She stepped back, allowing him entrance to the parlor. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
He smiled at her. “I never turned down a good cup of coffee in my life,” he said, following her into the room. “Or a bad one, for that matter.”
She gestured at the sofa. “Please sit down. I won’t be but a moment.”
In the kitchen, she clasped her hands together and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since she had been alone with a man. In the East, she lived in a rented room in a respectable boardinghouse. Ever conscious of her reputation, she had been careful never to be alone in the company of male callers. Many men had expressed interest. Most had been honorable, but none had lingered once they learned she was a married woman.
Her hands were shaking as she filled the coffeepot with water, pulled two cups from the shelf, and placed them on the silver tray her mother had given her on her wedding day. She stared at it a moment, remembering how happy she had been that day, and how quickly that had changed. With an effort, she shook the memory from her mind.
She added the sugar bowl and creamer to the tray, along with a pair of teaspoons. For a fleeting moment, she wished she had some tea cakes or cookies to go with the coffee, and then decided she was glad she didn’t. Perhaps he would just drink his coffee and go home. The memory of his kiss, and the way she had responded to it, still shamed her after all these years.
When everything was ready, she drew a deep, calming breath, picked up the tray, and returned to the parlor.
Victor rose when she entered the room. “Here,” he said, “let me help you with that.”
Taking the tray from her hands, he placed it on the table between the sofa and the easy chair, waited until she was seated before resuming his own.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Cream?”
“No.”
She handed him a cup. “I don’t know how you can drink it like that,” she remarked, adding a spoonful of sugar and a generous amount of cream to her own cup.
He smiled at her. “I like my coffee the way it comes from the pot, and my whiskey the way it comes from the bottle.”
She returned his smile. “I don’t really like coffee,” she confessed.
“Then why drink it?”
“I couldn’t find any tea.”
His gaze met hers. “I like a woman who makes do with what she has.”
Speechless, Nettie stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup. Was he flirting with her? “Victor…”
“We were friends once, Nettie.” He put his cup down and leaned forward. “I know this is sudden and highly improper, what with your husband not even cold in the ground, but…hear me out, Nettie. I don’t know how you felt about Seamus, but it’s been over between the two of you for a good many years. I’ve never been a patient man—”
“Victor, please.” She stared at him, wishing she had never let him in the house. Surely he wasn’t about to say what she thought he was.
“Let me finish before I lose my nerve.”
She lifted one brow. The man had enough nerve to fill the Grand Canyon.
“I’ve never forgotten that New Year’s kiss, and I’ve never forgotten you. Tarnation, what I’m trying to say is, I’d like to court you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Completely taken aback, she could only stare at him. She had never forgotten that kiss, either. On many a lonely night, she had wondered what her life would have been like if Victor had been her husband.
“I see I’ve shocked you.”
“Indeed, you have.”
“I didn’t mean to, but like I said, I’ve never been a patient man. When I see something I want, I most generally go after it, the consequences be damned.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, and so she said nothing.
Victor drained his cup, then gained his feet. “Think about what I said.”
She also rose. “Yes, I will.” She doubted if she would be able to think of anything else. A proposal, at her age?
She followed him to the door. Victor Claunch had always been a powerful man. He had never made any secret of the fact that he wanted to add the Flynn spread to his own. He and Seamus had had more than one dustup about it in the past.
Standing in the doorway, she watched him ride away. And all the while she wondered if it was really her that he wanted, or if she was just a means of getting his hands on the ranch he had coveted for so long?
Victor Claunch grinned as he left the Flynn place behind. He would have given his back teeth to know what had happened between Seamus and Nettie that had sent her packing all those years ago.
He had always had a secret hankerin’ for pretty Nettie Mae Flynn. He remembered the first time he had seen her. It had been at a party at the Dinsdale ranch. She had been a new bride then, as pretty as a prairie flower on a spring day. She’d been wearing a dress the color of daffodils and a floppy-brimmed white hat. She’d been laughing at something her husband had said. It was the first time in Victor’s life that he had ever envied another man.
And then there had been that night in Nettie’s kitchen. He had never forgotten the sweetness of that kiss. Nettie. She was the reason he had never married. Victor grunted softly as he urged his horse into a canter. It had been in his mind to make Martha Flynn his wife. She was a pretty enough woman, though not the looker her younger sister was. But he was looking for a wife, not a daughter, and though there were only a few years difference between the two Flynn girls, Martha Flynn was a woman, while Danielle was still a child. Of course, thinking that Martha was her father’s heir had been the deciding factor.
But now Seamus Flynn was dead, and his widow had returned to Chimney Creek. Victor rubbed a hand over his jaw, wondering why he hadn’t considered the possibility of Nettie’s return sooner. He should have known Flynn’s death would bring her back as nothing else could. But it had been Randolph Ludlow who had given Victor the best news of all. Contrary to what Victor had thought, Seamus had not left the ranch to his oldest daughter, but to his widow.
