Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Raped repeatedly by the soldiers who had captured her at the Mescalero encampment, she had simply retreated into her own private world. She refused food and water and had not slept for three days. There was little hope for her survival. Another boy, barely more than a toddler, had watched his whole family hacked to pieces by the leathercoats. Joaquín had held him while he cried himself into an exhausted sleep as they rode toward the mission outpost.

  By the time they arrived, it was past dawn. The two scouts Joaquín had sent ahead signaled that the way was clear. As he rode into the compound, Joaquín noted the usual early morning activities around the school. Children ran laughing and talking toward the classroom building, where Fray Alonzo waited patiently, ready to begin the dayʹs lessons. The men and women who tilled the fields and worked in the orchards were headed to their tasks, tools in hand. He waved to some, nodded quietly to others, and rode slowly toward the hospital building, where all newly freed captives were first brought. Almost all needed some medical attention.

  When he swung down from Warprint, the boy awakened and began to whimper.

  Joaquín stroked his shaggy black hair and the child subsided, sucking his thumb, eyes squeezed tightly closed. Joaquínʹs eyes were wide open, filled with chagrined amazement when he stepped into the long, crowded room filled with beds.

  ʹʹWhat is she doing here?ʺ he hissed without preamble at Morena, who sat tearing thin strips of coarse cotton cloth for bandages.

  ʺBartolome insisted your wife was a skilled healer,ʺ she replied, reaching for the boy who went willingly into her arms. He clasped his small chubby hands in her long hair as if she were his mother.

  Without another word for Morena, he stalked to where Orlena knelt by the bedside of a young man, a paisano who had injured his foot while plowing. She was absorbed in washing the infected injury, ignoring the man who stood so menacingly above her.

  ʺI would speak with you, wife. Come,ʺ he said, turning arrogantly, expecting her to follow him from the crowded room filled with prying eyes.

  ʺWhen I finish my morning rounds, I will join you in the kitchen. I expect you and your men are hungry,ʺ she replied matter‐of‐factly, not stopping her work.

  He turned back, twisting sharply and reopening the seeping wound in his side.

  With a snarled oath of pain, he reached down and grabbed her wrist, causing her to drop the vial of ointment she was holding onto the pallet. ʺI am not hungry and I will speak with younow.ʺ He yanked her up roughly and would have dragged her from the room, had not Fray Bartolome walked in at that moment.

  Suppressing a smile at Joaquínʹs obvious irritation, the priest greeted him, ignoring Orlenaʹs furiously angry face. Before she could voice her outrage, he said heartily, ʺI have seen your weekʹs work. Well done, all considered. Orlena, too, has accomplished a fine weekʹs work here at the school and hospital. Her Lipan herbal cures stop the fever and swelling that has killed many with simple cuts and puncture wounds. Wait until you see how she helps Fray Alonzo with the children. Ana loves her.ʺ

  At the mention of the little Lipan girl, Joaquín stiffened. ʺI do not want Ana spending time with Orlena,ʺ he said baldly.

  ʺWhy? Do you think I will infect her with my Spanish blood?ʺ she asked in a low, bitter whisper.

  Releasing her wrist, he answered, ʺYour Spanish blood will lead you to desert her after she has given you her trust. I do not want Ana hurt further while you play at being a medicine womam.ʺ

  ʺYou hateful, bitter, twistedʺ Oblivious of everyone around them, her hand flashed up to slap his arrogant, cold face. When he reached out to parry her blow, he flinched at the sharp pain from the wound in his side.

  Orlena could see him blanch and her eyes immediately traveled to his side, where a widening red ooze seeped through his torn shirt.

  ʺI think your healing skills are about to be tested,ʺ Fray Bartolome said drily as he ushered Joaquín and Orlena toward the small room where they kept medicines and surgical tools.

  She walked stiffly in front of him, her spine straight and her head held high.

  When she reached the door, she stepped inside, ignoring his muffled oath as he bent over to follow her through the low‐beamed door frame. Orlena began opening several small flasks and pouches, saying icily without looking at him, ʺTake off your shirt and sit by the window.ʺ

  He complied, gritting his teeth at the painful nuisance of the encrusted slash as it broke open further. When she turned, she nearly dropped the cloth she had clutched in her hand. ʺHow long have you been traveling with that open wound?ʺ she gasped.

