Apache Flame

by Madeline Baker

  Shaking his head, Mitch turned and went back into the saloon. Newspapers seemed to have a fondness for photographs of dead outlaws. He remembered seeing a photograph of the Howard gang. All six of them had been killed during a bank robbery in Tucson. The undertaker had laid them out side by side in their coffins. The photograph had made the front page. Arizona was a colorful place. Crawling with gunmen and gamblers, rustlers and stagecoach robbers, it had earned the name the Southwest Corner of Hell. Mitch had spent a little time there, and he had been inclined to agree.

  Resuming his place at the table, he poured himself another drink. Sheriff, indeed. He planned to get shut of this town just as soon as possible. Still, it would give him something to do until he found a buyer for the old man’s house. He laughed soundlessly, humorlessly. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have to work for wages. He could fix up the house, stock the ranch with cattle and most likely earn a comfortable living selling beef to the cavalry at Fort Apache, but the mere idea left a bad taste in his mouth. Staying at the ranch would be like living off the old man, and that was something he couldn’t do.

  Sheriff of Canyon Creek, New Mexico, he mused. It would be a hell of a joke on the town.

  By the time he was halfway through the bottle, he had decided to take the job.

  Chapter Six

  Alisha took a last look in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of her bedroom, making sure her bonnet was straight. It was a new bonnet, dark blue lined with a lighter blue silk. It had been imported from France. She turned her head from side to side. It was quite the most becoming bonnet she had ever owned, she thought, and then chided herself for her vanity as she tied the long ribbons into a pert bow beneath her chin. It was rare that she spent her hard-earned cash on such fripperies, but she had seen the bonnet in a mail order catalog and sent for it before she could talk herself out of it.

  The chiming of the courthouse clock reminded her she would be late to preaching if she didn’t hurry, and that would never do. Turning away from the mirror, she took a deep breath. Her mind had been in turmoil ever since Mitch rode into town. Last night, she had almost burned her father’s dinner. But how was she supposed to be able to think of mundane things like cooking and teaching when he was back?

  Mitch was the new lawman. He had killed two men and foiled a bank robbery. The news was all over town. People were calling him a hero. She shook her head. What had he been thinking, to risk his life like that? And why had he accepted the offer of the town counsel? He had never liked it here. Even if he hadn’t wanted to get away from his father, he would have left just to get away from the censure of the town. What was she going to do? Canyon Creek was a small community. She was bound to run into him often, at socials, the Fourth of July picnic, the Harvest dance, on the street, in the mercantile. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about running into him in church!

  She pressed her hand over her heart. He couldn’t stay here, he just couldn’t. Maybe she could talk to him, make him see how impossible it was.

  Grabbing her reticule, she hurried from her room and flew down the stairs. Outside, she smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath, and pasted a smile on her face. It wasn’t seemly for the preacher’s daughter to be seen running down the street, especially when she was also the schoolmarm. She must always walk sedately and smile at everyone she met.

  She reached the church a few minutes later. Entering the sanctuary from the side door, she took her place at the organ and struck the chords of the opening hymn. She couldn’t help smiling as the congregation began to sing “Shall We Gather At the River”. Nor could she help wondering what had happened to the carefree girl who had once gone skinny-dipping with Mitchy…

  She stared at him, her eyes wide, unable to believe he was serious. “I can’t go swimming now,” she said. “I didn’t bring anything to wear.” She wasn’t a little girl anymore; she couldn’t swim in her drawers. These days, she swam in an old shirt of her father’s and a pair of Mitchy’s cut-off trousers.

  “You don’t need anything to wear,” he had replied with a roguish grin. “I’m not wearing anything.”

  “Mitchy!”

  “Come on in, ‘Lisha. Don’t be chicken.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “What if someone comes?”

  “No one’s going to come down here at this time of night. Come on.”

  “We’re here.” She tried not to stare at him. The water covered him a few inches above his waist. She tried not to think that he was naked beneath the water, tried not to notice the way the water glistened on his sun-bronzed skin, tried not to stare at his broad shoulders, at the way the setting sun caressed his hair, highlighting the shiny black with bright gold.

  “Come on, ‘Lisha,” he coaxed. “I know you can swim. I taught you.”

  He had taught her so many things. Of course, her father wouldn’t have approved of most of them.

  Mitch smiled at her, his head cocked to one side, one brow raised. “Come on, ‘Lisha, you know you want to.”

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  He winked at her. “I’ll keep your secret, darlin’. Haven’t I kept all the others?”

  She nodded. She had told him things she had never told another soul, her hopes, her fears, her girlish dreams. “Turn your back.”

  He splashed her once, then turned around, giving her a clear view of his back. It was a beautiful back, she thought, if a man’s back could be called beautiful.

  But there was no time to admire it now, not when he was liable to turn around at any minute.

  She undressed quickly and slid into the river, shrieking as the cold water closed over her. “Why didn’t you tell me it’s freezing!” she exclaimed. She bent at the waist and crossed her arms over her breasts again.

