"Luke, get down!" the marshal bellowed, and as the owner of the feed store hit the dirt, the marshal pulled both triggers.
Zuniga stumbled and went down as a dozen pieces of buckshot riddled the backs of his legs.
"Get him!" Luke shouted, and the three men had Zuniga surrounded before he could regain his feet.
Luke Croft was a vengeful man, and he grinned as he placed a well-aimed kick into Zuniga's ribs.
Shad gasped as the air was forcibly driven from his lungs. He heard a sharp crack through the red haze of pain that dropped over him and knew Croft had broken a rib.
"Luke, that's enough," the marshal warned.
"Is it?" Croft retorted. He grinned with satisfaction as Clem cuffed the Indian's hands together. "Dirty redskin thief," Croft growled, and drove his fist into the Apache's face. Blood spurted from Zuniga's nose and mouth.
"Luke, I said that's enough!"
"Dammit, Frank, the man tried to steal my livestock."
"I know what he did, Luke. And he'll get what's coming to him. Now let's get him over to the jail. Clem, help me get him to his feet."
Zuniga winced as Clem and the marshal grabbed him under the arms and yanked him to his feet. The backs of his legs felt as if they were on fire.
"Let's go, Injun," the marshal said. He jabbed his rifle barrel into Zuniga's spine. "Move it. And don't try anything funny."
Teeth clenched, Zuniga turned and started back toward town. Each step sent bright shafts of pain shooting along his ribcage and down the backs of his legs, but he kept moving. And all the while he was cussing himself for being a fool and getting caught. And for what? A couple of scrawny chickens and a slat-sided red heifer.
His trousers were soaked with blood when they reached the jail. The marshal locked him in a narrow, windowless cell, then sent Clem for the doctor.
With a low groan, Zuniga sank to the floor, refusing to sit on the cot that smelled of stale sweat and vomit. His legs ached and each breath was an effort, but he hardly noticed the pain. He had to get out of there. He had to get back to Loralee.
There was the sound of voices and laughter, and then the marshal and the doctor entered the cellblock. The doctor was short and thin, with a shock of wavy white hair and canny blue eyes. He paused at the cell door, and nodded to himself when he saw that the prisoner's hands were securely cuffed.
Zuniga scrambled to his feet and backed against the far wall as the doctor and the marshal entered his cell.
"Take it easy, son," the doctor said quietly. "I just want to help."
"I do not want your help," Zuniga hissed.
"That buckshot has got to come out," the doctor explained in a slightly bored voice. "You don't want an infection, do you? Could get ugly. Gangrene, maybe, and then you'd lose your legs. You don't want that, do you?"
Zuniga stared at the doctor, his distrust of white men showing in his eyes.
"I'm telling you the truth," the doctor said. "Why don't you drop your pants, then stretch out on that bunk on your belly and let me take a look?''
With a sigh of resignation, Zuniga did as bidden. He'd be no use to himself or Loralee until his wounds were taken care of.
"I'll need some warm water, Frank," the doctor said as he opened his well-worn medical bag and took out a pair of rubber gloves and pulled them on. "I'll need some whiskey, too, if you've got it."
The marshal nodded and left the cell, locking the door behind him.
"Not too bad," the doctor murmured as he examined the wounds. "Most of them aren't in too deep." Rummaging around inside his bag again, he withdrew a pair of long-nosed tweezers and began to remove the buckshot.
The marshal returned a few minutes later with a bowl of warm water and a bottle of rye whiskey.
"That's fine, Frank," the doctor remarked. "Give me a hand here, will you? Here, take this cloth and mop up the blood so I can see what I'm doing. Dammit, man, did you have to use both barrels? One would have stopped him."
Zuniga endured the doctor's ministrations in stoic silence. It was humiliating, being forced to lie on his belly with his pants down around his ankles while the doctor and the marshal took care of his injuries, talking and laughing as if he were a dumb beast who couldn't understand their crude jokes. One piece of buckshot had lodged deep in the muscle of his left calf and he clenched his teeth as the doctor probed around inside the wound.
