Chase the Wind (Apache Runaway Book 2)

by Madeline Baker

“We’ve known you a long time,” Rance said. “We know your folks. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ agin you, but if you ain’t got the stomach to go after that redskin, then step aside.”

  “I don’t like the word ‘redskin’,” Dusty said, his voice deadly quiet. “You people elected me sheriff. Now go on home and let me do my job.”

  “Don’t look like yer doing it,” Kurt Harvey said, his voice apologetic but determined.

  Dusty took a deep breath. “I’m just going to say this once. I followed the prisoner’s tracks out of town as far as the hollow. I’m only a town marshal, and my jurisdiction ends there. If I see him in this area again, I’ll arrest him. Until then, I’ve done all I can do within the limits of the law. Now, go on home.”

  “’Fraid not,” Sean Harvey said. “Joby here can track near as good as you can. It ain’t rained since that last little drizzle. Any tracks out there will be easy to find.”

  Dusty swore under his breath. Beth’s sorrel left a distinctive print.

  Kurt shifted the coil of rope resting on his shoulder. “When we find him, we’re gonna string him up.”

  “Dammit, Harvey, that’s murder!”

  Kurt Harvey shook his head. “He’s been tried and found guilty. Only thing ain’t been carried out is his sentence. We aim to take care of it.”

  Dusty rested his hand on the butt of his gun.. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You can’t stop us. He shot Ned Greenway, and he ain’t gettin’ away with it!”

  “As sheriff of this town, I’m ordering you all to go home.”

  There was a taut moment of silence and then the crowd surged together, seeming to melt into one being. From the corner of his eye, Dusty saw a man on the edge of the crowd reach for his gun. His reaction was instinctive.

  In the blink of an eye, the crowd scattered.

  Dusty drew his gun, knew a moment of relief as his weapon cleared leather.

  The other man was still tugging his gun free of the holster when there was a gunshot.

  Dusty stumbled backward, feeling as though someone had punched him in the stomach. Fire exploded in his gut.

  From somewhere in the distance, he heard a woman scream, and then everything went black.

  * * * * *

  “Dammit, this is all my fault!” Muttering under his breath, Ryder paced the floor, pausing every few minutes to glance down the hallway. Now and then, Jenny hurried into the kitchen for more hot water, more towels. Her face was drawn, her eyes shadowed with fears that neither of them had dared put into words.

  He glanced at Rebecca Winterburn, who sat in the parlor, her heart-shaped face as white as the sheet she was tearing into strips. She was a pretty girl, with curly brown hair and serene gray eyes. To the best of his recollection, she had started teaching school earlier in the year.

  Resuming his pacing, Ryder wondered briefly what she was doing here, but it was Dusty who held his thoughts. He was bad hurt, and Ryder couldn’t help feeling it was all his fault. He should never have left Dusty in town to face things alone once Greenway died. He should have known this would happen, should have known that Berland and Crenshaw would stir things up. Indian haters, both of them.

  Damn!

  He whirled around at the sound of footsteps. “How is he, Doc?”

  “Not good,” Forbes said. He took the bandages from Rebecca’s hand. “I think this will be enough,” he said. He glanced at Ryder, then hurried back to Dusty’s room.

  Ryder began pacing again, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. It galled him that there was nothing he could do but wait. He’d never been good at waiting. He’d never been good at anything except fast-drawing a Colt. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Fallon?”

  “No.” Ryder swore softly. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Fallon. I understand. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

  Ryder was spared having to answer by the appearance of the doctor. Hardly daring to breathe, Ryder met the other man’s gaze. “Spit it out, Doc.”

  “That slug tore him up pretty bad inside. I’m afraid I’ve done all I can, Ryder. You’d best prepare yourself for the worst.”

  “Does Jenny know?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Jonas Forbes placed his hand on Ryder’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes filled with compassion. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “I wish I could have done more. I left some laudanum for the pain.”

