Love Forevermore

by Madeline Baker

  "Hey," Kelly said softly. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine," he growled. "Just fine."

  "I could make you better," Kelly murmured. She leaned across the table, giving him a clear view of her ample breasts. "No charge."

  "Thanks," Zuniga said, rising. "Maybe some other time."

  Grabbing the bottle, he left the saloon.

  13

  Loralee stood in the doorway, waving to Mike as he left for work. She stood staring after him until he was out of sight, a pensive expression on her face. They had been married for two weeks, and Loralee was doing her best to make the marriage a success even though she knew it was doomed to fail.

  Closing the door, she went into the kitchen and began washing the breakfast dishes. Her honeymoon had been a disaster. Following the reception at the Freemans' house, they had gone to Mike's place. Her belongings and furniture looked out of place in his quarters. As out of place as she felt. Alone, they more strained and awkward with each other. Mike had poured himself a drink, but left it untouched.

  In the bedroom, Loralee had hesitated before undressing for bed. Sensing her shyness, Mike had left the room. She was in bed when he returned, the sheets pulled up to her chin, her eyes wary.

  ''Go to sleep," Mike had said, his voice husky. He gave her a lopsided smile. "I'm a patient man. When you're ready, you let me know."

  She had stayed awake a long time, staring bleakly at the ceiling. Marrying Mike had seemed like the perfect solution to her problem, but now she knew it had been wrong, very wrong.

  She washed the last dish and began to dry them. Life with Mike wasn't all bad. She had never been so pampered or cared for in her life. He refused to let her do anything remotely strenuous, and even scrubbed the floors himself so she wouldn't have to. They shared many common interests like reading and walking and playing cards. Loralee felt she could tell Mike anything and he would understand. In turn, she offered a listening ear at the end of each day when he came home needing to let off steam about how Captain Rodgers was harassing the new recruits, or how Private Cooper drank on duty With a sigh, she put the last of the dishes in the cupboard and began to wipe the counter off.

  If only she could love Mike as he loved her. If only she could feel more than just friendly affection for the man who was her husband. She tried to respond when Mike kissed her, tried to feel some stirring of desire, but always in vain.

  The only happiness she found was in teaching. Her class had grown and she now had twenty-six children enrolled. Short Bear had stopped coming to school soon after Christmas, and she missed him. He had been her only link to Shad.

  When she wasn't teaching, she filled every spare minute with work. She dusted and swept and ironed and mended until her back ached and her hands were red and sore. She baked bread and pies and cakes until Mike complained that none of his uniforms fit properly anymore. She waxed the furniture until it fairly glowed, washed the windows, made new curtains. She planted a small vegetable garden, and when that was thriving, she planted flowers.

  They attended all the social functions at the fort, and Loralee learned to endure Stella Freeman's patronizing airs.

  It was at one such affair that Loralee heard Zuniga's name mentioned.

  "I'm sure it was him," one of the sergeants was saying. "I'd just come out of the saloon and I was feeling pretty good, if you know what I mean. Not drunk, mind you," he added hastily for the colonel's benefit, "just feeling good. I was on my way to the barracks when someone came up behind me and whacked me across the side of the head. When I woke up, my pockets were empty."

  Colonel Freeman's face was grave. "How can you be certain it was Zuniga? Did you see his face?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What do you mean, not exactly? Either you did or you didn't."

  "I just got a glimpse of long black hair and buckskin pants," the sergeant admitted, "but you know he's got a reputation for being a thief. He's always got money to spend. Where the hell does he get it?"

  "I'm sure you're right," Colonel Freeman remarked, "but I can't very well arrest the man without any evidence other than your suspicions. And there are a number of men with long black hair and buckskin pants." The colonel turned to Mike. "Are you still keeping an eye on his lodge?"

  "Yes, sir," Mike answered. "We've checked the place out twice in the last week, but we haven't turned up anything. No weapons, no cash, nothing."