Finally, with a little cry of satisfaction, the doctor finished the task. Hefting the whiskey bottle, he took a generous drink, then slopped the clear amber liquid over the backs of Zuniga's legs. It was all Zuniga could do not to scream out loud as the fiery liquor penetrated each wound.
"Hell of a waste of good whiskey, doc," the marshal lamented with a good-natured grin.
"Not really. We got all kinds of new ointments to stop infection, but I still think the old-fashioned way is best."
"Whatever you say, Ben, just save a little for me."
"To be sure, to be sure."
"Uh, Ben, you might check his ribs, too," the marshal muttered. "Luke gave him a pretty good kick. I think maybe he busted something."
Zuniga feared he might pass out as the doctor examined his ribs. Gritting his teeth, he fought the waves of nausea that engulfed him as the doctor's hands probed his side.
"Broken, all right," the doctor announced matter-of-factly. "Nothing to do but bandage him up tight and let nature take its course."
He pulled a strip of cloth from his bag, wound it tightly around Zuniga's ribcage, bandaged Zuniga's legs, picked up his little black bag, and left the cell, whistling softly.
"Put your pants on, Cochise," the marshal said with a sneer. Locking the cell door, he started after the doctor.
"Marshal."
The lawman stopped. "What is it?"
"My horses are about a half mile out of town."
"I'll take care of 'em."
Zuniga stood up slowly, cursing under his breath. What a mess he had made of things. Loralee would be worrying by now, wondering what had happened to him.
He swore aloud, tormented by the thought of her spending the night in the mountains alone. The chances of anything happening to her were slim, but there was always a chance.
Face grim, he lay down on the floor of his cell, willing the pain in his legs to go away, keeping his breathing shallow in an effort to subdue the ache in his ribs. There was no way to get comfortable. He couldn't lie on his stomach, and lying on his back was almost as bad. Damn, what a hell of a mess!
Loralee stared toward the entrance to the stronghold, her hands clasped to her breasts. Where was he? Why didn't he come? She knew, deep in her heart, that something had gone wrong. He was hurt, or dead, and she was alone. He had taken her horse to carry their supplies and she had no way to get out of the mountains except on foot, and she could not walk out. It was too far, especially for a woman in her condition.
She paced back and forth in front of the wickiup the whole night long, praying that God would help her. She had never felt so helpless, so alone. She kept the fire burning bright, but even the cheerful blaze could not lift her spirits. Shad, Shad, where are you? What am I going to do without you? She placed her hand over her abdomen as she felt his child give a lusty kick.
"Oh, Shad," she sobbed, and dropping to her knees, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Mike Schofield stared at the telegram in his hand, frowning as he read the message for the second time. "Urgent. Come to Bisbee Jail immediately. Zuniga."
Schofield felt a hard knot of fear form in the pit of his belly. Something was wrong with Loralee. He knew it.
Twenty minutes later he was riding hard for Bisbee. If anything had happened to Loralee, Shad Zuniga was a dead man.
Zuniga stood up as the door to the cellblock swung open and Mike Schofield strode into view. It was an effort to stand.
Each breath brought new pain to his broken ribs, and the backs of his legs were sore and tender. But he did not allow his discomfort to show on his face
. A warrior did not show weakness in the presence of a known enemy.
"Where is she?" Schofield demanded. He grabbed the iron bars in his hands, his knuckles showing white with the strain.
"At the Apache stronghold," Shad answered tersely. "In the Dragoons."
"The Dragoon Mountains?" Mike exclaimed. "Alone?"
"Yes."
Mike's face went white with fury. The Dragoon Mountains were a wild and deserted place, uninhabited except for snakes and mountain lions and an occasional renegade. And Loralee was there alone. Dear God! She must be frightened half out of her mind by now.
"You sonofabitch," Mike growled. He reached through the bars, his hands clawing for Zuniga's throat. "I'll kill you for this, you bastard. "
With an effort, Shad managed to avoid Schofield's flailing arms. "You are wasting time," he said urgently. "She has been alone too long already."