  “You’ll get used to it.” He turned to face her, grinning. “Come on, I’ll race you to the bend of the river.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too cold.”

  “Don’t be such a baby. Come on, I’ll even give you a head start.”

  “Oh, all right,” she agreed, knowing he would just rag on her until she gave him his way.

  “Count of twenty,” he said.

  “Make it thirty. And count slow.”

  “All right. Thirty. Go!”

  She struck out, her strokes long and even, the way he had taught her. She could hear him counting, hear the suppressed laughter in his voice. He was so sure he would win. But then, he always did. But not today! Concentrating, she swam for all she was worth. She could hear him coming up fast behind her, but it didn’t matter. She was going to win!

  She was grinning triumphantly when he reached her. “Ha!” she shouted triumphantly. “I won!”

  “So you did,” he agreed. “I guess there really is a first time for everything.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, then shrieked as he put his hand on top of her head and pushed her under the water. She came up sputtering and swinging, heard him grunt as her fist connected with his eye…

  “Oh, Mitchy, I’m sorry,” she said, instantly contrite. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.”

  But even then, his eye had been turning red, swelling shut…

  “Let us pray.”

  Alisha bowed her head and folded her hands, but she didn’t hear the words of her father’s prayer. She was lost in the past. For days after she hit him, Mitch had sported the most gorgeous shiner. She had felt guilty as she watched it change color, from black to purple to bilious green. Mitchy, oh Mitchy. I waited and waited. Why didn’t you send for me?

  She looked up as her father said “Amen,” felt her heart catch in her throat as she glanced out over the congregation and saw Mitch sitting in the second row, beside Mr. West, who was snoring softly, as usual. She closed her eyes and opened them again, certain she was imagining things. But he was still there. What on earth was Mitch doing here? He had never come to church, not once in all
the years she had known him.

  She looked away before he could catch her staring, only to find her gaze straying toward him again moments later. He looked older, of course, and even more handsome that she recalled. She thought of the baby she had lost. Had her son lived, would he have looked like Mitch? Her son, their son, would be four now. If he had lived…

  She felt a wave of heat sweep up her neck and into her cheeks when Mitch’s gaze met hers, and she quickly looked away, wondering if the entire congregation was aware of the tension that flowed between the two of them.

  She was glad when it was time to play the organ for the next hymn, though Mitchy’s presence made her so nervous, she made several mistakes, something she rarely did. She caught her father looking at her strangely and shrugged, certain he would comment on it later.

  She could feel Mitch watching her, and she wondered again what had brought him to church. He wasn’t of her faith, nor did he believe in any of the others. She had often asked him to attend church services with her when they were children, and he had always refused, saying that he didn’t hold with the white man’s religion, that, when he prayed, he prayed to Usen. She had asked if he couldn’t pray to Usen in her church, and he had said, no, that the Great Spirit of the Apache couldn’t be found within the four square walls of the white man’s church. She wondered if he had changed his mind about that, or if he was there today merely to make her uneasy. She winced as she hit another wrong note.

  When the hymn was over, she moved to one of the choir seats behind the pulpit. She tried to concentrate on her father’s sermon, but all she could think about was Mitch, laughing at her, smiling at her, kissing her.

  She drew her gaze from Mitch and searched the congregation for Roger. He was sitting near the back, wearing his Sunday-go-to-meeting blue suit, his cravat neatly tied, his blond hair slicked back. He would expect an invitation to supper, and then, after he spent an hour or so visiting with her father, they would take a walk through town, looking in the store windows, making small talk. He would bring her home, thank her for a pleasant evening, give her a quick kiss good night.

  She sighed heavily, suddenly depressed at the thought of spending another evening with Roger and her father. She glanced at Mitch again. He had ridden out of her life and taken all her girlish hopes and dreams, all her laugher and good times, with him.

  She hated him for that.

  She stood up and moved to the organ as her father began to offer the benediction.

  * * * * *

  Mitch glanced around the church as Russell Faraday’s sonorous voice pleaded with the Almighty on behalf of his congregation. It was a large square building, with a peaked roof and whitewashed walls. The benches were made of pine, the altar rail and pulpit of oak. A large cross, also made of oak, hung on the wall behind the pulpit. Sunlight streamed through a round stained glass window. He studied the window a moment. The scene depicted the Good Shepherd standing near a clear blue stream, surrounded by a flock of sheep. One small white lamb stood on the far side of the water, looking lost and forlorn.

  Mitch shook his head as the prayer went on and on. His old man hadn’t believed in a Supreme Being, but then, he hadn’t believed in much of anything. His mother had worshipped in the Apache way. She had no Sabbath day, as such, no holy days. She had told him that the People worshipped when moved upon to do so. Sometimes the whole tribe would gather to sing and pray. At other times, only a few would join together. She told him that sometimes they prayed in silence, at other times each one assembled would pray aloud. Sometimes an Old One would pray for all. He had never seen his mother pray, yet he knew her faith in Usen had been strong and unwavering.

