Sobbing, hardly able to see where she was going for her tears, she cried Mitch’s name as she ran down to creek, praying that he would be there. She stumbled once, scraping her knee on a rock, but she hardly noticed the pain. Mama was dead.
She found Mitch sitting cross-legged on their rock, tossing pebbles into the creek. He had taken one look at her tear-stained face and opened his arms. He held her while she cried, held her and rocked her, soothing her with his presence. He didn’t tell her she had to be strong, or that Mama and the baby had gone to a better place. He just held her until she had no more tears. And then he had washed the blood from her knee and patted it dry with her handkerchief.
“Will you come to the funeral, Mitchy?” she asked, sniffing.
“Sure, if you want me to.”
The funeral was the next day. Alisha stood between Chloe and Mama’s best friend, Mrs. McKenny, trying to be brave while Papa talked about what a good woman Mama had been, how she had loved her family and been a good example to others, how she had cared for the sick and taken food to the poor and the infirm.
Alisha glanced over her shoulder from time to time, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mitch. He couldn’t stand at the graveside with the other mourners, but she knew he was there, out of sight behind a tree.
Later, after all the mourners had told her how sorry they were, after everyone had gone home and Papa had shut himself up in his study and Chloe was busy in the kitchen, she crept down to the river and into Mitchy’s waiting arms.
Nothing was the same at home after Mama died. Papa didn’t laugh anymore. His sermons, once filled with hope and joy and a love for life, grew dark and somber. Chloe stayed on to keep house and cook.
When Mitch turned fifteen, he quit school and went to work full-time in one of the saloons. She had been afraid she wouldn’t see him anymore after that, but he had sought her out, especially in the summer.
She was thirteen and Mitch sixteen when he kissed her for the first time. They were sitting on the rock near the creek—she had come to think of it as their rock—when he drew her into his arms. His lips were gentle and sweet as they claimed hers. He had closed his eyes, but she had kept hers open. His eyelashes were short and thick.
With an oath, he drew away from her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, disappointed that he had ended it so quickly.
“Damn, you sure don’t kiss like a little girl!”
She glared at him, and he laughed out loud.
‘I know, I know,” he said, still laughing, “you’re not a little girl.” He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, making her feel self-conscious of her budding breasts. “You’re not a little girl at all.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, angry because he had ruined the most magical moment of her whole life.
“Don’t stick that tongue out at me unless you mean to use it.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed her and pulled her up against him. And then he kissed her again, showing her just what he meant.
She gasped as his tongue slid over her lower lip, licking, sucking gently, then slid into her mouth. Her gasp of surprise soon turned into a muted sound of pleasure. She melted against him, her body pressed intimately against his, her breasts crushed against his chest. Heat flooded through her. Her eyelids fluttered down. Her heart began to pound.
It was, she thought, a kiss she would never forget…
* * * * *
And she never had. Alisha lifted her head from her desk and looked out the window. That kiss was burned into her memory like a brand.
And now he was back.
With a sigh, Alisha graded the last paper, then stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back and shoulders. Extinguishing the lamp on her desk, she put on her coat and hat, pulled on her gloves, picked up her umbrella.
Leaving the schoolhouse, she closed and locked the door, then stood on the stoop for a moment, staring at the rain. She frowned as she faced the prospect of slogging through the mud and then, with a faint grin, she remembered another rainy day…
She stood at the window, watching the lightning streak through the clouds. She hated rainy days, hated them because they kept her from the river. From Mitch. She wondered what he was doing, if he was missing her, too.
She had been turning away from the window when something pinged against the glass. Looking down, she saw Mitch standing outside, looking up. He grinned when he saw her, waved for her to come out.
Laughing, she opened the window and leaned out over the sill. “Mitchy, what are you doing here?” she called in a loud whisper.
“Waiting for you,” he called back. “Come on out, ‘Lisha. Let’s go for a walk.”
“A walk? Are you crazy? It’s raining.”
