Apache Caress

by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress

  But Sierra did not. She lay there, his half-naked body against hers, remembering the feel of his thumb stroking her nipple, the heat of his hand moving down her bare leg to her ankle. Trussed up and awaiting his next whim, she felt like some kind of ritual sacrifice. She had no doubt that when he awoke refreshed, before he killed her and fled, he’d use her right there on the rug before the fire.

  In spite of herself, exhaustion eventually overcame her and she dozed off. When she awakened just before dawn, he was resting on one elbow staring down into her face.

  Now, she thought, now is when he takes me.

  Chapter Three

  Sierra rolled away from him with difficulty, sat up. “Why don’t you just steal what you want and go?”

  He sat up, too, felt his bandaged arm tentatively. “I’ve thought of a better idea.”

  The look he gave her told Sierra she wasn’t going to like this. Her arms and legs were cramped from her bonds. “How about untying me? I don’t think I have any circulation left.”

  He grunted and reached to untie her wrists and then her ankles. He had such brown, callused hands, and they were warm on her bare flesh.

  Sierra rubbed first one wrist and then the other. It must be almost dawn. Surely there was a posse or Army patrol scouring the countryside this morning looking for the fugitive. There might even be a reward.

  A reward. Money to pay the bank. Maybe the stranger was going to provide the answer to saving her farm. Banker Toombs and Sheriff Lassiter were due here to serve the papers on her in a couple of hours. If she could just delay the savage . . .

  Sierra shook her hair back. “I . . . I need to relieve myself.”

  “Go on outside. But don’t try to get away, I’ll keep an eye out. We’ll gather up what we need and get out of here.”

  “We?”

  “You heard me. I need a hostage; at least for a while.”

  Merciful heavens. He intends to leave no witnesses, Sierra thought with a shudder. When he doesn’t need me any longer, he’ll kill me and hide my body.

  She trembled as she stood up. Could she stall him ’til the sheriff came? Or maybe she might slip away and run to the nearest neighbor. No, that family had small children. If Cholla followed her, she would be putting them in danger. A farm where there were grown men was almost two miles away. When she looked at him, the savage was staring at her slim form as if he could see through the thin chemise. She was aware that blood rushed to her face. “I’ll get dressed.”

  The savage’s dark eyes swept over her again, and she felt naked and vulnerable.

  “All right,” he agreed, “we’ve got to get moving.”

  She took her time about putting on the plain black dress over the chemise, having a little difficulty with the buttons down the back since her arms were so stiff from being tied.

  “You need some help?”

  “No, I ... I’ll manage.” She didn’t want him putting his hands on her. Sierra slipped into her shoes and reached for the hairbrush.

  “Look,” he snapped, “you aren’t going to a party. Forget your hair for now.”

  She must not anger him. “All right. I’m going outside to ... well, you know. Then I’ll search the barn to see if those old hens laid any eggs yesterday.”

  “No”–he shook his head–“we’ve got to leave.”

  “We’ll have to eat sometime,” she argued, “and I’ve got bacon and some Homemade bread already baked.”

  He merely grunted as if giving grudging approval. “I’ll look around, see what else we might be able to use.”

  “How far do you intend to take me?” She felt her heart begin to beat in apprehension. Only as far as a likely place to hide a body, she thought.

  “Haven’t decided yet. Now hurry. And don’t try any tricks. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m not a person to take chances. I always play it safe. My grandfather set great store on conforming; fear from the Old Country.”

  “And I’m just the opposite.” The Apache frowned down at her. “Life was meant to be lived to the fullest, not cowering in fear.”

  “You’ll live longer my way.”

  He frowned. “No, it’ll just seem longer. I want to live, not exist.”

  “Is this living? On the run and hiding out?” She flung the words at him and then was shocked by her own bravado.

  He grabbed her shoulder so hard, his fingers bit into her flesh. “I’m in this spot because white soldiers convinced me it was better for my people if they conformed. What a trusting fool I was!”