And she was here now, as pretty and desirable as she had ever been. He smiled, pleased that Fate had brought her back to him. If he played his cards right, a single “I do” would grant him the two things he had coveted his whole life. The fact that he had already asked Martha Jean to marry him didn’t worry him a bit. It would be a simple matter to tell her he had changed his mind. Given a choice, he thought Nettie Flynn would make him a better wife, one who would be infinitely more malleable than her daughter.
Winning Nettie’s affection shouldn’t be too hard. He had always felt as though there was an unspoken attraction between them. And unless he was wrong, it was still there.
Chapter Nineteen
Dani glanced at her surroundings as Sanza turned the horses loose and began making camp. Two days of hard riding had brought them to this place, a small canyon sheltered by towering walls. Thick grass grew in scattered clumps. There were a few stunted trees watered by a shallow spring, and animal tracks of some kind near the water.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
“It is a good place.”
“A good place for what?” She looked around again, wondering what it could possibly be good for, or how he had found it. He had no map to follow, yet he seemed to know every water hole and spring, every canyon and crevice, every rock and mountain. Since he had kidnapped her, they had never lacked for food or water.
“A place to stay.”
“Here?” She glanced around in disbelief. “We’re going to stay here? Why? For how long?”
“For as long as I say.”
“I want to go home.” She spoke the words automatically, even though she knew it was a waste of breath. He wasn’t going to let her go. Still, even though she was no longer afraid he was going to kill her, she had no idea what it was he planned to do with her. It was that uncertainty that frightened her. Had he brought her here to torture her? Or worse, rape her?
&nbs
p; She glanced back at the entrance to the canyon, wondering what her chances were of sneaking away in the middle of the night. She hadn’t had much success the last time, she thought glumly. Still, one failure wouldn’t stop Marty. But she wasn’t Marty, had never had Marty’s courage. And what if trying to run away again made the Indian mad? What if he decided keeping her alive was too much trouble? He might decide to kill her and take her scalp, or leave her out there, alone and at the mercy of wild animals and the elements.
“Woman, gather wood for the fire.”
“Who, me?”
He nodded in a way that defied argument. With a little hmph of pique, she walked toward the trees, muttering under her breath.
Sanza watched her walk away, noting the sway of her slender hips, the way her full skirt swished around her ankles, the way the sunlight shone on her hair. He had never seen a woman with hair that color. He itched to run his hands through it, to feel the long strands curl around his fingers. As always, looking at her stirred his desire, made him long to feel his body sheathed within hers, to touch her in the way a man touched a woman. Perhaps tonight… He thrust the thought from his mind. He did not want to take her by force. Rape was unknown among his people.
Drawing his gaze from the woman, he set about setting up camp. There was much to teach her before he took her home. Tomorrow, her lessons would begin.
Dani stared at the Indian, her hands fisted on her hips. “I don’t know how to skin a deer.”
He nodded patiently. “That is why you must learn.”
“Why? Why do I need to know?”
“It is women’s work.”
“Well, it might be women’s work for an Apache, but I’m not an Apache!” She had never skinned an animal in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Sanza picked up his knife and made the first cut.
Dani’s eyes widened. One hand flew to cover her mouth as the blade pierced hide and flesh.
“If you want to eat, Da-ni, you must do your share of the work.”
“Then I won’t eat.” And so saying, she turned her back to him. After a moment, she pressed her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of the knife cutting through the deer’s carcass.
He sent her to draw water from the stream while he finished butchering the deer, sent her for wood while he cut some of the meat into long, thin strips to be dried over the fire.
Butchering was hot, dirty work. When she returned from the stream, he reached for the waterskin, frowning when she recoiled.
“You still fear me?” he asked. “Why?”
“Why? Because you’re an Indian. A savage.”
“Savage?” He studied her for a moment. “Is that what you think I am?”
“Aren’t you? Look at you. Your hands are covered with blood.” Her gaze moved over him, lingering on his broad shoulders and chest. She hated the way she itched to reach out and touch his copper-hued skin, to run her fingers over his sun-warmed flesh. “You’re practically nak…” Heat flooded her cheeks. Why did he have to be so tall, so handsome? She shook the thought away. “Savage! You kidnapped me and…” Tears burned her eyes. “And Cory.”
Cory. How could she have forgotten about Cory? She hadn’t thought of him in hours. For all she knew he could be dead now, tortured to death by Sanza’s friends. For all she knew that very fate might lie in store for her, as well. Giving in to her despair, she sank down on the ground and buried her face in her hands.
Her tears came harder, faster. She wept for Cory. She wept for herself. She wept because she was homesick, because she missed Marty, because her father was dead, and her mother was thousands of miles away.
After a moment, Sanza washed the blood from his hands, then drew the woman to her feet and wrapped her in his arms. She struggled a moment; then, with a long shuddering sigh, she collapsed against him, wailing softly.