He shrugged. “So what. A little water won’t hurt you. Besides, you can only get so wet.”
She grinned. What was a little rain when Mitchy was there, waiting for her? Happiness bubbled up inside her, as it always did when he was near. “Be right down.”
Bundled up in coat, boots, hat, scarf and gloves, she tiptoed down the stairs and out the back door. He was waiting for her behind the ancient cottonwood tree where they always met. Alisha shook her head. As usual, he was wearing only a shirt and his clout. She had never seen him wear a coat, and wondered now if he even owned one.
“Don’t you ever get cold?” she asked.
Mitch shook his head. “Warriors don’t get cold,” he said with a touch of arrogance.
“I suppose they don’t get wet, either,” she muttered.
But he only laughed. “Come on,” he said, and reaching for her hand, he started to run.
Feeling happy and lighthearted, she followed him. Mitch loved to run. Once, she had told him that proper young ladies did not run, it was unseemly. But he had just laughed at her. “You’re not a lady yet, proper or otherwise, Miss Alisha Faraday,” he had retorted. “Besides, ladies never have any fun.”
She had thought about that a minute, and decided he was right. None of the ladies in town ever seemed to have time to have a good time. They were always complaining about something…the price of sugar, the new saloon, the speed with which their children outgrew their clothes, the ever-growing Indian problem. Alisha had promised herself she would never be like them.
They spent the day in the rain, running, exploring, swimming in the deep part of the creek. Later, they took shelter in a cave Mitchy had found the year before. He laid a fire and they huddled beside it, he clad only in his clout, she in her chemise and drawers, while their clothing dried.
They sat close together, one of the blankets Mitch kept in the cave draped over their shoulders while they chewed on hunks of beef jerky. He had told her he came here sometimes, to be alone. Though he had never said so, she was sure he came here to get away from his father. She knew Mitch’s father beat him. She had, on occasion, caught a glimpse of bruises on his arms and back. She suspected that, on those occasions when she didn’t see him for a day or two, it was because he was too badly hurt, or because the bruises were where he couldn’t hide them and he was too ashamed to let her see. Knowing how proud he was, she had never mentioned them.
As always, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He fascinated her, with his long unruly black hair, dark skin, and deep blue eyes. She had always thought Indians had black eyes, but Mitch’s were dark blue, like his father’s. She knew her father would have been horrified if he knew how much time she spent with Mitch. He would have locked her in her room and thrown away the key if he knew, if he even suspected. But she didn’t care. She would have risked anything to be with Mitch. He made her life fun, exciting…
Taking a deep breath, Alisha opened her umbrella and stepped off the stoop into the rain. Her life wasn’t fun anymore. It was as cold and dreary as the weather.
And as for exciting…schoolteachers weren’t allowed any excitement. She was expected to be the epitome of decorum at all times.
She had to be careful of what she said, what she did, what she wore. She must never utter a cross word, never do anything that could be construed as unladylike, never wear bright colors, never rouge her cheeks or paint her lips. The fact that she was also the preacher’s daughter only made things worse. She must be outgoing and friendly at all times so as not to offend anyone. She must never gossip, or listen to gossip, be careful of the company she kept, avoid even the breath of scandal.
She heard the clock in the church tower chime the hour. Four o’clock. She would have to hurry. Her father expected dinner on the table no later than five.
But she wasn’t thinking about what to fix for dinner when she reached home a few minutes later. Instead her mind was filled with memories of the man she had thought never to see again, and what she would say to him when, inevitably, they met face to face.
Chapter Two
Mitch Garret rode directly through the main part of town. Canyon Creek had grown considerably in the years he’d been away. The old mercantile owned by George Cox and his son was gone, and a new, two-story white building with dark green shutters stood in its place. A new sign read HALSTEAD’S MERCANTILE. Aaron Halstead, Proprietor. There was a new boardwalk, a new hotel with a restaurant adjoining. Dixon’s Livery was wearing a new coat of paint. He chuckled softly as he saw old Mr. West dozing in a rocker outside the barber shop. Some things never changed.
