Harvest of Fury (38 page)

“Tiffany started a school for the Apaches,” Jared pointed out. “And he's tried to keep miners off the reservation or at least make them pay royalties to the Indians for what they take out. I'd guess it's exactly because Tiffany is honest that he's being accused by those whose little games he's spoiling and they won't stop till they bring him down.”

Cat scarcely heard. She was remembering a boy with a hawk on his wrist; one teaching her and her brothers to track, to shoot with bow and arrows. Remembering the rough serapes and the hard strength, changing to gentleness, of this man she'd loved. He'd promised to talk of marriage on her eighteenth birthday, the very time she labored and panted to bring forth his son in a strange place among people who, though kind, except for Jordan were strangers.

Years, her hard-earned peace, shredded like a rotten veil. Unable to sit still another moment, she rose and swiftly began to clean the table. She couldn't meet Jordan's troubled eyes.

The men of Scott Valley were cutting wood on the slopes above the valley. Women and older children were stripping husks from ears of corn, leaving stalks to hold the naked ears while the kernels hardened.

It was hot. Cat kept rubbing blinding sweat from her forehead, but there was nothing to do about the way chaff itched between her breasts and along her neck and arms. It would be a good harvest, though, enough for all the families and with some left to sell. With a wave of homesickness she remembered the cornfields along the Sonoita, the mill her father and Santiago had made. How wonderful it would be to see Marc and Talitha again, the children, her brothers, Belen—all the ranch folk.

Perhaps when harvest was over, before school started, she'd ask Jordan to take her and Michael for a visit. In a few years Michael should really start spending some time at the Socorro, for he'd inherit Cat's share. She was glad he had a legacy. Jordan had freely given Michael his name, but Cat shrank from her son's taking up Scott property. For Jordan's sake she was sorry they'd been unable to have children, but the deepest part of her was fiercely glad she had borne her only child to her only love.

Young Dick, a bit sulky at being left to work with the women and children, shaded his eyes, gazed toward the east, and gave a shout. “Soldiers!”

Peering from beneath her palm, Cat made out blue-clad riders coming up the valley. When the other women all looked frightened, for they'd been brought up on stories of how the U.S. Army had occupied Salt Lake City and more than once been the arm of Gentile persecution, Cat said, “I'll see what they want. We don't want them riding over our fields.”

Rolling down her sleeves, she pinned up her hair as best she could, hurrying toward the wagon road that ran between the houses and the fields, eyeing the visitors as she went. Apache scouts were with the troopers, dressed in a mixture of white and Indian clothes. And that captain on the fine black horse—something about him, the set of head and shoulders …

Approaching, he dismounted, sweeping off his broad-brimmed hat. Pale yellow hair, trim mustache, face weathered by years of Arizona sun. Cat knew Claybourne Frazier before he knew her and stepped back in surprise.

“Caterina! I mean—Mrs. Scott! I should have guessed from the name of the settlement, but I've been away so long, serving in Dakota, that I'd—”

“Forgotten?” His confusion put her more at ease, and she laughed. “Why should you remember people from so long ago?”

He was in control now and gave her a grim little smile of his own. “It wasn't you I forgot, dear lady, only your husband's name.”

Gray eyes scanned her. She flushed, aware of the odor of her body, the way sweat made her dress cling. Frazier had always made her feel as if her femaleness were somewhat gross, repelling but at the same time attracting him. His gaze sent perverse awareness shooting through her. He said huskily, “When I've allowed myself to think of you at all, I've pictured you plump and bewattled, flocked about with children. But you—you're what my dreams kept saying.”

“That's not why you're here, Captain. What do you want?”

