Under Apache Skies

by Madeline Baker

  Drawing the blanket up over her head, she gave way to the tears she could no longer hold back.

  Dani woke with a start when something nudged her in the side. Looking up, she realized that it was morning. Streaks of red and gold and violet were just fading from the eastern sky. The warrior who had captured her was standing over her, an impatient look on his face.

  When he saw she was awake, he thrust a hunk of meat into her hands.

  Dani eyed it suspiciously, wondering what it was. She hesitated only a moment, then took a bite, grateful to have something to eat besides jerky. She ate half of it before she remembered that Cory was probably hungry, too.

  Scooting closer to him, she tore off a strip of meat and fed it to him.

  He swallowed it greedily, and she tore off another strip, feeding him until the meat was gone.

  “Thanks, hon.”

  She nodded, too weary, too discouraged, to try to make conversation.

  “It’ll be all right,” Cory said.

  “No, it won’t.”

  He didn’t argue, and she knew then that he was just as worried and afraid as she was.

  A short time later, the warrior jerked her to her feet and lifted her onto the back of her horse. There was a rush of activity as the Indians broke camp and caught up their horses. Because of that, it took Dani several minutes to realize that the Indians were splitting into two groups. One group of warriors was heading south; the second, smaller bunch, of which Dani was a part, had veered off and were heading in the opposite direction.

  Dani glanced over her shoulder, searching for Cory in the midst of the Indians. She spied him in the distance, noting that he was now mounted on an Indian pony.

  A wordless cry of dismay rose in her throat when one of the warriors took up the reins to Cory’s horse and started out after the group of Indians headed south, toward Mexico. Fear congealed in her heart. If they took Cory to Mexico, she would never see him again.

  “No!” Yanking her horse to a halt, she turned it around. Hollering, “Cory, wait!” she started toward him.

  “Dah!” The warrior who had been looking after her rode up beside her and grabbed the reins from her hand.

  “Let me go! Cory! Cory!”

  Cory turned to look at her, but with his hands bound behind his back, there was nothing he could do.

  She didn’t think she would ever forget the look of love and despair on his face.

  Dani glared at the warrior beside her. “Where are they taking him?” she demanded. “Damn you, answer me!”

  The warrior said nothing, only clucked to his horse and followed the five warriors trailing toward the distant mountains.

  Dani glanced over her shoulder one last time. With tears streaming down her face, she watched Cory ride away until he was out of sight.

  The Indians rode until dusk, then made camp in a shallow ravine. The warrior lifted her from her horse, caught her in his arms when her legs refused to hold her.

  She went rigid in his embrace, her heart pounding with fear and trepidation. He was an Apache. The enemy. He smelled of horse and sage and sweat. She put her hands on his chest and shoved. It was like trying to move a mountain. His skin was warm beneath her palms—warm and covered with a fine sheen of perspiration.

  She stared up at him and found him watching her, an amused expression in his dark eyes.

  “Let me go!”

  He didn’t move, only continued to watch her.

  “I know you understand me.” She pounded her fists on his chest, trying to recall his name. Vanza? Danza? No. Sanza. That was it. “Sanza, let me go!”

  Slowly, as though reluctant to do so, he released her.

  “Where are they taking Cory?”

  “To the stronghold.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the stronghold.”

  “Then why did we split up?”

  “We are being followed.”

  “Followed?” Hope surged within her. “Who is it?”

  “White Eyes.”

  Dani pressed a hand to her heart. Could it be Marty? She shook her head. Not Marty, but perhaps she had sent Ridge Longtree to look for her. She smiled inwardly. If anyone could rescue them, Longtree could!

  “What…?” She hesitated, not sure she wanted to know the answer to the question that had been uppermost in her mind since the Indians captured them. “What are you going to do with me? With Cory? Why don’t you let us go?”

  His dark gaze met and held hers. “It was not my war party. Iron Lance was in charge of the raid. I rode with him because he is my close friend. Iron Lance’s only son was killed by a white man. He took the boy to avenge the death of his son.”

  “Cory didn’t do it!” she exclaimed, then stared at him, dread coiling tight in the pit of her stomach. “Are they going to…?” She couldn’t say the words aloud. To say it would make it so.

  “The boy’s fate rests with Iron Lance.”

  “Then tell him to let Cory go!” she cried. “He’ll listen to you!”

  “It is not for me to tell another what to do.” His expression softened. “I do not know what Iron Lance plans for the boy. He may kill him. He may keep the boy as his own.”

  She had to believe that Iron Lance wouldn’t kill Cory, that somehow she and Cory would find a way to escape from the Indians and return home together.

  “What about me?” she asked. “Is Iron Lance going to decide what happens to me, too?”

  Sanza’s gaze rested on hers. “No. He would have left you behind.”

  Dani stared at him, her heart sinking with the realization that, but for this savage, she would be safe at home now, free of this horrible nightmare.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked tremulously.

  “I have not yet decided.”

