"How many times has he been here?" Mike demanded angrily.
"Mike, please."
"How many times?"
"Twice."
"Slut," Mike hissed through clenched teeth. "You slept with him here, in my house. Didn't you? Didn't you?"
"Mike"
He threw her a look of disgust, then strode into the bedroom. Moments later he emerged dressed in a clean uniform. Snatching his hat from the back of a chair, he stalked out of the house, his face a dark mask of rage.
With a sob, Loralee sank down on the sofa, her face buried in her hands. What a mess she had made of everything. Mike had every reason to be angry. She wept for an hour, then crept into her son's nursery to be sure he was covered. How precious he was.
Still weeping softly, she went to bed, only to lie awake listening as the clock struck the hours.
It was just after midnight when she heard the front door swing open. Footsteps. A crash and a vile curse, and then Mike was silhouetted in the bedroom doorway, a Mike she had never seen before. His uniform was rumpled and stained, his hair mussed, his eyes glazed with drink.
"You." He sneered the word, his expression twisted with anger and disgust. "You wouldn't share my bed," he accused drunkenly. "I wasn't good enough for you. I loved you, gave you my name, provided a home for you and that bastard, and you repaid me by sleeping with that dirty redskin."
"Mike, don't. Please don't."
"Shut up, you tramp. Tonight you'll play the whore for me, by damn, for me!"
He lurched into the room and staggered toward the bed, removing his shirt as he crossed the floor. There was a cruel, determined look in his eye, and Loralee shrank back against the bed, her heart pounding with fear. She had never seen Mike drunk before, or this angry. He looked as if he hated her, as if he wanted to hurt her, and she could not blame him. She had wronged him horribly.
She grimaced as he fell on top of her, his breath foul with the odor of stale whiskey. His hands grasped her breasts, hurting her, as his mouth closed over hers, his lips grinding against hers until she felt her lower lip split. She tasted blood in her mouth and she began to thrash about, trying to free herself from the rough hands that roamed over her flesh.
"Mike, no!"
"Mike, yes!" he shouted. Grabbing her hands in his, he imprisoned her body beneath his own, holding her helpless as he kissed her again and again. Transferring both her hands to one of his, he ripped her nightgown from her body, his blue eyes hot with drunken lust as he fondled her breasts.
Loralee began to cry helplessly as Mike unfastened his trousers. He was going to rape her and there was nothing she could say or do to stop him. Indeed, she had no right to stop him. He was her husband, after all, and entitled to love her whenever he wished. Only this wasn't love. . . .
She felt his manhood probe between her thighs, felt his lips brush her cheek, and then he was still, his breathing heavy and loud.
Loralee went limp with relief as she realized he had passed out. With an effort, she managed to inch out from under him, then she lay there, sobbing quietly, wondering what she was going to do.
25
Mike was withdrawn and cold toward her in the morning. He dressed slowly, carefully, and Loralee knew he was suffering from a terrible hangover. He made no comment about the night before, and neither did she.
When she offered to fix him breakfast, he refused with a curt, shake of his head. Picking up his hat, he started for the door.
"Where are you going?" Loralee asked.
"After Zuniga." Mike faced her, his blue eyes as cold as ice. "I won't be back until he's dead."
From his vantage point, Zuniga watched Mike Schofield ride out of the fort, followed by twenty heavily armed men and several mules packed with supplies. They headed southwest. Zuniga frowned thoughtfully. Were they headed for the Dragoons?
He stayed where he was throughout the day, dozing fitfully. He had intended to light out for Mexico and lie low for a few months, then return for Loralee and the baby when the child was older and fit to travel. But the thought of being away from Loralee for longer than a few days was more than he could bear. The thought of seeing her, holding her, drew him like a magnet and he was powerless to resist.
With the inborn patience of a warrior, he squatted in the shade of a high bluff, waiting for night to fall. He sat there for hours, unmoving, his mind emptied of all thought. A squirrel darted past him. A lizard crawled over his foot. And still he gazed straight ahead, willing the hours to pass.
