She spent the afternoon sitting in front of her lodge, watching the squirrels scamper from tree to tree. Birds twittered in the treetops. A skunk waddled along the stream.
The warm sun made her drowsy, and before long she was asleep.
Zuniga let the stallion pick its way down out of the mountains. For the first time in years, he felt alive, free. It was good to be back in the Apache stronghold, good to breathe air that was not fouled by the whites, to walk the land his ancestors had walked.
He reached Bisbee late in the afternoon. Leaving his horse on the outskirts of town, he wandered down the dusty street.
At the general store, he spent twenty minutes walking up and down the aisles before he began to take items from the shelves. He bought everything that caught his eye in the canned food section. Moving on, he bought a couple of bath towels, a few bars of soap since he was certain Loralee couldn't make soap out of a yucca plant like the Indians did. He bought a Dutch oven, a couple of knives and forks, a cook pot. As an afterthought, he shelled out seventy-five cents for a pair of levis for himself, and then bought a couple of white cotton shirts for Loralee to wear as her pregnancy advanced, as well as several yards of material, needles, and thread so she could make herself some skirts. He also bought two yards of linen, a bottle of iodine, and a pair of scissors.
The amount of his purchases took just over half of his money. The clerk as he made change threw Zuniga a questioning look. He thinks I stole the money, Zuniga mused, returning the clerk's gaze. And he's right!
Gathering up his bundles, he left the store, whistling softly.
When Loralee awoke, it was dark and cold. Shivering, she stood up, wondering what time it was. Running her hands over her arms, she went to the wickiup and pulled on her poncho. She searched blindly for the matches, and felt a little surge of relief when she found them. The night was less frightening with the lantern lit and a fire crackling cheerfully in the center of the lodge.
Beans and biscuits made do as dinner, and she washed it down with three cups of black coffee. Time and again, she went to the doorway to peer outside for some sign of Zuniga. No matter how she hated him, she missed his company. Every shadow, every night sound, conjured up visions of wild animals or evil spirits.
She laughed self-consciously. She was an educated woman. She did not believe in ghosts, and no flesh-and-blood animal was likely to enter the wickiup so long as a fire was burning. And yet there was something about the ancient Apache stronghold that inspired a belief in the supernatural.
She jumped, startled, as the call of an owl pierced the stillness. The Apache believed that owls came and called for the spirits of the dead. The Apache were strong believers in ghosts, hence their fear of the dead.
Sitting close to the fire, Loralee began to sing her favorite hymn, her voice shaky and a little off-key:
''Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see. . . ."
Oh, God, she thought helplessly. I'm so lost.
A noise outside made her jump. Wrapping her arms around her body, she scooted closer to the fire. She wished suddenly that she didn't know quite so much about Apache beliefs and superstitions. It was so easy to imagine Indians long dead surrounding her wickiup, their sunken eyes filled with hate and accusation because a white woman had invaded their ancestral land and defiled sacred ground. She could almost see them standing around her, pale skeletons dressed in tattered bits of buckskin and feathers, their bony fingers pointing in her direction. She was the enemy, an intruder. She had come to take the children away from the true faith, to teach them to read and write the white man's language, to draw them away from the old ways, the old beliefs.
The wind began to blow, its low wail like the echo of spirit voices. A coyote howled in the distance, its melancholy lament filling Loralee with loneliness. Where was Shad? Why didn't he come? She made excuses for his tardiness. He had been detained in Bisbee. He had stopped for a drink at one of the saloons. He had forgotten something and had to go back. His horse had gone lame. He was hurt. He had found a woman. . . .
The thought of Shad making love to another woman cut into Loralee's heart like a knife. She was torturing herself with the thought when he stepped through the doorway, his arms laden with packages.
With a sob of relief, Loralee jumped to her feet. "Oh, Shad!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms. The packages clattered to the ground as he caught her.
"Don't ever leave me alone again," she begged, her luminous brown eyes pleading more eloquently than her words. "Please don't ever leave me."