  Ryder nodded. He walked Forbes to the door, then stood there, staring blankly into the distance, seeing Dusty as a little boy, learning to walk, to talk, eager to ride, copying everything his father did, wanting to learn to fast-draw a gun, practicing with one made out of wood.

  Resting his forehead against the edge of the door, he closed his eyes, remembering the morning Dusty had been born. Through a bizarre twist of circumstances, Jenny’s first husband, Hank Braedon, had been staying with them then. Ryder felt a twinge of self-disgust as he remembered how jealous he’d been of the time Jenny had spent taking care of the man. They’d all known there was no chance Braedon would recover. Hank had died the same day Dusty had been born.

  Even now, Ryder could recall that morning, the exultation he had felt as he’d held his son for the first time. The cabin had been too small to hold his joy and he’d gone outside into the light of a new day, a day filled with golden sunshine.

  My heart soars and my spirit sings. He remembered murmuring those words, the same words his own father had said the day Ryder became a warrior. Filled with a deep sense of well-being and the wonder of life renewing itself, he had lifted his face to the sun and loosed the ululating victory cry of the Cheyenne. Later, he had gone inside to see how Hank was doing. The bedroom had been cool and quiet, pungent with the faint, musty scent of death. He had looked down at Jenny’s husband, reminding himself that the Indians believed that life was a circle, that nothing was ever lost. A man had died, and a new life had begun.

  A new life… Ryder hammered his fist against the door frame. Dusty couldn’t die, not now, not when he still had his whole life ahead of him. And Jenny…he’d rather cut off his arm than put her through this.

  Pushing away from the door, he walked down the hallway to Dusty’s bedroom. He needed to hold Jenny, to offer her what comfort he could, needed to draw on the deep inner strength that had always been hers.

  Jenny looked up as Ryder entered the room.

  “How is he?”

  She shook her head, her beautiful green eyes dark with pain. “I’m so afraid.”

  “I know.” Crossing the floor, he drew her into his arms.

  “I don’t think I could bear it if he died.”

  “He won’t,” Ryder said. “Don’t even think it.”

  “Should we send a wire to Dorinda?”

  Ryder hesitated, then shook his head. “Let’s not worry her. There’s nothing she can do…”

  He looked over Jenny’s shoulder, blinking back tears of his own as he looked at Dusty. He looked so young lying there. His face was pale, his jaw shadowed by a day’s growth of beard.

  “Sit down, Jenny girl,” he said, leading her to the chair beside the bed. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  “No, I’m not hungry.”

  Standing behind the chair, Ryder placed his hands on her shoulders. “You need to keep your strength up, honey.”

  “I can’t eat,” she said, clasping Dusty’s hand in hers. “Not now. Did you…did you find out who shot him?”

  Ryder shook his head. “No. Whoever made up that mob is keeping quiet. But I’d bet my last dollar that Berland had a hand in it somewhere.”

  Ryder brushed his hand over Jenny’s cheek, then bent and kissed the top of her head. “Rebecca Winterburn is still out there. Should I send her home?”

  Jenny nodded.

  Ryder stood there a moment more, then went into the parlor.

&nbs
p; “How’s Dusty?” Rebecca asked, her expression anxious.

  “Still unconscious.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. You might as well go on home.”

  Rebecca lowered her gaze to the strip of cloth in her hands. “I…would you mind terribly if I stayed awhile longer?”

  “I guess not.” Ryder looked at the girl’s bowed head, at the nervous way her fingers toyed with the length of sheet. “Rebecca, if I’m out of line, I’m sorry, but why are you here?”

  Her head jerked up, two bright spots of color in her cheeks.

  “What do you mean?”

  Ryder lifted a hand and let it fall. “I was just wondering…I mean…you know what I mean.”

  “I was there when he got shot,” Rebecca replied. “I just wanted to…to…” She looked up at him, begging him to understand what she couldn’t say.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  Mute, she stared up at him, her cheeks scarlet.