  Feeling as though she might faint, Dani turned away. Her legs felt weak as she made her way toward a barren stretch of ground. Dropping to her knees, she stared into the distance, grateful that Cory wasn’t there. At least he didn’t know the fate that awaited him.

  She clasped her hands together to still their trembling. She couldn’t give up, not now. The warrior said they were being followed. It had to be Ridge Longtree. It just had to be. He was Indian. If anyone could save them, he could.

  She clung to the possibility, held it close that night when she lay in her blankets, staring up at the sky.

  The Apache lay in a circle around her, save for one warrior who stood in the shadows, keeping watch.

  Her warrior. Sanza. She wondered what his name meant.

  She studied his profile in the moonlight, wondering at her fascination with this man who had taken her away from all that she knew, all that was familiar. If she were at home now, she would be sitting in the parlor with Marty, perhaps reading aloud, or maybe working on a piece of embroidery. Marty would be curled up on the sofa, going over the monthly expenses, or bringing the ranch accounts up to date. Later, they would have hot chocolate, or, if Dani had baked that day, they would have a piece of pie or cake and talk about the day’s events.

  She swallowed the urge to cry and concentrated on what the warrior had told her. They were being followed. It had to be Ridge Longtree coming to rescue her. It just had to be.

  Shivering, she drew the single blanket the warrior had given her up to her chin. A small fire burned a few feet away. She wished she had the nerve to scoot a little closer, but that would put her closer to a couple of the Indians, and she had no desire to get closer to any of them.

  A movement to her left caught her eye. She watched the warrior move toward the waterskin hanging from a branch. Lifting it, he took a long swallow, then hung it on the branch again. He glanced in her direction, then added a few pieces of wood to the fire.

  Had he noticed her shivering? She thrust the thought aside, refusing to believe that a heathen savage would care if she was warm or cold.

  As though aware of her thoughts, he turned toward her. She shivered anew, but it had nothing
to do with the cold. She didn’t understand what she was feeling, didn’t understand why his nearness made her feel fluttery inside, why his touch excited her. She had experienced similar longings with Cory, but they paled next to the way the warrior made her feel. It was a troubling realization.

  Turning her back to the warrior, she stared into the darkness, refusing to think of copper-colored skin and black eyes that seemed to see into the very depths of her soul.

  Sanza grinned as the white woman turned her back on him. Da-ni. She could pretend indifference, but there was no denying the tension that flowed between them whenever their eyes met, or the heat that flared between them when they touched. Among his people, she was of an age to be married. He had taken her with the idea of trading her to the Comancheros for guns. White women, especially young, untouched white women, brought a high price, but that no longer interested him. His captive was a gentle creature. She would never survive the brutality of the Comancheros and the idea that they might defile her or sell her into slavery among his enemies was abhorrent. Perhaps, when they reached the stronghold, he would keep her as his slave.

  His gaze moved over her, lingering on her slender form, the fall of golden hair that tempted his touch. Her skin was pale and unblemished, her eyes the color of spring grass. He did not need a slave, nor did he want the women of the tribe to mistreat her or look at her with scorn in their eyes, as they would surely do if he made her a slave in his lodge.

  He frowned a moment, and then smiled into the darkness as he solved the problem.

  He would not keep her as a slave; instead, he would take her for his wife.

  Tomorrow he would take her to a place he knew, a place where they could be alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nettie Flynn couldn’t help staring at the man who stood framed in the doorway. Victor Claunch. It had been years since she had last seen him, yet he looked much the same as she remembered—tall and strong, rich and powerful. The years had been kind to him. His hair was still thick and brown, with no trace of gray. Only the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth betrayed the passage of time.

  “Nettie.” It was obvious that he was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

  “Hello, Victor.”

  They stared at each other. He was apparently as much at a loss for words as she was. Victor Claunch had kissed her once. It had been on New Year’s Eve. Victor had been a little drunk, and when he found her alone in the kitchen, he had insisted on claiming a kiss. And because she had also been a little drunk, and a little curious, she had kissed him back. Just one kiss, but she had never forgotten it. And then, to her utter amazement, he had whispered that he loved her. His words had shocked her. Knowing how he felt, she had made it a point to never be alone with him again, not only because of what he had said, but because she was a married woman and had no business being attracted to another man. Neither of them had ever mentioned that incident. No doubt he had forgotten all about it long ago.

  “When did you get back?” he asked.

  “I’ve just arrived.”

  His gaze moved over her, lingering on her face, her lips. It had been years since she blushed, but she felt her cheeks grow warm. Was it possible he was remembering that night in the kitchen?

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, obviously groping for words. “Seamus was a good man.”

  She hesitated a moment before answering, “Yes, he was.”

  “I don’t mean to disturb you at such a time, but I was wondering…is Martha Jean at home? We were supposed to go on a picnic this afternoon.”

  “A picnic?”

  He nodded. “I thought it might do her good to get away from the ranch, think about something else, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes.” Victor and Martha? How long had this been going on? “I’m afraid Martha isn’t home. She must have forgotten you were coming.” Nettie hesitated, wondering if she should tell him about Dani and Cory, and then decided against it. There was nothing he could do to help, and she didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not with him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know when she’ll be back. Can I help you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Victor said. His gaze rested heavily on her face, making her uncomfortable.

