RenegadeHeart (29 page)

And still they traveled across the land, heading due south.
Across low hills covered with cat-claw and palo-verde, through deep gullies and
narrow valleys, across a shallow river, and suddenly they were in Mexico.

Rachel had lost track of the days when one of the scouts
rode into their night camp with the news that the mine was less than a day’s
ride away. Rachel’s weariness vanished like snow beneath a blazing sun.
Tomorrow she would see Tyree!

She could not sleep that night, not when they were so close.
She closed her eyes and summoned Tyree’s image to mind, still clear even after
all these months—the length and breadth of him, eyes that were the color of
amber glass, a mouth that could be by turns warm and tender or fierce and
demanding, hair as black as sin. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to come
alive, yearning for his touch.

She was still awake when the Indians began to stir. They
were unusually quiet as they moved about the camp. They did not eat breakfast.
Small clay pots appeared and the warriors began to paint their faces for war.
For the first time, it occurred to Rachel that there was going to be a fight,
that men would be killed. Until that moment, she had not thought of the cost,
only the joy of seeing Tyree again. But of course there would be a fight. They
could not just walk in and pluck Tyree from the mine. There would be guards,
warning cry, a battle. Tyree could be killed.

She shook the thought from her mind. She had not come this
far to fail.

She glanced at the warriors moving around her, and was
suddenly afraid. These men were savages, strangers. They were killers,
delighting in butchery and torture. What was she doing here? Why had she
trusted them? Even now, they might turn on her.

She uttered a small cry of fright as a hand dropped on her
shoulder. Whirling around, she stared, wide-eyed at the warrior beside her, and
then let out a sigh of relief. It was Standing Buffalo, his face hideously
streaked with black paint.

“Will you wait here?”

“No.”

He nodded, as if he had expected her to refuse.

Ten minutes later they were riding toward the mine. Rachel’s
nerves were taut. Time and again she patted the derringer in her skirt pocket.
Would she have the nerve to shoot a man, if necessary? Could she bear to take a
human life? Only time would tell.

It was dusk when they reached the valley that housed the
mine. From her vantage point, Rachel stared at the wooden outbuildings that
housed the guards, then swung her gaze to the big stone house where the mine
owners lived. And then she saw a long row of cages. They were empty, she saw
with dismay, but even as she watched, she saw dozens of men being herded toward
the cages. She leaned forward, eyes straining, but she could not pick Tyree out
of the line of shackled, bearded men. It was a pitiful sight, she thought, her
heart aching. The guards herded the prisoners like sheep, whipping those who
did not move fast enough.

Tyree, Tyree. She could not bear to think of him being in
such a dreadful place, could not stand to think of him suffering as these men
were obviously suffering.

And then Standing Buffalo gave the signal and she was swept
down the hill toward the mine, her horse carried along with the others as the
Indians urged their ponies down the gentle slope and across the barren ground
in front of the mine. A shout went up from the guard tower, and then the
Mexican pitched over the railing onto the ground, an arrow in his throat.

The war cries of thirty Apache warriors filled the air as
the Indians swarmed over the main house and outbuildings. Two-thirds of the
Mexicans were killed in the first rush, taken completely by surprise.

The noise and the gunsmoke were overpowering, and Rachel
felt as though she were living in a nightmare as she guided her horse toward
the long row of cages, the derringer in her hand. Indians and Mexicans fought
and died on all sides, but she rode through the midst of them, her eyes riveted
on the cages ahead, a silent prayer in her heart that she would find Tyree.

Men called out to her as she rode past, screaming for her to
let them out of the cages, but she did not hear them, so intent was she on
finding Tyree. A Mexican in a dirty blue shirt grabbed at her leg and she fired
the derringer in his face, felt her insides heave with revulsion as his eyes
and nose dissolved in a sea of blood.

And still she rode on. And then, near the end of the row,
she saw him. He was standing at the door of the cage, staring at the fire that
had started in one of the outbuildings some fifty feet away.

Rachel screamed his name as she jumped off her horse.

Tyree’s head swung around, and his eyes widened with stunned
disbelief. “My God,” he thought, “I must be seeing things.”

“Tyree, stand aside!” Rachel had to shout to be heard above
the gunfire and the roar of the flames.

She was real. He whispered her name as he stood to one side
while she shot the lock off the door. And then she was in his arms, her sweet
mouth pressed to his. But only for a moment.

“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” Rachel urged. “Get
on my horse.”

“I can’t.”

“Damn!” She had forgotten about the shackles that hobbled
his feet.

