White Apache

by tiffy

  He stood with his hand on one of the geldingʹs withers. ʺEvery person on this caravan must have a remuda of at least three horses, plus mules. These will do, but youʹll require at least two of my mules to spell the horses as well.ʺ

  Realizing she would run the risk of having him decide to leave her behind if she argued further, Elise began to unfasten the portmanteau and packs, cursing silently.

  Santiago watched her toss expensive silk gowns and vials of rare perfume onto the ground without uttering a word of protest. She was indeed desperate to reach Santa Fe. Most women he knew would have cried and pouted or wheedled and flirted to get him to change his mind, but Elise attacked the repacking with ruthless precision. Again he wondered about her motive for undertaking the dangerous journey.

  ʺTake that one,ʺ he motioned to the deep violet silk ballgown she had worn at the Chouteausʹ soiree. ʺOnce we get to Santa Fe, you may need to charm Governor Alencastre.ʺ

  Elise glared at him. ʺI certainly will not want to charm you!ʺ She stuffed the gown, along with a small sack of jewelry, into the leather portmanteau. She had filled the largest trunk with the luxury items she must leave behind. Brushing off her skirts, she stood up and faced him. ʺWhat will I do with these things?ʺ she asked, gesturing to over half the luggage.

  ʺTie what youʹre taking onto your extra horses. Iʹll take the rest to Madame Fourierʹs place and return in half an hour. Be ready to ride hard after that.ʺ

  He secured the excess bags on the saddle of his big bay stallion, then lifted her trunk on his shoulder with effortless ease and mounted his horse.

  Elise cursed in a mixture of French and English as she wrestled with a heavy bag, hoisting it up onto a pack horse, then struggling to fasten it tightly. By the time Santiago returned, she had completed the taskat the cost of several blisters and two broken nails. I will show him. Nothing on the trail will stop me!

  He leaned onto the pommel of his saddle and surveyed her work. ʺIf it comes untied, you have to refasten it. Thatʹs the only way you learn to do it right.

  Mount up. We have some hard riding to do.ʺ

  He watched with a lazy smile as she swung awkwardly onto her mare. ʺItʹs been a long time since you and your brother raced as children. Letʹs see how well you ride now.ʺ With that he kicked his big bay into a swift canter, leaving her to follow with her pack horses.

  By the time they caught up with the caravan, Elise had reevaluated her certainty that nothing on the journey was going to stop her. Sweat ran in rivulets down her whole body from her scalp all the way to the toes of her boots. Muscles screamed in agony as her inner thighs gripped the saddle. Her thin kid riding gloves had worked well enough back in Virginia, but after h grueling four hours of hard riding, her already blistered hands were raw from pulling the lead rope of the pack horses.

  Above all, she hated to give Quinn the satisfaction of being right about her stays.

  By the time they made camp that night, she was certain the whalebone would be fused through her skin and knit with her own spine and ribs! When he signaled them to stop for the midday repast, she bit her lips to keep from crying out as she dismounted.

  Santiago watched her trying to conceal her aching muscles. He realized that he had been hard on her, but before they rode beyond the point where he could send her back, he had to test her ability to withstand the rigors of the journey.

  For such a pampered female, she was proving to be surprisingly tough. But after the calm way she had handled herself in the fight with Scudder, he should have learned to expect the unexpected from Elise Louvois.

  To her horror, the trappers began to unpack all the cargo from the mules and unsaddle the horses to save exhausting the beasts. Doggedly, she returned to Ladybug and began to struggle with the cinch.

  ʺIʹll do that. Go rest in the shade,ʺ Ouinn volunteered. He watched her nod then walk, chin pugnaciously tilted, to the cool invitation of a stand of cottonwoods beside a small stream. She smiled graciously at Chaco when the youth handed her a canteen of water. The besotted boy was no problem, but Santiago knew he would have to watch the other men carefully.

  Most of them were from Santa Fe and feared him enough to stay in line, but he had hired two new menan Irishman and an Americanwho had brought in pelts from Osage country. Sean Brenden and Jeffrey Soames might cause trouble if they took the notion.

