They went for a walk after lunch. Loralee listened as Mike outlined his plans for the future. She nodded and smiled and made all the proper replies, yet a part of her saw only a swarthy face and arresting black eyes that had the power to make her heart pound and her stomach behave queerly.
That evening they went to Colonel Freeman's house for dinner, and Loralee suffered through three hours of listening to Stella Freeman air her views about the Apaches, the West, the Army, and President Theodore Roosevelt, who had been elected to a second term of office.
Stella Freeman did not care for Mr. Roosevelt, possibly because everyone else did. Roosevelt was a man larger than life, Loralee thought, even though he was physically a rather dumpy man, heavily bespectacled. But he had enormous energy and a seemingly endless capacity forgetting things done. It was rumored he drank his coffee with no less than seven lumps of sugar from a cup that was, according to one source, more in the nature of a bathtub. He was a soldier, a statesman, an adventurer, and the author of twenty-four books. Loralee's favorite bit of advice from Teddy was, "Do not hit at all if it can be avoided, but never hit softly."
Stella Freeman scowled when Loralee expressed her admiration for the President. "Some president," Stella remarked caustically. "Why, he acts more like a boy than a man. Playing baseball on the lawn of the White House! Imagine. And all those animals running around. Why, the man has everything from squirrels to bears living there. Is he running our country or a zoo? And the newspapers are forever writing about how he wrestles and has pillow fights with his children. I mean, it's all well and good for a father to play with his children, but I do think our President should display a little more reserve and dignity.''
"I think he's charming," Loralee said. "He's certainly good for the country. Why, just look at the acres of forest land he has set aside to create national parks."
"Yes, that's all very interesting," Stella Freeman remarked with a wave of her hand, "but enough of Mr. Roosevelt's antics. Tell me, my dear, have you been successful in teaching Shad Zuniga to read and write?"
"Yes," Loralee answered. "Quite successful."
Stella Freeman smiled. "Imagine, teaching that savage to read. It's quite an accomplishment, my dear. Frankly, the colonel and I never thought you'd succeed with the school. Of course, we were hoping you would, but the Indians can be very stubborn, as you know."
"Yes." Loralee sent a pleading glance in Mike's direction, hoping he would come and rescue her from Stella Freeman. She felt a surge of relief when he correctly interpreted her look and came quickly toward her.
"I think it's time for us to say good night," Mike said, extending his hand to Loralee. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes, Mike." Taking his hand, she rose gracefully to her feet. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Mrs. Freeman."
"You're welcome, my dear. Good night, Sergeant."
"Ma'am." Mike bowed over Stella Freeman's hand.
After taking their leave of the colonel, Mike and Loralee left the Freemans' home.
Mike smiled at Loralee as he helped her into the carriage he had rented from the livery stable. It was a smart rig, painted a shiny black, with yellow wheels and a fringed canopy.
"Old Ironsides give you a bad time?" Mike asked as he climbed in beside Loralee and took up the reins.
"Not really, but I get so tired of hearing her opinion on everything. Honestly, Mike, I don't think she likes anything or anyone. She never has a nice word to say about anything, except the colonel. And you."
Mike's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Me?"
"Yes. She thinks you're quite handsome."
"Does she now? And do you share her opinion?"
Loralee cocked her head to one side, her eyes moving over Mike's face as if she were making up her mind. "Yes, I think so," she said after a long pause.
"Anything you'd like to change?"
"No."
"Loralee." Mike's voice was no longer light and teasing, but husky with desire as he reined the team to a halt along the side of the road.
She did not resist when he took her in his arms, nor did she think to protest when his mouth closed on hers. Mike smelled of soap and cologne, nice civilized smells. His lips were cool against hers, his arms gentle around her waist as he gave her a squeeze.
"I'm crazy about you, Loralee," he murmured. "You know that, don't you?"
Loralee nodded, wondering how things had managed to get so serious so quickly.
"Is there any chance that you feel the same about me?"
"I like you very much, Mike. You know that."
Mike nodded as he drew away. Take your time, Schofield, he thought to himself. Don't rush her. But damn, it was hard to let her go, hard to wait, even though he was confident that, in time, he would win her love.
He kissed her again at her door.
"Good night, Mike," she whispered.
"Good night, Loralee. Sweet dreams."
Loralee remained outside, watching Mike ride away. She was about to go into the house when something, a sound, a smell, something, changed her mind. Drawing her cloak around her shoulders, she walked into the darkness toward the trees, her feet moving soundlessly over the sandy ground.
He was there, standing in the shadowy darkness, as she had known he would be. For a timeless moment, they stared at each other, unmoving. Then, drawn by a bond stronger than words, they moved toward each other until they were only a breath apart. Loralee's heart was singing as she lifted her face for his kiss. She closed her eyes as his mouth covered hers.
Sensation. Wave after wave of sensation flooding to every part of her body. Her blood was on fire, alive, humming. Her heart beat fast and wild, drumming loudly in her ears. Her legs grew weak so that she swayed against him for support. Her nostrils filled with the scent of him, and she breathed in the aroma of sage and woodsmoke, sweat and leather. His scent, earthy and wild, excited her the more.