Darkness fell, covering the land like a dark cloud. Rising, he led the stallion to water and let him drink his fill. Then, swinging aboard the stud's back, he headed toward the fort. Dismounting some twenty yards from the first outbuilding, he tethered the stallion to a tree, then padded toward Loralee's house, blending into the shadows as he passed the other homes along the way.
He paused briefly at the front steps, his eyes darting warily from side to side. Too late, he sensed he was not alone.
He whirled around and ran silently back the way he had come. He had gone only a few feet when the bullet slammed into his back, knocking him off his feet. He heard the sound of the report, then a victorious cry as Mike Schofield stood up on the roof of his house and jacked another round into the breech of his rifle.
Zuniga muttered an oath as he scrambled to his feet and began to run.
From up and down Officer's Row, doors were thrown open and men raced outside, pulling on their boots and pants as they looked around for the source of the gunshots. From somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed. Lights went on all over the fort.
"Get him!" Schofield hollered. He sighted down the barrel, squeezed the trigger, and cursed loudly when his shot went wide.
Loralee stood at the window, her hand at her throat, as she watched Zuniga melt. into the shadows.
Breathless, his back soaked with blood, Zuniga grabbed the stallion's reins and climbed into the saddle. He drummed his heels into the animal's flanks, wrapped one hand in the stallion's mane as the horse broke into a gallop.
Mike Schofield hurried down from the roof and ran to where Zuniga had fallen. He smiled triumphantly as he saw the blood that stained the ground. "I got him!" he shouted gleefully. ''By damn, I got him!" He laughed out loud. "He walked right into my trap," Mike said excitedly, speaking to the men who were gathering around him. "I knew he'd come back here. I knew it. All I had to do was wait!"
Loralee turned away from the window, her heart aching. Mike had set a trap for Shad, and she had been the bait. If Zuniga died, it would be all her fault.
She stood in the middle of the parlor, staring into the cold fireplace, listening as Mike called his men together and set out after Shad. In minutes the parade ground was quiet, the lights were out, and it was as though nothing had happened.
Loralee went back to bed, but she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw visions of Shad, wounded, bleeding, dying.
Just before dawn she fed her son, bundled him up in a warm blanket, dressed herself, and slipped out of the house.
Sally Stockman frowned when she saw Loralee standing on her doorstep. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Is anything wrong?"
"I don't have time to explain, Sally. Can you watch the baby for me for a few days?"
"Of course, I'd love to, but . . . why? Where are you going?"
"I can't tell you. Not now."
Sally smiled as she took the sleeping infant in her arms. "I'll look after him as though he were my own," she promised.
"Don't worry."
"Thank you, Sally. You'll never know how much I appreciate this."
"Loralee, does this have something to do with the shots we heard last night?"
"Yes."
Sally nodded. "What shall I tell Mike if he comes looking for you?"
"Don't tell him anything. And don't let him take the baby. Promise me."
"I promise. Be careful."
Loralee gave Sally's shoulder a warm squeeze of affection, kissed her son's che
ek, and left before she could change her mind.
Back at home, she saddled Lady, then rode purposefully toward the reservation and Short Bear's lodge. Dismounting, she rapped loudly on the lodge flap. What would she do if he wasn't home? What if he refused to help her?
Short Bear threw back the lodgeflap and glared at Loralee. "What do you want?"
"Zuniga's been shot. I need your help."
"I'll be right out."
Loralee waited impatiently, each second seeming like an hour. What could be taking the boy so long to get ready? Why didn't he hurry?
Short Bear emerged from his lodge a few minutes later. "I need a horse," he said, and walked off toward a corral located some yards away. Loralee fretted as Short Bear threw a bridle over the head of a stocky gray quarterhorse and swung onto its back. Every minute of delay could be costing Shad his life.
Dawn was brightening the horizon when they rode away from the lodges of the Apache. Short Bear spent a few minutes at Loralee's house, studying the ground where Shad had been wounded, and then they began riding westward. Short Bear paused now and then to study the ground, checking for a sign.
