Apache Caress (23 page)

“I am headed across the border into Mexico where it is cold only sometimes in the mountains of the Sierra Madre. A man can live there in peace, I think, and ignore the civilization that smothers him.”

The Comanche looked at him almost wistfully, the wind blowing his gray-streaked hair. “You could ride straight south now, and be in Mexico.”

Cholla shook his head. “That is not the part I know; the place that the Apache have roamed for generations is south of the Apache stronghold. Besides, if I can manage it, I have a white friend at the fort I would like to send a final good-bye.”

“Do you not fear this white will betray you?”

“No, he is my
sikis,
my brother.” Cholla shook his head, “I have killed to save his life, he has killed to save mine. That alone, had I no other reason, would make me trust him without question.”

Quanah gestured toward a
tipi.
“You will find a warm fire and food in there with your woman. Rest a day or two with the Comanche. I have a half-Cheyenne rancher friend to the south I will send you to. Maybe he can find a way to get you to your own country.”

“Gracias.”
Cholla watched the chief turn and go to his own lodge. Darkness fell slowly across the deserted camp as he entered the lodge Quanah had indicated.

Sierra looked up from the fireside, stood. Without even seeming to think about it, she came into the circle of his arms. “When you didn’t come, I was worried.”

Not for me, Cholla thought, but for fear of what might happen to you if the Comanches killed me. He said, “I think everything will be fine. The chief is amused that I have made fools of the whites. The story of my escape has spread through many tribes over the past few weeks.”

She pulled him down before the fire, handed him a tin plate of roast meat. “They’ll let us go?”

The meat was hot and juicy and Cholla ate with relish. “More than that. Quanah promises aid. He has a friend to the south in Texas he thinks will help us.”

She heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back on her elbows, watching him eat. “Then maybe in a few weeks, I will be safe at Fort Bowie and you’ll be across the border?”

“There’s still a long way to go,” he cautioned, avoiding the question.

“We’ve made it this far, though I didn’t think we would; I don’t see why we shouldn’t make it the rest of the way.”

He merely grunted and finished his food. It was warm and cozy in there by the fire, even though the snow blew outside. He rolled himself a cigarette from the stock Quanah had given him, lit it from the fire. “Come here,” he ordered without thinking.

She moved over, leaned against his knee, and he stroked her hair as he smoked. “With your hair down, you remind me of an Apache girl,” he said softly, “wild and free and primitive, not civilized like you were with your hair all done up in a little knot on the back of your head.”

She looked at him, saying nothing, and he wondered about her thoughts, wondered if she could possibly have guessed how her husband had died? Somehow her opinion of him was beginning to matter very much. But no matter, he must not tell her the secret.

What man gives his word to a woman? Such oaths are only given to other warriors. Put a son in her belly. When the tiny mouth pulls at her breast, she will forget that you told her you would free her. She will warm your blankets on lonely nights.

“A penny for your thoughts.” She smiled at him.

It unnerved him and he started. “What?”

“It’s just something whites say.”

If she only knew what I am thinking ...
She must not find out because then she wouldn’t help him, and he might need her cooperation to make it through the rest of the trip. He threw his cigarette into the fire, reached out to pull her to him.

She stiffened only a moment and then relaxed.
A penny for your thoughts.
He dared not ask what she was thinking. He might not want to know Besides, he trusted no white but Tom Mooney. Sooner or later, Sierra would again attempt to betray him. He still wasn’t sure why she had elected to rescue him from the mob in Sundance. Maybe she’d thought being the temporary bedmate of an Apache was better than being put in a whorehouse for use by that white mob.

He kissed her. She resisted momentarily and then responded, and he slipped his tongue between her lips and squeezed her breast. He imagined them swollen with rich milk for his son. When she had nursed the child and it slept, Cholla would draw her to him and put his own mouth on her nipples.

Her small hands slipped inside his shirt, and she trailed her nails across his chest. He gasped with pleasure at the sensation and ran a hand up her bare thigh. Then he leaned on one elbow while she put her head in his lap, and he stroked and teased her velvet place with his fingers. She was wet and hot and silky. He ran his lips along her thigh even as he felt her open his pants. Her breath was warm on his throbbing manhood.
Would she . . . ?

He couldn’t hold back a gasp of ecstasy as she made the ultimate gesture.

“No,” he whispered, but her tongue was moving over the rigid staff of his maleness and he found himself putting his hand on the back of her neck, tangling his fingers in her wild mane of dark hair, pushing deep into the soft heat of lips that pulled at his very being.