She was wondering what to do when Tyree dragged her down the
row of cages to where a man lay face down in the dust. It was the man Rachel
had killed, and she turned away, fighting the urge to vomit as Tyree began to
search through the dead man’s pockets. At last, he found the key. Moments
later, his hands and feet were free, and he tossed the key ring to the prisoner
in the nearest cage.

Rachel heard Tyree mutter, “Good luck,” under his breath as
he lifted her into the saddle of the buckskin and swung up behind her. She felt
a surge of relief as they started out of the yard. Thank God, Tyree was safe.

She kicked the buckskin, urging the horse to go faster,
wanting to get away from the mine and the misery it represented. She did not
think about the men they had left behind, or the Indians who might have been
killed, she thought only of Tyree, of his hands gripping her waist.

She was smiling to herself as they rode out of the yard,
congratulating herself on a job well done, when the pain hit. Glancing down,
she was horrified to see the side of her shirt was dark with blood. Feeling
suddenly lightheaded, she grasped the buckskin’s mane with her free hand. They
could not stop now, not until she was sure Tyree was out of danger. She could
not lose him again.

Once, she glanced over her shoulder. The mine buildings were
all ablaze. Prisoners were streaming out of the yard, running away from the
flames. She saw a man rolling on the ground, his clothing aflame. And then the
warriors came riding toward them, blocking everything else from sight.

She tried to smile at Tyree, but his face blurred before her
eyes and she felt herself falling, falling, into nothingness.

Tyree swore under his breath as Rachel went limp in his arms.
A sharp tug on the reins brought the buckskin to an abrupt halt. It was then
Tyree saw the blood staining Rachel’s shirt.

“My God.” He breathed the words as he lifted her shirt.
Blood oozed from a bullet wound just under her rib cage. With an oath, he pressed
his hand over the ugly wound, felt her blood well between his fingers.

Taking Rachel in his arms, he dismounted and laid her gently
on the ground. Only then was he aware of Standing Buffalo and the other Indians
milling around.

“Is she dead?” The question came from Standing Buffalo.

“No. Get me some blankets and some water.”

“We will camp here,” Standing Buffalo informed the others.
“Red Elk, see to the wounded. Five Bears, take some men and find us some meat.”

With quiet efficiency, the Indians began to make camp for
the night.

Tyree took the blanket Standing Buffalo offered and placed
it under Rachel. Removing his shirt, he ripped off a piece and began wiping the
blood from her side. There was only a single entry wound, indicating the bullet
was still lodged somewhere in her side. Gently, he probed the wound with his
finger, but he could not locate the slug.

Rachel’s eyelids fluttered open. She smiled weakly as she
saw Tyree bending over her. “You’re safe,” she murmured.

Tyree nodded as his hand caressed her cheek. “You damn
fool,” he scolded gently. “What are you doing riding around the countryside
with a bunch of savages?”

“I came to find you,” Rachel said thickly. “And I did.”

“Yes. Lie still now. Don’t talk.”

“Am I going to die?”

“No!”

Rachel smiled at him. Of course, he would lie to her, but it
didn’t matter. He was alive and well. She did not care if she died, so long as
it was in his arms.

“I’ve got to take the bullet out,” Tyree said.

“No.”

“It’s got to be done.”

Rachel shook her head violently from side to side. “No.
Please, Tyree.”

“Hey, you’ve spent a lot of time looking after me. Now it’s
my turn to take care of you.”

Rachel glanced up as Standing Buffalo came to stand beside
Tyree. He had a waterskin in one hand, and a long-bladed knife in the other.
Rachel stared at the knife in horror. She could not bear it, she thought
frantically. She could not bear the pain of the knife probing her flesh.

“Take me home,” she pleaded. “Take me to Yellow Creek,
Tyree. I want a doctor.”

“Yellow Creek is ten days ride from here,” Tyree replied.

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, Rachel. That bullet has got to come out. Now. It
won’t get any easier if you wait.” He took her hand in his and gave it a
squeeze. “Trust me, Rachel. Just this once.”

She nodded, then shuddered as Tyree took the knife from
Standing Buffalo.

Tyree stared at the long blade. How could he dig the bullet
from Rachel’s flesh? He knew the agony it would cause her, knew he would rather
cut off his right arm than cause her pain. Just thinking about cutting into her
tender flesh made his palms sweat.

“Do you want me to do it, my brother?” Standing Buffalo
asked quietly.

“No!” Rachel grabbed Tyree’s hand. “You do it,” she cried.
“I don’t want anyone else to do it but you.”