  ʺThree days. We had to be certain the soldiers pursuing us had lost our trail before we could return here.ʺ He flexed his muscles, stretching to ease the tight ache in his side.

  Orlenaʹs mouth went dry as she reached toward the heat of his body. Willing her hands not to tremble, she began to cleanse the dried, clotted blood from the ugly gash. She could see in the clear light of day what had not been visible when they made love. The fine white scars that had always crisscrossed his back were now overlaid with a newer pattern of similar weals. She knew they had come from Conalʹs abuse of him in the Santa Fe prison. It was miraculous he had not died of infection from the brutality. Santiago had told her of the sweatbox Joaquín had been forced to lie in after enduring the horrible whipping. Squeezing back tears and forcing her mind away from such horrors, she asked, ʺHow came you by such a wound? The sword should have severed your arm before striking your side.ʺ

  ʺMy own arm was raised to strike a soldier in front of me when the wielder of the blade approached from the side.ʺ He could sense her reticence as she touched him. Perversely, it pleased him that she found his presence so disturbing. Of course, he found her presence here in his world disturbing, too. He did not care to analyze that.

  ʺI must suture the slash,ʺ Orlena said nervously. If only I can stop my hands from shaking!

  He turned his head to watch her thread a needle, his eyes calm and assessing. A slight smile quirked his mouth. ʺOnce, long ago, Bartolome told me he would sew me up like skins on a tepee.ʺ

  Her eyes traveled involuntarily to his other side, where the old bullet wound was faintly visible. How well she remembered his body! When her eyes met his, his expression indicated that he knew her thoughts. Feeling the heat of a flush staining her cheeks, she instructed him, ʺLean against the back of the chair and take hold of the window sash to steady yourself.ʺ

  Amused green eyes swept over her. ʺAnd who will steady you, Lioness?ʺ

  ʺThe more you bait me, the more you shall pay the penalty, Joaquín,ʺ was all she would reply.

  He neither made a sound nor flinched as she sewed. When she had finished, she stood up and walked to the small table where the clean bandaging lay. Grasping a length of it, she steeled herself and approached him to wrap the wound. As she reached around his broad chest, she could feel the rumbling vibration of his voice as he spoke.

  ʺDid Bartolome bring you here?ʺ

  ʺI asked to come. I am needed here,ʺ she replied simply, continuing her work.

  ʺBut you are my wife. You go where I command you.ʺ

  ʺTo Texas as bait for Conal?ʺ she asked bitterly.

  ʺI must end it with him. He has becomeʺ

  ʺI know what he has become!ʺ she interrupted fiercely, tugging on the binding until he winced in spite of himself. ʺSantiago knows what he has become.

  Mayhap we both know now what he always was beneath the surface. He wears necklaces of Apache ears and decorates his headquarters with scalps.ʺ Her eyes filled with tears, and she shuddered in revulsion. ʺI never want to see Conal Quinn again.ʺ

  ʺThat would be one way of saving his life,ʺ he replied coldly. ʺBut I do not choose to leave you here.ʺ

  ʺYou still believe what your hatred dictates, do you not, Joaquín?ʺ She stood up, looking at him with wounded fury in her eyes.

  When she would have turned from him, his hand shot out and captured one slim wrist, again pulling her ont
o his lap. His hand tangled in her hair, cradling her head as he drew her to him. Green and gold eyes locked. He pulled her closer until the resistance of her hands against his chest gave way and she slid them up to encircle his neck.

  ʺI believe I am bewitched by your golden sorcery,ʺ he murmured against her mouth as he claimed it in a hot, rough kiss.

  Her fingers tangled in his shaggy hair, glorying in the thick coarse springiness of it as she felt the insinuating probe of his tongue, sweeping and caressing her mouth, melting beneath his heat. Her lips molded with his, following his lead as he deepened the kiss.

  From the doorway, Fray Bartolome stood observing the heated embrace, a smile slashing his face as he noisily cleared his throat. ʺEr, I think our patient requires some bed rest, Orlena. Why do you not take the day and see to his needs.ʺ A light of devilment shone in the priestʹs eyes as he watched them jump apart.

  Orlena stood up, feeling Morenaʹs hate‐filled black eyes peering at them from behind Bartolomeʹs back. ʺPerhaps the widow Girön would rather accompany Joaquín to get his bed rest,ʺ she replied with icy sarcasm.