Zuniga frowned as Loralee buried her face in his shoulder. Gently, he patted her back as she wept uncontrollably. Damn, but she felt good in his arms. So good, so right. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair, feeling its silkiness against his skin. Her breasts were soft against his chest, sparking his desire in a quick surge of heat. He had not had a woman in months, not since the last time he had made love to Loralee. He forgot how that episode had ended and remembered only how good she had felt in his arms, how satisfying it had been to hold her, to touch her, how willingly she had responded to his caresses.
Without thinking, he removed her poncho. Then, claiming her lips in a long possessive kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to her blankets. Carefully, he lowered her to the makeshift bed and stretched out beside her, his lips never leaving hers. She was woman, giver of life, and he was dying without her. With a low groan, he plundered her mouth, seeking the sweet refreshment within.
Loralee closed her eyes, letting the magic of his touch wash over her, chasing away the demons that had frightened her. She forgot about Mike, forgot she had once vowed to hate and despise Shad Zuniga until her dying day. All she knew, all she desired in that moment, was his mouth on hers, his hands fondling her breasts, stroking her thighs. She moaned softly as he took his mouth from hers, sighed with pleasure as he began to nibble her breasts. Her hands roamed over his neck and back and shoulders, her body straining to be closer to his.
With ease, he removed her dress and undergarments, his dark eyes worshipping her body. Her breasts were swollen, her abdomen softly rounded with new life. Reverently, he placed his hand over her belly. His child was growing there, beneath her heart.
He gazed at Loralee. How beautiful she was. The firelight turned her hair to gold and made her skin glow like warm honey. She was lovely and wise, gentle and kind. He would want no other for the mother of his son.
His son. Emotions Zuniga had never known smelled in his heart. He would grow old and die, but he would not be forgotten. He would be remembered by his children, and grandchildren, should Usen let him live that long.
Loralee moved beneath his hand, urging him to take her. He needed little persuasion. He was on fire for her, shaking with the need to possess her. His hands were clumsy in his haste to remove his clothing and take her in his arms.
Civilization seemed far away now. He was primal man, and she was his woman. They had fire for warmth, a dry lodge for shelter, food and water. They needed nothing else.
He grasped her hair in one hand and slanted his mouth over hers in a kiss that branded her his for all time. He had vowed never to touch her again, but he knew it would be easier to give up breathing than deny the need he felt for this woman. She was his, would always be his. He would kill any man who tried to take her from him.
Moaning her name, he buried himself in her softness. . . .
18
When Loralee woke in the morning, she was alone. She stretched languorously, smiling as she remembered the way Zuniga had made love to her the night before. Surely he could not have made love to her so gently, so fervently, if he didn't care for her at least a little. His hands and mouth had touched and tasted every inch of her, and she had responded in kind, her hands glorying in his sleek bronze flesh, her mouth moving lazily over his eyes and nose, the curve of his neck, the hollow of his shoulder
. Their bodies had strained together, as close as two people could be.
With a contented sigh, she rose to her feet and walked to the stream. She needed a bath, badly. The scent of their lovemaking covered her whole body.
The water was cold, but she held her breath and plunged in, letting the chill water flow over her. She scrubbed herself briskly, rinsed, washed her hair, and then stepped onto the bank. She was drying herself with one of the towels Zuniga had thoughtfully brought from town when he appeared.
Shad stopped in his tracks, his eyes moving over Loralee's body as she dried off. Her skin was the color of cream where she was untouched by the sun. Her face and forearms were a lovely golden brown. Drops of water sparkled in her tawny hair like delicate jewels. Her breasts were swollen, her belly round, her legs long and perfectly shaped. She had never looked more beautiful or more appealing, and he admitted to himself that he would probably have kidnapped her sooner or later even if she were not pregnant with his child, simply because he could not bear to live without her. She was warm and lovely and desirable, and his longing for her was something he could not ignore.
