Under Apache Skies

by Madeline Baker

  Humiliated, she wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt, gasped when the warrior lifted her to her feet.

  It was then that she realized they hadn’t given Cory anything to drink.

  Indignant that the Indians would treat him so cruelly, she looked over at the warrior again. “My friend is thirsty.”

  The warrior dismissed her concern with a gesture of disdain.

  “He needs a drink.”

  The Indian continued to ignore her.

  “Listen, you…you…you heathen monster, I insist you give him something to drink right now!”

  The warrior looked at her, a glint of humor in his dark eyes as he handed her a waterskin.

  She refused to thank him. Taking the waterskin from his hand, she carried it to Cory and held it for him while he drank.

  “Slowly,” she warned.

  Cory nodded. “Thanks, honey.”

  She placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze, then offered him another drink.

  Before she could ask Cory how he was feeling, the warrior took the waterskin from her hand, then led her away from the others to a sheltered spot behind some tangled underbrush. Making a vague gesture with one hand, he walked away a few feet and turned his back.

  Dani glared at him, refusing to be grateful that he was allowing her some privacy. Turning her back to him, she lifted her skirt and relieved herself, embarrassed and ill at ease to be doing something so private out in the open with a savage standing only a few feet away.

  When she was finished, the Indian led her back to the others. In spite of her protests, he lifted her onto the back of her horse.

  A short time later, they were riding again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ridge urged his mount across the creek and up the other side. Dismounting, he quartered back and forth on the other side, his narrowed gaze moving over the ground. It took only a few minutes to find the unshod tracks of Apache ponies, and the prints of several shod horses, which suggested that, in addition to the horses ridden by Dani and Cory, the Indians had stolen some stock from one of the other ranches in the area.

  Ridge studied the tracks for several minutes. He had expected the Apache to head north, toward the mountains. Instead, they were headed away from the Dragoons. Of course, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t eventually circle back and head for the stronghold.

  His people hadn’t remained free all these years by making it easy for others to follow them. He knew he would never catch the Apache before they reached their destination, not with the head start that they had, although he figured Dani and the boy might slow them down a little.

  He muttered an oath when he thought of Dani Flynn being held captive by the Apache. If he couldn’t find her, she was in for a hell of a rough time. The boy, too.

  Swinging into the saddle, he pushed the stallion as hard as he dared. It had been said that a white man would ride a horse until it dropped, and that an Apache warrior could get on that same horse, get another twenty miles out of it, and then eat it. And while Ridge admired that about his mother’s people, he didn’t want to find himself afoot out here, not now, not when Dani’s life might be at stake.

  He stopped once at a shallow water hole to rest and water his horse, and then he was in the saddle again. Time after time, his gaze was drawn toward the distant mountains. Memories he had buried long ago moved through the corridors of his mind, rising up like shadows through the hazy mists of time.

  His first memories were tied up within the high walls of the Apache stronghold. It had been in the mountains that his father and his maternal grandfather had taught him how to be a warrior—to hunt and track, to navigate by the sun, the moon, and the stars, how to find food and water. It was there that he had learned to ride a horse, to use a bow and arrow. He remembered hunting birds and squirrels and rabbits. His grandfather had told him that each successful hunt would help him gain important warrior skills such as stealth and patience. He remembered his pride at his first kill. His mother had praised him for his skill. That night she had cooked the rabbit for him; a few days later she had presented him with the skin.

  To be a warrior… For a male Apache there was no other goal in life, and Ridge had pursued it relentlessly. Training began almost in infancy. While still young, he had been given a bow and a handful of arrows to play with; when he grew older, he was taught to make his own weapons. The games he had played with the other boys had been games designed to instruct him in the art of war, to sharpen his senses, to hone his skills, to develop physical stamina.

  The boys in the tribe swam in the river both summer and winter, even if there was ice on the water. They ran long distances without stopping, often to the top of a hill and back, sometimes with a mouthful of water to make sure they breathed through their nose and not their mouth. Sometimes they ran for miles over rough ground while carrying a heavy load on their back. They were made to go without sleep for long periods of time. In the winter, they rolled naked in the snow. No hardship was too great for a true Apache. At the end of a long period of training, the boys were required to spend two weeks alone in the wilderness, where they were to survive using the skills they had been taught.

  To an Apache, anyone not of the blood was the enemy. Apache wealth was measured in stolen horses and cattle. A warrior who could kill the enemy without being wounded, who could steal from the Mexicans and the White Eyes without getting caught, was held in high esteem by the People.

  Life had been good in the mountains. He remembered spending long evenings listening to the seasoned warriors talking about old fights, recounting old battles. They boasted of coup counted and brave deeds or told tales of Coyote, the trickster. There were ceremonial dances before and after the men went to war. There were social dances for the unmarried braves and maidens. There were always a number of older people at such occasions. They sat on the outside of the dance circle, talking and laughing and generally having a good time.