  Morena slid past the priest like an oiled wraith, gliding into the small room. ʺI will make ready your old room at the ranch, Joaquín,ʺ she said softly, ignoring Orlena as if she were invisible.

  ʺWell, there is enough for me to do here,ʺ Orlena said, starting to walk away.

  Joaquín replied cooly, ʺPerhaps you are right. I will ride to the ranch with Morena. I trust, Bartolome, that you can see Orlena is returned safely this evening?ʺ He watched his wifeʹs back stiffen, but she did not break stride as she walked deliberately from the room.

  Before she was out of earshot, he said to the priest, ʺDo not let her near Ana. The girl has lost enough now. She cannot withstand another desertion.ʺ

  Orlena did not wait to hear Bartolomeʹs soothing defense of her, but hurried back to her tasks in the room full of ill and injured people. All through the day she seethed, thinking of Joaquín and Morena alone in the grand ranch house. She knew they had been lovers over the years and that the beautiful casta wanted him back in her bed. Perhaps this very afternoon she would get her wish. Good riddance to them both! I will stay here where the children need me. But what of my needs, her heart cried out.

  Bartolome watched Orlenaʹs rigid profile as they rode toward the ranch that evening. He felt her pain, yet lacked the words to console her. In his heart he knew Joaquín loved her, not Morena, but the problems between them must be resolved by husband and wife, not a meddlesome old priest. He had done his part by bringing her to work among the Indians. Now it would take time. Time and the absence of Morena Girón from their lives, he added silently, vowing to speak with the widow on the morrow.

  From her window in the sala, Morena watched Joaquínʹs yellow‐haired wife walk toward the house after Bartolome had departed. Seeing the way Joaquín kissed her with feverish need that morning had crushed her heart. Now her wounded fury had cooled to cold calculation. She smiled as she thought of Joaquín, asleep naked in her bedroom. After drugging the wine he drank with the meal she had served him, Morena had her servants take him to her room, where she stripped his unconscious body and covered him with a tangle of bed linens. She then left one of her silk robes lying by the bedside in a soft, suggestive heap. After his jealous wife had seen the incriminating evidence and gone crying to Bartolome, she would have him moved from her room before he awakened. Preening like a satiated woman, she walked quickly from the sala to the front door, her lines well rehearsed.

  ʺYou have returned early. Do the children begin to bore you?ʺ she said to the startled blonde. Orlena looked at Morenaʹs loose hair and the open buttons at the top of her basque. She is only trying to vex me. ʺI believe I will return to my room and bathe before dinner,ʺ she said calmly, ignoring the hateful castaʹs reference to the children.

  ʺIʹll have your bath water brought up,ʺ Morena said with false solicitude. ʺOh, use the front stairs. The servants just put down fresh whitewash on the back stairs.ʺ

  Although a prickle of apprehension ran up her spine, Orlena shrugged carelessly and turned toward the wide polished steps in the foyer.

  Joaquín was dizzy and his head ached even more abominably than his side, which had subsided to a dull throb. He shook his hair from his eyes and gingerly sat up, trying to orient himself. The last thing he remembered was eating luncheon with Morena and feeling suddenly unwell. Looking around the large, opulently appointed bedroom, he immediately recognized the purple velvet draperies and imported Louis XV furniture. Most especially he recognized the bed. Morenaʹs bed. He turned his head toward the window. It was approaching dusk. Cursing Morena and her wiles, he struggled to disentangle himself from the covers, only to discover that he was completely naked save for the bandage Orlena had wound about his midsection. Orlena!

  As if he had conjured her up, she appeared rooted in the doorway. For all her haughty Spanish pride, his wife could not conceal the anguish that flashed across her face before she turned silently and fled down the long hallway.

  When he tried to rise and pursue her, his knees buckled and he fell back onto the heavy mattress. Swearing at the jarring ache in his side, he rose more carefully this time, holding on to the chair by the bedside.

  Morena stood in the hallway, watching him wrap his lean, swarthy body with a linen sheet.

  When he looked at her, the green fire in his eyes scorched the smirk from her face. She backed up a step, then stood her ground defiantly. ʺYou can see she knows of our relationship. She does not trust you. It is because she is as faithless as any harlot in the City of Mexico, most of whom have fine Spanish titles,ʺ she said with contempt.