  Elise leaned back against the gnarled trunk of an old cottonwood and looked around her. The beauty of the country through which they passed was remarkable. The gently rolling hills were verdant. Sharp outcroppings of limestone appeared randomly, with shaggy fat evergreens growing between the formations. An icy spring trilled its way between the sentinel trees. She would have given her diamond earbobs for the heavenly pleasure of stripping off boots and clothes and lying down on the smooth, mossy stones that gleamed beneath the crystal‐clear water. Knowing that was out of the question, she settled for sopping her kerchief in the cold water and daubing it on her face and throat.

  Bliss!

  Santiago watched the silvery droplets trickle below the open collar of her blouse.

  He could see the swell of her breasts and imagined the water running between them. He should not have fought with Serene last night. His erstwhile mistress had thrown a tantrum, and he had been so heartily sick of manipulative females that he had left her house instead of availing himself of her charms one final time. Now, after only one day on the trail, he was as randy as a green boy.

  Not that Elise Louvois would be an easy temptation to bypass under any circumstance! He had warned the men to stay clear of her. If he took her to his bed, it would solve two problems. He could assuage his lust with the beautiful widow and at the same time end the matter of any of the others attempting to claim her.

  When he knelt beside her and opened a jar of ointment, her eyes snapped open.

  The bright violet color reminded him of the wildflowers that covered the prairies in spring. ʺYou need to protect your face until your skin toughens under the sun.

  Here, let me . . .ʺ He began daubing the greasy yellow stuff across the bridge of her delicate nose, which was already pink with sunburn. She regarded him warily as he plied his task.

  The feel of his fingers was incredibly intimate and erotic as they grazed the planes of her face. His touch was as gentle and soothing as the salve. ʺThat feels wonderful. I didnʹt know I was burned until I got in the shade of the trees.ʺ

  ʺItʹs the wind. At first, as it blows on your skin, it cools it. Then it numbs it.ʺ He could feel her faint trembling as he completed the task. Her eyes were downcast, their violet depths covered by long black lashes, yet she was not flirting with him. Santiago had observed in Chouteauʹs ballroom that Elise Louvois was capable of such to achieve her own ends, but what had been happening between them since their first meeting on that St. Louis waterfront was not a conventional game. She was a sophisticated woman well past twenty years of age, a widow doubtless possessed of no little sexual experience. Yet she sat trembling as he treated her injuries.

  He picked up one blistered hand and she flinched. There was a wary tension in her body, as if she were poised for flight. Then she opened her palm and allowed him to examine it. ʺAre you afraid of me, madam?ʺ His level gaze commanded that she meet his eyes. She did not disappoint him.

  ʺI am a woman alone, surrounded by rough frontiersmen. Only a fool would not be afraid, Monsieur Quinn.ʺ She willed herself to sit perfectly still as he rubbed the salve into her painfully blistered palms.

  ʺI warned you about who I was and what the journey would be like. This is the easy part. We havenʹt yet begun to travel through difficult country. I could have Spybuck return you to St. Louis. He is quite trustworthy, I assure you.ʺ He knew she would refuse.

  Removing her hand from his, she shook her head. ʺIʹm certain your Indian friend is trustworthy, but no thank you. I shall manage the rigors of the journey. I have survived worse, Monsieur Quinn, believe me.ʺ She held on to the tree to support her aching mu
scles as she stood up.

  I have survived worse. Santiago saw something in the depths of her eyes, a terrible pain that only another who has shared that private hell can recognize. He made no further attempt to touch her.

  They reached the south bank of the Missouri that evening and pitched camp beside the deep, murkybrown waters. The vegetation was dense. Only a few feet from the narrow trail, thick vines twined sinuously around tall hickory, oak, and maple trees, while lacy ferns and spiky gray‐green weeds covered the ground.

  Santiago called a halt in a large clearing, obviously denuded of vegetation by years of use as a campsite. French and Spanish explorers had been preceded by countless tribes of Indians. Elise dismounted in a trance of pain after the twelve-hour ride. She was determined to do her share lest the renegade decided to send her back. Gritting her teeth, she began to unfasten the packs on her horses, but before she had finished with the smaller bags on Ladybug, a mellifluous voice interrupted her.

  ʺPlease, madam, allow me. Santiago has asked me to help with your packs. I have little extra baggage with which to encumber my own horses.ʺ Spybuck gestured to his simple loincloth and moccasins with as much courtly grace as if he wore a satin waistcoat.