Tyree nodded. “Here.” He wadded up a strip of cloth and
handed it to her. “Bite on this. Standing Buffalo, hold her down so she doesn’t
move.”

Rachel closed her eyes, her teeth biting hard on the rag in
her mouth as Tyree began to probe the wound with the knife. Pain coursed
through her side, worse than anything she had ever imagined. Blood flowed in
the wake of the blade, hot and wet and sticky. She clenched her hands into
tight fists, her nails digging into her palms. Her thoughts became confused.
Sometimes it was Tyree who held the knife, probing her flesh, causing her
terrible pain, and sometimes she was back in the past, reliving the day she had
cut the bullet from his side. How had he stood the pain? How could she? When
would it end?

She opened her eyes and saw Tyree’s face through a red haze
of pain. His brow was furrowed, sheened with sweat, his jaw rigid. She groaned
as the knife slipped deeper into her side, heard Tyree swear softly, and then
everything went black.

“Thank God,” Tyree muttered. “She’s fainted.”

A short time later, he removed the slug from her side. He
looked at it for a long moment, then tossed it aside. A little higher, he
thought bleakly, a little higher and she would have been dead.

He washed the wound as best he could, packed the hole with
tree moss to stop the bleeding, bandaged it with what was left of his shirt.

“The Mescalero will be at their winter camp by now,”
Standing Buffalo remarked. “We can be there day after tomorrow.”

Tyree nodded. Rachel had lost a good deal of blood. Likely,
she would soon have a fever. The doctor at Yellow Creek was too far away to do
them any good, but there was a medicine man at the Apache camp. And he wanted a
shaman close by, just in case.

Chapter Twenty-Three

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking as she glanced around.
Where was she? A low fire burned at her feet, a domed roof covered her head.
Frowning, she saw a war shield propped against the wall, a lance, several clay
pots and jars.

Alarmed, she tried to sit up, only to fall back as a sharp
pain lanced her side. It came back to her then, the ride to Mexico, the battle
at the mine, Tyree. Where was Tyree?

A short time later, a withered old man dressed in fringed
buckskin pants and a sleeveless vest entered the lodge. He gave Rachel a
toothless grin as he gathered up several items from the back of the lodge.
Muttering something to her in guttural Apache, he hurried outside again.

She was fretting over her whereabouts and the awful ache in
her side when Tyree stepped into the wickiup. Just seeing him made her feel
better. He had shaved and washed and trimmed his hair, and she thought he had
never looked better, or more welcome.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“A box canyon about seventy miles from the mine. The
Mescalero come here for the winter.” He sat cross-legged beside her. “How are
you?”

“Fine, now that you’re here.”

Tyree smiled. It was good to see her awake and alert. She
had been unconscious for two days, burning with fever, and only the medicine
man’s skill had saved her. He knew he would never have forgiven himself if she
had died.

“How long have we been here?” Rachel asked. “When can we go
home?”

“No questions now. You rest.”

“I’m tired of resting. I feel fine, really.”

“Never mind. You just stay put.” Tyree grinned suddenly. “Do
I have to take your clothes away to make sure you won’t get up until I say it’s
all right?”

Rachel laughed, wincing as the movement sent a fresh shaft
of pain through her side. “I’ll be good,” she promised.

For the next few days, she ate and slept and ate again.
Thanks to the wizened old medicine man, her side healed quickly and she was on
her feet again before the next week was out, although Tyree would not let her
stay up too long. Still, it was wonderful to be able to sit outside and feel
the sun on her face.

It was a unique experience, sitting outside the medicine
man’s lodge in the middle of the Apache camp. These were the people Tyree had
grown up with, and she studied them carefully. The women were short and tended
to be plump. Their hair was long and straight and black, their eyes dark, their
skin the color of copper. They wore long doeskin tunics that reached their
ankles, or cotton blouses and full, swirling calico skirts. Rachel was
surprised to discover that Indian women were not so different from white women.
They cared for their loved ones, sewed and cooked and mended, laughed and
cried, nursed their young, argued with their husbands. They tended small
vegetable gardens and made beautiful baskets from willow rods. Sometimes strips
of black devil’s-claw were intertwined with the willow to create intricate
designs.

The Apache men spent their time hunting or gambling or
repairing their weapons. They played with their children, guided the young
warriors along the path to manhood, protected the village. They wore clouts and
knee-high moccasins and deerskin vests. Their hair was also long and black,
frequently adorned with feathers or bits of fur.

The children were happy, bright-eyed and inquisitive. They
stared at Rachel with unabashed curiosity, fascinated by her golden hair and
sky-blue eyes. The little girls played with dolls made of corn husks or helped
their mothers with chores and younger brothers and sisters; the boys played at
hunting and making war.