  “Does he know?”

  She shook her head. “No. He loves Elizabeth. He’s never even looked at me.”

  Ryder grunted softly. Comparing Rebecca to Elizabeth was like comparing a dove to a canary. Both were beautiful in their own way, but the canary had a much prettier song.

  “Did you see who shot him?”

  “No. There were so many men, and it happened so fast.”

  “Do you want to go in and see him?”

  “Are you sure it’s all right?”

  “Yeah. I think Mrs. Fallon could use a break.”

  Rebecca rose quickly to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Fallon.”

  It took Ryder five minutes to pry Jenny away from Dusty’s bedside.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jenny assured Rebecca.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me if he wakes up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come on, Jenny,” Ryder said, tugging on her arm. “A cup of good strong coffee will do you good.”

  Rebecca waited until Dusty’s parents left the room, and then she took a seat in the chair beside the bed. For a time, she just sat there, watching him sleep. Then, unable to keep from touching him, she brushed a lock of hair from his brow, smoothed the sheet over his chest, her hand lingering a few moments longer than necessary.

  When he didn’t stir, she took his hand in hers, alarmed by how hot his skin felt.

  “Get well, Dusty,” she whispered. “Please get well.”

  * * * * *

  Jenny sat at Dusty’s bedside, sponging his face and body in an effort to bring down the fever that raged through him. She glanced out the window, wishing morning would come. Fears seemed worse at night. Fevers seemed to burn hotter. The soul seemed closer to heaven than Earth…

  She shook the thought from her mind, but she couldn’t help thinking that Dusty’s getting shot was all her fault. If she hadn’t asked Chase to stay so she could get to know him better, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have been arrested, Beth wouldn’t have run off with him, and Dusty wouldn’t have been shot by a bunch of stupid, angry men with manure for brains.

  And yet she couldn’t be sorry that she’d had a chance to see Chase. After years of worrying and wondering, it had been a relief, a joy, to know that he was still alive, that he had survived the Indian wars and grown into a handsome young man who any woman would be proud of. She didn’t believe for a minute that he had stolen the Harveys’ stud or shot Greenway. Chase had said he was innocent, and she had known he was telling the truth.

  Dusty stirred restlessly and she smoothed the hair from his brow. His skin felt cool and damp beneath her hand. The fever had broken at last.

  “Praise the Lord,” she murmured as she wiped the perspiration from his body and covered him with a warm blanket. “Oh, thank God.” He was going to be all right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chase stood out in the darkness, his face lifted toward the sky. Three weeks had passed since they had left Twin Rivers. Only twenty-one days. How could he feel this way about a woman, a white woman, in such a short time? She filled his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams…his dreams, he thought ruefully. Never before had he had such dreams—dreams from which he wakened drenched in sweat, his body hard and aching for her touch.

  He tried to keep his distance from her. He spent long hours hunting, or just exploring the valley, visiting favorite childhood haunts. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew what he was doing, and why. He could not help but think her the braver, the more honest, of the two of them. She had said she loved him, and it showed it everything she did, everything she said.

  And she wanted him. Though she never spoke the words aloud, she told him so in ways subtle and not so subtle. When she looked at him, he could see the yearning in her eyes. She touched him whenever he passed close to her. Nothing sexual or overly bold—sometimes it was no more than the brush of her hand against his—and yet her touch burned him like fire, kindling the desire that smoldered within him, under control but never quenched.

  And now it was evening, and she had gone to the river to bathe.

  He glanced at the sky, impatient for her return. Dark clouds were moving in, driven by an east wind that was growing ever stronger, ever colder. He could smell rain in the air, hear the distant rumble of thunder growing ever closer. A great bolt of lightning arched across the sky.

  A nagging worry began to scratch at the back of his mind. Surely she knew it wasn’t safe to stay in the river with a storm coming.

