Love Forevermore (5 page)

She swallowed hard as Zuniga dropped the axe and walked toward her. His long legs covered the distance between them in four easy strides. She licked her lips nervously as he laid one hand on Lady’s neck. His face, damp with sweat, was only inches from Loralee’s. Her heart beat wildly as his eyes met hers.

“You should not be out here alone,” he said, stroking Lady’s neck. “It is not safe.”

Loralee nodded. How odd, she thought, that he would say the very thing she had been thinking only moments earlier.

“There are wild animals in the woods,” Zuniga went on. His voice was strong and deep, washing over her like an invisible caress. “Bears, wolves, mountain lions.”

Indians, Loralee thought. Unable to draw her eyes away from his, she nodded again, wondering why it was so difficult to speak. She was aware of his hand, big and brown, still stroking the mare’s neck. Almost, she could feel that hand stroking her skin.

“Next time you feel like riding this far from the fort, take someone with you.”

Loralee nodded a third time. She wondered fleetingly if she was being warned to stay away from Zuniga himself. She tried to think of some clever reply, but she couldn’t concentrate, not when he was so near. His eyes were as black as ebony, deep and mysterious, filled with secrets she longed to discover.

“You had best head for home,” Zuniga suggested. He gave the mare’s neck a final pat, then took a step backward.

Loralee shook her head to clear it. What was happening to her? Why did this man have such a strange effect on all her senses, making her feel weak and warm and fluttery all over?

Confused, she turned the mare for home. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the hill that she realized she hadn’t said goodbye.

At home, she took a leisurely bubble bath, determined to put Shad Zuniga out of her thoughts once and for all. Instead, she would think about Sergeant Michael Schofield, who was taking her to a dance at the fort that evening. Mike was a wonderful man. He was kind, polite, considerate, ambitious, attentive, and civilized. And he loved her. He hadn’t said so, but, womanlike, she knew how he felt better than he did.

Stepping from the tub, she toweled herself dry and dusted with powder before slipping into her undergarments.

She felt safe with Mike, she thought as she pulled on her stockings. He didn’t fill her with strange emotions, didn’t cause her heart to pound erratically, didn’t make her mouth go dry or her palms sweat. She never wondered what it would be like to feel his hands on her flesh…

Without quite knowing how it happened, Mike faded from her mind and she found herself thinking of Zuniga again, remembering how the sunlight had danced on his sweat-sheened flesh, how easily he had swung the heavy axe, how lightly he had stroked Lady’s neck. She shivered convulsively as she imagined that big brown hand sliding over her thigh, felt the hot blood of shame wash into her cheeks at such a bold, unladylike thought.

Her hands were trembling as she stepped into a dress of light blue flowered silk. It was her favorite gown. The neck was tantalizingly low and square, the sleeves were short and puffy, edged with delicate white lace. A wide blue sash spanned her waist, tying in the back in a perky bow. The skirt was full and swished lightly when she walked. She threaded a matching blue ribbon through her hair.

She stared at her reflection as she applied a touch of color to her cheeks. Try as she might, she could not banish Shad Zuniga’s image from her mind. He was wild and dangerous, more handsome than any man she had ever seen. Most disturbing of all was the way she responded to him. A look from his midnight eyes, the slightest touch of his hand, and she trembled with a primal emotion she dared not examine too closely.

Picking up her gloves, she gazed, unseeing, out the bedroom window. What would it be like to be held in Zuniga’s arms? What would it be like to feel his lips on hers, to feel his hands stroking her back, to feel his fingers running through her hair?

She was glad when Mike arrived, interrupting her wayward thoughts.

The dance was in full swing when they arrived at the fort. Colored streamers and bright paper lanterns decorated the mess hall. Long tables covered with heavy damask cloths held large platters of meat and cheese and a variety of rolls and bread. An enormous crystal bowl was filled with red punch. At the far end of the hall, a half-dozen musicians filled the air with music.