They were a proud and fearsome people and Rachel shuddered
when she remembered the tales of treachery she had heard. The Apaches were
rumored to be the most vicious fighters in the Southwest. The Chiricahua chief,
Cochise, had fought in a long and bloody war with the whites that had lasted
ten years. Geronimo was still at war with the Army, though he was currently
raiding and killing far to the south. It was said the Apache fought without
mercy, that they delighted in the shedding of blood.

For all their fearsome ways, they were a highly
superstitious people. The newly dead were to be avoided at all costs, the names
of the deceased were never spoken aloud lest their spirits be called back to
earth. The Apache did not eat the fish that thrived in the river because it was
believed the fish was related to the snake and was therefore cursed.

Rachel glanced around the camp. The Apache called themselves
Dineh
, meaning the People, the chosen ones. The name Apache was a Zuni
word meaning enemy.

Rachel smiled warmly at Tyree when he came to sit beside
her.

“You okay?” he asked. The concern in his eyes warmed her
heart.

“I’m fine.”

“That was a brave thing you did, coming after me.”

Rachel shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave you there.”

“You could have,” Tyree said quietly. “How the hell did you
know where to find me anyway?”

“I asked Annabelle.”

“Annabelle!” Tyree swore profusely, his hands itching to
sink a knife into the treacherous heart of the flaming-haired woman who had
sold him into hell.

“If it weren’t for Annabelle, I never would have found you,”
Rachel remarked matter-of-factly.

Tyree snorted. “Hell, if it weren’t for Annabelle, you
wouldn’t have had to come looking for me. Which, by the way, was a damn fool
thing to do.”

“You’re welcome,” Rachel murmured.

“You know what I mean. Standing Buffalo told me how he found
you. Dammit, Rachel, you might have been killed.”

“It was a chance I had to take. But if you’re sorry I found
you, just say so, and I’ll take you back!”

“Hold on,” Tyree said, laughing softly. “I didn’t mean to
make you mad.” He placed his hand over her arm, let his fingers slide up the
smooth flesh to her shoulder, to her neck, to the gentle curve of her cheek.
Her skin was soft, warm. He gazed into her eyes, as blue as the sky above, and
thought how brave she had been to come after him. His nostrils filled with the
scent of her, stirring his desire, and he wished she were well enough that he
could carry her into the lodge and make love to her. He had yearned for her for
so long, wanting her, needing her.

His eyes moved over her face and found it perfect. Slowly,
his gaze settled on her lips. Her mouth was slightly open, looking warm and
inviting. Again, he thought of all the days and nights he had longed for her,
and he bent forward to kiss her.

A soft laugh sounded from nearby. Rachel quickly drew back,
her cheeks flushing, as she looked over Tyree’s shoulder and saw several Indian
children watching them.

Tyree glanced over his shoulder and scowled. “Go on, get
lost,” he muttered irritably, and Rachel laughed out loud as the children
scattered.

“Oh, Tyree,” she murmured, “it’s so good to be alive.”

As Rachel’s strength returned, they began to take long walks
together, resting when she grew weary, sometimes napping in the shade of a
windblown pine. Tyree looked wonderful in the buckskins he wore, Rachel thought
proudly. His hair, uncut for the last six months, hung past his shoulders,
emphasizing his Indian blood. His skin had regained its healthy color now that
he no longer spent the daylight hours underground, and from a distance it was
hard to distinguish Tyree from the other Indian men.

Despite the fact that she was surrounded by a savage people
and living in a crudely built brush hut, despite the strange food and the
harsh, guttural language she could not understand, Rachel was happier than she
had ever been in her life. Tyree was alive and well. His amber eyes glowed with
longing when he looked at her, and she could hardly wait until she was well
again, until she could show him how much she loved him.

The old medicine man moved out of his lodge, taking up
residence with his sister for the duration of their stay so that Tyree and his
woman could be alone. Sometimes Rachel felt as if they were the only two people
in the world, especially late at night when the village was asleep and she lay
wrapped in Tyree’s arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his breath warm
against her face.

The first night they made love was like something out of a
dream. The fire cast eerie shadows on the walls of the lodge. The buffalo robe
beneath her was soft and warm, primitive. Tyree lay naked beside her, his dark
bronze skin kissed by the light of the flickering flames. His eyes glowed
brighter than the fire as he lowered his body over hers, his mouth caressing
every inch of her eagerly quivering flesh, his hands moving intimately over her
body until she was aflame with desire. She whispered his name, her arms twining
around his neck as her hips lifted to receive him. Their flesh merged and now,
engulfing him, she felt whole, fulfilled. Together, they soared upward, ever
upward, leaving the earth and its cares far behind…

Many nights, after the evening meal had been eaten and the
children were in bed, the Apaches gathered around a central campfire to dance
and sing and tell stories.

