“I’m fine.” She sat down beside him, a bowl in her hands. “One of the women fixed this for you.”
Ridge nodded. “Have you seen any sign of Dani or Cory?”
Marty’s eyes filled with worry at the mention of her sister’s name. “No.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re not here,” Ridge said in an effort to reassure her. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes. Here.” She handed him the bowl and a spoon. “You must be hungry.”
“Yeah, thanks.” The bowl held thick beef broth, and he wondered idly whose cattle the Apache had stolen.
Marty sat beside him looking apprehensive, her brow furrowed. He knew she was thinking about Dani, wondering if her sister and Cory were still alive. Ridge didn’t hold much hope for Cory, but he was pretty sure Dani was all right. If she was here, she was likely being held as a slave in one of the wickiups.
He drained the last of the broth from the bowl and set it down, then threw the covers aside.
“What are you doing?” Marty asked, averting her gaze.
“Getting up.”
“Do you think you should?” She glanced at the strip of cloth swathed around his middle. It looked very white against the bronze of his skin.
“It’s not a matter of should,” he said, gaining his feet. “It’s a matter of need.”
“Oh.” There was no mistaking what he meant.
She was glad to see that someone—Nochalo, most likely—had provided him with a breechcloth while she’d been gone. Rising, she followed Ridge out of the wickiup.
He went off a ways to ensure his privacy.
Marty stood outside the wickiup, feeling as out of place as a heathen at a prayer meeting. The sun was high in the sky. All around her, men, women, and children were engaged in various activities. The Indians had paid her little attention save to look at her with varying degrees of curiosity or mistrust, but there had been recognition in the eyes of some of the men and women when they saw Ridge.
He returned a few minutes later.
Some of the women smiled at him, a welcome in their eyes. Men came to greet him, grasping him by the forearm, speaking to him in his native tongue.
She watched the play of emotions on his face as he spoke to his people. He seemed as happy to see them as they were to see him, and she wondered how long he had been away from this place. It had obviously been a long time. Why had he gone away? And why had he stayed away?
Gradually, the Indians returned to their own wickiups, leaving Marty and Ridge alone.
“Come on,” Ridge said, taking her by the hand.
“Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
He led her away from the village, down a narrow, twisting path that led to a small verdant valley where horses grazed.
He sat down on a large, flat rock, one hand pressed against his side, and she sat down beside him.
He stared out at the horse herd for a long time. What was he thinking about? Why had he brought her here?
“Ridge?”
Slowly, he turned to face her. From his expression she wondered if he had forgotten she was there.
He drew in a deep breath, grimacing as the movement sent pain skittering through his side. “Dani’s not here.”
“How do you know?” Marty asked. “Where is she? Is she…?”
“A warrior called Sanza has taken her.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean, ‘taken’ her? Taken her where?”
“I don’t know.”
“But she’s alive?” she asked breathlessly.
Ridge nodded. “As far as I know.”
She breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. “Thank God! Why did…?” She frowned as she searched her memory for the unfamiliar name. “Why did Sanza take her?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Ridge replied, but he had a pretty good idea. Dani was young, beautiful, and innocent, a prize no warrior would hesitate to claim. She could be traded for whiskey, sold to the Comancheros for rifles, or kept as a slave.
“What about Cory?”
He didn’t answer, only sat there watching her through eyes as dark and fathomless as a midnight sky.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice raw.
Ridge nodded. “He tried to escape in the middle of the night. One of the sentries killed him. If he hadn’t run, he’d still be alive.”
She nodded. Poor Cory, to have died so young and so needlessly. She wondered if Dani knew of his death. Dani and Cory had practically grown up together. Their families had always been close. How would she ever be able to face his parents again, knowing they would always blame Dani for his death?
“So,” she said, “what do we do now?”
“Wait for Sanza to come home, I reckon.”
“Are you sure he’s coming back?”
Ridge shrugged. “As sure as I can be.”
Marty looked out over the horse herd. Needing something to think of besides Cory’s death and her sister’s fate, she turned her thoughts toward home, wondering what Nettie intended to do with the ranch. Did she plan to stay, or sell the place out from under them? Marty wasn’t sure which would be worse, sharing the ranch with Nettie, or being forced to leave. And what of Victor Claunch? If he wasn’t the one who had killed her father, then who had, and why? To her way of thinking, Claunch was the only man who had a motive. But none of that seemed important now, not when Dani’s life might be in danger. Poor Dani. She had little experience living in the outdoors, had only spent a couple nights sleeping on the ground. How was her sister faring, out there in the wilderness, at the mercy of an Apache warrior?
She slid a glance at Ridge. “He won’t…you don’t think he’d…abuse her, do you?”
Ridge grunted softly. “No. He won’t rape her.”
Marty flinched at the word. “How can you be so sure?”
“You’ll just have to trust me on this one.”
Trust him? To her surprise, she found that she did, indeed, trust Ridge Longtree. No matter that he was a hired gun. No matter that he was wanted by the law. She knew she could trust him, not only with her life, but with her sister’s as well.
