Apache Caress

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

  It occurred to her as they rode into the courtyard that she could ask for help in escaping Cholla here, but she decided that would be futile. Trace Durango was a half-breed himself, and a friend of Quanah’s, so he wouldn’t aid her. Besides she had told Cholla she would help him reach freedom, and she felt inclined to keep her word. She tried to remind herself that she should hate him, but sometimes she had a difficult time remembering why and had to search her memory. She told herself the feeling the scout evoked in her was admiration for his bravery and daring–or even raw lust–nothing more.

  They reined their tired horses up in front of the grand hacienda. The place was breathtaking, giant oleander bushes everywhere, a bubbling fountain in the center of the small pool in the courtyard, a few doves cooing and dipping their pink bills in the water for a drink.

  A little Mexican boy came out the French doors to one side of the courtyard, followed by a yapping, tiny brown dog.

  Cholla cleared his throat. “We are here to see Senor Trace Durango.”

  “Señor Durango? Ah, sí, señor.” The little boy took their horses’ reins and turned to point to the grand house.

  Cholla dismounted, came around to help Sierra down, and they walked across the patio, the tiny dog yapping their arrival to the world. An elderly Mexican servant woman with gray hair and a plump body opened the door, escorted them into the big hall.

  “Señor Trace,” Cholla said to the old woman. She nodded and beckoned them to follow her.

  The place took Sierra’s breath away. It was the most grand manor she had ever seen, with rich Spanish-style furnishings, paintings, and fine rugs. Whoever the Durangos were, they were people of power and wealth.

  Cholla looked around, his face showing that he had never seen anything like this either.

  The old woman led them down the hall and into a room Sierra recognized as a fine library. Shelves of books lined the walls, guns hung in racks on one, and hunting trophies–der antlers and bobcat heads–were displayed amidst the books. It was a truly masculine retreat, with its dark wood desk and the leather sofa before the giant stone fireplace. French doors looked out onto the courtyard. Cholla walked to the fire, warmed his hands.

  Sierra glanced up. “Look!” She gestured to the big painting over the fireplace. It seemed to dominate the room. The woman depicted in it was a beauty, dark-eyed, with wild hair blowing around her shoulders; hair the color of honey. “I wonder who she is.”

  “That’s Cimarron.” The voice came from behind her. “The most beautiful woman who ever lived, except for my mother.”

  She whirled to face a tall, dark, and brooding man. His Spanish and Indian blood showed in his handsome face. The sprinkle of gray in his black hair told her he must be in his middle or late forties.

  “I’m Trace Durango,” he said, and came into the room, his hand outstretched. She let him take her hand and kiss it in a courtly gesture; then he turned and shook hands with Cholla. “May I get you a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he went to the desk on which several expensive crystal decanters stood. “Sherry for you, señora?” Sierra nodded. “Whiskey or tequila?” he asked the Apache.

  “Whiskey.”

  “Prefer tequila myself with a little salt and a twist of lime,” Trace said and brought the drinks over.

  Sierra looked at the portrait again. “Cimarron ... what does it mean?”

  “It’s Spanish, it means Wild One.” He sipped his drink and smiled gently as if remembering. “It’s a very long and romantic story.”

  “I would like to meet her,” Sierra said.

  “Oh, she’s gone to San Antonio with the children for holiday shopping. I’m supposed to take the buggy tomorrow and drive down to join them for some of the festivities.”

  For the first time, Sierra looked around and saw the decorations, realized that it must be near Christmas.

  Without thinking, she blurted out, “Señor Durango, how far is it to Austin?”

  Cholla frowned at her.

  Trace shrugged. “Oh, less than fifty miles. Why, do you know someone there, señora?”

  “Do you by any chance know the Forester family?”

  He frowned. “Everyone in Texas knows the Foresters. They are very rich and powerful and . . .” His voice trailed off, and she had the sudden feeling that Trace Durango did not think much of that family and was too polite to say so. If I could reach Robert’s mother, would she take her son’s widow in?

