Madeline Baker

by Prairie Heat

  Dee-o-det came twice to examine McCord’s leg, only staying long enough to apply a fresh poultice. Yellow Hawk and his mother also stopped by for a short visit, bringing food and water and an armful of wood for the fire.

  The hours passed slowly and Matilda wished she had something to occupy her hands and her mind. Jess slept most of the day and she found herself watching him, admiring his broad shoulders and long muscular legs. Once he twitched in his sleep and she heard him mutter Kathleen’s name, and she was torn with a sudden, irrational jealousy for the woman who had been Jess McCord’s wife. Had Kathleen loved Jess as deeply as he obviously loved her?

  Matilda gazed at him, trying to imagine what it would be like to be his wife, what it would be like to be held in those hard-muscled arms, to feel his hands on her body, to taste his kisses.

  A quick heat infused her as she thought of sharing McCord’s bed, lying in his arms while he made love to her in ways she had never dreamed of.

  She shook the images from her mind, wondering why she had never daydreamed of such things where Josiah Thornton was concerned. Josiah was her husband, after all. But somehow the idea of sharing Josiah’s bed didn’t excite her in the least.

  Jess moaned softly in his sleep, a grimace of pain moving across his face. Kneeling at his side, Matilda brushed the hair away from his brow and placed a damp cloth on his forehead. The wound in his leg and the forced march had taken their toll on his strength and she marveled that he had made it so far.

  Toward evening, it began to rain. Matilda placed more wood on the fire, amazed at how quickly the lodge warmed up. It was snug and cozy inside the wickiup, with the fire burning brightly and the sound of the raindrops on the roof.

  She turned toward Jess and saw that he was awake and watching her.

  Matilda smiled shyly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Matilda said with a shrug. “About six, I guess.”

  “What’d you do all day?”

  A faint heat rose in Matilda’s cheeks as she contemplated her answer. She couldn’t tell him she’d spent most of the day just watching him sleep. “Nothing much.”

  McCord raised an inquiring brow, wondering at the cause of Mattie’s flushed cheeks. “Nothing?”

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah.”

  She warmed up the pot of soup that Corn Flower Woman had brought by earlier in the day, filled two wooden bowls and handed one to McCord, along with a spoon made of deer horn.

  They ate in silence, the crackle of the fire and the muted sound of rain on the roof sounding unusually loud in the quiet confines of the lodge.

  “I love the rain,” Matilda remarked as she laid her bowl and spoon aside.

  Jess nodded. “I’ve always liked a good storm myself.”

  “Not storms,” Matilda said, shuddering. “Just rain. I don’t like thunder and lightning.”

  Jess chuckled softly. “In the old days, the Thunder People did the hunting for the Apache. At first the people were grateful, but after a while they began to get lazy. They spent all their time lying around and getting drunk, and they began to complain that the Thunder People weren’t giving them enough meat.

  “The leader of the Thunder People told them that, because of their ingratitude, they would have to do their own hunting from that time on, and then the Thunder People went back into the sky. They were angry with the Apache, and sometimes they shot their arrows down at the people to scare them.”

  As if on cue, there was a roar of thunder.

  “It still works,” Matilda said, grinning. “It scares me every time.”

  “It won’t last long,” Jess assured her as another drum roll of thunder shook the earth.

  Matilda nodded. She knew her fear of thunder and lightning was irrational, but she couldn’t help it. Ever since childhood, she had been afraid of storms. Her father had passed away during a violent thunderstorm, and even though Matilda knew the storm had nothing to do with her father’s death, she had been afraid of storms ever since.

  Jess read the fear in her eyes. “Come here,” he said, and when she scuttled to his side, he put his arm around her, covering them both with the buffalo robe.

  She sat stiffly at his side, acutely aware of his body next to her own, of the weight of his arm around her shoulders, of the fact that his bare leg was only inches from hers.

  There was another crash of thunder, a sizzle of lightning; McCord’s arm tightened around her shoulders, and suddenly she wasn’t frightened anymore.