Rachel watched, fascinated, as the warriors danced and
postured around the fire, recounting tales of great battles, of enemies slain
and coup counted. Their copper-hued skin glistened brightly in the flickering
light of the flames. Their faces, hideously streaked with paint, were
reminiscent of spirits escaped from the bowels of hell. The rhythmic beat of
the drums, the high-pitched chanting of the drummers, the rapt faces of the
women and old men, all combined to make Rachel feel as if she were caught up in
a world that was not quite real.

One night, Tyree joined the men as they danced. Rachel
stared at him in wonder. Now, for this moment, he was totally Indian. His
shoulder-length hair was held from his face with a strip of red cloth. His
skin, as swarthy as any of the Apaches, glowed in the firelight. He was clad
only in a brief wolfskin clout and knee-high moccasins, and Rachel felt a queer
churning in the pit of her stomach as she watched him dance. He belongs here,
she thought absently. He’s a part of this, a part of the People. He was so
handsome, so male, she felt a sudden rush of desire as he passed before her,
his amber eyes alight with the joy of the dance, his head thrown back as he
uttered a shrill cry.

It was good, Tyree thought exultantly, good to dance the
dances of the People, good to be a part of the whole instead of standing on the
outside looking in. He laughed aloud, filled with the joy of being alive. How
easy it was to shed the veneer of civilization, he mused. How easy it was to
revert to the old ways, the ancient ways. He knew a sudden yearning to ride to
war, to feel the wind in his face as he went out in search of scalps and glory.

His feet moved easily to the rhythm of the drum, the Apache
words came readily to his lips as he joined in the song. The night was filled
with stars, the air was heavy with the scent of sage and wood smoke and
tobacco. The firelight danced along the sides of the wickiups, creating shadow
dancers who bobbed and swayed to the beat of the drum. His eyes sought Rachel’s
face and he felt the desire swell in his loins as she smiled at him. Her blue
eyes were wide as she watched him dance, and he wondered what she was thinking.
Did she find him frightening, disgusting, repulsive? His steps carried him
nearer to where she sat with some of the other women, and he let out a wild cry
as he read the expression in her eyes. She was not disgusted by what she saw.
The drumming, the dancing, the sweat dripping down his torso had awakened a
primal urge within the core of her being. He saw it in her eyes and was glad.

Later, alone in their borrowed lodge, he made love to her,
possessing her wildly, fiercely, making her feel like some primitive,
uncivilized female completely devoid of modesty or shame. Caught up in the
moment, Rachel gave herself to Tyree with carefree abandon, holding nothing
back, but gladly giving all she had to give.

She was embarrassed to face him the following morning. What
would he think of her? No lady worthy of the name would have behaved in such an
uninhibited fashion. She had touched him and fondled him as never before,
boldly exploring his lean frame, finding new ways to excite him. It had all
seemed so right under cover of darkness, but now she was not so sure. Perhaps
she had gone too far. But when she found the courage to meet his eyes, she saw
only tenderness there.

The days passed, one upon the other. They walked in the
woods, swam in the icy river, made love beneath the bold blue sky.

One night Tyree pulled her into the circle of dancing men
and women. Rachel blushed, her awkwardness making her uncomfortable and
self-conscious. But Tyree refused to let her quit. The steps were simple, few
in number, and she quickly learned the dance. She smiled at Tyree, pleased with
her success, letting herself sway in time to the soft beat of the drums,
basking in the desire she read in his eyes.

They had been in the Indian camp about three weeks when
several of the young girls reached puberty. This was, Rachel learned, a time of
celebration. The girls were dressed in elaborately painted and beaded costumes
and then they danced before the tribe. The ceremony lasted four days. Four,
Tyree explained, was a magic number. There were four directions to the earth,
four seasons in the year.

During the celebration, many ritual chants and dances were
performed, punctuated with feasting, entertainment and gift-giving. Rachel
stared in awe as four Apache warriors stepped into the firelight one evening.
They were dressed in spectacular kilts, black masks, and wooden headdresses.
Each carried a wooden sword. They were called
Gans
, Tyree said, and
represented the mountain spirits. Usually they danced to ward off evil or to
cure an illness, but on this night they danced only to entertain.