  Loralee moved away, remembering a conversation she had had with Zuniga in town. She had asked him where he got the money to pay for the coffee and sugar he had bought, and he had answered that he stole it from the soldiers who drank too much on Saturday nights. She had thought that such a thing was shameful, but she knew that the Indians didn't consider stealing from the enemy to be stealing. It had been a way of life for hundreds of years. A warrior bragged about the horses and women and goods he took from the enemy, but he never stole from a friend or a member of the tribe. To do so would result in banishment from the tribe, as well as a loss of honor.

  That night, it seemed as though everyone was talking about Zuniga. It was more than Loralee could stand, and she went outside in search of a little peace and quiet.

  Mike sought her out in the colonel's garden. "You okay?" he asked.

  "Yes, fine. I just needed a little fresh air."

  "Do you want to be alone?"

  "No, not really."

  "Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?" Mike asked lightly.

  "Yes," Loralee answered, grinning. "About six times, I think."

  Mike laughed self-consciously. "I can't help it. You are beautiful."

  He was going to kiss her. She saw it in his eyes even before he took her in his arms. She closed her eyes, letting him draw her to him, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against the palm of her hand as his mouth closed on hers. He kissed her for a long time, his hunger for her evident in the way his hands caressed her back and thighs, the heat of his hands penetrating her skirts.

  He was breathing hard when he drew away. "Loralee, don't make me wait any longer. Please, honey, I want you, need you, so much that it hurts."

  "Mike"

  "I know, I know. I promised not to push you." He drew a ragged breath, his hands clenched at his sides. "You go on back inside. I'll be along in a minute."

  He was unusually quiet when they returned home that night, and Loralee felt a rush of pity for him. What was she saving herself for anyway? Zuniga was forever lost to her.

  Undressing, she climbed into bed. Mike joined her a few minutes later. She could feel the tension in him and she thought how difficult it must be for him, lying beside her night after night, wanting her. She stared into the darkness. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, letting Mike make love to her. She longed to be held, to be loved. Zuniga had awakened the passion within her, and she yearned to feel the touch of a man's arms, to experience the pleasure that came from a man's touch.

  Slowly she reached out and placed her hand on Mike's arm, her fingertips stroking his skin. Perhaps she could find the same fulfillment in Mike's arms that she had found in Zuniga's.

  Mike groaned low in his throat as Loralee touched him. His whole body ached with wanting her.

  "Loralee," he murmured hoarsely. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." She whispered the word, knowing it was a lie.

  Mike uttered a soft cry of joy as he rolled over and pulled her into his arms, covering her face with kisses as his hands reached under her gown to stroke her soft flesh.

  Loralee squeezed her eyes tight shut as Mike caressed her, his hands gentle yet urgent as he whispered that he loved her. He lifted her nightgown a little higher, his hands seeking her breasts, his manhood hard and warm against her leg.

  Loralee bit down on her lip, stifling the urge to scream. Mike was her husband. He had every right to make love to her. Indeed, he had been patience itself as he waited for her to let him do what he had every right to do.

  With a cry of despair, she twisted out of his arms. "I can't, Mike. I'm s
orry. I just can't."

  "It's all right," Mike said hoarsely. He sat up, his head cradled in his hands as he listened to Loralee weeping softly into her pillow. He longed to hold her and comfort her, to tell her that it didn't matter, but he dared not touch her. He was a man, after all, not a saint. He had promised he would wait until she was ready. At least she was trying. Maybe next time would be better. He hoped he wouldn't have to wait too long to find out.

  14

  February 1906

  Zuniga sat outside Wild Eagle's lodge, listening to the soft beat of the medicine drum, listening to the shaman's soft chant.

  "Go away, sick," Crooked Leg sang in a voice weak with age. "Go away, sick. Go away, sick."

  There was a pause in the singing, and Zuniga knew that the aged medicine man was spitting into the fire, sprinkling sacred cattail pollen over Wild Eagle's ailing wife.

  "Go away, sick. Go away, sick." The shaman's voice drifted out of the lodge.