  ʺWhat Orlena is or is not does not concern you, Morena. She is my wife and I will deal with her.ʺ He walked to the doorway and grabbed her, yanking her roughly against the wall. ʺSee you have a servant fetch me clean clothes. And Morenanever again interfere between me and my wife.ʺ His voice was low and soft, but the cold words held a palpable threat.

  Orlena stood shivering in her room as the maid filled a copper hip bath with hot water. The spring air was brisk; her nerves, not the weather, caused her chill. Her first impulse had been to ride to the mission and denounce the perfidious adulterers to Fray Bartolome, but pride held her back. I will be forever damned before I just crawl away and lick my wounds! She quickly decided to remain at the ranch, at least for the night, to bathe, eat and sleep as if she cared not a whit what Joaquín and his harlot did. Convincing herself that such was the truth was a more formidable task.

  When the maid had finished filling the hip bath with water, Orlena sank gratefully into its soothing warmth to soak the chill from her body. Her days at the hospital and school were long and arduous, yet never until today had she felt so drained. She laid her head against the back of the hammered copper tub and closed her eyes. Immediately the dark, writhing bodies of Joaquín and Morena appeared in her mindʹs eye, entwined in a passionate embrace on that big bed.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly to force away the vision, then willed herself to sink deeper into the tub and relax. Concentrating on Anaʹs radiant face helped. Her hand groped half‐heartedly about the low table beside the tub until she found the soap. Working up a lather with a small cloth, she began a slow langourous scrub.

  That was how Joaquín found her when he reached the room, eyes closed, long mane of golden hair trailing to the floor behind the tub, her delicate face in relaxed profile. Hypnotized, he watched her small hands run the cloth up and down each slim arm, then over those elegant high breasts, slicking her skin with perfumed, silky water in slow, delicious strokes. He forgot to breathe.

  Silently he closed the door and slipped the bolt, then shed his open shirt, peeled away his trousers and kicked off his moccasins. Still Orlena lay back in the tub with her eyes closed, making low rippling noises in the water as she raised one slim leg, then the other, and massaged them with the cloth. He crossed the carpeted floor and knelt beside the tub, then reached
over and closed his hand about her ankle, holding it aloft for inspection. ʺPerfect,ʺ he breathed.

  Orlenaʹs eyes flew open and she tried to yank her leg free, kicking ineffectually at him. His long fingers wrapped like steel about the fine bones of her ankle, holding it virtually immobile as she splashed and thrashed.

  ʺLet me go! Return to your Yaquishe obviously suits you better,ʺ she hissed.

  When she reached her nails out to claw at his face, he bent her leg up against her chest and grabbed the long trailing mane of her hair, giving it a hard yank.

  She quieted, held in a most awkward and humiliating position, hating her helplessness as his cool green eyes dispassionately roamed over her wet, naked flesh. ʹʹAre you never satiated? Or do you wish to compare me to her?ʺ she asked in contempt.

  ʺIf that were my intent, I could long before now have done it, Lioness.ʺ He loosed the cruel grip on her hair and lowered her leg back into the tub. When he removed his hand from her ankle, he slid it deftly up her leg, over her thigh and across her belly, splaying his fingers beneath her breasts, then softly, quickly, brushing his palms over the hardened points of her nipples. She gasped, half in fury, half in pleasure, unable to disguise the sound, much as she wished to do so.

  Her eyes searched his face as he became absorbed in caressing her responsive body. The look of naked desire and desperate hunger that she saw weakened her resistance. He is as powerless to fight this thing as am I!

  But why did he return to Morenaʹs bed first? She did not resist as he pulled her from the water and wrapped a soft linen towel about her. After he scooped her into his arms and carried her, still dripping, to the bed, he laid her on it. Only then, when he stood above her with his hardened sex straining proudly toward her, did she protest, pushing against his chest when he began to lower himself on top of her.

  Quick as a hare fleeing a coyote, she rolled from the other side of the bed to the floor. The towel came unraveled and she yanked at it, but this time he was too fast for her, seizing it and wresting it from her. She reached for the coverlet on the bed to hide herself from his hypnotic gaze, but he sank one knee onto the bed and held it firm. ʺThis is foolish, Lioness. Come here,ʺ he whispered thickly.