He straightened, his tone formally chill, though not loud enough now for his nearest men to hear. “There's been an uprising near Cibecue Creek. Four soldiers were killed, and Nocadelklinny. The Apache scouts mutinied for the first time. Colonel Carr was warned we shouldn't use them since they were related to Nocadelklinny's followers and some had joined his dances. Carr should have sent to Fort McDowell for their Yavapai, Hualapais, and Chiricahua scouts. But Tiffany wanted Nocadelklinny dead or alive, before the next dance. General Willcox telegraphed that he must be arrested, and though he surrendered peacefully, some Apaches opened fire. Soldiers fired back, and Nocadelklinny, who was calling on his followers to fight, telling them that he'd come to life again if killed, was shot by his guard. His wife grabbed a pistol, but she was killed before she could pull the trigger, and his son charged us and was shot. The command was lucky to get back to Fort Apache.”

As Cat stared in shock at such disastrous news, Frazier went on to say that a general uprising was feared. Fort Apache had been attacked, though the warriors soon went off in search of easier pickings. Troops were being brought in from New Mexico and even California. A number of settlers had been killed, and it was rumored that Geronimo had broken put again, along with Juh and Cochise's son Nachez.

“I'm ordered to warn civilians to congregate for safety and form militia to protect themselves,” Frazier concluded. “I seem now to remember hearing that your husband was a scout.” Eyes narrowing, the officer pondered a moment. “I have orders to rendezvous in this valley with other patrols before moving toward Fort Apache, but there's a chance some renegades are gathering at Turret Mountain to sweep along the Verde. If Scott Valley militia would make a short expedition in that direction, it could head off the trouble before it develops.”

Cat frowned. “Surely that's what you soldiers are supposed to do.”

“We can't be everywhere. My orders are to move for Fort Apache as soon as the patrols gather. We've been pushing, and the men and animals need a rest.”

They did look bone-weary, even the scouts. “Why don't you make camp up near the mill?” suggested Cat. “I'll send for the men, and you can talk to them about forming militia. We have plenty of milk, butter, eggs, and fresh vegetables if your troops would relish them. Since we've been working in the fields, we don't have much baked goods to spare, but you're welcome to what we have.”

Frazier laughed. “Anything would taste wonderful after bacon and hard bread. After we go into camp, I'll send some men for whatever you can spare. Don't worry; I'll pay for it. My troops need some encouragement!”

“I'm sure no one would want pay,” Cat assured him, but she didn't ask him for supper. In spite of his courtesy, he made her uneasy. “We'll get the food together and send some of the children over with it.”

He bowed, a seasoned, experienced man now, not the impulsive young lieutenant who'd courted her more than ten years ago. Another time, another place, in what seemed a past life.

She didn't like him, never would, and repudiated the physical response she felt to him. For all Jordan's tenderness, all the loving of his strong, clean body, she'd never felt a hint of that drowning, almost unbearable joy she'd had with James. Her matured woman's instinct told her this soldier's lean brown hands and hard mouth could rouse the fires she'd thought forever quenched. The faint smile edging his lips said he sensed this.

“Thanks for all your kindness, madam. I look forward to enjoying as much of it as possible during our bivouac here.” Before she could answer, he swung on his horse and signaled his troops back up the valley.

XX

Fetched down from their woodcutting by young Dick, the Scott Valley men conferred with Frazier, counseled together briefly, and decided that by patrolling now they could prevent serious depredations later. Jared invited Frazier to supper, and details were worked out afterward with all the Scott Valley men and those living near enough to be called in for the planning.

At least twenty well-armed men could be gathered quickly and others picked up on the march. At sixty, Jared was the oldest, fifteen-year-old Dick the youngest. Frazier would leave a trusted scout, who had been at the storming of Turret Mountain in 1873, to assist Jordan, who would lead the force.

“I doubt there'll be even a skirmish,” the captain said, clearly relieved and well satisfied. “It's only if the wild ones in this region can get together that they'll be a threat to more than isolated farms or travelers. They'll see you even if you don't spot them. When they know they'll get a hot reception here, chances are they'll make for the White Mountains and try to follow Geronimo and Juh.”

“What if we take prisoners?” Jordan asked. He and Frazier had treated each other with remote courtesy, making no reference to the past.

“I wouldn't.” At Jordan's shocked glance and Jared's angry rumble, the officer shrugged. “Take them to Fort Verde, or hold them here till a patrol can take them in charge.”