  Cholla glared at her and cleared his throat. She had a feeling that if she brought up Austin again, he would quickly change the subject. “Quanah sent us,” he said. “We need your help.”

  Immediately, Trace’s handsome face sobered. “Tell me all about it.”

  Sierra curled up on the leather sofa before the fire, sipping the delicious sherry and staring at the portrait while the men talked. The woman in the painting almost seemed alive. Her face was radiant, and in her eyes was an expression only love could have put there.

  When Sierra drifted off to sleep, curled up on the sofa, the men were still talking. She remembered someone covering her with a blanket, and when her eyes flickered open, she smiled up at Cholla as he brushed the hair away from her face.

  She dreamed of Austin and the fine home Robert’s family would have. If they took her in, she would never have to worry about anything again. Once the security would have appealed to her, but now when she thought of wearing a tight corset and attending social functions as a proper widow swathed in black, she felt stifled by the conformity of the conventional life. In fact, Sierra had grown so used to sleeping wrapped in furs and cooking over a campfire that she wasn’t even sure living inside four walls appealed to her anymore.

  She was only vaguely aware that Cholla lifted her from the sofa, swung her up in his powerful arms. She nestled her cheek against his broad chest.

  She heard Trace’s voice. “You can have the guest room upstairs. Maria will show you. There will be food left out, wine; and if you need anything else, just pull the bell cord. At any hour a servant will respond.”

  She didn’t even bother to open her eyes as the man held her close and carried her upstairs. She felt him set her on a bed, and she opened her eyes sleepily to watch him close the door, begin to undress. He is going to make love to her again she thought with a contented smile, and snuggled deeper into the bed. She felt him undress her, kiss her breasts until the nipples swelled against his mouth, wanting more. Sleepily, she reached out to pull him down on her, feeling the heat of him penetrating her as he thrust again and again.

  She kissed the corners of his mouth, dug her nails into his shoulders and imprisoned his straining body by locking her legs around his hard, muscular hips. When he came inside her, throbbing as he spilled his seed, she went into spasms of passion, dropped back off to sleep with him still imprisoned in her body.

  In the middle of the night, they sneaked downstairs like two naughty children and found a delicious outlay of food and wines left for them as Trace had promised.

  When they returned upstairs, Cholla took her again with such renewed virility that she could only wonder at his ability to satisfy her body. Somehow the way he made love to her had changed from those early days right after he had kidnapped her. Now he was more gentle, almost as if he might care for her. But of course, that is nonsense, Sierra reminded herself. She was a woman with a ripe body who just happened to be convenient for his use. Still, he had created such a hunger in her that she didn’t care what the circumstances were; she had to admit she couldn’t get enough of him. There was no love involved; it was lust between two healthy young animals, no more than that.

  The next morning, they cleaned up, breakfasted with Trace in the big dining room. “I’ve decided the easiest thing to do is put you on the train at San Antonio. You’ll arrive in Arizona Territory in style.”

  Cholla looked at him in alarm. “But the whites will arrest us–”

  “No, they won’t.” Trace said with easy confidence, “You’ll be dressed i
n the finest of clothes, you’ll have money in your pockets and a compartment; no riding in the day coach for you. I’ll even give you a couple of fine horses, ship them in the baggage car. No one will dare question you. They’ll think you’re a rich Spanish couple on a holiday.”

  It began to dawn on Sierra that it might work. In just a few days, she might be at Fort Bowie, planning the New Year. “But I don’t have any nice clothes.”

  “You’re about Cimarron’s size; she has closets and closets full. Let’s get moving. We’ve got to get to San Antonio.”

  In a little more than an hour, they were climbing into the buggy, both well dressed, complete with baggage. Over Cholla’s protests, Trace had insisted the Apache’s hair be cut like a white man’s. The little Mexican boy came out of the nearby barn, leading two very fine horses; one black gelding and a strangely marked paint mare.

  Cholla’s face lit up. “Why, that’s a Medicine Hat mare. My friend in Arizona raises them. Quint gave me a stallion.”