Her skin felt damp with the heat of her passion, her whole body was throbbing, her need intense and demanding. He quit fighting and gave in to the pleasure her lips created even as he began to kiss along her hot inner thigh, caressing his captive with his mouth.

He teased the ridge of her femininity with his tongue, felt her go tense and quiver from the need of him as she demanded more with her lips. Cholla let her take what she wanted from him even as his tongue stroked her into spasms, and they could not get enough of each other.

Afterward, they lay entwined, staring into the fire, and as he did not dare ask her thoughts, she did not dare ask his. But he was virile, needing more of a woman than most men and giving more. He took her three more times that night, and each time he penetrated deep into her, determined to leave his seed in her womb.

Quanah is right, Cholla decided as he moved inside his woman and felt her clasp him tightly. He need not ask himself whether he cared for Sierra or what he had promised her. After all, she was just a female to be used to produce sons, to warm his blankets and cook for him. It would be lonely in Mexico. But Cholla would not be alone now. He would not tell her where they were headed, and if she trusted him, she would not realize where she was until it was too late. Then what could she do but sob and scream futilely? Eventually she would submit to his dominance. He would not ask; he would take. Whether she wanted it or not, Sierra would go to Mexico to stay with him forever!

Sierra wondered what the Apache was thinking as she let him take her over and over again the next several days. But she did not ask. What was it that Gillen had hinted at? When she thought of the possibility that Cholla might have killed her husband, her mind had rebelled at his touch. But her body wanted his, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. I should have left him back at Sundance to hang, she thought as she surrendered to his kisses.

She would not admit even to herself that when he kissed her or stroked her skin, her emotions prevailed over her mind and she didn’t care about anything except feeling his arms around her, the hot steel of him penetrating her to the very core. It occurred to her that if she weren’t more cautious he might get her with child, and then what would happen to her when she was finally free? There weren’t many white men who would take a woman carrying a savage’s child.

But he was not to be denied, and when he touched her with his hands and mouth, held her against him, she forgot everything but the pleasure of coupling with him. It almost seemed to her that he was trying to breed her. The thought both excited and shocked her.

Day blended into night in the warmth of the
tipi
while the cold wind howled outside. She had not known a man could be so virile as Cholla proved to be, that a man could build a fire that consumed her.

Finally the weather cleared and the snow had a crust that made it passable. Quanah gave them warm furs and supplies, fresh horses, and a pair of braves to guide them south. As they mounted up, the chief came out to see them off.

“My braves will lead you to the Triple D ranch in the Texian Hill Country,” Quanah said. “My friend, Trace Durango, is half-Cheyenne, and since the Cheyenne have long been allies of the Comanche and Kiowa, he will help you.”

Cholla frowned. “The Cheyenne and the Apache are not friends. Perhaps he will not want to help.”

“In this case, I think he will.” Quanah smiled. “It is not often anymore that warriors win against the soldiers.”

They thanked him profusely. Cholla said. “Are your braves allowed off the reservation? Will there be trouble if they lead us?”

“What the whites don’t know won’t hurt anyone,” the chief said with a wry smile. “Now go, with my thoughts giving wings to your horses’ hooves.” He looked at Sierra a long moment. “Apache,” Quanah added, “remember what I told you about Mexico.”

“I remember and agree.”

They rode out, headed south, the horses’ hooves crunching the frozen snow.

Sierra turned the words over in her mind. “What did Quanah mean?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Since you are just a woman, you would not understand men’s thinking.”

Sierra started to protest, then decided it wasn’t important. What did she care what Cholla did when he got to Mexico as long as she was safe and secure back in white civilization?

For countless days they rode south, the weather warming a little as they moved deeper into Texas. They used up their supplies and then lived off the land, but they had plenty of ammunition and none of the four went hungry. The braves said almost nothing to them, merely did the task they had been sent to do.

With whatever privacy they could manage, Sierra and Cholla curled up together and kept each other warm each night. Often he would awaken her, wanting her and doing things to her body that made her want him. As she dug her nails into his back and arched herself under him in heated passion, she almost smiled as she thought of Robert’s barbed comments on her coldness.

Her white life seemed like a distant bad dream, she so seldom thought of her dead husband anymore. But for some reason she couldn’t understand, she wouldn’t let herself think of the future, though she knew she ought to be looking forward to reaching Fort Bowie.