Loralee smiled and shook hands with the post commander and his wife. She continued to smile as Mike introduced her to his friends and fellow officers, the names and faces blurring together after the first few introductions.

Glancing about, Loralee saw there were only four women present, including herself. The single men clustered around Loralee, eager to dance with her, to talk to her, or just to look at her. White women were scarce on the reservation and Loralee was the youngest, the prettiest, and the only woman not married. Mike was generous in letting her dance with the other men, but he was careful to keep several dances for himself, including the last one.

Loralee danced every dance. Most of her partners were young. A few were veteran soldiers with graying hair and service stripes that indicated more than twenty years in the Army. But young or old, they were all polite and well-mannered, and they all flirted with her outrageously, promising to marry her in a minute if she would only say the word. They exclaimed over the golden color of her hair, remarked on the flawless beauty of her face and figure, complimented her dancing.

Loralee had never enjoyed so much attention or received so much flattery in her life. It was a heady experience and she had to remind herself that it was all in fun and not to be taken seriously.

The men were anxious to please her and she was forced to accept several glasses of punch from men who were eager to wait upon her. To spare their feelings, she drank a considerable amount of punch before Mike mentioned that someone had emptied a bottle of whiskey into the punch bowl.

“Really?” Loralee exclaimed. “Well, it’s certainly delicious!”

Mike laughed softly. “I think you may be just a little bit intoxicated,” he mused.

“Do you think so?” Loralee asked. “I’ve never tasted whiskey before.”

“Well, you’d better slow down,” Mike warned good naturedly, “or you’ll have a whale of a headache in the morning.”

Later, during a lull in the dancing, the commander’s wife took Loralee aside to “get better acquainted”. Stella Freeman was a tall, angular woman with iron gray hair and sharp green eyes. Little went on at the fort or on the reservation that she was unaware of. She disliked the West and detested the Indians, but she made the best of it because it couldn’t be helped. Her husband’s life was here, and a woman’s place was at her husband’s side, giving him support. She could not abide people who complained about their lot in life. You played the cards you were dealt and hoped for a better hand in the future. She had learned to adjust to the West, to the climate, and to the rigors of life on an Army post. What couldn’t be changed must be endured, and what could be changed, she changed. She insisted that her husband’s officers behave impeccably. She tolerated no profanity in her presence, and insisted that the men smoke outside. Her home was as tastefully furnished as any home in the East, and she maintained a high standard of living.

Just now, she smiled as she took the new schoolteacher aside. Many women came West in hopes of finding a husband or a career. Most of them did not stay long. The West could be a hard, cruel place, even in these modern times.

“Mike tells me you’re from the East,” Stella Freeman remarked.

“Yes,” Loralee replied. “Philadelphia.”

“A lovely city. You’re very brave to come out here to try to teach the savages to read and write, my dear. Why, it was only a few years ago that they were scalping people in their beds.”

“I’m not brave at all,” Loralee answered, bristling at the woman’s use of the word “savage” to describe her students.

“Of course you are, my dear,” Stella Freeman insisted. “We all are.” She smiled benignly at the two women who had come to stand beside her, including them in the conversation.

The woman standing nearest Stella Freeman was a rather portly, middle-aged woman with russet-colored hair and washed-out gray eyes. She wore a high-necked dark brown silk dress that Loralee thought more appropriate for a funeral than a dance. The woman introduced herself as Martha Cogan, wife of Major Tom Cogan.

The other woman was hardly more than a girl, Loralee saw with surprise. She was quite tiny, with pale skin, ash blonde hair, and mild blue eyes. She smiled shyly as she introduced herself as Sally Stockman, wife of Sergeant-Major Ken Stockman.

“People with weak hearts don’t last very long in the West, I’m afraid,” Stella Freeman declared, continuing her discourse. “I know. I’ve been out here for years.” She sighed dramatically. “More years than I care to recall. But Bradley wanted to campaign in the West, and he’s done very well. Tell me, my dear, how is your little school coming along?”

