should see the loser.”

Merciful heavens, he had killed somebody. That was how he had escaped. He had killed a guard and had nothing to lose by killing again.

A frown crossed his dark, high-cheekboned face. “Stop glaring at me. I could use some food.”

“Yes . . . of course,” Sierra stammered. She could stall the inevitable by feeding him. “I don’t have much; some bacon and leftover biscuits.”

“Sounds good compared to Army grub.” His moody gaze swept up and down her body.

She glanced down, realized all she wore was the flimsy, sheer chemise, and crossed her arms over her breasts to protect them from his stare. “Y-yes, I’ll get you some food.” She started across the room toward the fireplace. “You speak awfully good English for a . . . for a–”

“Savage?” he filled in with a derisive snort. “I was raised around soldiers. My mother washed clothes at the fort after my father was killed.”

She picked up a butcher knife, began to slice bacon. She glanced at the axe and rifle next to his hand. If he relaxed enough to let down his guard, could she possibly. . . ?

“Don’t even think it,” he said from his chair.

“You haven’t a chance,” she blurted out without thinking, surprised at her own daring. “You ought to turn yourself in.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “So the soldiers can kill me? I tried to play it their way, conform, do what I was told. This is what it got me. Renegades like Geronimo were right, after all.” He sounded angry, bitter.

He looked more like a renegade than a conformist. Those who did as they were told didn’t make waves; they stayed out of trouble.
The nail that stands up will be hammered down
. It was one of her immigrant grandfather’s favorite proverbs.

Sierra said nothing as she poked up the fire, put the skillet full of bacon on the coals.

“Smells good. You got any whiskey?”

Sierra hesitated. Robert had been brutal and a little crazy when he drank. She’d heard tales of how whiskey affected Indians. “No.” She didn’t look at him as she busied herself with the bacon.

“Like most whites, you’re a liar. Get it for me!” His tone left her no choice.

Sierra got the bottle out of the cupboard, brought it over. He stared up at her a long moment, looking utterly drained, his dark, rugged face lined with pain and fatigue. When he reached for the bottle, their hands touched, and she was acutely aware of the heat and the size and the power of this half-naked savage.

He took a small drink right from the bottle. “What’s your name?”

“Sierra.”

“Sierra.” He said it slowly as if savoring it. “Like the mountains?”