  “You don’t say?” Trace grinned. “You know Quint Randolph of the Wolfs Den Ranch?”

  Cholla nodded.

  “Small world,” Trace said. “Quint’s a relative by marriage. When you see him again, tell him the family sends regards. By the way, if you have any trouble on this trip, I have an adopted younger brother in west Texas, Maverick Durango of the Lazy M spread.”

  The men fell into excited conversation as the small boy with the barking little dog at his heels tied the horses to the back of the buggy and waved good-bye.

  They were still deep in conversation as Trace slapped the reins and the buggy began to move. Sierra wondered if she was doing the right thing? What if she suddenly jumped on one saddle horse, spooked the other, and took off? Could she find her way to Austin, and would Robert’s mother welcome her into the fold?

  Harriet Forester sat in her elegant carriage and made her assessment of the man sitting across from her. Lieutenant Quimby Gillen was what Texans called “lowdown,” the kind of man who would do anything to advance himself, maybe even raise sheep. His worst mistake was in underestimating her. His expression said he dismissed Harriet Forester as a doddering old woman whom he could fool with his oily charm. Just the kind of friend Robert would have chosen.

  He offered her his sack of candy, and she shook her head, folded her hands in the lap of her expensive black dress. Gillen popped a lemon drop in his mouth, crunched it with a loud, irritating sound much like the crushing of rock in a quarry.

  “Good-bye, Lieutenant, so nice of you to come.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Forester. I am sorry about your son.” He picked up his valise, stepped from the fine carriage out onto the Austin railway platform. “Remember, if Robert’s widow tries to contact you–”

  “I don’t need to be instructed like a stupid schoolgirl,” she snapped. “I’ll be only too happy to let the Army know at once. No strumpet will get her hands on any part of the Forester estate.”

  Gill ran his tongue across his teeth, tasting the last tartness of the candy and studying the woman across from him. The Iron Lady. A servant had told him the citizens of Austin called Harriet Forester that behind her back. No one would dare say any such thing to her face. While the gray-haired woman with the almost turquoise-colored eyes was no great beauty, she still had a presence that money and power could give a matriarch.

  He took her hand, kissed it. “Good-bye, dear lady, and should you ever have a need, think of me as another son.” Especially when it comes to disposing of your money, he thought as he smiled at her.

  “I have other children, Lieutenant,” she said coldly, withdrawing her hand from his, “although Robert was one of my favorites, I’ll admit that. He was spoiled and headstrong. I’ll always regret disowning him too hastily.”

  “I’m sure you felt you had good reason, dear lady,” Gill murmured soothingly.

  “All my children do as I tell them,” Harriet Forester said, “or at least, they used to. Robert had never had to earn a dime in his life, and he really didn’t know how. I suppose he thought he had no option but to join the Army. I had hoped it would make a man of him; I never dreamed he might marry some low immigrant chit, then get killed.”

  The train blew a warning whistle, and Gill picked up his bag, leaned in the window. “If Sierra should contact you, let me know immediately. The Army intends to capture that savage she’s traveling with.”

  Harriet Forester shuddered. “Indians! I hate them. You saw my daughter, Emily. Her mind has never been the same since she was carried off and we had to pay a ransom to get her back. Sometimes I wish those Comancheros had killed her.” Tears came to her eyes. “She’d be better off dead than crazed as she is now.”

  He tried to pat her hand again, but she pulled away and he had a sudden feeling there was more to this stern woman than he gave her credit for.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” she said, “you can be sure if this Sierra person should contact me, I’ll let you know immediately. Do you really think they might get this far?”

  The train whistled, and Gill looked toward the cars waiting in the station, then back to Robert’s mother and nodded. “That girl tried to kill me back at Sundance, and I was only trying to rescue her. She’s just a shameless hussy, not worthy of your proud name.”

  “All aboard!” yelled the conductor.

  Gill turned away from the elegant carriage.

  “Lieutenant, how will I reach you if I hear from her?”