  Sierra pulled out of his grasp and slammed out the door without another word. She felt him watching her as she headed toward the outhouse.

  When she came out, he was still standing by the window. Sierra proceeded to make an elaborate show of searching around in the weeds for hen’s nests, then went into the barn. What was she to do now? If only her mule had been broken to ride. But the stubborn old thing had only pulled plows and wagons in all his years on this farm.

  Sierra ran to the rear of the barn, paused by the back door, thinking fast. If he thought she was searching the barn for eggs, she would have a few minutes to get away. Only a few hundred yards behind the barn was a thicket where she might lose herself from view. She would have the advantage because she knew the countryside, had played in the woods all her life. There was just a slim chance that she might manage to get away and make it to the Miller farm so they could alert the authorities.

  Merciful heavens. If he caught her trying to escape, he’d kill her. But wasn’t he going to kill her anyway? She who had never taken chances was being forced to now by desperate circumstances. Looking behind her to make sure he had not followed, Sierra slipped out the back door of the barn. She only took two steps before colliding with the big Indian.

  She screamed and tried to run past him, but he caught her and they struggled. “Let me go, you murdering savage!”

  “You lying white bitch! I knew better than to trust you!” He tried to pick her up, but she fought and scratched and bit in sheer desperation. She had nothing to lose if he was going to kill her anyway.

  In the scramble of arms and legs, Sierra tripped and they both went down, struggling in the straw.

  Her skirts worked up around her thighs as they rolled and fought, but he managed to grab both her wrists. Sierra was no match for his strength. He lay half on top of her, pinning her down by sheer weight while she gulped for air.

  “You conniving white tart!” he snarled, “I ought to–”

  “I was afraid!” She struggled to get out from under him, very aware of his weight across her, the feel of his sinewy thighs and of his manhood. She could actually feel his heart beating against her breast, the warmth of his skin on hers. He held her wrists pinned against the ground above her head which arched her breasts up against him.

  He, too, breathed heavily from the exertion. Sierra felt his breath hot on her cheek. Every time either of them breathed, his massive chest pushed against her nipples.

  For a long moment, they lay there with him looking down into her face. One of his legs lay between her thighs and his manhood gradually went rigid as iron against her body. “If I had the time,” he said slowly, “I’d do what you keep expecting.” He stood up, yanked her to her feet. “I’ll help you find those eggs. I’m hungry.”

  He hadn’t killed her yet because he needed her to help him escape. That was the only reason she was still alive. But when he had no further use for her . . . She shuddered. If she didn’t outwit him or escape, she wouldn’t see tomorrow morning. Brushing the straw off her dress, Sierra led the way into the barn. She noticed the Apache had lost one of the bright silver conchos off his tall moccasins. She couldn’t remember if it had been missing last night, but it didn’t matter.

  While she searched for eggs, he found some tools in the barn, managed to break the steel cuffs off his wrists and ankles, hid the chains. Dawn had turned from gray to pink when they returned to the house with the eggs.

 
Cholla picked up the butcher knife. “I’ll slice the bacon this time,” he said pointedly.

  Sierra fixed breakfast as slowly as she could, ignoring his attempts to hurry her. She needed time to think or at least stall him until banker Toombs and the sheriff turned up. They finished eating.

  “Now”–he thought aloud–“I need some clothes.”

  She looked him up and down. “Maybe some of my husband’s clothes might fit you.”

  He frowned in evident disapproval. “Apaches don’t keep dead relative’s things, they give them away.”

  “Well, if you’re too superstitious to wear them–”

  “How long’s he been dead?”

  “Since July.” Funny, she felt no pang of loss, only guilt. The brief marriage had been a failure. Sierra had really tried, but in a few weeks, she had realized that Robert had never loved her.

  “What happened to him?” The Indian stared at her curiously.