  She turned to tell him so, but the words died in her throat as she gazed into his eyes, eyes as dark and gray as the storm clouds scudding across the sky. She felt the heat of his stare clear down to her toes, felt her blood sizzle as though a shaft of lightning had penetrated her veins. She had never seen such naked desire on a man’s face before, never felt so vulnerable. So tempted.

  Her mouth went dry, her breath caught in her throat and her toes curled with pleasure because he wanted her. It was unthinkable that this handsome man should desire her, Matilda Conway, who had always been as plain as dirt.

  And then her conscience reared its head and reminded her that she wasn’t Matilda Conway any longer, but Matilda Thornton, a married woman.

  “Mattie.”

  His voice was soft and sweet, like liquid honey.

  She shook her head, unable to speak, unable to draw her gaze from his. His eyes were like gray fire, his hair as black as the night. A fine sheen of perspiration dampened his chest and she clenched her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to explore the broad expanse of copper-hued flesh visible above the buffalo robe.

  She swallowed hard, remembering that he wore only a clout, that his skin was the same smooth copper color all over. She thought of the fine black hair that covered his legs, the way it had felt beneath her fingertips when she nursed his wound.

  His breath was warm against her ear. “Just one kiss, Mattie, please.”

  Her mouth formed the word “no” but no sound emerged. Instead, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, her lips pressed together to receive his.

  She was beautiful, Jess thought as he lowered his head toward hers, so beautiful. Her hair, free of its pins, fell in a thick ebony wave down her back. His hand dropped to her waist and he drew her against him as his mouth closed over hers. She was sweet, so sweet. And so innocent. Although she insisted she was a married woman, with six kids no less, he knew she was untouched, untutored in the act of love. And he wanted desperately to be the one to teach her.

  His kiss deepened, fanning the fire between them, until he ached with wanting her.

  Breathless, they drew apart, though his arm continued to circle her waist.

  “Jess, we mustn’t…”

  “I know.”

  “I’m married.”

  “I know that too,” he remarked gruffly. “You’ve mentioned it often enough.”

  “I didn’t make my vows lightly,” Matilda said sharply, “and I don’t intend to dishonor them.”

  Jess grunted softly. “Tell me something, Mrs. Thornton, why hasn’t that husband of yours ever made love to you?”

  “He has,” Matilda retorted, feeling the color bloom in her cheeks. “Of course he has.”

  Jess shook his head. “I don’t think you’ve ever been with a man.” His eyes grew hot again as he pulled her to him. “Shall I prove it?”

  Fear and excitement warred in her belly. The arm around her waist was hard and unyielding, the glint in his eyes held a promise of forbidden pleasures. “Prove it?” she asked, her voice high and uneven. “How can you do that?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Matilda hesitated. She was shamefully ignorant of the intimacies shared by a man and a woman. Her mother and her aunt had refused to discuss anything as degrading as the act of consummation. And her girlfriends, all gently reared, could only speculate.

  “Well?” McC
ord prodded.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Matilda said, trying to disengage herself from his arm. “Let me go.”

  He did not want to release her. Not now, not ever.

  “Please, Jess.” Her voice lacked conviction and she lowered her gaze, secretly hoping he would hold her just a few minutes longer, kiss her just one more time.

  She felt a keen disappointment when he let her go.

  Jess looked deep into her eyes. “Are you really married, Mattie,” he asked quietly, “or is it just a disguise for you to hide behind?”

  “I’m really married,” she said unhappily. She held up her left hand. “I had a wedding ring, only Kane took it. Would you like to see my marriage certificate? Would that satisfy you?”

  “Do you always carry it around with you?”

  “No, I—” She jumped as another roll of thunder echoed in the distance. “I thought you said the storm wouldn’t last.”

  McCord shrugged. The internal storm he was battling made the raging elements seem tame in comparison.

  “Good night, Jess,” Matilda said. She felt his eyes watching her as she skirted the fire and sought the warmth of her own blankets.