  Suddenly restless, he began to pace back and forth, and then he was running toward the river, driven by an unreasoning fear.

  Before he reached the shore, the heavens opened.

  “Beth!” He shouted her name, knowing, as he did so, that she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the rising wind and the rain.

  When he reached her usual place, he glanced up and down the river but she was nowhere in sight.

  “Beth!”

  Which way would she have gone? He wasted precious moments trying to decide, and then turned downriver.

  “Beth!”

  “Here!”

  Chase came to an abrupt halt, his head cocked to one side. Had he heard her voice?

  “Chase! Over here!”

  He peered into the growing darkness, and then, through the pouring rain, he saw a faint movement.

  “I’m coming!” he shouted, and sprinted toward her.

  Beth fell back against the rock, relieved beyond words.

  “Beth, are you all right?”

  “My foot’s caught,” she said. “I think it’s broken.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I slipped and when I tried to stop myself, my foot got wedged between the rocks.”

  She grimaced with pain as he touched her foot, cried out as he tried to draw her foot from between the two huge rocks.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “Lift your other foot while I try to move one of the rocks.”

  She did as she was told, wincing as the movement sent a shaft of pain up her leg. She focused on Chase, staring at the give and take of muscles in his back as he took hold of the rock and pushed. His muscles bulged with the effort.

  “Now,” he said, and with a mighty heave, he managed to shift the boulder a few inches to the right, holding it just long enough for her to withdraw her foot.

  She groaned as pain splinted through her foot.

  Chase darted a glance at the river, which was rising rapidly. “We must get out of here,” he said.

  Hearing the urgency in his voice, she looked at the river, felt a shiver of alarm at what she saw. The river, usually slow-moving and placid, was a surging mass of dark water.

  As gently as he could, Chase picked her up and started running toward their shelter, which was located a safe distance from the river.

  Beth was shivering with cold and pain by the time they reached the lean-to. Gently, he put her down on the stump she used for
a chair.

  “Can you get undressed?” he asked.

  “Y…yes.”

  With a nod, he struck a match and lit the fire. “I will wait outside.”

  “But it’s raining.”

  “I am already wet,” he said, grinning. “Call me if you need help.”

  The thought of him helping her caused another kind of shiver to tiptoe down her spine.

  Some minutes later, she knew she needed help. The laces on her shoes were wet and refused to give way to her shaking hands. Not only that, but her left foot was so swollen, she didn’t think she’d ever get the shoe off anyway.

  “Chase? I need you.”

  Those three simple words caused an odd stirring in the region of his heart. She needed him.

  Ducking into the shelter, he saw she was sitting as before. She had unfastened her dress and she held the bodice together with one hand.

  “I can’t get my shoes off,” she said.

  With a nod, he knelt before her and lifted her uninjured foot. After a few minutes, he managed to untie the knot. Slipping the shoe from her foot, he tossed it aside, then placed her injured foot in his lap. The shoe looked oddly misshapen and he knew her foot was badly swollen.

  “I will have to cut the shoe from your foot,” he said, drawing his knife.

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Knowing it would cause her pain, he worked as quickly and carefully as he could, cutting away the sturdy leather, then peeling off the long cotton stocking. He grinned as he wondered what she would say if she knew he carried one of her stockings in his pocket.

  Her brow was damp with perspiration by the time he finished. Her foot was badly bruised and swollen. She flinched when he examined it, and he flinched as well, her pain becoming his.

  “I do not think it is broken,” he said.

  “It hurts.”

  “I know. We need to wrap it.”

  “You can tear one of the ruffles from my spare petticoat.”

  “No need to ruin your clothes,” he said, and withdrew the stocking from his pocket.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, her eyes widening in surprise. “From the river that day,” she said, answering her own question. “You took it.”

  Chase nodded as he wrapped the stocking around her ankle. The cotton was cool and damp. It would help to keep the swelling down.