  He recalled the long, lazy summers spent swimming in the river. Evenings spent gambling, wagering horses and blankets and weapons; winters spent playing the hoop-and-pole game. He was sure Miss Martha Flynn would be shocked to learn that it wasn’t just the men who gambled, but the women and children also. There were contests and races and wrestling matches, games of skill with bow and arrow.

  It had been a good life, and over too soon.

  He rode until dark, then bedded down in a shallow draw. Lying there with his head pillowed on his saddle, his horse grazing nearby, he gazed up at the night sky, remembering…

  Remembering his father, a tall man with an easy laugh and large, capable hands, one who had made the stronghold his home even though the Apache weren’t his people.

  Remembering his mother, a slender woman with a quick temper and a ready smile. She had been a gifted storyteller, loved not only by her own children but by all the others in the village as well.

  Remembering his sister. Pain twisted his heart when he thought of Neeta. She had been a beautiful little girl with large, dark eyes and graceful hands. But for him, she would be alive today…

  Guilt and self-hatred rose up within him. With an oath, he jerked his thoughts away from a past that could not be changed.

  Curling his hands into tight fists, he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  Martha Jean’s image drifted through his mind. He chased it, grabbed on to it like a lifeline, focused all his attention on the woman who hadn’t been out of his thoughts since the first day he saw her.

  Martha Jean Flynn, as soft as dandelion down one minute, as prickly as a cactus the next. She was the most annoying, intriguing, stubborn woman he had ever met, never happy unless she was getting her own way, a woman who didn’t like taking no for an answer…

  Springing to his feet, Ridge swore under his breath, his gaze probing the darkness. How could he have been such a damn fool? What had made him think she would stay home just because he told her to?

  Dammit! Every instinct he possessed told him she was ou
t there somewhere, either bedded down for the night or trying to find his camp.

  Hunkering down on his heels, he drummed his fingers on the ground. Should he go after her tonight, or wait until morning?

  There was only one answer. Rising, he kicked dirt over the embers of his campfire.

  Five minutes later, he was saddled and riding over his back trail.

  Drawing her horse to a halt, Marty glanced into the darkness that surrounded her. She should have stopped riding at sunset, but she had kept pushing, thinking she would ride for just another mile or so, another half an hour, another few minutes.

  Night had fallen quickly, and now she had lost the trail and she feared she had lost her way, as well.

  Dismounting, she loosened the saddle cinch. There was nothing to do now but wait until morning and see if she could pick up the trail again. Damn. Pa had always claimed she had too much stubbornness and not enough sense. Pa. She took a deep breath, wishing he were there with her now. She wouldn’t be afraid if he were there.

  Marty stripped the rigging from her horse, spread out her bedroll, then rummaged in her saddlebags for something to eat, glad that she hadn’t stored all the food in Longtree’s pack. She ate some of Cookie’s buttermilk biscuits along with some canned meat and sliced cheese for dinner, cursing softly when she realized that the coffee was in Longtree’s saddlebags. She could use a cup right about now. She grunted softly. Even if she’d had the coffeepot, she knew she wouldn’t dare light a fire for fear of bringing every Indian in the area down on her.

  Ridge Longtree was Apache. She didn’t know how much Indian blood he had, but there was no mistaking it. She might have asked him, but he didn’t seem inclined to talk about it, or about his past.

  She washed the last of the meat and cheese down with water from her canteen, then she pulled off her boots, removed her hat, and crawled into her bedroll, only to lie there, wide-awake, wondering if Dani and Cory were all right. She couldn’t imagine her little sister at the mercy of the Apache, a tribe that was known far and wide for its cruelty. What would they do to Dani? To Cory? Images of the two of them being tortured crowded her mind. Even worse were the horrible images of her sister being raped by savages.

  She stared up at the sky, her eyes damp with tears. “I know I don’t talk to You as often as I should, but please let her be all right. I don’t care if Nettie sells the ranch. I don’t care what happens to the cattle, but please don’t let them hurt Dani.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “And please help me to find that stubborn man.”

  “You found him.”

  Marty jackknifed into a sitting position, her hand reaching for her gun, panic welling within her in those few short moments before she recognized his voice.

  She had often heard the expression “weak with relief”, but she had never really known what it meant until now.

  She watched Ridge dismount, a fluid outline in the darkness. And then he was hunkering down beside her bedroll.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” He bit off each word as he said it.

  “Going with you to look for my sister.”

  “I thought I told you to stay home.”

  “I never said I would. And you keep forgetting one thing, Mr. Longtree. I. Am. The. Boss.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course, you realize that since I had to come looking for you, we’re that much farther behind.”

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  It was a good question. He wished he had a good answer.

  “Well?” she coaxed.

  He didn’t want to admit he had been lying in his blankets thinking about her. But even that didn’t explain how he had known she was out here. But he had known. “I’m going to look after my horse.”

  He unsaddled the stud, hobbled it, and turned it loose to graze. Removing his bedroll from behind the cantle, he spread it out alongside Martha Jean’s. Close, but not too close.