  Mitch let out a sigh. He wasn’t sure what foolishness had brought him here this morning. It was the first time he had ever set foot in this church, or any church, for that matter. He had told himself it was because he was now the sheriff and people expected it of him, but that was a lie. He had never done what people expected of him. He had come here to see Alisha and for no other reason.

  It was hard to believe that the woman sitting at the organ, modestly clad in a dark blue dress and silk-lined bonnet, was the same girl he had once known. He couldn’t imagine this demure woman sneaking out of her house to meet him late at night, or skinny-dipping in the creek.

  He had a sudden, inexplicable urge to go to her house that night, to stand beneath her window and call her name and see if she would meet him in the moonlight.

  Faraday said the final Amen. Mr. West came awake with a start as the strains of “Blest Be the Tie That Binds” filled the air. The congregation rose to their feet and began to file out of the church.

  Outside, Mitch nodded to Waller and Plumber, then skirted several groups of parishioners who were gathered together, talking about the weather, the sermon, babies, and all the other mundane things small-town people gossiped about.

  Crossing the dusty street, he headed toward the hotel, thinking about getting something to eat. Abruptly, he changed directions and made his way toward the river. The water was running high and fast due to the recent rains. Standing on the bank, he looked at the ramshackle huts on the other side. Nobody should have to live like that, he mused, remembering the tar paper shack where he’d spent the first twelve years of his life. Cold and drafty in the winter, hotter than hell’s furnace in the summer. He remembered drawing water from the river to bathe in, collecting wood for the stove.

  He remembered his mother…

  “Why do you live with that man?” He had been eight or nine when he asked that question for the first time.

  “Because he is your father.”

  He had frowned at her, wondering how his gentle mother could love such an abusive, angry man. “He’s mean to you,” he said, staring at the dark ugly bruise on her arm. “He hits you.”

  “He doesn’t mean it, ciye.”

  He hadn’t understood why his mother defended Con Garret, why she stayed with him.

  Now, more than twenty years later, he still didn’t understand why his mother had stayed with his old man for so long, or why she had finally left him to go back to her own people. He had never blamed her for leaving, only for not taking him with her.

  He never should have come back here. Muttering an oath, he picked up a rock and tossed it into the river. It was all in the past and best forgotten.

  Like Alisha…

  A faint rustling from down river drew his attention. He glanced over his shoulder, and she was there, poised like a doe ready to take flight.

  “‘Lisha.”

  “Hello, Mitch.”

  She had changed out of her dark blue dress into a gray skirt and white shirtwaist. She wasn’t wearing a hat and he had a sudden urge to loosen her braid and run his fingers through the thick golden strands.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. “Yes.” Five years, two months, three days.

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine. You?” She couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked wonderful. Gone was the tall skinny boy in patched clothes and in his place stood a ruggedly handsome man dressed in a crisp white shirt, black wool trousers, black boots, and a black hat with a snakeskin band.

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “I guess you’re planning to stay awhile,” Alisha glanced at the badge pinned to his shirt pocket, “now that you’re the new Sheriff and all.”

  He shrugged.

  She smoothed a hand over the front of her skirt. “What have you been doing all these years?”

  “Not much. How about you? You happy with Smithfield? He treating you all right?”

  “Of course. We’re getting married in June.”

  “You’re not married yet?” He stared at her. He had heard of long engagements, but five years? Hell, it was none of his business. There was no point in bringing up the past. She was engaged to Smithfield. And even though he had never cared much for the man, he had to admit that Smithfield had turned out to be a de
cent sort, honest and hard-working. No doubt he would make Alisha a good husband.

  She ignored his question. She didn’t want to talk about herself, about why she had waited so long to marry. “What about you, Mitch? Are you married?”

  “No.”

  She wanted to ask him why he had never sent for her, but she couldn’t summon the nerve. Besides, it didn’t matter now. She had been engaged to Roger for the past eight months. In that time, she had come to love him, not with the same intensity she had once loved Mitch, to be sure, but she loved Roger nonetheless. He was a fine, decent man, and she knew marrying him was the right thing to do. Why, then, did his ring suddenly feel heavy on her finger?

  “I was surprised to see you in church this morning,” she said, needing to break the heavy silence that had settled between them.

  “I was a little surprised myself. Your old man preaches a hell of a sermon. All that fire and brimstone.”

  “Yes, he does.” There was no mistaking the love, or the pride, in her voice. She glanced out over the creek, remembering the first time she had seen Mitch here. This is my spot. She smiled wistfully as she recalled that day.

  “What are you thinking?” Mitch asked.

  “Nothing, really. Just remembering.”

  “We had some good times here,” he remarked, making her wonder if he, too, was reminiscing about those halcyon days gone by.

  “Yes.” It was here, in this very place, that he had taught her to swim. It was on this very rock that he had taught her how to kiss… She shook the memory away. “I’d better go.”

  “Smithfield coming to Sunday dinner?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Would you like to join us?” She said the words quickly, before she could change her mind. She could well imagine her father’s shock, Roger’s displeasure. But the words had been said, and she couldn’t call them back. Didn’t want to call them back.