Without another word, Schofield turned on his heel and stalked out of the jailhouse. Outside, he stepped into the saddle and rode out of town at a gallop. He pushed his horse as hard as he dared, his mind oblivious to everything but the need to find Loralee. She has been alone too long already, Zuniga had said. How long was too long? A day? A week? It had taken Mike a day to reach Bisbee, and the better part of another to reach the Dragoons, so she had been alone at least two days. Fear and anger warred in his heart. Two days alone in the mountains. Damn!
It was nearing dusk when he reached the old Apache stronghold. The short hairs prickled along the back of his neck as his horse picked its way along the narrow twisting pathway that led to Cochise's favorite hideout. In the old days, no white men except Tom Jeffords and Howard had set foot on this ground and lived to tell the tale.
Mike had never been superstitious, never been one to believe in ghosts and goblins, but he would not have been surprised to see one here. There was something eerie about the stillness of the stronghold. Long shadows danced on the faces of the rocks as the last rays of the sun faded and disappeared. A cool wind sprang up, stirring dust devils in his path. His horse spooked and shied as an owl took wing from a nearby tree.
He found Loralee asleep inside a rough-hewn wickiup, her head pillowed on her arms. Her cheeks were stained with tears; there were dark shadows under her eyes, hollows in her cheeks.
"Loralee." He whispered her name, not wanting to frighten her, and when she didn't respond, he shook her arm gently. "Loralee."
She came awake at his touch, a smile lighting her face. But it wasn't Shad bending over her. It was Mike.
She knew a moment of sweet relief. Shad was still alive. No one else could have told Mike where to find her.
The concern in her husband's eyes touched Loralee's heart and she murmured, "Oh, Mike, I've never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life."
Mike scooped her into his arms as she began to cry. My God, he thought, I'll kill Shad Zuniga for this if it's the last thing I ever do.
Mike studied Loralee while she wept. What had Zuniga done to her? Her beautiful blond hair was in braids, tied off at the ends with bits of ribbon. Her skin, once so fair, was a deep golden brown. Her hands, once unblemished, looked rough and red. There was a large blister on one delicate palm. Her clothing, though clean, was no better than what the squaws on the reservation wore. White squaw. The words crept into his mind, ugly and demeaning.
Loralee wept until she had no tears left, releasing all the fear and tension that had been her constant companions for the last two days. She had been fighting the urge to panic all that day, telling herself over and over again that Shad would come back for her. He would not leave her there alone. Soon, he would come to her. Soon. The day had passed slowly. She had tried to keep busy, but her panic had mounted with each passing hour, and when the sun had begun to set, marking her second night alone in the mountains, she had admitted to herself that he was not coming. She began to cry then, great wracking sobs that tore at her throat and shook her whole body, cried until exhaustion overcame her and she fell asleep. Mike had been the last person she had expected to find her.
Mike! He would know where Zuniga was. Raising her head, she looked into his eyes. "Shad," she whispered. "Where is he?"
"In jail," Mike replied caustically. "Where he belongs."
"Jail!" Loralee exclaimed. "Oh, no!"
The anguish in her voice tore at Schofield's heart. "He was caught stealing some livestock. He's in jail in Bisbee, awaiting trial."
Livestock, Loralee thought guiltily. He was stealing it for me, so I could have eggs and fresh milk. Oh, Shad, what have I done?
"What will happen to him?"
Schofield shrugged. "Who knows? I hope they hang him."
Loralee's stricken gaze filled Mike with anger. Damn Zuniga! It was obvious Loralee still loved him, despite everything he had put her through.
"They won't hang him," Mike muttered, unable to endure the pain in her eyes. "He'll probably have to spend a few months in jail. Likely do some time on a road gang." Mike laughed shortly. "It'll be good for him to do an honest day's work for a change." He felt his anger rising at the look of sorrow on her face. "Dammit, Loralee, how can you worry about the bastard after the way he's treated you?"
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Hell, look at you. Living like a squaw, probably doing all the work while that lazy bastard sat on his butt, too proud to lift a hand to help out. And you expecting a baby in just a few weeks. And then to go off and leave you here alone . . . I could kill him with my bare hands! I will kill him if I ever get the chance. Come on, I'm getting you out of here. Now."