  Her lips twitched in spite of her aching exhaustion. ʺI do thank you, Monsieur Spybuck.ʺ

  Her eyes traveled around the busy camp, where men unpacked mules while bantering, spitting, and swearing in the odd polyglot of languages common on the frontier. The two stoic squaws began to build a fire and prepare the evening meal. Knowing nothing of cooking, even under civilized conditions, she felt suddenly uselessand very uncomfortable.

  Elise desperately needed privacy to attend to her personal needs, but refused to make such a request to Quinn. This bizarre Indian with the appearance of a savage and the manner of a court diplomat was her only other option.

  When Spybuck set her bags and portmanteau on the ground, she asked, ʺIs there somewhere private where I could sleep . . . away from the men?ʺ ʺIt would not be advisable to venture far from camp alone. There are cottonmouth snakes, wildcats, even raiding Osage who would not be averse to taking a white woman captive. I suggest you speak with Santiago about sleeping arrangements.ʺ The Creekʹs face was expressionless as he completed his task and strode away, leaving her standing in the midst of the camp, surrounded by her gear.

  ʺThey must have planned this together,ʺ she muttered with a curse. She could see a narrow sand spit bordering the river. Perhaps if she followed it far enough, it might provide her with the privacy she needed. She seized the pack with her toilette articles in it and began to walk purposefully toward the water, glad of the pistol in the pocket of her skirt. Just let some savage, or the savages in this camp, try to attack her!

  Santiago watched her leave and noted that several of the men did, too. The big Irishman, Brenden, marked her with his cold, crafty gaze. Quinn watched from the shadows cast by a maple tree as Brenden began to stroll casually to the river, approaching from an oblique direction that would intersect with Eliseʹs route some distance through the woods.

  Elise watched behind her. No one followed. Good. She had come several hundred yards around the bend of a sand bar. Setting down her bag, she checked the cattails and other marshy weeds for snakes by striking into them with a long piece of driftwood. Satisfied, she quickly squatted and took care of natureʹs functions, then emerged to where her pack lay and knelt to open it. She was just reaching for a bar of soap when a voice broke the stillness.

  ʺGoinʹ ta strip and bathe, yer ladyship? Blessed Virgin, that is a sight Iʹd be longinʹ ta see.ʺ

  The big Irishman stood towering over her. Having approached from behind, his moccasined feet were silent on the sand. His eyes glowed with open lust, and a curly strand of reddish hair fell across his brow. She supposed some women would think him handsome. Superficially, he resembled Quinn in coloring and build, but his features were blunt, his manner crude and uneducated. He swaggered toward her, like a wolf certain of its prey.

  Elise made no attempt to stand and run but instead rested one hand on her opened pack, seeming to be digging through its contents while she slid her other hand into her pocket and seized on her gun.

  Brenden smiled, sure of himself. ʹʹYou and me, darlinʹ, could be havinʹ some ripping good timessort of break the monotony of the trip. You take my meaninʹ?ʺ

  His tone was practically purring now. She made no protest, did not try to cry or run. ʺMy father, God rest his soul, was a Jacobite. Fled to France from Scotland after the Risinʹ in ʹ45. Always said that Frenchwomen were the most passionate.ʺ

  ʺDid he, indeed?ʺ Eliseʹs smile did not reach her eyes. ʺI hate to disappoint you, Monsieur Brenden, but I am only half French. And the American side of me is most cold‐blooded.ʺ She slid the gun from her pocket and leveled it, cocked and ready to fire dead center at his crotch.

  His face turned the color of buttermilk, but he stood with his feet planted firmly on the sand. Slowly he raised his hands and gave a nervous chuckle. ʺPeace, my beauty. Youʹll be needinʹ a protector on this long trip.ʺ

  Santiago saw him slide his left foot back, preparing to kick sand in her face.

  ʺDonʹt do it, Brenden. If she misses, I wonʹt.ʺ

  The Irishman turned, his hands out in a placating gesture now. ʺSure and I meant no harm. The lady is aloneʺ ʺHer mistake. One she wonʹt make again. And as to a protector, Brenden, consider the job already filled.ʺ Santiago replaced the pistol in his sash but left his hand resting lightly on the butt.