Shad Zuniga wrapped his long arms around Loralee's trim waist, drawing her softly rounded body close to his own, letting her feel his rising desire. Her mouth was soft and yielding, her breasts warm against his chest. She smelled of lavender soap and perfume and an enticing woman-smell that was hers alone. He took a deep breath, memorizing her scent, so that he would be able to find her by smell alone in the dead of night. The blood pounded in his brain and in his loins, filling him with heat and a primal wanting that would have frightened Loralee had she known what he was thinking.
Drawing away, Zuniga removed the hairpins from her hair. Unbound, the silken mass fell to her waist in thick golden waves, tempting his touch.
Loralee shivered as Zuniga's fingers moved through her hair. She leaned against him, inviting his kiss, quivering with desire as his mouth slanted over hers a second time.
They kissed for a long moment. Then, still not speaking, they parted. Zuniga's eyes held hers as he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. And then he was swinging astride the stallion, his movements effortless, beautiful.
She stood where he had left her for a long time, listening to the sound of the stallion's hoofbeats grow fainter, fainter, until only silence surrounded her.
Zuniga rode hard for home, relishing the sting of the wind in his face, the cold air that cooled his fevered flesh. She was a white woman, forbidden fruit, and yet he wanted her as he had never wanted any of the women of his own tribe. He had not meant to go to her house again, had not meant to let her see him, but he had been driven by a deep hunger to hold her in his arms just once, to taste and to touch and to smell that which could never be his.
He rode as if pursued by devils, heading straight for home. Back where he belonged. No more would he attend the white man's school. No more would he see the woman who tempted him beyond his ability to resist.
At home, he turned the stud loose in the corral, shut the gate with a bang, and walked to his lodge. The sound of Nachi's soft snoring greeted him as he stepped inside.
The wickiup was dark. There were no windows; the doorway was nothing more
than an opening covered with a deer hide. Two backrests made of willow were the only furniture the lodge contained. Two beds, made of old hides and blankets, were spread in the rear of the lodge.
Shad glanced fondly at the old man sleeping peacefully beneath a pile of robes. Shad had grown up on the old man's tales of white treachery. The white man was not to be trusted, Nachi said. The white man spoke with a double tongue and his promises were a lie. He would offer you peace with one hand while plotting how to steal your land with the other. Reservation living had not changed Nachi's opinion of the whites. Once, he had been a fearless warrior, as brave as a mountain lion, as fleet as a deer, as cunning as a fox. Now he was barely able to move, his body shrunken and withered like a dead leaf. But his eyes were still bright, and his spirit was still strong. The old man had outlived three wives, and sometimes, when the nights were long and cold, he threatened to find a young wife to warm his blankets.
Undressing quietly, Shad slipped naked under his blankets and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. Instead, Loralee Warfield's face loomed in his mind, her warm red mouth curved in a shy smile, her deep brown eyes beckoning him. She was a beautiful woman, and he desired her as he had desired no other woman, red or white. But she was unattainable, as far from his grasp as the stars wheeling across the sky.
Still, he wanted her. And she wanted him. He knew it. Her desire had been plain in her eyes, in the way her lips opened to his, in the way her slim young body had swayed against his own.
She wanted him. The thought kept him awake the whole night long.
4
The following day, Loralee could think of little but Shad Zuniga's kiss, and her reaction to it. Impossible as it seemed, she could still feel the touch of his lips on hers, the strength of his arms around her waist, drawing her close, the heat of his body pressed next to her own.
Looking at her students, she tried to imagine what Zuniga had been like as a young boy. Had he been openly rebellious like Short Bear, or boldly curious like Star Gazer? She was preoccupied with thoughts of Zuniga all that day, so much so that the children sometimes had to ask a question twice before she heard them.
Questions. She had several of her own.
What had Zuniga been doing, prowling around her house after midnight? Had he been waiting for her? Or had their meeting been mere coincidence?
After school, she spent two hours at her desk, grading papers and preparing the lesson for the following day.
At home, she prepared dinner, tidied up the kitchen, fed the cat, all the while counting the hours until she would meet Shad Zuniga at the schoolhouse. She studied herself critically in the mirror before leaving for school. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, and she couldn't stop smiling. She was going to see Shad.
She waited at the school for over an hour, but he didn't come. It was with great disappointment that she left the schoolhouse and returned home. Why had he missed his lesson? Had she done something wrong? What could it have been? She spent a restless night wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. . . . Sleep was a long time coming.
She was reading the poetry of Emily Dickinson to her class the following morning when Shad Zuniga stepped into the schoolroom. A murmur of excitement rippled through the children as they became aware of his presence, and there was much whispering and pointing in the visitor's direction. Short Bear frowned as his cousin took a place near the back door.
Loralee looked up, ready to scold the children for being so noisy. But then she saw Zuniga, and a smile quickly replaced the frown.
"Good morning, Mr. Zuniga," she said warmly.
He had never looked so handsome. He wore a shirt of bleached doeskin decorated with porcupine quills that had been dyed a deep blue. The whiteness of his shirt emphasized his dark hair and eyes. His trousers were buckskin, heavily fringed along the outer seam. His moccasins were decorated with quills dyed the same color as those on his shirt.