“Quite well,” Loralee answered, trying to hide her dislike for Stella Freeman. “I have sixteen children enrolled now and hope to have more very soon.”

Stella Freeman patted Loralee’s arm. “Of course you will. I don’t mean to pry,” she said in a serious tone of voice, “but one of the men told me you’re tutoring that scoundrel, Shad Zuniga. Surely he was mistaken.”

“It’s quite true.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Martha Cogan blurted. “The man’s a savage!”

“I think it’s very wise,” Loralee responded firmly. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Zuniga, none of the children would have come to school at all. He’s been a tremendous help.”

Stella Freeman rolled her eyes heavenward. “Zuniga, a help,” she murmured. She placed one hand over her heart dramatically. “Lord, have mercy. The man is nothing but trouble. Why, he’s got a gun hidden somewhere in the hills. He refuses to be counted on ration day, refuses to accept the food and clothing that are his due. Really, dear, the man is quite impossible. Fortunately, he seems content to spend most of his time up in the hills with his grandfather. I don’t know what would happen if he took it into his head to try to influence the others to rebel. For some reason, the young men all look up to him. I can’t imagine why.”

“Perhaps for the very reasons you disapprove of him,” Loralee said. She could have bitten her tongue for speaking so hastily. Martha Cogan sent her a withering glance, and Sally Stockman blushed furiously. No one ever disputed the commander’s wife. It was an unwritten law.

“Perhaps,” Stella Freeman said stiffly. “You must come to our house one afternoon for tea so we can get better acquainted. Ah, here comes your young man to claim you. He’s quite handsome, our Sergeant Schofield. Don’t you think so?”

Loralee flushed under Stella Freeman’s probing gaze, nodded quickly before taking Mike’s arm. She could feel Stella Freeman’s disapproval as she walked away. Why had she defended Shad Zuniga when the commander’s wife so heartily disapproved of him? What had she hoped to gain?

It was quite late when Mike escorted Loralee back to her house. They stood together at the door, reluctant to see the evening end. Loralee did not resist when Mike took her in his arms. His mouth was warm when he kissed her, firm upon her own as she kissed him back. It was pleasant, kissing Mike, but there were no fireworks, no bells, none of the wondrous excitement the novels described in vivid detail when the hero took the girl in his arms.

“Good night, Loralee,” Mike said huskily. “I had a great time.”

“Me, too. Thanks, Mike.”

He bent and kissed her once more. “Sleep well.”

Loralee stood outside, watching Mike ride away. Then, with a little sigh, she went inside to get ready for bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. She was too keyed up from the music and the dancing and the unfamiliar effects of the whiskey.

Dressed in her nightgown and a bulky robe, she wandered outside to walk in the yard. The night was dark, the sky like black velvet decorated with stars and a cold silver moon. In the distance, a coyote yapped a melancholy tune.

How different things must have been just a few short years ago, Loralee mused. She would not have dared to wander outside alone and unarmed then. People had been afraid to sleep at night, fearful of being killed in their beds by prowling Apache warriors. Men had carried rifles wherever they went, even while plowing their fields. Women had been afraid to venture out of the safety of their homes. How frightening it must have been, never knowing from one day to the next if the Apaches would strike, never knowing when you kissed your husband goodbye if he would return home that evening, or if his body would be found lying in the dirt in a pool of blood.

Loralee shivered. Drawing her robe more tightly around her, she laughed softly. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. Fortunately, those bloodthirsty days were gone.

She gasped as a dark silhouette emerged from the stand of trees at the south end of the house and came toward her.

Fear was a tight lump in her throat that made screaming impossible; a cold fist clamped tightly around her insides, leaving her too weak to flee for the safety of the house. Petrified, she stared at the rider coming toward her, his face as dark as the shadow of death.

As he rode out of the shadows, moonlight played over his face and shoulders, shining brightly on his copper-hued skin and midnight hair, enveloping him in a silvery haze.