Apache Flame

by Madeline Baker

  “Push me in the river, will you?” he growled.

  She laughed, remembering the surprised look on his face, his arms wind-milling as he tried to keep his balance, the huge splash as he hit the water.

  She had laughed as he slowly gained his feet, then shrieked as he lunged toward her, only to slip and fall again.

  “You’ll be sorry when I catch you!” he hollered, and she had turned and bolted for the woods.

  She knew she couldn’t outrun him, knew he would catch her. And suddenly what had started out as a joke turned ominous somehow, and it was no longer a game. He would catch her!

  Fear added wings to her feet and she flew over the ground, afraid without knowing why. But she was no match for him, could never hope to outrun him.

  She shrieked as his hand closed over her shoulder, halting her wild flight.

  She struggled and lost her balance and they both fell, rolling over and over in the soft springy grass. And then he was lying on top of her, his hands pinning her shoulders to the ground, his chest heaving, his dark eyes hot as he stared down at her.

  She looked up at him, breathless. Afraid, without knowing why.

  Long moments stretched between them. Drops of water fell from his wet hair and bare chest and dripped onto her cheeks and breasts. Her skirts grew damp where he straddled her legs. She was aware of the strength of his hands on her shoulders. He held her lightly, yet she was powerless to escape.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Don’t ever be sorry with me, ‘Lisha,” he said quietly.

  And he lowered his head and kissed her.

  He had kissed her before, but never like this. Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase and the fact that he had caught her. Whatever it was, this kiss was like no other, filled with a different kind of passion than ever before. Without taking his mouth from hers, he slid to the ground beside her, his arms wrapping around her, molding her body to his.

  He was hungry for her, dying for her, couldn’t get enough of her. His mouth was warm yet firm, and she opened for him willingly, not fully realizing how it affected him until she felt the tremor in his arms, heard the sudden change in his breathing. His tongue caressed her lower lip, then slipped into her mouth. A flame of desire sprang to life deep in the core of her being. His tongue was hot and slick, and she pressed herself against him, her whole body tingling with desire, aching for more, so much more.

  “‘Lisha…” His voice was rough, yet tender. “‘Lisha, do you know what you’re doing to me?” Swearing softly, he rolled away from her and sat up.

  She stared at his back a moment, then sat up, wanting to touch him, wanting him to kiss her again. “Tell me,” she whispered, but she did know. They had spent many an hour in each other’s arms, but he had never done more than kiss her. She knew he wanted her as a man wanted a woman, but he had always held himself in check, and she knew it was because he loved her, because he didn’t want to hurt her. It had only made her love him more.

  He groaned low in his throat. “You must know how I feel.” He swore again. “I want you so damn bad, it hurts. Hurts like you can’t believe.”

  She stared up at him. “It hurts?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I don’t want you to hurt, Mitchy,” she whispered.

  Turning, he pressed his forehead against hers, his whole body trembling, and in that moment she loved him more than ever before, loved him desperately, completely.

  “Mitchy.”

  He drew back and looked into her eyes.

  “I love you, Mitchy.” It was the first time she had said it aloud.

  “‘Lisha…”

  He kissed her then, ever so tenderly, ever so gently.

  “I hurt, too,” she said. “Can you make it go away?”

  “I can,” he said, his voice ragged. “I want to. But I’m afraid you’ll hate me for it after.”

  “Why would I hate you?”

  He laughed softly. “Because you’re a good girl, Alisha Faraday. And you deserve someone a hell of a lot better than I am.”

  “No.” She cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. “I could never hate you. Never…” Her hand slid down his neck, along his shoulder, over the rigid muscle in his arm. He sucked in a breath as her fingers drifted over his chest, slowly, slowly, moving down, down, to cover that part of him that made him a man.

  He groaned and caught her to him, crushing her against him as his mouth covered hers. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground, his body covering hers, its heat flowing into her, filling her, arousing her, until she writhed beneath him, filled with an urgency that was frightening and exciting.

  His breath fanned her cheek, hot as the passion rising between them. She slid her hands under his shirt, reveling in the touch of his bare skin beneath her hands. She gasped when she felt his hands on her breasts and he smiled down at her, his dark eyes hot and filled with love.

  “Fair’s fair,” he said.

  She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, as his hands moved over her, teaching her what pleasure was, arousing her until she thought she might die of it. He kissed her out of her clothing, then shed his trousers, and she knew she had never seen anything more beautiful in her whole life than Mitchy lying beside her. His hands were big and brown against her pale skin, magical hands that worshipped and adored her and made her feel beautiful, desirable.

  He rose over her, his long black hair brushing the tops of her breasts, and she saw her own uncertainty and fear mirrored in the smoky depths of his eyes. “‘Lisha…”

  He was giving her a chance to change her mind, but there was no going back, not now. She wanted him desperately, knew she would wither and die without him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her, and with that kiss of surrender, there was no turning back…

  The cry of a wolf startled her out of her reverie and she realized she was crying, crying for the beauty of the love they had shared, for the years they had lost, for a magical time that could never be recaptured. She cried for her mother, who had died too soon, and for her father, and for the child she had never seen, cried for the boy Mitch had been and the man he had become, cried all the tears she had held inside.