He stroked her back, thinking how delicate she was, how good she felt in his arms. Her tears were warm against his chest, her hair soft where it brushed his hand. He lifted a long golden strand, watched it curl around his finger. He knew now why none of the maidens in the village had appealed to him. He had been waiting for this woman-child. Once, in a vision, he had seen a small golden dove soaring above the jagged cliffs of the Dragoon Mountains. A ray of sunshine had rested on the dove, momentarily gilding her feathers with gold. In his vision, the dove had fallen to the valley floor and been rescued by an eagle. At the time, he had not known what the vision meant. Even the tribal shaman had been uncertain. But Sanza knew what it meant now. His totem was the eagle. And Da-ni was the golden dove in his vision.
“Da-ni,” he said quietly, “do not weep. I may be a savage, as you say, but you have no reason to fear me. I will not hurt you.”
She sniffed, her tears subsiding. “I want to go home.” She looked up at him. “Please take me home. I don’t belong here.”
“Ask anything else of me,” he said, “and I will do it. But I cannot take you home.”
“Why not? Who’s going to stop you?”
“No one.”
“Then take me home!”
“Is that what you want?”
She started to say yes, of course it was, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she gazed deep into his eyes, felt her heart skip a beat when she saw the desire burning in their dark depths. It frightened her to know that he wanted her; it was even more frightening to know that she wanted him, too.
His arms held her loosely, yet she was aware of their strength, just as she was acutely aware of his body, long and lean, pressed against her own. He smelled faintly of sweat and horse and dust. It should have repelled her, but it didn’t. She curled her hands into fists to keep from running her fingertips over his chest and shoulders.
A tremor ran through his arms.
She found it suddenly hard to breathe.
He drew her closer, flattening her breasts against the hard wall of his chest.
She stopped fighting the urge to touch him and let her hands explore the width of his shoulders, the thick muscles in his arms.
His hands cupped her buttocks, drawing her up against him, letting her feel the heat of his desire.
With a soft cry, she drew his head down and pressed her lips to his. When he didn’t respond, she looked up at him. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want to kiss me?”
“What is kiss?”
“Don’t you know?”
He shook his head, his gaze fixed on her lips. “Show me.”
Heart pounding, she stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his once more. A moment later, he was kissing her back.
He was, she thought, a quick study.
She gasped when he swung her into his arms and carried her swiftly to his blankets. He lowered her gently to the ground, then stretched out beside her and gathered her into his arms.
She stared at him, her emotions in turmoil, her body trembling. “I guess you like kissing.”
He nodded solemnly. Then, with one hand cupping the back of her head, he kissed her again. And again.
He might be a savage, she thought, her mind whirling, but he sure didn’t kiss like one.
She felt a rush of panic as he rose over her, his dark eyes burning with desire. She gasped as his hands moved over her body, touching her in places no man had ever touched before.
Filled with sudden panic, she put her hands against his chest. “No!” It was like trying to move a mountain. “Please stop!”
A low groan rose in his throat as he rolled away from her.
Dani sat up. Breathing heavily, she stared at him, wondering how she could be both relieved and sorry that he had done as she asked.
Sanza rose, his chest heaving, his hands clenched at his sides. “I am sorry,” he muttered in a gruff voice, and stalked away.
Drawing her legs up her arms and wrapping around her knees, she stared after him. She had never been kissed like that before, never felt such a strong stirring of desire. Cory’s kisses had never inflamed her in such
a way—never… She bit down on her lip. How could she have let Sanza hold her and kiss her like that when Cory’s life was in danger, when, even now, he could be dead, killed by Sanza’s people?
Dropping her head down on her knees, she began to cry.
Chapter Twenty
Ridge woke to the scents and sounds of his childhood. For a moment he lay there with his eyes closed, letting the memories of the past wash over him. He heard his mother’s laughter as she played with his little sister, the deep voice of his grandfather telling one of Coyote’s tales. He saw his sister trailing at his heels, always begging him to take her with him. It didn’t matter if he was going hunting or riding or swimming, she had always wanted to go along. And because he had loved her, he had taken her with him whenever he could. And when she was forced to stay behind, she had always come running to meet him when he returned, hurling herself into his arms.
Thinking of her filled him with pain, and he opened his eyes, banishing the images.
The scent of hoddentin lingered in the wickiup. Made from tule, hoddentin was carried by every Apache male. Medicine men used it in healing. A small amount was placed on the breast or the brow of the sick. It was scattered on the path before a man who was sick or wounded. It was thrown toward the sun at planting time to ensure a good harvest or when a war party left the stronghold. It was sprinkled on the bodies of the dead. It was placed on the tongue of a warrior who was suffering from exhaustion.
He knew the medicine man had used it on last night.
He groaned softly as he pushed himself into a sitting position. His side hurt like hell. Pressing against the wound, he glanced around the wickiup. There was no sign of Nochalo or Marty.
He was wondering if he had the strength to get to his feet when the door flap opened and Marty stepped inside.
“You’re awake,” she exclaimed softly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Just looking at her made him feel good. “How long have I been out?”
“Since yesterday.”
“How are you doing?” he asked. “Are my people treating you all right?”
Under Apache Skies Page 14