Finally the Comanches indicated they had almost reached their destination. It is warmer here, Sierra thought. Water ran clear and cold through limestone. The gentle hills were green with cedar trees. The two warriors rode with them to a rise. Over on another hill, lay a white, sprawling
ranchero
that looked almost like a big castle.

One of the braves pointed to the adobe buildings. “Trace Durango,” he grunted. Then he and his partner turned their paint ponies and headed away at a gallop even as Sierra and Cholla attempted to thank them.

It occurred to her as they rode into the courtyard that she could ask for help in escaping Cholla here, but she decided that would be futile. Trace Durango was a half-breed himself, and a friend of Quanah’s, so he wouldn’t aid her. Besides she had told Cholla she would help him reach freedom, and she felt inclined to keep her word. She tried to remind herself that she should hate him, but sometimes she had a difficult time remembering why and had to search her memory. She told herself the feeling the scout evoked in her was admiration for his bravery and daring–or even raw lust–nothing more.

They reined their tired horses up in front of the grand hacienda. The place was breathtaking, giant oleander bushes everywhere, a bubbling fountain in the center of the small pool in the courtyard, a few doves cooing and dipping their pink bills in the water for a drink.

A little Mexican boy came out the French doors to one side of the courtyard, followed by a yapping, tiny brown dog.

Cholla cleared his throat. “We are here to see Senor Trace Durango.”

“Señor Durango?
Ah, sí, señor
.” The little boy took their horses’ reins and turned to point to the grand house.

Cholla dismounted, came around to help Sierra down, and they walked across the patio, the tiny dog yapping their arrival to the world. An elderly Mexican servant woman with gray hair and a plump body opened the door, escorted them into the big hall.

“Señor Trace,” Cholla said to the old woman. She nodded and beckoned them to follow her.

The place took Sierra’s breath away. It was the most grand manor she had ever seen, with rich Spanish-style furnishings, paintings, and fine rugs. Whoever the Durangos were, they were people of power and wealth.

Cholla looked around, his face showing that he had never seen anything like this either.

The old woman led them down the hall and into a room Sierra recognized as a fine library. Shelves of books lined the walls, guns hung in racks on one, and hunting trophies–der antlers and bobcat heads–were displayed amidst the books. It was a truly masculine retreat, with its dark wood desk and the leather sofa before the giant stone fireplace. French doors looked out onto the courtyard. Cholla walked to the fire, warmed his hands.

Sierra glanced up. “Look!” She gestured to the big painting over the fireplace. It seemed to dominate the room. The woman depicted in it was a beauty, dark-eyed, with wild hair blowing around her shoulders; hair the color of honey. “I wonder who she is.”

“That’s Cimarron.” The voice came from behind her. “The most beautiful woman who ever lived, except for my mother.”

She whirled to face a tall, dark, and brooding man. His Spanish and Indian blood showed in his handsome face. The sprinkle of gray in his black hair told her he must be in his middle or late forties.

“I’m Trace Durango,” he said, and came into the room, his hand outstretched. She let him take her hand and kiss it in a courtly gesture; then he turned and shook hands with Cholla. “May I get you a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he went to the desk on which several expensive crystal decanters stood. “Sherry for you,
señora?
” Sierra nodded. “Whiskey or tequila?” he asked the Apache.

“Whiskey.”

“Prefer tequila myself with a little salt and a twist of lime,” Trace said and brought the drinks over.

Sierra looked at the portrait again. “Cimarron ... what does it mean?”

“It’s Spanish, it means Wild One.” He sipped his drink and smiled gently as if remembering. “It’s a very long and romantic story.”

“I would like to meet her,” Sierra said.

“Oh, she’s gone to San Antonio with the children for holiday shopping. I’m supposed to take the buggy tomorrow and drive down to join them for some of the festivities.”

For the first time, Sierra looked around and saw the decorations, realized that it must be near Christmas.

Without thinking, she blurted out, “Señor Durango, how far is it to Austin?”

Cholla frowned at her.

Trace shrugged. “Oh, less than fifty miles. Why, do you know someone there,
señora?
”

“Do you by any chance know the Forester family?”

He frowned. “Everyone in Texas knows the Foresters. They are very rich and powerful and . . .” His voice trailed off, and she had the sudden feeling that Trace Durango did not think much of that family and was too polite to say so.
If I could reach Robert’s mother, would she take her son’s widow in?

Cholla glared at her and cleared his throat. She had a feeling that if she brought up Austin again, he would quickly change the subject. “Quanah sent us,” he said. “We need your help.”

Immediately, Trace’s handsome face sobered. “Tell me all about it.”