He was aware of the curious stares that followed him, the whispers, the speculation. He didn’t stop, didn’t look to the right or the left, just kept riding down Front Street until he reached the narrow dirt road that led to the winding creek that clearly divided the town, with the leading citizens residing on the north side and the riffraff on the south. The creek ran deep here, screened from the town by an overgrown mass of shrubs, weeds, and berry bushes.
He had grown up in this town, held in derision not only because of his Indian blood but because his father had worked in one of the saloons, gambling away his pay as soon as he earned it so that there was never enough money for new clothes, and sometimes not even enough to buy food.
Things had gotten a little better when Mitch turned thirteen. When he hadn’t been at school, which he hated, or out hunting in hopes of putting food on the table, Mitch had worked a couple hours a day at the saloon, emptying spittoons, washing bar glasses, sweeping the raw plank floor, unloading cases of whiskey from the back of the supply wagon that had come through town every month or so. He had learned to play poker when other kids his age were playing catch, downed his first shot of whiskey when the other kids were still drinking milk.
Hat pulled low to shield his face from the drizzling rain, he dismounted and made his way to the flat rock that jutted out over the creek. It looked smaller, he thought, remembering the warm summer days he had spent on that rock, basking in the sun with Alisha.
Alisha. A hard knot formed in his gut when he thought of her married to a worm like Smithfield. He recalled the day he had stolen Alisha’s lunch, the smug look on Smithfield’s face when he stood in front of the class while old man Fontaine punished him. The tears in Alisha’s eyes. He wondered if she still lived in town. She and Smithfield probably had three or four kids by now, he mused, surprised that the thought of her having another man’s children could still cause him pain.
Smithfield! Of all the men she might have married, why had she chosen Roger? He recalled the day the two of them had come to blows. It had been a long time coming, fueled by a mutual dislike, by snide remarks on both sides, by threats and taunts and dares. It had all come to a head one day after school when Smithfield called Mitch’s mother red trash in front of Alisha and a half dozen other boys. It had been the last straw. He had laid into Smithfield like a fox after a chicken. Surprisingly, Smithfield managed to give about as good as he got until Mitch broke his nose. At the sight of blood flowing down Smithfield’s face, one of the boys had run for old man Fontaine, who came out and broke up the fight.
Smithfield had been chastised by old man Fontaine. Mitch had been expelled for a week. He would have quit school then and there, but his mother had insisted he go back.
Mitch peered through the tangled berry vines that screened the rock from the path. He could just barely see the roof of the Faraday house. He had never told Alisha, but he’d snuck into her house one Sunday morning when her family was at church. It had been easy enough, since Reverend Faraday would no more think of locking his front door any more than he’d think of locking his church.
Mitch’s family had still been living in that tar paper shack at the time and Mitch had been mightily impressed as he wandered through the Faraday house.
The furniture had been clean, not stained with spilt liquor. There had been colorful rugs on the floor, lacy white doilies on the tables, photographs on the mantle and on the wall.
He had swiped an apple out of the kitchen, then gone upstairs, curious to see ‘Lisha’s room. It had been just as he imagined, all done in pink and white, with a ruffled coverlet on the bed and a rag rug on the floor. A shelf held books. A porcelain doll sat in a small rocking chair in one corner.
Standing on the rock, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, Mitch turned and faced the north. The sprawling ranch house that his father had won in an all-night poker game the year Mitch turned twelve stood at the far end of town atop a lofty rise. The old man had moved them into it, but Mitch’s mother had refused to stay there. After a few months, she had packed her meager belongings and gone back to her own people. Mitch had wanted to go with her, but the old man had refused to let him go. He had never figured out why his father wouldn’t let him leave. Finally, he’d decided it was just his father’s way of proving who was the boss. Mitch had run away several times, but his father had come after him every time. Each beating he had received for running away was more severe than the last, but it wasn’t until his father told him that his mother had died of pneumonia that Mitch stopped running.