  “Woman?”

  She dashed the tears from her eyes at the sound of Elk Chaser’s voice. “Yes, I’m here.” Gaining her feet, she went to kneel beside him. “Do you need something?”

  “No one should grieve alone,” he said, and reaching up, he took her hand in his. “Do not be afraid. He will come back.”

  She couldn’t see his face in the darkness of the cave, but the assurance in his voice soothed her fears, chased away her regrets.

  With a sigh, she rested her back against the wall of the cave and then, her hand still in his, she closed her eyes and slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mitch had always heard the Apache were the best horsemen in the whole Southwest. He’d been told by an old mountain man that a white man would ride a horse until it dropped, and then an Apache would come along, get on the same horse and ride it another ten miles.

  Now, he believed it. Hard as the ride was, Red Clements never complained. The old man was made of wang leather and iron, Mitch mused.

  He had thought he made good time returning to the rancheria, but it was nothing compared to the pace set by the warriors on the ride back to the cave.

  It was late morning the following day when they reached the area near the cave. Though all looked peaceful, a prickling along the back of his neck had Mitch feeling uneasy. Apparently sensing his apprehension, his mount turned skittish.

  The warriors also picked up on it.

  “It is too quiet,” Fights the Wind remarked. He reined his horse to a halt and drew an arrow from the quiver slung over his back.

  “Ai,” Spirit Walking agreed.

  Fights the Wind looked over his shoulder at Mitch. “Where is the cave?” he asked.

  “Not far,” Mitch said.

  With
a nod, Fights the Wind heeled his horse forward. The warriors spread out behind him, riding single file.

  Mitch and Red Clements brought up the rear.

  They had only gone a few yards when a dozen Comanche warriors came boiling out of a fold in the ground, their war cries shattering the stillness.

  The Comanche war cries were punctuated with the rising war cries of the Apache as Fights the Wind kicked his horse into a gallop. The other warriors chased after him.

  Mitch and Red Clements hung back. There was a certain raw beauty in the fighting, Mitch thought as he watched the battle rage, a kind of barbaric symmetry as the warriors came together. Dust filled the air, punctuated with war cries and the sound of a club striking flesh. Mitch drew his Colt as a Comanche warrior came thundering toward him. The warrior plucked an arrow from the quiver slung over his back, nocked an arrow to the bowstring. He fired as the warrior drew back the bowstring, and the warrior toppled from the back of his horse.

  Mitch looked over at Clements. “Let’s go,” he said. “The cave’s that way.”

  “I’m right behind ya,” Clements said.

  Mitch urged his horse into a gallop, skirting the edge of the battle. The Indians could fight it out, he thought, his only concern now was for Alisha.

  They were nearing the cave when they came upon two warriors grappling in the dirt, both struggling for possession of the knife between them. Mitch recognized Fights the Wind. The Apache had been badly wounded. Blood poured from a deep gash in his right shoulder, weakening him. He grunted as the Comanche jerked the knife from his hand. Knowing death was near, Fights the Wind stared up into his enemy’s face, his expression defiant as he began to sing his death song.

  A look of astonishment spread over Fights the Wind’s face as blood suddenly spurted from the Comanche’s chest and he toppled face down in the dirt.

  “Nice shot,” Clements remarked.

  “Thanks.” Mitch slid from the back of his horse and knelt beside Fights the Wind. Removing his kerchief from his neck, he quickly wrapped it around the wound in the warrior’s arm.

  Fights the Wind looked away as Mitch tied off the ends of his kerchief. It was not the Apache way to offer thanks to any but the Great Spirit. To do so was considered weak. The only expression on the warrior’s face was one of shame that a white man had saved his life.

  “Red, look after him, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Swinging into the saddle, Mitch put his heels to his mount’s flanks, his only thought to find Alisha.

  “Please, God,” he prayed. “Please let her be all right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alisha stood up at the sound of hoofbeats. Snatching up the gun Mitch had left for her, she went to stand beside the entrance of the cave, the sound of her heartbeat pounding loudly in her ears.

  Please, she thought, please let it be Mitch.

  She held her breath as the hoofbeats slowed. There was a moment of silence. The sound of footsteps.

  “Alisha? It’s me.”

  The brush was dragged away from the mouth of the cave and she hurled herself into his arms.

  “I guess you missed me,” he said wryly, and wrapped his arms around her.

  He was here, at last. She held him tight, her face buried against his shoulder. Relief washed through her. It filled her heart, clogged her throat, and blurred her vision.

  “Hey, don’t cry,” Mitch whispered. “Everything’s all right.”

  She held him tighter, assuring herself that he was there, really there. She had thought of him day and night, reliving every day, every moment she could remember. And now he was here, holding her tight, and it was as if the five years they had been apart had never existed. She loved him, had always loved him. Nothing had changed that.

  “How’s Elk Chaser?” Mitch asked.

  “I think he’s better.” She sniffed back her tears. “He sleeps a lot.”

  “Well, sleep’s good for him,” Mitch said.