  Zuniga gazed into the darkness. The singing and the praying would go on all night.

  Rising, he walked through the lodges of his people, nodding to some, stopping to say a few words here and there. Wherever he went, he heard people talking about the schoolteacher and how she had married one of the bluecoats.

  Abruptly changing direction, Zuniga left the lodges. Swinging aboard his dun stallion, he rode across the dark land until, without conscious thought, he found himself at the schoolhouse.

  Reining his horse to a halt, he stared at the darkened building, remembering how patiently Loralee had taught him to read, how pleased she had been with each new accomplishment. He had never admitted it to her, but after his first token show of resistance, he had enjoyed learning to read and write and cipher.

  Closing his eyes, he recalled each detail of her face: the clear brown eyes, the full red mouth, the finely shaped nose, her stubborn chin, the skin smooth and unblemished. The image of her body came to haunt him, and he felt the heat rise in his loins. He had made love to other women, nameless street girls who sold their body for the price of a cheap bottle of booze, but none had ever satisfied him the way Loralee had. He had used the others and forgot them as soon as his desire had been quenched. But Loralee had been in his thoughts day and night since the first time he had seen her.

  Riding on, he wondered what it would have been like to marry Loralee and settle down somewhere, and then he laughed. He was not cut out to be a husband. He was a man who had always lived alone, keeping his thoughts and fears to himself. Even with Nachi, he was alone, always a man apart from others. He had few friends, though many would have been his friend if he would let them. But he did not like to be close to people, did not find it easy to share himself with others.

  He had what he needed. A few close friends, a cousin whose company he enjoyed, Nachi. And there was Kelly. Once he had sought her company on a regular basis, but he had not shared her bed since he met Loralee.

  He reined the stallion to a halt beside Shadow Lake and stared at the man reflected in the dark water, a man too proud and stubborn to admit he had lost the only thing he ever wanted.

  Muttering an oath, he touched his heels to the stallion's flanks and headed for home. Loralee was Schofield's wife now, and the sooner he stopped thinking about her, the better.

  It was late when Zuniga reached home. At the corral, he dismounted, opened the gate, removed the horse's saddle and bridle, and turned the animal loose in the rough enclosure. Closing the gate, he started toward the wickiup.

  He paused at the doorway. A coldness seemed to reach out to him, surrounding him so that he shivered convulsively, the ancient fear rising up within him.

  He knew that the old man was dead before he entered the lodge.

  Nachi had died peacefully in his sleep. His face, as lined and rough as aged saddle leather, was at peace.

  Zuniga gazed at his grandfather for a long time, remembering the many good times they had shared: the hunts, the battles, the laughter. Nachi had always been there, solid as the mountains, dependable as the sunrise. And now he was gone.

  Zuniga smiled faintly. He recalled the last fight they had been in, and how Nachi had been in the thick of it, his eyes bright, his voice raised in the shrill Apache war cry. During a brief lull in the battle, they had stood together and Nachi had raised his gun above his head. ''Ah, grandson," he had shouted enthusiastically, "it is a good day to die!"

  Stepping out of the lodge, Zuniga lifted his voice to the night, his lament carried aloft by the rising wind. From the distant hills, a lone coyote howled in reply, its melancholy wail an echo of Zuniga's grief.

  He sat outside the lodge until the sun began to climb over the mountains. His cheeks were still damp with tears as he watched the rising sun brighten the horizon, the colors changing from pale gray to gold to fiery shades of orange and crimson.

  He sat there a moment longer; then, resolutely, he rose to his feet and went to the corral where he saddled the dun and threw a bridle over Nachi's bay gelding.

  Returning to the lodge, he dressed Nachi in his finest buckskin trousers and fringed war shirt. Tenderly he brushed the old man's hair. As an afterthought, he placed an eagle feather behind Nachi's right ear. That done, he wrapped the body in a blanket and carried it outside.