“How long has it been since you’ve been back here?” she asked.
“Ten years.”
“Why did you leave?”
His eyes went hard and flat. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “My father was a white man. I’m not sure how he met my mother, but he left his people to live here, with hers. I was born the year after they were married. The Apache adopted my father into the tribe and he became one of us. I was seven when my sister was born.”
He paused, his gaze fixed on the mountaintop across the valley. “She was a beautiful baby. As soon as she could crawl, she started following me everywhere I went. The other boys teased me unmercifully, but I didn’t care. I thought she’d stop trailing after me when she got older, but she didn’t.”
He smiled, a sad wistful smile. “She wanted to go everywhere with me. I took her when I could. Even when I didn’t want to, I couldn’t refuse her.
“It got worse when our mother died. I guess I was about fourteen then, and Neeta was almost seven. It was hard on her, losing our mother. It was harder on my father, partly because my parents had been in love and partly because my sister looked so much like our mother. Every time my old man looked at Neeta, he was reminded of what he had lost.”
Ridge blew out a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. “As much as Neeta loved our father, I was the one she came to when she was hurt or when she was afraid. She crawled into my bedroll when she woke up crying at night.
“I was almost seventeen when I decided I wanted to go and see what the white world looked like. My old man didn’t want me to go. He said no good would come of it, but I was old enough then to do what I wanted, and I was determined to go. Neeta wanted to go with me, of course. She begged and cried, but the old man said no, and that was the end of it.
“I left a couple days later. Neeta clun
g to me, begging me to take her. The old man and I disagreed about a lot of things, but I knew he was right about this. I told her she couldn’t go with me. I promised I’d bring her a present, and she seemed happy with that.”
Ridge shook his head. “I should have known she’d follow me. She’d followed after me her whole life. I’d made camp for the night and I was about to turn in when she came walking in, a big smile on her face. She was so pleased with herself that I couldn’t be angry with her, and even though I knew we were both going to be in a pile of trouble when I got her back home, I was glad to see her.”
He paused and Marty swallowed hard, wondering if she wanted to hear the rest.
“I took her to town and we had a good time. It wasn’t really a town, just a wide spot in the road with a trading post and a saloon. I had some furs to trade, and I bought her a handful of ribbons for her hair and a rag doll and a sack of candy. I bought some tobacco for the old man, sort of a peace offering, I guess. I had a few dollars left over and I thought I’d give that to him, too. Apaches don’t spank their kids, but I knew I was in for a hell of a whipping when I got home.
“It was late afternoon when we left the trading post. We were making camp when two men rode up. I knew they were trouble, but I thought I could take care of it. They were just a couple of saddle tramps, after all, and I was a warrior.”
He slammed his fist against the rock, then lifted his hand and stared at his bloody knuckles.
“They’d come to rob me of the few dollars I had left. I should have given them the money. That was all they wanted, just the money. But I was too proud to give it to them. I was an Apache warrior! No white man was going to take what was mine.”
He shook his head. When he looked at her, his eyes were filled with torment. “Why didn’t I just let them take the damn money?”
She looked at him, wishing she had an answer, wishing she could erase the haunted look from his eyes, wipe the pain from his heart and soul.
“I don’t remember how it happened, but suddenly the two men were off their horses and coming at me. I didn’t have a gun, just a knife and my bow. One of the men struck me with his quirt, and then his partner drew a gun. The next thing I knew, we were all three of us on the ground, grappling for the gun.
“I could hear Neeta crying in the background and suddenly the money didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting her out of there. I elbowed one of the men in the crotch, kicked the other one in the face, and rolled free. I grabbed Neeta and put her on the back of the nearest horse. I smacked the horse on the rump and it took off running, and then I swung up on one of the other ones and rode after her.”
He stared down at the blood oozing from his knuckles. “There were three gunshots. One of them grazed my thigh.” He drew in a deep breath, held it for a long time, then blew it out in a long, shuddering sigh. “The other two hit her in the back. When I got to her, she was dead.”
Marty felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she placed her hand on his. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Of course it was. She’d be alive today if it weren’t for me.” He looked at Marty, his dark blue eyes glittering savagely. “I knew the men would come after us because I still had the money. I left Neeta where she’d fallen and I found a place to hide, and I waited.
“I didn’t have to wait long. When they saw Neeta’s body, they dismounted. I killed them both, and they were a long time dying, but she was still dead. I left the bastards where they fell. I wrapped Neeta’s body in a blanket and took her home.
“My father was waiting for us. He listened to what I had to say, and then he looked at me and said I was no longer his son. I left the stronghold that night. I haven’t been back since.”
“Does your father still live here?”
“No. Nochalo told me the old man took off shortly after I did.”
“I’m so sorry, Ridge. But it wasn’t your fault that those men tried to rob you. None of it was your fault.”
His tortured gaze burned into her. “Then why do I feel so damned guilty?”
“That’s only natural. You were there. She died and you didn’t. Of course you feel guilty. But it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t responsible for what those men did.”