  It would surely enrage this savage to hear her husband had been a cavalry officer killed in action against the Apache. Robert might even have fought against this man; killed some of his relatives. This warrior might even be the one who widowed her.

  “He . . . went off looking for gold in the West and got shot.” It was the truth. It had hurt Sierra when she’d finally realized Robert must have asked to be assigned to Arizona Territory, both to escape the marriage and because of the gold rumors.

  The Indian sat down on a chair, pulled off his moccasins and then his buckskin breeches. He wore only the briefest loincloth under them. “Gold. It is forbidden for Apaches to dig for Usen’s own sacred metal. But the soldiers wanted it, and thought we all might know where to find it.”

  He was all but naked, hard muscles rippling beneath scarred brown skin. Sierra tried not to look at him as she got up, went to the big walnut wardrobe, took out some of Robert’s pants and shirts. She looked at the Indian’s feet. “I’m afraid my husband had bigger feet than yours.”

  “Never mind, I like my moccasins better anyhow. Finish packing whatever you need. I’ll hitch up the mule.” He took the clothes from her, and she watched the way his massive chest breathed as he put the shirt on, buttoned it.

  His legs were strong and bare, the brief loincloth revealing the large bulge of his manhood as he put on the pants and the tall moccasins. Yes, he was bigger than Robert in at least one place.

  Her gaze went to the old rifle, the axe, and the butcher knife, but he walked over, picked them up.

  The scissors. The only thing left she might use for a weapon. Sierra gestured toward the small trunk. “I want to take that.”

  He nodded, picked it up easily and carried it out the door to the wagon. “Hurry up. I’ll get the mule.”

  Sierra watched him put the trunk in the wagon, walk toward the barn, his muscular hips lean in the tight pants. She gripped the door a long moment and sighed. In less than twelve hours, she’d taken more risks than she had in a whole lifetime, but she had a sinking feeling she was only delaying the inevitable. At least she was still alive. If she could only stall him a little longer, banker Toombs and Sheriff Lassiter might get here. What was the best way to get his mind off leaving in such a rush?

  Sierra shook her hair back, remembering the way his maleness had hardened against her body, the way he had looked at her, as if he would like to rip her dress away and take her right there on the rug like a common whore. Was she desperate enough to let him do it?

  With a shudder, she decided she was. It was better than dying, but not much. She hated him so much that for a moment, she wanted to run out and attack him with her fists; then she managed to control herself. Anything to delay him. She took her own sweet time gathering up a skillet, a side of bacon, some foodstuff. Put all of the things in a box. Struggled to carry it out to the wagon and lift it up in the back. The Indian came up just then, leading the mule.

  “Why didn’t you ask?” he said. “I would have carried that. It’s too heavy for you.”

  She sneered. “I’ve been running this farm alone since late spring so I can manage without any help from you.” She would have been embarrassed if he knew that she also did it while Robert was there. Grandfather had always helped, but then he’d fallen out of the loft and onto the sharp plow a couple of weeks after her marriage.

  “Suit yourself.” The Indian only shrugged and began to hitch up the mule. “That’s what big men are for.”

  “Is that all they’re for?” She said it archly, her heart beating with apprehension. She didn’t really know how to flirt. Shy and isolated from most people who thought the immigrant and his granddaughter a little peculiar, Sierra had married the only man who had ever kissed her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” The savage looked over his shoulder at her as he finished with the harness.

  She must do whatever she could to delay him until the sheriff arrived. “I ... I’ve been without a man a long time....” At that point, she lost her nerve. “There’s other things in the house. I’ll get them.” She fled inside.

  He followed her in. She went and stood in front of the fireplace, staring at the dead ashes.

  He came up behind her. “Are you offering yourself to me, a dirty savage? Why?”

  “In exchange for letting me go!” She whirled around, shaking now.

  He raised one eyebrow at her. “If I wasn’t in a hurry and didn’t need a hostage, I’d be tempted. But I like my women eager, and I’ll bet you’re as cold as your eyes.”