Sierra curled up on the leather sofa before the fire, sipping the delicious sherry and staring at the portrait while the men talked. The woman in the painting almost seemed alive. Her face was radiant, and in her eyes was an expression only love could have put there.

When Sierra drifted off to sleep, curled up on the sofa, the men were still talking. She remembered someone covering her with a blanket, and when her eyes flickered open, she smiled up at Cholla as he brushed the hair away from her face.

She dreamed of Austin and the fine home Robert’s family would have. If they took her in, she would never have to worry about anything again. Once the security would have appealed to her, but now when she thought of wearing a tight corset and attending social functions as a proper widow swathed in black, she felt stifled by the conformity of the conventional life. In fact, Sierra had grown so used to sleeping wrapped in furs and cooking over a campfire that she wasn’t even sure living inside four walls appealed to her anymore.

She was only vaguely aware that Cholla lifted her from the sofa, swung her up in his powerful arms. She nestled her cheek against his broad chest.

She heard Trace’s voice. “You can have the guest room upstairs. Maria will show you. There will be food left out, wine; and if you need anything else, just pull the bell cord. At any hour a servant will respond.”

She didn’t even bother to open her eyes as the man held her close and carried her upstairs. She felt him set her on a bed, and she opened her eyes sleepily to watch him close the door, begin to undress. He is going to make love to her again she thought with a contented smile, and snuggled deeper into the bed. She felt him undress her, kiss her breasts until the nipples swelled against his mouth, wanting more. Sleepily, she reached out to pull him down on her, feeling the heat of him penetrating her as he thrust again and again.

She kissed the corners of his mouth, dug her nails into his shoulders and imprisoned his straining body by locking her legs around his hard, muscular hips. When he came inside her, throbbing as he spilled his seed, she went into spasms of passion, dropped back off to sleep with him still imprisoned in her body.

In the middle of the night, they sneaked downstairs like two naughty children and found a delicious outlay of food and wines left for them as Trace had promised.

When they returned upstairs, Cholla took her again with such renewed virility that she could only wonder at his ability to satisfy her body. Somehow the way he made love to her had changed from those early days right after he had kidnapped her. Now he was more gentle, almost as if he might care for her. But of course, that is nonsense, Sierra reminded herself. She was a woman with a ripe body who just happened to be convenient for his use. Still, he had created such a hunger in her that she didn’t care what the circumstances were; she had to admit she couldn’t get enough of him. There was no love involved; it was lust between two healthy young animals, no more than that.

The next morning, they cleaned up, breakfasted with Trace in the big dining room. “I’ve decided the easiest thing to do is put you on the train at San Antonio. You’ll arrive in Arizona Territory in style.”

Cholla looked at him in alarm. “But the whites will arrest us–”

“No, they won’t.” Trace said with easy confidence, “You’ll be dressed in the finest of clothes, you’ll have money in your pockets and a compartment; no riding in the day coach for you. I’ll even give you a couple of fine horses, ship them in the baggage car. No one will dare question you. They’ll think you’re a rich Spanish couple on a holiday.”

It began to dawn on Sierra that it might work. In just a few days, she might be at Fort Bowie, planning the New Year. “But I don’t have any nice clothes.”

“You’re about Cimarron’s size; she has closets and closets full. Let’s get moving. We’ve got to get to San Antonio.”

In a little more than an hour, they were climbing into the buggy, both well dressed, complete with baggage. Over Cholla’s protests, Trace had insisted the Apache’s hair be cut like a white man’s. The little Mexican boy came out of the nearby barn, leading two very fine horses; one black gelding and a strangely marked paint mare.

Cholla’s face lit up. “Why, that’s a Medicine Hat mare. My friend in Arizona raises them. Quint gave me a stallion.”

“You don’t say?” Trace grinned. “You know Quint Randolph of the Wolfs Den Ranch?”

Cholla nodded.

“Small world,” Trace said. “Quint’s a relative by marriage. When you see him again, tell him the family sends regards. By the way, if you have any trouble on this trip, I have an adopted younger brother in west Texas, Maverick Durango of the Lazy M spread.”

The men fell into excited conversation as the small boy with the barking little dog at his heels tied the horses to the back of the buggy and waved good-bye.

They were still deep in conversation as Trace slapped the reins and the buggy began to move. Sierra wondered if she was doing the right thing? What if she suddenly jumped on one saddle horse, spooked the other, and took off? Could she find her way to Austin, and would Robert’s mother welcome her into the fold?