“Dammit, don’t you think I’ve told myself that over and over again? But it doesn’t help.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around his bloodied knuckles. “You have to forgive yourself, Ridge. You’ll never be at peace with yourself or with the past until you do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Nettie sat in front of the fire in the parlor, a cup of tea cooling on the table beside her. Lost in thought, she stared at the flames flickering in the hearth. It had been over a week since Martha and that man, Longtree, had left the ranch to search for Danielle and Cory. Had they found them yet? Surely she would know, in some deep part of her being, if anything had happened to her younger daughter.
She spent a few minutes thinking about Ridge Longtree. Though she had barely met the man and hardly spoken to him, she knew he was a bad one. It was etched in the harsh lines of his face, in the catlike way he noticed everything around him, in the set of his shoulders, the way his hand was never far from the butt of his gun. The West was filled with men of his ilk. Men who didn’t care if they lived or died, who sold their gun to the highest bidder. They did what they were hired to do and then they moved on without a backward glance. What was a man like that doing here? Seamus must have hired him, but why?
It seemed like months had passed since she had stood on the porch and watched Martha and Longtree ride away. It was easy to keep herself occupied during the day. She scrubbed the floors, waxed the furniture, washed the windows and all the bedding, polished the silver, beat the carpets, did the mending and the ironing. She baked every day, only to give most of it to the cowboys. After all, how much bread, cake, or corn muffins could one woman eat?
Yesterday she had gone up to the attic, where she had spent hours looking through old boxes and trunks, smiling wistfully as she went through the dresses and pinafores her daughters had once worn, holding the dolls they had once played with. Danielle’s doll looked almost as good as it had when she opened it one Christmas morning. The dress on Marty’s doll was torn; the doll itself was missing one eye.
Marty’s rocking horse stood in one corner, covered with dust, one ear still bearing the marks of Marty’s baby teeth.
Nettie sighed. She’d had no trouble filling the daylight hours. It was only at night, when the shadows grew long and the melancholy howling of coyotes filled the air, that she realized how lonely—and alone—she was.
Last night, with tears in her eyes, she had gone through Seamus’ belongings. She had packed his clothing into a large box and asked Smitty to put it up in the attic for her. While sorting through her husband’s personal effects, she found the diamond stickpin she had given him on their first anniversary, and the photograph of herself and Martha that she had given to him for Christmas the year Martha was born. Oddly, the pocket watch she had given him for a wedding present had been missing. She wondered if he had thrown it out or given it away. Seamus’ wedding ring had been there, a plain gold band. Hers lay beside it. She remembered the night she had taken it off…
She had waited at the top of the second-floor landing, watching her husband try, unsuccessfully, to tiptoe quietly up the stairs.
“You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?” She had sniffed the air, her nostrils filling with the scent of a cheap perfume that was all too familiar. “And you’ve been with her.”
Seamus’ head jerked up. At any other time, she might have found his surprised expression comical. But not now. Not this time.
“Haven’t you?” she accused, her voice rising.
He had lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Would it do me any good to deny it, wife?”
“Why, Seamus? Why?” She wanted to scream at him, to rake her nails down his face, to beat her fists against his chest,
but, mindful of Martha sleeping just down the hall, she held her ground and kept her voice to an angry whisper. “I love you, Seamus Flynn! I’ve never denied you my bed or your right to be there. Why do you feel the need to go elsewhere?” She blinked the tears from her eyes. “Why?”
Weaving slightly, he shrugged again. “I’m a man.”
“You’re an animal!”
“Is that what you think?” He leered at her. “Shall I show you otherwise?”
She backed away from him, one hand pressed to her heart, as he took the stairs two at a time. With a cry, she turned and ran down the hall to their bedroom. She almost made it, but he was too fast. When she tried to slam the door in his face, he wedged his foot into the doorway, and then he was in the room, his eyes hot as he closed and locked the door…
Later, sobbing into her pillow, she had taken off her wedding ring and thrown it across the room. She had never slept with her husband again. Danielle had been conceived that night…
Thrusting the memories from her mind, she pulled her robe tighter as she glanced around the room. It was a comfortable room. A man’s room. The sofa and chairs were large and covered with dark leather. The tables were of solid mahogany. Seamus’ Winchester still hung over the massive stone fireplace. The hide of a bear he had killed with that rifle still covered the floor in front of the hearth, the same rack of antlers hung on the wall over a low table that held a number of decanters and crystal glasses.
Though the furniture was the same, there was little to show that she had once lived in this house. The few trinkets and the gilt-edged mirror she had brought with her from the East were nowhere to be seen. The doilies she had crocheted during her first long winter on the ranch were missing. So was the quilt she had made when she was pregnant with Danielle. She wondered who had removed her things. Had Martha Jean discarded them, or had Seamus thrown them out, the way he had thrown his wife out?
She stared at the photograph on the mantel. It showed a young Seamus holding a daughter on each knee.
“Damn you, Seamus,” she murmured. “We could have been so happy together if you hadn’t gone chasing after every skirt in town.”
Under Apache Skies Page 15