Jordan nodded. “And you won't leave our families unprotected?”

“My word of honor,” Frazier replied easily. No one cared to bring up the possibility that some of Jordan's force might not come back. Cat's torment over James was compounded by anxiety for her husband and the other men.

After Frazier was gone, she and Ruth packed jerky, dried fruit, and wheat crackers in their men's saddlebags, put in extra socks, and made up bedrolls. Jared, Benjamin, Jordan, and Dick cleaned their weapons and filled their cartridge belts.

A knife seemed to turn in Cat when Michael begged to go along. James had been that young once, with no blood on his hands.

It was late by the time they blew out the lamps and went to bed, but Cat couldn't sleep. Would there be a general war? Where was James? Would Jordan return safely? Claybourne Frazier's eyes mocked her till she moved closer to Jordan, seeking comfort.

Rousing, he took her in his arms. This night she loved him back with desperation powered by fear, a realization of how the steadfast way he had cherished her had given her refuge and let her rear James's son.

That all seemed threatened now; they were caught in a rising wind that would leave nothing the same. So she gave herself fully, with urgency, answering her husband's kisses and caresses as she never had before. In spite of their weariness, they loved and slept and loved again.

The second time, he laughed softly, in the tender pride of a male desired by his woman. “If taking a scout brings this on, Katie, I'll go every week.”

“No, you won't!” she said and seized him tightly, almost as if he were her child she would protect. She said then what she had never said during all these years, and she knew that it was true, though it didn't change how she felt about James. “I love you, Jordan. I really love you.”

His breath caught. Her hand on his cheek encountered tears.

“Oh, Katie! I've hoped! How I've hoped—You were always sweet, you've done all you could, but I've wanted more than that.”

At last she understood how Talitha, still loving the dead Shea, had been able to make a good, sound life with Marc Revier. James was the same as dead to her; she must accept that. It was Jordan with whom she must make her life and her son's.

Kissing him, she gave a choking little laugh. “When you come back, it'll be different, Jordan. I'll make up to you—”

He hushed her with his fervent, joyful kiss.

They lay together so sweetly that they seemed to flow together, joining, and at last they slept.

The men were on their way by daybreak, and the women and children had all the chores to do before going to the fields to strip corn. They could see the soldiers at the head of the valley, some lounging, others shoeing horses and mules or refurbishing gear. They were apparently under orders not to drift around the settlement, though the scouts and a few of the troopers went hunting and returned with a deer and several rabbits.

Cat hadn't invited Frazier to supper, but when he stopped by while they were at table, there was nothing she could do but invite him to join them.

It was a simple meal of side meat with gravy, biscuits, string beans, squash, potatoes, and blackberry pie, but Frazier praised it and ate with such unfeigned appreciation that Cat relaxed a bit.

Military men probably acquired a certain gallantry, and she valued his because of her placid life among men who scorned flirting or thought it downright sinful. From the way he refilled his plate, he'd been drawn here for a change from camp cooking; and if he wanted admiration, little Ruth was giving him plenty of that, russet eyes wide in her heart-shaped face, as he talked of Dakota and a recent assignment in Washington.

When he said good night after enthralling Michael with the story of Custer's defeat at the Little Big Horn, he smiled equally at Ruth and Cat, again complimenting them on their cookery. Cat retired, chiding herself, even the slightest bit piqued. She didn't want to be pursued by Frazier, but it was deflating to think his compliments were common coin, carelessly tossed to any woman. Though how she could give him a thought, with Jordan out discouraging renegades, the reservation about to burst wide open, and James somewhere out there …

Unable to sleep, she went to the room Michael shared with Dick. Enough moonlight came through the one window for her to make out her son's face, the mouth curved down, dark eyebrows winging upward. If only James could see him. If only he could know …

Blinded with tears, she fleetingly smoothed the thickly curling red hair. He thought Jordan was his father. It almost had to be that way. How could you tell a boy he was the son of Fierro, the hated and ferocious raider? Michael's skin was slightly darker than the Scotts', but that was attributed to Cat's Spanish heritage, though she herself was fair.