He blew out a breath. It was his house now, such as it was. It could have been a nice spread, but his father had gambled away the cattle and let the house go to hell.
Across the creek, huddled together beneath the lowering clouds as if they were ashamed to stand alone, stood the ‘dobe and tar paper shacks where the town’s poor lived. He wondered if the shack he’d been born in was still standing.
Squatting on his heels, he listened to the raindrops as they hit the water. How many times had he and Alisha come down here so they could be alone? For the first time in years, he let himself remember…
Alisha begging old man Fontaine not to hit him for stealing her lunch. He had always been hungry in those days. There hadn’t been a lot of big game near the town, but rabbits had been plentiful. He grunted softly. He hadn’t eaten rabbit since. The old man had taken the lion’s share of whatever game Mitch brought home, taking it as if it was his due. Mitch had given his share of the meat to his mother, taking little for himself. He pushed the thought of his mother from his mind. It had been here that he had taught Alisha how to swim, how to catch a rabbit and cook it, how to kiss…
Damn. He had kissed a lot of women since then, but he had never forgotten the first time he kissed Alisha Faraday. He had always thought of her as no more than a kid until that day.
Picking up a small stone, he tossed it into the creek, watching the ripples fan out across the water.
His life had been like that, spreading out from this place. He had run away, determined never to return, yet here he was, back where he’d began. He tossed another rock into the river, then swung into the saddle and rode toward the ranch. The old man was dead, or he never would have come back here. He would settle the old man’s affairs, sell the house, and move on. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t take more than a couple of days.
He snorted softly as he urged the big bay gelding into a lope. When had he ever been lucky?
* * * * *
Mitch leaned forward in the saddle, his arms folded over the pommel, as he regarded the house that was now his
. The place hadn’t changed much in the five years he’d been gone. There was still a hole in the roof of the barn. The house still needed a coat of paint.
Swinging out of the saddle, he hitched his horse to the post beside the front porch. Then, taking a deep breath, he climbed the three steps to the porch, opened the big oak door, and entered the foyer.
He stood there a moment, feeling as though the weight of the house was settling on his shoulders. He had never been happy here, never felt as if he belonged. Old memories rose to the surface, echoing down the corridors of his mind. He heard his father shouting at his mother, demanding that she give up her “Injun ways and become respectable”. He heard her cries when his father slapped her, heard his own voice, high-pitched and afraid, as he tried to defend his mother from the old man’s fists. He had never told Alisha just how bad things were at his house, how abusive the old man was when he was drunk, or when he had lost at cards. To spare Alisha’s tender feelings and his own pride, he had made light of the beatings he received, avoiding her company when the bruises were fresh and ugly.
He remembered the day the old man had walked in and caught his mother teaching him to speak Apache. He hadn’t been more than three or four at the time, but it was a day he never forgot. With a roar, the old man had grabbed his mother by the hair and slapped her, again and again, yelling all the while, cursing at her for teaching his son Injun ways.
Later, when he was older, he wondered why his father had married his mother if he hated the Indians so much. Wondered, but never found the courage to ask.
He forced himself to go into the parlor. It was easy to see why his mother, who had been a woman of light and laughter, had hated this place. The walls were paneled in dark wood. The furniture was heavy, upholstered in a dark brown fabric. Heavy dark green drapes covered the windows.
The old man had hired a housekeeper to do the cooking and cleaning after Mitch’s mother left. Mrs. North had been a sour-faced old crone with iron-gray hair, pinched cheeks, close-set hazel eyes, and no sense of humor. He had never heard her laugh, never seen her smile. She had insisted the drapes be kept closed so that the sunlight didn’t fade the carpets and the furniture. She refused to let him have his dog in the house, insisted he wash before dinner and after dinner, that he bathe once a week. She had tried time and again to make him cut his hair, but Mitch had flatly refused and for some reason he had never understood, his father had backed him up.
Apache Flame Page 2