  The dun shied and snorted nervously when Zuniga placed the body across its back. A soft word calmed the stallion, and Zuniga swung up behind the blanket-wrapped body, took up the bay gelding's reins, and rode away from the lodge, leading the bay.

  He rode high into the hills until he came to a sunlit patch of ground surrounded by tall trees. Dismounting, he dug a grave, gently placed the frail body in its final resting place, and covered it with earth. That done, he sprinkled ashes and pollen around the grave, beginning at the southwest corner in the belief that this would help Nachi's soul enter O'zho, heaven. Following ancient traditions, he left a small bag of provisions at the gravesite so that Nachi might have food on his journey to the land of spirits. Lastly, his face void of emotion, he placed a bullet between the bay gelding's eyes so that Nachi might enter heaven in comfort.

  That done, he stood at the burial site for a long moment, his head bowed. An owl hooted, making a lonely sound. According to the beliefs of his people, owls called for the dead after they were buried and took their spirits into the air.

  With a sigh, he left the grave. Only rarely would he speak his grandfather's name, lest Nachi's spirit be called back to earth.

  The ride back to the wickiup seemed long and lonely. Removing his clothing from the lodge, he set fire to the brush-covered structure.

  He sat a safe distance from the blaze, his face impassive, as he watched his grandfather's lodge and belongings burn to the ground.

  Loralee took a deep breath as she turned Lady toward the schoolhouse. She had left several papers there that needed to be graded before Monday, and she looked forward to the short ride. Mike had tried to persuade her not to ride in her condition, but she had insisted that she felt fine. Lady was a reliable mount, surefooted as a mountain goat and not easily spooked.

  Loralee let out a long sigh as she thought of Mike. He was a good man. If only she could love him. Certainly he deserved more out of their relationship than he was getting, but he never complained, never indicated that he regretted his decision to marry her.

  She shook her head sadly. After all this time, she still longed for the touch of Zuniga's hands in her hair, for the taste of his lips, the warmth of his flesh against her own. Often her dreams were haunted with his image. In her dreams, he came to her, his copper-hued body a study in male perfection, his black eyes warm and adoring as he swept her into his embrace and made love to her hour after hour. She woke from such dreams feeling flushed and guilty, as though she had been physically unfaithful to Mike.

  Loralee was halfway between the fort and the schoolhouse when she saw the smoke. Without thinking, she reined Lady toward the hills, urging the mare to go faster, faster, until they topped the rise where Zuniga's lodge
stood.

  She gasped aloud at what she saw. The brush-covered wickiup was gone, and in its place stood a few blackened poles and a pile of smoldering ashes. Horrified, she wondered if Shad and his grandfather had been inside.

  Relief, sweeter than honey, washed through her when she saw Zuniga materialize through the blue-gray haze. He walked toward her, his face void of expression. Blood dripped from several cuts on his forearms, and she knew then that Nachi was dead, for it was the Apache way to vent their grief by self-inflicted wounds.

  Now that she knew Zuniga was safe, Loralee was eager to be gone, but Zuniga reached out and grasped Lady's bridle.

  For a moment, they studied each other. Then, without a word, Zuniga lifted Loralee from her horse. His hands slid along her rib cage as he lowered her to the ground, then came around to rest on her belly. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the swell of her abdomen beneath his hands. He had heard she was pregnant, and he had assumed the child was Schofield's. But now he knew otherwise.

  He took a closer look at Loralee. Her breasts were fuller, her hands were swollen. Birth and death were not mysteries to the Apache. He had seen enough pregnant women to know that Loralee was too far along for the child to be Schofield's. Unless . . .

  His eyes, dark and accusing, locked on hers.

  Loralee glared back at him, her cheeks growing hot under his probing gaze. Why had she come here?

  Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head, and now her eyes rested on Zuniga's hands. The long brown fingers were spread across her abdomen, and her mouth went dry as she remembered how those same fingers had stroked and explored every inch of her body.

  "Look at me," Zuniga demanded, and when she refused, he captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her head up.