  She lay awake for a long time, listening to the muffled whisper of the rain on the roof as she tried to shut out the still small voice of her conscience that warned she was getting much too fond of a man who was not her husband.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Matilda woke slowly, her breathing rapid, and was relieved to find it had all been a dream. She glanced quickly at McCord, who was still sleeping soundly, and felt her cheeks grow warm. In her dreams, she had let Jess hold her and kiss her until she was breathless, and when he lowered her to his bed, she had not denied him. In her dreams, she had surrendered to him willingly and begged for more.

  Matilda shook her head. What was happening to her? Never before had she been tormented with such lusty dreams and yet they had not gone beyond touching and kissing because she didn’t know exactly what came next. But she had wanted Jess McCord, wanted him to show her, to teach her…

  Stricken by such unchaste thoughts, she grabbed her handbag and withdrew one of Josiah’s letters, her eyes skimming the familiar words. The letter was as she remembered it, filled with Josiah’s hopes and dreams for their future together.

  Once his words had stirred a deep chord within her, but no more. And she knew it wasn’t Josiah who had changed. She had changed. She was not the same woman he had written all those letters to.

  Her gaze strayed in McCord’s direction. His profile was strong, clean-cut and masculine. His hair was as black as coal, his nose sharp and straight, his cheekbones high, his jawline firm and square.

  Jess McCord. He had stirred feelings in her heart she had never dreamed of, excited her senses, made her feel vital and alive. And beautiful. She wanted him. No matter that he was a half-breed and a bounty hunter, no matter that she was legally bound to someone else. She wanted him, wanted him in the way a woman wanted a man.

  It was a shameful thing to admit, but true nonetheless. She wanted him. And he wanted her.

  Matilda let out a long sigh of despair, wishing she had never heard of Josiah Thornton. But then, if not for Josiah, she would still be living in Boston, happily ignorant of Jess McCord’s existence.

  *

  It was mid-afternoon before Jess felt strong enough to leave the lodge. Matilda followed him outside and got her first real look at the village. They were on a high plateau here, and sheer cliffs rose a thousand feet high around them. Jess had told her there was only one entrance into the rancheria, that this sheltered valley in the mountains was the favored stronghold of Cochise.

  Cochise. Matilda grimaced, hoping she would never meet the Chiricahua chief. She had heard of Cochise back East. The war he was waging against the whites had filled the local newspaper with gruesome tales of ambush and murder. As near as she could recall, it had all started back in 1861 when the Apache were accused of kidnapping a white boy and some stock. Cochise had insisted his tribe was not responsible. He had gone to parley with Lieutenant George N. Bascom and insisted his people were innocent, but Bascom had Cochise arrested for kidnapping young Felix Ward and stealing his father’s stock.

  Cochise had escaped that same day and hostilities between the Army and Cochise had gone from bad to worse. Bascom hanged some of Cochise’s men; Cochise retaliated by torturing and killing some whites, and the war was on.

  In the confines of her old home in the East, an Indian war had seemed unimportant; but now she was in the midst of an Apache war camp and her whole perspective had changed.

  There was a commotion at the entrance of the rancheria and Matilda glanced up at Jess, wondering what was going on.

  “Cochise is coming,” Jess explained. “That’s him, riding the pinto.”

  Matilda gazed at the Apache chief intently. He was tall for an Apache, well proportioned. His face was painted with vermilion, and his shoulder-length black hair was streaked with silver. She had expected him to look cruel, vindictive, but his expression was pleasant as he stepped from his horse and handed the reins to a handsome woman wearing a colorful cotton blouse and a calico skirt.

  The warriors accompanying Cochise quickly dismounted. Children gathered around the returning men, faces beaming with pride as they stared at their fathers and brothers.

  “They’ve been on a raid,” Jess said. “Look.”

  Matilda followed his gaze and saw a half-dozen horses and mules heavily laden with blankets and bulging saddle packs.