  “You know where I change trains. You could wire the station there, I suppose, or wire any station along the way and they’ll get the message to me. Good-bye, dear lady. You remind me of my own dear departed mother.” He touched his hat, held on to his bag, ran for the train as it began to move.

  The rich old bitch, he thought with a sneer as he swung aboard, turned, and waved to the elderly woman in the fine carriage. She did remind him of his mother–the same kind of sour-faced old hag, angry because her favorite son had died. She wished it had been Quimby and said so. Like her husband, she resented his taking one peppermint for himself.

  Gill went down the aisle of the swaying train, hanging onto the backs of seats to balance himself. As he walked, he congratulated himself on his cleverness. “Gill, blast it all, you’ve certainly thought of everything.”

  He smiled with satisfaction as he put his bag in the overhead rack, sank onto one of the horsehair seats. If Cholla somehow made it all the way back to Arizona, Gill intended to be waiting for him there, to kill him or turn him around and put him back on the train to the Florida prison. And the girl. He touched his head where Sierra had struck him with the lamp. Maybe he would offer not to press charges in exchange for sexual favors.

  A railroad conductor came down the aisle, and Gill grabbed his arm. “Hey, this train on time?”

  “A little behind, sir, but we’ll make connections all right if we don’t pick up too many folks at all the stops between here and there.” He looked at the ticket Gill held out. “Yas, sir, you shouldn’t have no trouble makin’ your connection on west to Arizona.”

  Gill pocketed his ticket, leaned back, and stared boredly at the other passengers, considered how many little whistle-stops there were in that hundred-mile stretch between Austin and the bustling city where he would change trains. Idly he reached for his sack of hard candy and wondered if the San Antonio station would be crowded with holiday travelers.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sergeant Tom Mooney paused in front of the stable door, stroking the big Medicine Hat stallion. “Sure, and I miss Cholla, too. The Lord only knows where he is.”

  The yellow dog lying at his feet whined softly. Here he was with the Apache scout’s animals, wondering just where his friend might be right now with winter sweeping across the country.

  Lieutenant Gatewood’s tall, slender frame came around the corner. “Ah, Sergeant, I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Sir?” Mooney saluted, almost afraid to hear whatever news the lieutenant might bring.


  “There was a breakdown in the telegraph wires farther north, ice on them and all that. But we finally heard from Gillen.”

  “And?”

  Gatewood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He actually made contact with Cholla and the hostage in some little Indian Territory settlement called Sundance.”

  Tom’s heart seemed to skip, and he flexed and unflexed freckled fingers, afraid the next words would be of Cholla’s death. And what had become of Sierra Forester?

  “Strange,” Gatewood mused as he leaned against the stall, patted the horse. “Gillen says the woman hit him in the head, nearly killed him. Then she helped the Apache escape a lynch mob.”

  “Holy Saint Patrick!” Mooney didn’t know what to think. “Is Lieutenant Gillen sure the woman was Mrs. Forester?”

  Gatewood nodded. “Yes, he spoke with her, offered to help her, so the wire says. She fled town with Cholla.”

  She’s fallen in love with him, Tom thought with sinking heart. The photo in his jacket seemed to burn into his wiry body. The best friend he had in the world and the woman whose photo he had fallen in love with. “Did you say they got away, sir?”

  “According to Gillen. He’s convinced Cholla will try to make it back here. Surely he isn’t loco enough to do that.”

  Mooney shrugged and drummed his fingers against the stall door. “He’s probably the only man I know who could, sir.” Of course he will come back, Tom thought. Cholla loves and knows this country, all the way down into Mexico, better than a man knows the body of his own woman.

  “Gillen was going to search that area, then go on down to Austin. He has some idea that Sierra Forester might try to make contact with Robert’s family and, if so, then he’d at least have some clue as to their whereabouts.”

  “He thinks Cholla is headed south again?”

  “The tracks headed south before he lost them. Of course Cholla might end up in Comanche country along the Red River, and that tribe isn’t friendly to Apaches.”