  Cold. That was what Robert had called her. But then he was always in such a hurry to be done . . .

  The Apache laughed. “Go get in the wagon, Dark Eyes.” He went outside.

  Her face burned with humiliation. The Apache wasn’t interested in her body, despite the way he had acted last night–or had he seen through her ploy? Sierra hesitated. Should she try to leave a message in case they didn’t meet a posse or the sheriff along the road? No, her captor was too smart for that. He’d look around inside before they left. It seemed hopeless.

  She went out to the wagon, aware that sometime this very morning she was going to have her throat cut by a savage with a strange name. Without thinking, she asked, “What does it mean–Cholla?”

  “It’s a type of thorny cactus, not something to be messed with or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Very appropriate, I’m sure,” Sierra said.

  “There’s some as think so.” He grabbed her by the waist before she could object and lifted her up onto the wagon seat. His big hands had almost spanned her slim waist, and she could still feel the heat from his fingers. “You should brush your hair. Anyone who sees you might wonder why it’s so tangled. I’ll get your brush–”

  “Never mind, I can get it myself.” She turned around and saw he had put the trunk directly behind the driver’s seat. She didn’t want him digging around in there and finding the scissors.

  While she hurriedly brushed her hair and tied it in a bun at the back of her neck, he went inside, probably to make sure she hadn’t left any notes and maybe to pick up whatever he thought might be of use later. Then he came out with the rifle, the axe, and the butcher knife; climbed up in the back of the wagon and positioned himself behind the trunk, under the canvas cover. “Now, Dark Eyes, you are going to drive. No one will even know I’m back here. You can handle a mule, can’t you?”

  “Yes.” She picked up the reins. Although he was squatted behind the trunk, he was close enough to touch. She felt his hand hot on her back and then the sharp blade of the knife against her flesh.

  “Just to remind you, not to give any signals to anyone you pass. If there’s trouble, you’ll be the first one to die.”

  His tone left no doubt in her mind that he’d kill her. “Cholla, if I help you escape, will you free me somewhere?”

  “Get moving,” he said. “You aren’t in any position to bargain.”

  That was certainly true. She had delayed him as long as she could. There was nothing to do now but slap the old mule across the
rump with the reins and start off down the road. “Where do you want me to head?”

  Through the black fabric, she felt his fingers stroke up and down her back. “You know where the big bridge that crosses the river is?”

  “Yes.” The feel of his hand unnerved her. She’d been under stress for too many hours, waiting for him to rape and kill her. Sierra watched the mule’s rump as it plodded along pulling the wagon. “You want me to drive to Ead’s Bridge?”

  “If that’s what they call it.”

  “But there’ll be a lot of traffic; people.”

  “Is there another bridge?” He sounded as tense as she felt.

  “No, not for miles.” Sierra smiled to herself. He really was trapped on the east side of the Mississippi unless he could find another way. “There might be a ferry boat somewhere, but I don’t know of one. Or you might try swimming it.”

  “No one could swim that. We’ll have to try getting across the bridge. Do you know how to get there?”

  “Yes. Grandfather and I used to go into East Saint Louis on Saturdays in the summer. We sold vegetables from the back of the wagon there.”

  They were driving past his grave now. What was it Grandfather had tried to tell her when he had been dying in her arms? Robert’s screams at finding him had brought her running to the barn. They had buried Grandfather next to her mother under the apple tree. Then Sierra had been all alone in the world except for her dog and her husband.

  Merciful heavens, she was saved! Over the rise in the road, riding toward them, were the banker and the sheriff. Behind her, her captor cursed softly. “You vixen, now I know why you were trying to delay me!”

  She felt the blade of the knife and the heat of his hand on her back and glanced over her shoulder. The Apache hid behind the trunk, an old quilt over him so he couldn’t be seen.

  He poked her with the knife again. “Remember I’ve also got the rifle,” he growled. “I can kill all three of you if I have to!”