He refused to let her take anything with her other than the clothes on her back. He tossed everything else into a pile in the center of the lodge and then set fire to the lodge, relishing the flames that quickly consumed the crude brush-covered hut and its contents.
A lump rose in Loralee's throat as she watched the wickiup burn. She had been happy there, truly happy. She and Shad had lain in each other's arms inside that wickiup, planning for the future. And now it was gone.
She did not protest when Mike placed her on his horse and swung up behind her. She was suddenly filled with apathy. It was over, all over.
Her spirits lifted as they made their way down out of the stronghold. They would have to stop at Bisbee for the night, and she would see Shad. One way or another, she would see him.
With a sigh of relief, she settled back against Mike and closed her eyes. Soon she would see Shad again.
It was late when they reached Bisbee. Mike drew rein in front of the hotel and helped Loralee to the ground. Inside the hotel, he signed for a room, then took Loralee by the hand and led her up the stairs. He ordered dinner while she bathed, washed up while she ate.
An hour later, Loralee slipped into bed, feeling full and refreshed. Tomorrow she would see Shad. With that thought in mind, she closed her eyes, but opened them abruptly as Mike slid into bed beside her.
"Mike! What are you doing?"
"Going to bed," he answered, frowning at her.
"Oh." Loralee swallowed the words of protest that rose in her throat. He was her husband, after all, and he had every right to share her bed. It was strange, she mused, but she had almost forgotten that she was legally married to Mike. In the last few months, she had started to think of Shad as her husband.
Loralee felt her insides grow tense as Mike took her in his arms and gently kissed the side of her neck.
''I've missed you," he whispered huskily.
"Have you?" She tried to keep her voice light, but she could not keep a note of panic from rising to the surface. Mike had promised he would never touch her unless she asked him to. Had he forgotten?
"Relax, Loralee," he murmured. "I just want to hold you. Nothing more."
She nodded and closed her eyes. But sleep would not come. She was all too conscious of Mike's body pressed against her own, of his desire for her.
Mike held Loralee all through the night, his emotions in turmoil. He had promised not to touch
Loralee until she was ready, but what if she was never ready? He had not expected his self-imposed restraint to last forever. He wanted her. Despite all his promises to leave her alone, she was still legally his wife. Perhaps he had been too nice, too understanding. Perhaps it was time to remind her who was the head of the house. He had given her his name and a home, was willing to give his name to the bastard she was carrying. Perhaps it was time she did a little giving, showed a little appreciation.
Mike let out a long sigh filled with frustration. He had been so certain he could put Loralee out of his life, but now, with her here, in his arms, he knew he had to have her at any cost. No matter that she was carrying another man's child. No matter that she didn't love him. She was his again, and he would not let her go.
Loralee stared at Mike, completely baffled by his anger.
"What do you mean, I can't see him?" Loralee demanded, her own anger rising to the surface. "You can't tell me what to do."
"I am telling you," Mike said firmly. "You're never to see him again. Is that clear?"
"Mike, what's come over you?"
"I've finally come to my senses, that's what's come over me," Mike replied curtly. "You're my wife, and you're not running over to the jail to see that renegade. Not now. Not ever."
"You can't stop me!"
"Can't I?"
Loralee gazed at her husband, a baffled expression on her face. She had never seen Mike like this, angry and determined. He had always been so quiet and easy-going, so willing to do whatever she wished if it would make her happy. Why had he changed?
"Get dressed, Loralee. We've got some shopping to do. You can't go back to the fort looking like a damned squaw."
"Mike, please"
"No." He closed the distance between them and took Loralee in his arms, his mouth closing over hers in a hungry kiss that demanded a response.
"Mike, stop." Loralee twisted out of his arms, confused and angry and a little afraid. "You promised!" she cried. "You said our marriage would be in name only unless I wanted it otherwise."
Mike nodded, his blue eyes growing dark with anger. "And you promised to be my wife. You broke that promise when you ran away with Zuniga. Did he make love to you, Loralee? Did you tell him no?"
Love Forevermore Page 21