Loralee wrapped the towel around her middle, tucking the end between her breasts. She felt her cheeks grow warm under Zuniga's intense gaze. What was he thinking? Was he wondering how he could have spent the night making love to a woman with a swollen belly? Did she look repulsive to him now in the light of day? Her figure was no longer slim, her hands and feet were swollen. No doubt he was sorry he had made love to her. He was probably counting the days until the baby would be born and he would be rid of her.
She laughed a short, bitter laugh. She had come to this Godforsaken territory to teach the Indian children to read and write. Instead, she was barefoot and pregnant, living in the Dragoon Mountains with an Apache warrior. Why had she ever thought such a primitive life would be fascinating, even romantic? There was nothing remotely fascinating about living in a rough brush-covered hut; nothing the least bit romantic about cooking outside over a crude firepit, or huddling beneath an animal hide to keep warm. Why did the Indians long to return to such a life when houses and stoves and all the advantages of progress and civilization were there for the taking? It was beyond her comprehension. Perhaps they were only heathen savages, after all. Perhaps she had been wasting her time trying to teach the Apache children to read and write. No doubt the girls would grow fat and lazy, and the boys would turn into drunkards. She had only been kidding herself all along.
She glanced at Zuniga, who was walking slowly toward her. He was the root of all her problems, and suddenly she hated him with every fiber of her being. Why did he have to be so devastatingly handsome? Why had she succumbed so easily to the touch of his lips on hers, to the husky persuasion of his voice? He was nothing but a . . . a heathen savage, and now she was pregnant with his child. He had ruined her reputation, ruined her chance for happiness with Mike. In her anger, she forgot that she did not love Mike, that she had regretted her marriage. She remembered only that Mike wanted her and had given her a home, and now it was gone, and Mike with it.
A wave of self-pity washed over Loralee. She did not want to be here, living in the mountains like a squaw with a man who did not love her. She hated it here, and she hated Shad Zuniga most of all.
She drew back as Zuniga reached out to her. "Leave me alone," she hissed. "I hate you!"
Taken aback, Zuniga let his hands fall to his sides. Loralee had never looked at him like that before, her eyes glinting with hatred. His own eyes mirrored his confusion. Only last night she had been warm and willing in his arms. What had changed her into such a termagant?
Without a word, he turned on his heel and left her standing beside the river, alone.
A terrible ache blossomed in the pit of Loralee's belly, growing and spreading until the pain was more than she could bear.
Tears came then, flooding her eyes, washing down her cheeks. What had she done? Why had she lashed out at him like that? It wasn't his fault she was pregnant, not entirely. She could have said no.
She sobbed as though her heart would break, unable to stop the torrent of tears. Her emotions mere so changeable, so near the surface these days. One moment she was thrilled with the baby, in love with Shad, glad to be with him, even if it meant hiding out in the mountains, and the next she was frightened and confused. Only her love for her unborn child remained constant.
She dressed slowly, feeling lethargic and melancholy. Nothing in her life had gone right since she met Shad Zuniga. Why hadn't she listened to Mike and stayed away from Zuniga?
The wickiup was cold and empty when she stepped inside. Where had Zuniga gone? The hours crawled by. At noon, she forced herself to eat something for the baby's sake.
She did not see Shad the rest of that day, nor did he show up for dinner that night.
The next few weeks were the longest and the loneliest Loralee had ever known. She saw Zuniga only rarely, and then for just a few minutes at a time. He hardly spoke to her, refused to meet her eyes, or tell her where he was spending his time. Every day or two she found fresh meat outside the wickiup. She became quite adept at skinning the small animals and birds he left for her, though it remained a task she despised. Once he left the hindquarter of a deer. Several days later she found a large supply of jerked venison and a deer hide that had been tanned until it was as soft as velvet.