  A look that Nettie couldn’t read flashed through his eyes, disturbing her still more. He shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly reminding her of a tiger about to pounce. And then he smiled. “It was good to see you again, Nettie. Tell Martha I’ll call on her later in the week.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Good day to you then.” Turning, he went down the stairs, whistling cheerfully.

  Later that night, Nettie wandered through the house, pausing now and then to look out one window or another, even though she knew it was far too soon for Martha and the cowboy to have returned with Danielle. She refused to consider the possibility that they wouldn’t find her youngest daughter. The alternative was unthinkable, as was the possibility that Martha might be hurt or killed while searching for her sister. She thrust the prospect aside. She would not so much as entertain the notion.

  Mr. Mulvaney had come calling on her the evening Martha Jean had gone off to look for Danielle and Cory. Apparently Martha had sent one of the hired hands over to let the Mulvaneys know that Danielle and Cory had been captured by Apaches. She had told Mr. Mulvaney what little she knew. He had left shortly thereafter, telling her that he intended to round up some of his men and go after his son. She had wished him well, thinking that the more people there were out looking for Danielle and Cory, the more chance there was of finding them, which made her wonder why she hadn’t enlisted Victor’s aid when she had the chance.

  She stood in the doorway of the parlor. The house seemed larger than she remembered, but little had changed. The same large leather sofa and chair were in the parlor. The bear rug she had always hated still covered the floor. A pair of antlers hung over the mantel. There was a gun rack in one corner, a bookshelf in another. The piano she had brought with her from the East stood against one wall. How many times had she closed her eyes in her room in Boston and imagined her daughters in this setting?

  She tied the sash of her robe tighter, then added a few sticks of wood to the fire in the hearth. Gazing into the flames, she wondered if Martha Jean was any safer with Ridge Longtree than Danielle was with the Indians. Nettie had spent enough time out West to know a hard case when she saw one, and Longtree had trouble written all over him. He wasn’t a cowboy; she knew that.

  Dropping onto the sofa in front of the fireplace, she leaned back and closed her eyes. The house was quiet, so quiet, with only the crackle of the flames and the chiming of the hall clock to break the silence.

  She couldn’t remember a time when the house had been so still. When the girls were little, the air had been filled with the sounds of their voices—their laughter, their tears. Christmases had been especially wonderful. She had played the piano for the girls while they sang Christmas carols. Seamus had often joined in, his deep voice a little off-key. She remembered the winter nights when the girls had put on puppet shows, remembered sitting in the big chair, doing the mending, while Martha read stories to Danielle. Sometimes their childish voices had been raised in anger, though those occasions had been mercifully rare.

  She pictured the girls in her mind as they had been the last time she saw them. Martha had always been her father’s daughter, happier to be outside with the cowboys and the cattle than indoors. It had been a battle trying to teach that girl to do housework. To her chagrin, it was something Nettie had never accomplished. Martha had always been happier castrating cattle than cooking, more adept at mending harnesses than mending linens. She had preferred pants to dresses, boots and chaps to frills and fashion. She had considered embroidery a waste of time, and reading something for those who were infirm or bedridden. Nettie had despaired of ever finding her a husband.

  Danielle had been her sister’s opposite in every way. From the beginning, sh
e had been Nettie’s shadow, eager to learn how to cook and keep house. She had a fine hand with a needle, could prepare simple dinners by the time she was eight. She loved pretty clothes and shoes, spent hours in front of the mirror, trying out different hairstyles. She loved to read.

  With a sigh, Nettie pictured the girls in her mind’s eye as they were today. Both were lovely, but while Danielle’s beauty was blatantly obvious, one had to look harder to see Martha’s. She shunned makeup, wore her hair in an unflattering braid down her back, dressed in pants and shirts more suited to the cowboys than a young woman.

  How she had missed her girls! Every day and every night since she had left the ranch, she had wondered what they were doing, if they were happy, if they missed her. Mostly she wondered how Seamus had explained her unexpected departure.

  “Damn you, Seamus,” she murmured, but there was no rancor in her voice. Her anger had dissipated years ago, overpowered by a sense of hopelessness. She had made one mistake, and Seamus had tried to make her pay for it for the rest of her life. Granted, it had been a mistake that would be hard for any man to forgive, but surely her punishment had outweighed the crime, all things considered.

  Too restless to sit still, Nettie rose to pace the floor in front of the hearth, then went to the front window. Drawing back the curtains, she peered into the darkness, her thoughts and prayers going out to Martha and Danielle.

  “Please,” she murmured. “Please bring them safely home to me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ridge eased back on the reins, slowing the black to a trot, then a walk. A short time later he reined his horse to a halt. Dismounting, he studied the ground in an ever-widening circle, searching for signs of Cory and Dani. All he saw were horse tracks and moccasin prints. He frowned a moment, then muttered an oath when he realized what the Indians had done.