"Here," Short Bear said a little over an hour later. "He is on foot. The soldiers went that way," he said, pointing south. "They are chasing Zuniga's horse. It will not take them long to realize their mistake."
Loralee's heart began to pound. How far could Shad go, wounded and on foot? Short Bear dismounted and scouted the trail. Loralee saw nothing to indicate that anyone had passed this way, but Short Bear went steadily onward, his sharp eyes picking up clues where she saw only dirt and rock.
They were in the foothills now. Brush and stunted trees covered the rocky slope, cacti were plentiful. They climbed steadily upward. Once, Loralee saw a dark smear on the face of a rock. She didn't need Short Bear to tell her it was blood.
When they reached the top of the slope, Short Bear paused, his dark eyes scanning the ground intently. To the left the land stretched away flat as a tabletop. To the right were a series of small hills crowded with boulders and gray-green shrubs.
Short Bear turned to the right and began slowly picking his way up the side of the first low hill. Loralee followed, urging Lady up the rocky slope.
Near the top of the second hill there was a small cave, barely visible behind a screen of brush.
"In here," Short Bear said.
Quickly Loralee grabbed a bag from her saddle horn and dismounted.
"Wait," Short Bear admonished. Carefully he walked to the mouth of the cave. "Zuniga," he called softly. "It is Short Bear." He hesitated, waiting for an answer. "Zuniga? Are you there?"
Still no answer.
"I'm going inside," Loralee said.
Short Bear nodded. Fearful of what they might find, he followed Loralee into the cavern.
Zuniga was lying face down in the back of the cave, unconscious. His shirt and pants were caked with blood.
"Start a fire," Loralee directed. "There are matches in the bag. Hand me the scissors, will you, and then heat some water."
Loralee concentrated on the task at hand, refusing to consider the possibility that Shad might die. His breathing was erratic, his face as pale as death itself.
She willed her hands to stop shaking as she began to cut away his shirt and pants. In many places dried blood had glued the fabric to his skin, and when she pulled the material away, the wound began to bleed again. She stanched it with a strip of cloth, disinfected the wound with carbolic, washed the wound, and disinfected it again before she bandaged the ugly hole. Thank God the bullet had gone through flesh only.
When the wound in his back was carefully bandaged, she dipped a strip of cloth in warm water and began to wash the dirt and dust from his face and body. As she worked, she prayed, pleading with God to spare Zuniga's life.
When she had finished bathing him, she covered him with a blanket and sat down to wait.
Short Bear studied the white woman as she tended his cousin's wounds, and his respect for her increased tenfold. She was not squeamish, like the other white women he had known. She saw what had to be done and she did it. Her hands were gentle and yet firm. Her movements were quick and sure, and she did not cringe at the sight of blood. He was suddenly sorry for all the snakes and grasshoppers and bugs he had tormented her with.
When Zuniga was resting comfortably, Short Bear stood up. "I will go back to the reservation now," he said. "I will see what I can find out. Tonight I will be back with food and water."
"Thank you, Short Bear."
A quick nod, and the boy was gone.
Loralee sat beside Zuniga all that day, his head cradled in her lap. He slept so soundly that she feared he might not regain consciousness. She stroked his hair, ran her fingertips over his forehead, and bent from time to time to brush his lips with her own. And always, in the back of her mind, a prayer lifted toward heaven.
Just after sundown he began to thrash about, and Loralee held him down, afraid his wound would reopen. He had lost too much blood already, she thought in despair. He could not afford to lose any more.
Once, his eyes flickered open, but he did not see her. He drank greedily when she offered him some water, then closed his eyes and was quickly asleep.
Sitting there in the dusky cave, she wondered where it would all end. Holding his hand, she willed her strength into him, wishing she could absorb some of the pain he was suffering, wishing she could work a miracle.
Zuniga began to mumble in his sleep, his words sometimes coherent, sometimes rambling and unintelligible.
She began to weep softly when he murmured her name.
Mike Schofield pushed his men relentlessly. Mile after mile, they searched in everwidening circles, looking for some clue as to where Zuniga had gone.