She rubbed her hand over the smooth skin. It took hours of work to tan a hide until it was soft and pliable. Was it possible that Shad was as bored as she was? Tanning hides was considered woman's work. Had he condescended to such a task merely to pass the time? It was a lovely gift. Had he meant it for her, or for the baby?
To pass the time, Loralee took long walks. She sewed several rabbit skins together to make a blanket for the baby. She spent one whole day damming a section of the river, making it deep enough to swim in. She gathered stones and laid out a path from her wickiup to the river. She found a seedling pine and planted it beside the entrance to the lodge.
Spring was in the air, and she knew a moment of pleasure when the first flowers appeared along the river.
Zuniga was constantly in her thoughts. Where was he? Didn't he know she was dying for companionship? Didn't he realize she was frightened of the long nights, of the strange cries and calls that echoed between the high canyon walls? How could he leave her alone for days at a time? How could he be so cruel?
Zuniga sat on his haunches high in the hills, watching Loralee as she washed her hair and clothing. She seemed to grow more beautiful each day. Her advancing pregnancy had slowed her steps and thickened her waistline, but it had not detracted from her beauty. Her face was more lovely than ever. Often, her hands went to her abdomen and he saw her smile, the expression warm and loving as she felt her child move. He observed that the wickiup was well cared for, noticed the gently winding path she had laid out, the small tree flourishing under her tender care. Sometimes, when he saw her cry, he almost relented and went to her, but the hatred he had seen in her eyes and heard in her voice kept him away. And perhaps it was better so. He could not soften now. He had to stay strong, else how could he take the child? His child.
At night, alone beneath the starry sky, he ached with the need to hold her in his arms, to feel her body against his, to hear the passion in her voice as she cried his name. He sorely missed the lilting sound of her laughter, the warmth of her smile. He toyed with the idea of slipping into her lodge, of taking her in his arms and confessing his love. But he never did. He could not bear her rejection. And then, always between them was the fact that she was married to another man. Happily married, she had said. Well, she could go back to her white man as soon as the child was born.
Zuniga stopped in his tracks, his narrowed eyes searching the tangled underbrush, his ears straining for some sound that would betray the puma's hiding place. The cat was wounded and must be put out of its misery. The pelt, soft as tawny velvet, would make a fine robe for his son.
He jacked a round into the bre
ech of his rifle, stepped warily into the shadowed forest. The cat's paw prints were clear and he followed the tracks deeper into the trees, his moccasined feet making no sound on the soft earth. He moved cautiously, looking to right and left before each step forward. A wounded animal was always dangerous, and he wasn't certain how badly his bullet had hurt the cat.
The tracks disappeared at the base of a tree. Zuniga's mind registered the meaning instantly, and he took a quick step back as he brought his rifle up. He was a fraction of a second too late. With an angry growl, the mountain lion sprang from an overhanging branch, its weight driving Zuniga to the ground. The animal's teeth and claws raked Zuniga's back, neck, and shoulders. The cat screamed, its cry sending a cold chill down the Apache's spine as he reached for his knife, struggling all the while to keep the cat's teeth from tearing at his eyes and throat.
With a mighty effort, he managed to get hold of his knife, and he plunged the blade into the cat's jugular vein. A river of warm red blood spurted from the killing wound, spraying over Zuniga's face and arm, splashing over his chest as, with a last strangled growl, the big cat went limp, its dead weight dropping across the lower half of Zuniga's torso.
For a moment, the Apache lay still, his breath coming in hard short gasps. He was soaked with his own sweat and blood, and with the blood of the mountain lion. The animal's weight soon grew too heavy to bear and he struggled from beneath the carcass, each movement requiring a painful effort.
His legs were weak and his body shook spasmodically with each labored breath as he stood up. With an effort, he choked back the nausea that rose within him as he examined his wounds. His left shoulder was badly clawed. The skin hung in shreds, and a large chunk of flesh dangled from a narrow strip of sinew on his upper left arm. There were deep scratches on his neck, back, and legs; a long gash ran the length of his right side.
Love Forevermore Page 18