"Do you mind if I watch?" he asked.
"No. Please, sit down and be comfortable."
"I will stand here."
"Very well." It was difficult to go on with the lesson, with Zuniga so close. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes watching her as she began to read aloud.
She found it impossible to concentrate on what she was reading while his eyes were on her, and she made several mistakes. She felt her cheeks grow warm as several of the children began to giggle. Miss Warfield never made mistakes.
Loralee finished the poem with a sigh of relief and quickly instructed the children to read quietly for a few minutes.
Zuniga watched Loralee with pride. She was a remarkable young woman. He could see that she genuinely liked the Apache children, that she believed what she was doing was worthwhile, important. Just as clearly, he could see that the children admired and respected Loralee. The younger ones especially responded to her innate warmth and affection.
Yes, Zuniga mused, she was a rare woman indeed. So many people had come to the reservation in the past, pretending they wanted to help the Apache, when all they really wanted was to take advantage of the Indians, to rob them of what little they had left.
He had not intended to see her again, knowing that nothing but trouble awaited them. The kisses they had shared had made him realize, if she did not, that they were on dangerous ground, and so he had stayed away from the schoolhouse the night before, determined to put an end to their relationship before it went too far. Determined never to see her again.
Yet here he stood, watching her, wanting her, unable to stay away.
He smiled as Loralee made her way toward him. She was looking very prim and proper today, with her golden hair in its customary knot at the nape of her neck. Her dress, a rich gold and brown stripe, highlighted the color of her hair and eyes. His gaze lingered on her mouth, remembering how it had opened to his like a flower unfolding to the sun.
''Can I help you with anything?" Loralee asked, coming to stand beside him.
"No. I only wanted to see how the children were doing. I think most of them would rather be somewhere else." Zuniga glanced at Short Bear. The boy was staring out the window. He refused to participate in the class, and Shad knew that his cousin would not be in school at all if it weren't for him. Perhaps he had been wrong to insist that Short Bear attend school. The boy had been moody and withdrawn ever since his father died the year before. Shad had hoped that going to school would give Short Bear something else to think about, would help him to get involved in something worthwhile, but the boy didn't seem to be learning anything.
"Perhaps they would," Loralee remarked, following Zuniga's gaze. "But they are learning. Once they begin to feel pride in what they're doing, they'll feel better about coming to school."
"Maybe," Zuniga agreed, but he did not sound convinced.
"I . . . I missed you last night," Loralee murmured, hoping he would explain his absence.
Shad nodded. "I am sorry I was not here. I will not fail to come again."
"Good." Loralee turned away so he would not see the relief in her eyes. Nothing was wrong. She had imagined the whole thing.
She turned her gaze toward the children. It was hard to be so close to Shad, hard to face him as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them. She longed to reach out, to touch him, to feel the hard length of his body pressed close to her own. She had responded to his kisses in a most unladylike way. She knew she should have slapped his face and walked away with her pride and dignity intact; instead, she had returned his kiss not once, but twice. And would gladly have asked for more.
It was almost a relief when Zuniga waved a cheerful farewell to the class and left the room.
The next three weeks were exciting ones for Loralee. She taught the children during the day, spent weekends with Mike, and continued to tutor Shad Zuniga five evenings a week. The lessons were supposed to last an hour, but they often stretched to an hour and a half or more. Some nights Zuniga did not want a
lesson at all. Instead, they went for walks along the shallow stream that ran behind Loralee's house. Loralee spoke of her concern for Short Bear, of her hopes of reaching more of the Apache children, of her growing love for the West and the Indian people. In turn, Zuniga told her about Nachi, about his mother. He never mentioned his father, or made any reference to him beyond the fact that his father and Short Bear's father had been brothers, and Loralee did not ask.
As she grew to know Zuniga better, she realized he was a fascinating man, wise beyond his years. He knew the Indians had to change, but he was against it, for his people and for himself. He spoke often about the old days, and she knew he was sorry he had not been born years earlier, before the white man came and took over the land that had once belonged to the Indians.
And yet, Loralee mused, the Indians could not have ruled the West forever. There had been too many white people eager for land, for gold, for adventure. Too many people who had felt that the Indians were less than human.
She spent many hours with Zuniga, and she grew to admire his easy strength, his ability to hunt and track the deer and other game that populated the hills. She admired him because he was honest and straightforward, never saying one thing when he was thinking another, never sidestepping the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
She was thinking of Zuniga as she went through her cupboards one afternoon after school. She was out of sugar and flour and milk and butter and just about everything else. Jotting down a list, she stuffed it into her skirt pocket, saddled her horse, and rode to the fort.
At the sutler's store, she dismounted, tethered Lady to the hitch rail, and went inside. She wandered down the aisles, picking up whatever caught her eye as well as the items on her list: a sack of sugar, six apples, flour, a tin of coffee, yeast, a dozen eggs, potatoes, bacon, some canned peaches, a ribbon for her hair, a package of needles, a pair of stockings.
Love Forevermore Page 6