"It's like he disappeared from the face of the earth," one of the troopers muttered under his breath.
"He hasn't disappeared!" Mike snapped angrily. "He's flesh and blood like anybody else, and I'll find him if it's the last thing I do!"
At nightfall Mike called a halt. They would make camp for a few hours to rest the horses. His men slept, but Mike did not. He paced the dark night, fretting over the time that was being wasted. Not this time, he promised himself. This time he won't get away.
At dawn his men were back in the saddle.
Mike rode like a man possessed by the devil. Where had Zuniga gone? How could a man vanish without a trace, especially a man who had been wounded? It wasn't possible.
Playing a hunch, Mike led his men back to the fort, then started out again. Two sets of tracks led away from the blood-stained patch of ground near the house.
Mike grunted softly. Two sets of tracks, he mused, where before there had been only one. Someone was following Zuniga, someone from the reservation. He followed the second set of prints, certain he was on the right path at last. Someone had gone after Zuniga, and that someone would lead him to the man he sought.
But the new trail gave out at the base of the foothills. Mike sat his horse for a long time, his eyes moving over the hills and the desert. Someone had erased both sets of tracks. That much was obvious. But who? And where had they gone?
His eyes returned to the hills. "Sergeant, take the men back to the fort."
"Sir?"
"Do as I said, Carter. I'm going the rest of the way alone."
"Is that wise, sir?"
"I don't know," Mike murmured, spurring his horse up the hill. "I don't know."
He rode up the hillside, his eyes carefully searching the ground for sign. Cactus and catclaw snagged at his uniform, but he was too intent on his search for sign to notice. His instincts told him he was getting closer to his quarry, and the blood pounded hot in his veins.
Midway up the hill, he dismounted and took up the search on foot. It was a steep hill, and he was breathing heavily by the time he neared the top. Pausing, he removed his hat and mopped the sweat from his face and neck.
Moving on, he studied the ground, the rocks, the bushes and
trees. Nothing, he mused angrily. Not a hoof print, not a rock out of place, not so much as a strand of horse hair. Visions of Shad Zuniga sitting back on his heels and laughing at him drove Mike steadily onward.
He almost passed by the cave, but a gust of wind brought the scent of smoke. He followed the smell of roasting meat to the nearly entrance to a small cave that was very nearly invisible.
A thrill of exultation brought a smile to Mike Schofield's face. His quarry was inside. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would set in the west. It was a good feeling.
With a tight smile, Mike Schofield went back to his horse and headed for home.
Zuniga woke with a groan and tried to sit up. A soft hand settled on his chest and gently pushed him down.
"Lie still," Loralee said. "You need to rest."
He looked at her in surprise. "I thought you were a dream," he murmured, covering her hand with his. "What are you doing here?"
"Short Bear brought me. How do you feel?"
"Better, now that you are here. But you cannot stay. It is not safe."
"I'm not leaving," Loralee said firmly, "so let's not discuss it."
"Where is the baby?"
"Sally has him." Loralee picked up a bowl and offered him a spoonful of beef broth. "Eat," she urged. "You've lost a lot of blood and you need to eat as much as you can."
"I am not hungry."
"I said eat!"
Zuniga smiled weakly, then obediently opened his mouth. The broth was good and its warmth spread through him, making him drowsy again.
He was almost asleep when Short Bear entered the cave.
Loralee smiled at the boy, but the smile quickly died away when she saw the expression on his face.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously. "What's wrong?"
"Schofield knows you are here."
Zuniga struggled to sit up, the pain in his back forgotten at the mention of his enemy's name.
"Shad, lie still," Loralee admonished.
"I am all right." He sat up, his eyes intent upon his cousin's face. "How does Schofield know where we are?"
"I don't know, but he gave me a message to give to you." Short Bear glanced at Loralee, then back at Zuniga. "Schofield says you are to meet him at Shadow Lake tomorrow at dawn. You are to come unarmed, and to bring Loralee with you."
Love Forevermore Page 25