  Settling down on his blankets, he realized that just being within sight and smell of her was too close.

  Drawing her legs up, Marty clasped her arms around her knees. “Will they hurt her?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “They’re my people, Martha Jean.”

  “What will they do to her?”

  He shrugged. “Female captives usually become slaves to the tribe.”

  “A slave! Will they…?” She couldn’t say the word out loud.

  “Rape her?” He shook his head. “No warrior would force himself on a woman. Captives are kept as slaves. Sometimes they’re traded to other tribes. Sometimes they’re ransomed back to their own people. Sometimes they choose to marry one of the men.”

  “What about Cory?”

  “I don’t know.” Males Cory’s age weren’t usually taken prisoner.

  “He’s just a boy!”

  “Among my people, he’s old enough to be a warrior.”

  “Tell me about your people.”

  “They’re just men and women trying to get along. They get married, have kids, fight to protect what’s theirs. Most of them are good people. Some aren’t.”

  “I never knew Indians got married.”

  “What did you think they did?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it.” She hesitated, grateful for the darkness. “Are you…?”

  “Married? Hell, no.”

  “Don’t you want to have a home? And a family?”

  “We can’t always have what we want,” he replied quietly.

  Even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was watching her. She could feel his gaze on her face, as warm and tangible as a caress.

  “What…?” She swallowed hard. “What do you want that you can’t have?”

  “You.”

  Marty’s heart skipped a beat. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Heat spiraled through her, rising from the deepest part of her, climbing up her neck into her cheeks. Once again, she was grateful for the cover of darkness.

  She gasped as his arms went around her, and then all thought fled her mind as his mouth covered hers. Fleetingly, it occurred to her that she should protest, but that thought was quickly forgotten, burned away by the heat of his kisses, the feel of his arms around her. His scent filled her nostrils. His arousal fanned her own desire, and she pressed shamelessly against him, driven by a need she had never known before.

  Without taking his mouth from hers, he eased her down until she was lying on her back on her blankets. His lips were warm and firm and relentless. He rolled her onto her side so they lay face-to-face. His hand slid down her back, molding her body to his, so that their bodies touched from shoulder to knee.

  He groaned softly, as if he were in pain. Odd, she thought, when she was experiencing pleasure unlike anything she had ever dreamed of. Her heart beat wildly in her breast. Every nerve ending seemed vibrant and alive. Her skin felt hot, there were a million butterflies fluttering madly in her stomach.

  Needing to touch him, she slid her hands beneath his shirt, let her fingertips run up and down his back. His muscles were tense, his skin as hot as hers.

  He drew back a little. Though she couldn’t see his expression in the dark, she could feel his gaze moving over her face. He muttered, “Damn, Martha…” And then he was kissing her again.

  His hands began an exploration of their own, and she moaned with pleasure. No man had ever touched her so intimately. Had any other man dared to let his hands fondle her so brazenly, she would have slapped his face and demanded an apology. With Ridge, she was tempted to beg him for more. And then she realized she didn’t have to beg. He was intent on taking what he wanted.

  The heat of his calloused hand sliding up the inside of her thigh shocked her. What was she doing, rolling around in the dirt with a man she hardly knew?

  “Ridge, stop.”

  For a moment, she was afraid he wouldn’t do as she asked, that he would take her by force.

  For one wicked moment,
she hoped he would.

  And then he took a deep breath and let her go. “Change your mind?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “Yes. No. I mean, I never intended—”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She couldn’t blame him for what he was thinking. She had behaved shamelessly.

  Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the sky, his breathing ragged.

  Not knowing what else to say, she murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. It was my fault. You can’t blame a man for tryin’.” He looked over at her, and even in the darkness she could feel his gaze on her face. “But I’m giving you fair warning here and now, Martha Flynn—I’ll most likely try again.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dani slumped to the ground, her whole body trembling. Her thighs were sore, her back and shoulders aching. How did the Indians ride so long without resting? It was Sunday afternoon and they had been riding almost nonstop since Friday night. She had never been so utterly weary in her whole life. She hurt in places she never knew existed. And she was hungry, so hungry. In the last two days all she’d had to eat were a few hunks of dried meat and sips of lukewarm water. How did the Indians survive on such rough, meager fare?

  She watched them now as they moved about, making camp, talking and laughing with each other. She had never imagined Indians having a sense of humor.

  She glanced over at Cory. He fared no better than she did. Indeed, he fared far worse. And since the Indians kept his hands tied behind his back, it was left to her to make sure he had food and water.

  With a sigh, she curled up and closed her eyes, feeling the sting of tears as her thoughts turned toward home. How long would it take for Marty to realize that Cory and Dani hadn’t run off together? Would she ever see her sister again? What were the Indians going to do with them? She wished her father were still alive. He would find her, no matter how long it took.

  Tears stung her eyes. She still couldn’t believe he was dead, that she would never see him again, never hear him call her his “little sunflower girl” again. In spite of his quick temper and his gruff ways, she had known without a doubt that he loved her best of all.