  He glanced toward the entrance of the cave as he heard the sound of riders approaching. Taking Alisha by the hand, he led her to the shadows in the back of the cave. Drawing his gun, he put her behind him, and waited.

  “Hey, Mitch, you in there?”

  “Yeah, Red.”

  Moments later, Clements entered the cave. Seeing Alisha, he removed his hat. “Howdy, little lady. Never thought I’d see you this side of the Pearly Gates.”

  Alisha smiled at him. “I’m glad to see you’re all right, too.”

  “The fighting over?” Mitch asked.

  “Over and done,” Clements replied. “I always heard them ‘Paches fought like the devil hisself. They kilt all the Comanch, only lost one warrior. ‘Nother couple are wounded. Nothin’ serious.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Mitch said. “‘Lisha, pick up whatever you want to take along. Red, can you look after the horses? I’ll take care of Elk Chaser.”

  Minutes later, they were outside. Mitch had suggested a travois for Elk Chaser, but the old warrior had insisted he could ride, and now he sat astride one of the Comanche ponies, his face an impassive mask.

  The warriors had gathered around him, speaking in low tones. The dead Apache had been wrapped in a blanket and placed over the back of his mount. Red Clements held the reins to Elk Chaser’s wounded horse.

  Mitch lifted Alisha onto Sophie’s back. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  Alisha nodded. “I’m fine.”

  His gaze moved over her. Her shirtwaist, once white, was a dingy gray. Her hair fell in a tangled mass over her shoulders and down her back, there were dark smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep. He had never seen a prettier sight in his whole life.

  A short time later, they were riding back the way they had come.

  Death hung heavy over the scene of the battlefield. The Comanche dead lay sprawled where they had fallen. Several vultures had gathered around the bodies. They looked up as the riders approached. One of the birds, heavy laden with entrails, flapped its great black wings and took to the air.

  “Alisha, don’t look,” Mitch warned, but it was too late.

  Her face went white as she choked back the bile in her throat.

  He offered her a drink from the waterskin looped around his saddle horn, but she shook her head and looked away.

  Mitch glanced at the battlefield. It was a grim sight, the scavenger birds fighting over the bodies, the stench of blood and death hovering in the air.

  They made a wide berth around the field of carnage. The Apache abhorred death. As soon as they reached the rancheria, the dead warrior would be buried quickly in a remote cave or crevice of rocks, along with all his possessions. According to custom, his name would never be mentioned again. Those who assisted in the burial would purify themselves in sagebrush smoke.

  But he could not think of death now. He reined his mount closer to Sophie, reached out and touched Alisha’s arm.

  She turned and their gazes met and held, and he knew that as soon as they reached the rancheria, they were going to have to have a long talk.

  * * * * *

  They camped that night near a shallow stream sheltered within a stand of young trees. Elk Chaser immediately rolled into his blankets and went to sleep. A short time later, Red Clements sought his own bedroll.

  Alisha sat close to Mitch, comforted by his nearness. She wasn’t afraid of anything as long as he was there, beside her. As far back as she could remember, he had been her strength, her courage. He had dried her tears, made her laugh when she thought she would never laugh again, helped her learn to swim, to ride a horse, to explore the woods in the dark, to see the world as he saw it.

  What would he say when she told him that they had a son? A dozen times that night she had started to tell him, but somehow the time had never seemed right.

  Earlier, she had taken Red Clements aside to ask him if he had seen any children in the village that looked like they might have white blood.

  He had
looked at her curiously, but, to his credit, he hadn’t asked any questions. “Sorry,” he’d said with a shrug of apology. “I didn’t get a chance to look around much. But if he’s there, I reckon you can find him.”

  If he’s there. That was the big question. A lot could have happened in the last five years. She shied away from the possibility that her son might be dead. Life was always hardest on the very young and the very old.

  “What is it, ‘Lisha?” Mitch asked. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “‘Lisha, come on, I know you better than that. Something’s troubling you. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that.”

  She blew out a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. Maybe she should just get it over with and tell him now. What difference would it make? It was never going to get any easier.

  She glanced at the Indians who were gathered around the fire, recounting the battle. “Can we go someplace where we can be alone?”

  “Sure, darlin’.”

  Mitch told one of the warriors that they were going for a walk. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her into the shadows away from the light of the fire.

  Moonlight filtered through the slender oaks and willows that grew along the stream. A faint breeze teased the leaves of the trees; the water whispered secrets to the rocks as it tumbled and swirled along its way. Overhead, the stars came alive in the sky, winking at the moon.

  Alisha walked beside Mitch, acutely aware of his hand holding hers. It felt so right to be with him. She had loved him more than half of her life. Her happiest times, and her saddest, had been spent with him. He had fathered her child…

  Her mind raced as she tried to find just the right words to tell him that he was a father.

  Mitch gave a little tug on her hand, and she realized he had stopped walking.

  “I don’t think we should go any further,” he said.

  He was right, of course. There was no telling what dangers lay ahead in the darkness.

  Slowly, he drew her into his arms. His hold was light, giving her the opportunity to pull away.