  Elise watched the Irishman make a mocking salute to her. The murderous look in his eyes caused her blood to run cold. She had made a dangerous enemy.

  When he was gone, Santiago turned to her with narrowed eyes. ʺFor sheer idiocy, this surpasses even your little foray to the St. Louis waterfront.ʺ

  He was furious with her! Elise stood up and made a show of uncocking her pistol and replacing it in her pocket. ʺI had the situation well in hand.ʺ

  ʺYou little fool. He was ready to kick sand in your face. He wouldʹve had you flat on your back in another ten seconds if I hadnʹt followed him.ʺ

  She had not considered that, but recalling the Irishmanʹs movements, it was not beyond the realm of possibility. She looked into his arrogant face ʺYou need not have told him that I was your doxy!ʺ

  His eyebrows raised mockingly. ʺOh? You would prefer Brenden? Or perhaps Gravois or Montoya?ʺ

  The catalogue of hardened, filthy traders made him seem the obvious choice.

  ʺYou can be as insufferably vain as the French emperor.ʺ

  He flashed her an infuriating grin. ʺBut Iʹm bigger.ʺ

  She knelt and reached into her pack for the soap and a cloth, fighting the flush she felt at his innuendo. ʺI will require privacy to change my clothes and see to my personal needs, as well as being able to sleep in peace. Have you given this matter some thought?ʺ The moment she spoke, Elise realized her gaffe.

  His eyes held hers. ʺDidnʹt I just explain my thoughts? If you slept in my blankets, you would find peace.ʺ He watched her fight the heat stealing into her cheeks, even as he fought his own physical battle. Damn, but he wanted the woman!

  ʺThe sort of peace you offer holds no appeal for me, Monsieur Quinn.ʺ

  He shrugged in casual indifference. ʺYou make life on the trail more difficult. Iʹll ask Spybuck to select a safe place for you and rig a privacy tent with a blanket.

  His acquired sense of British chivalry will doubtless make him agree to guard you without exacting any payment in return.ʺ

  Chapter Nine

  That night Spybuck rigged a crude tent for Elise by fastening blankets to a length of rope strung between two saplings. The sunset brought a blessed relief from the humid heat, but she knew it would get worse as they traveled farther south and west onto the great plains.

  Dismally, she looked at her heavy riding habits, all of sturdy cotton and linen fabrics. ʺIʹll die of heat prostration if I donʹt adapt,ʺ she said to herself. She hated t
o admit Quinn had been right about her choice of clothing. Corset stays were most certainly a propriety she could not observe in the wilderness. Resolutely, she picked up one of her cotton underblouses. With a camisole beneath, it would provide decent covering without a hot jacket. She stuffed all the jackets of her riding costumes into the bottom of the portmanteau and then began to redesign the skirts, cutting off the long trains which were useless when riding astride. ʺI wonʹt be fashionable, but I will be able to breathe and be cool.ʺ

  Cool. Just thinking the word made her long fervently for a bath, but she had already seen what happened when she sought privacy away from the camp. The Indian squaws went to the river to draw water for cooking, but no one seemed to feel the need to bathe. Perhaps in a few days she would broach the subject to Spybuck. If dispassionate, he was at least civil.

  The next several days on the trail were so hellishly exhausting that Elise found herself dropping off to sleep as soon as they stopped at sunset. All thoughts about bathing were forgotten. Some nights she was too tired to eat, since the greasy strong meat and hard biscuits took considerable strength to chew. Once she made the mistake of inspecting a piece of biscuit and noted the black flecks scattered through its interior.

  ʺWeevils,ʺ she was told by Gravois, who assured her they were quite safe to consume since the insects had been cooked thoroughly when the bread baked!

  Santiago watched Elise go through the first days of trail fatigue, common to all novices. Grudgingly, he admired her fortitude. In spite of screaming muscle strain and bone tiredness, she did not complain, but doggedly rode until he signaled rest stops. Although he did not say so, he applauded her common sense in adapting her clothes to frontier weather conditions.

  Gradually, after they had followed the river for nearly a week, he began to notice unmistakable signs of her revival. She lost the dark smudges beneath her eyes and began to move without muscle cramps. Even her tender skin had begun to take on a golden glow from the sun.