  “They’ve attacked an Army patrol,” Jess remarked. “Tonight they’ll butcher one of the mules and have a feast to celebrate their victory.” He let out a long sigh, wondering how many troopers had been killed. He surmised the Army had ridden into an ambush and that the fight had been quickly over. No Indians had been killed; only two had been wounded and those not seriously.

  Had there been deaths, Cochise would have spoken the names of those who had been killed one last time, solemnly and reverently, and then their names would never have been mentioned again lest their spirits become angry and return to earth.

  Had there been deaths, the widows would have slashed the flesh of their arms and legs and their keening cries would have risen to heaven. But the fates had been kind to the Chiricahua this day and there would be no grieving, only a happy celebration.

  Jess saw Yellow Hawk speaking to Cochise, saw the Apache chief glance his way, and then Cochise was striding toward him.

  “Ho, chickasaw,” Cochise said. His voice was deep, filled with the confidence of one accustomed to being in command. His skin was dark bronze, scarred from many battles. His eyes gazed directly into McCord’s, probing deep.

  “Ho, brother,” Jess replied, grasping the chief’s muscular forearm in greeting.

  “Yellow Hawk has told me of the bravery of the white woman in freeing him from the pinda-lick-o-ye. The two of you are welcome here.” Cochise measured McCord in a long assessing glance. “We can always use another warrior.” The chief paused briefly. “Or perhaps you do not fight against the pinda-lick-o-ye.”

  “I will fight if necessary,” Jess replied. “I have no ties to the white man.”

  Cochise looked at Matilda for a long moment, and then his gaze returned to McCord. “Does your woman understand your willingness to fight her people?”

  “She does.”

  “And it does not cause trouble in your lodge?”

  Jess grinned. “Sometimes. But that is the way of women.”

  Cochise chuckled softly, understanding as only a married man could understand. “I see you have much wisdom, chickasaw. Stay with us as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you, but we will stay only until I can ride again.”

  “As you wish.”

  The two men clasped hands, then Cochise made his way to his own wickiup where his wife stood waiting for him.

  “You don’t really mean to fight, do you?” Matilda asked. “I mean—” She broke off a
bruptly. She’d been about to say she couldn’t imagine Jess running around in war paint and feathers when she suddenly realized it was quite easy to imagine just that. “You wouldn’t go off and leave me here, would you? Promise me you won’t.”

  Jess smiled at her, his expression tender. “A warrior does not stay home because his woman wishes it.”

  His woman. She heard the mild self-mockery in his tone, saw the quick flash of desire in his eyes. He wanted her to be his woman. He had never made any secret of that.

  His warm gaze moved over her, making her feel as though she’d been swallowed by the sun. She could feel her pulse beating erratically as she contemplated what being his woman really meant.

  “I won’t leave you, Mattie,” he said solemnly. “I don’t ever want to leave you.”

  The gentle undercurrent of yearning in his voice reached out to her and she took a step toward him, mesmerized by the bittersweet hunger in his eyes. She wanted him, wanted to feel his arms around her, wanted to discover the mysteries of life while lying in his embrace.

  A sudden shriek of childish laughter shattered the moment as two small boys ran between them.

  Toward evening, Mattie heard singing outside the lodge. Curious, she turned to Jess for an explanation.

  “Someone is sick,” Jess said. “The medicine man has called on the Ganhs for help.”

  “The Ganhs?”

  “Dancers who represent the Mountain Spirits.”

  “How can the spirit of a mountain help someone who’s sick?”

  Chuckling softly, McCord shook his head. “They don’t represent the mountains. In the beginning, when Usen brought the Apache out onto the earth to live, He taught them how to walk in the Life-way. He taught them to be kind and loving to one another; to be generous to the poor; to be respectful in hunting and warfare.

  “The Apache made a good beginning,” he continued, “but soon they began to indulge in pettiness. Usen was displeased with His people, but He took pity on them and sent the Ganhs to instruct them in the proper way to live. The Ganhs wear buckskin kilts and elaborate wooden headdresses. They represent supernatural beings.