RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  “A box canyon about seventy miles from the mine. The Mescalero come here for the winter.” He sat cross-legged beside her. “How are you?”

  “Fine, now that you’re here.”

  Tyree smiled. It was good to see her awake and alert. She had been unconscious for two days, burning with fever, and only the medicine man’s skill had saved her. He knew he would never have forgiven himself if she had died.

  “How long have we been here?” Rachel asked. “When can we go home?”

  “No questions now. You rest.”

  “I’m tired of resting. I feel fine, really.”

  “Never mind. You just stay put.” Tyree grinned suddenly. “Do I have to take your clothes away to make sure you won’t get up until I say it’s all right?”

  Rachel laughed, wincing as the movement sent a fresh shaft of pain through her side. “I’ll be good,” she promised.

  For the next few days, she ate and slept and ate again. Thanks to the wizened old medicine man, her side healed quickly and she was on her feet again before the next week was out, although Tyree would not let her stay up too long. Still, it was wonderful to be able to sit outside and feel the sun on her face.

  It was a unique experience, sitting outside the medicine man’s lodge in the middle of the Apache camp. These were the people Tyree had grown up with, and she studied them carefully. The women were short and tended to be plump. Their hair was long and straight and black, their eyes dark, their skin the color of copper. They wore long doeskin tunics that reached their ankles, or cotton blouses and full, swirling calico skirts. Rachel was surprised to discover that Indian women were not so different from white women. They cared for their loved ones, sewed and cooked and mended, laughed and cried, nursed their young, argued with their husbands. They tended small vegetable gardens and made beautiful baskets from willow rods. Sometimes strips of black devil’s-claw were intertwined with the willow to create intricate designs.

  The Apache men spent their time hunting or gambling or repairing their weapons. They played with their children, guided the young warriors along the path to manhood, protected the village. They wore clouts and knee-high moccasins and deerskin vests. Their hair was also long and black, frequently adorned with feathers or bits of fur.

  The children were happy, bright-eyed and inquisitive. They stared at Rachel with unabashed curiosity, fascinated by her golden hair and sky-blue eyes. The little girls played with dolls made of corn husks or helped their mothers with chores and younger brothers and sisters; the boys played at hunting and making war.

  They were a proud and fearsome people and Rachel shuddered when she remembered the tales of treachery she had heard. The Apaches were rumored to be the most vicious fighters in the Southwest. The Chiricahua chief, Cochise, had fought in a long and bloody war with the whites that had lasted ten years. Geronimo was still at war with the Army, though he was currently raiding and killing far to the south. It was said the Apache fought without mercy, that they delighted in the shedding of blood.

  For all their fearsome ways, they were a highly superstitious people. The newly dead were to be avoided at all costs, the names of the deceased were never spoken aloud lest their spirits be called back to earth. The Apache did not eat the fish that thrived in the river because it was believed the fish was related to the snake and was therefore cursed.

  Rachel glanced around the camp. The Apache called themselves Dineh, meaning the People, the chosen ones. The name Apache was a Zuni word meaning enemy.

  Rachel smiled warmly at Tyree when he came to sit beside her.

  “You okay?” he asked. The concern in his eyes warmed her heart.

  “I’m fine.”

  “That was a brave thing you did, coming after me.”

  Rachel shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave you there.”

  “You could have,” Tyree said quietly. “How the hell did you know where to find me anyway?”

  “I asked Annabelle.”

  “Annabelle!” Tyree swore profusely, his hands itching to sink a knife into the treacherous heart of the flaming-haired woman who had sold him into hell.

  “If it weren’t for Annabelle, I never would have found you,” Rachel remarked matter-of-factly.

  Tyree snorted. “Hell, if it weren’t for Annabelle, you wouldn’t have had to come looking for me. Which, by the way, was a damn fool thing to do.”

  “You’re welcome,” Rachel murmured.

  “You know what I mean. Standing Buffalo told me how he found you. Dammit, Rachel, you might have been killed.”

  “It was a chance I had to take. But if you’re sorry I found you, just say so, and I’ll take you back!”

  “Hold on,” Tyree said, laughing softly. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He placed his hand over her arm, let his fingers slide up the smooth flesh to her shoulder, to her neck, to the gentle curve of her cheek. Her skin was soft, warm. He gazed into her eyes, as blue as the sky above, and thought how brave she had been to come after him. His nostrils filled with the scent of her, stirring his desire, and he wished she were well enough that he could carry her into the lodge and make love to her. He had yearned for her for so long, wanting her, needing her.

  His eyes moved over her face and found it perfect. Slowly, his gaze settled on her lips. Her mouth was slightly open, looking warm and inviting. Again, he thought of all the days and nights he had longed for her, and he bent forward to kiss her.

  A soft laugh sounded from nearby. Rachel quickly drew back, her cheeks flushing, as she looked over Tyree’s shoulder and saw several Indian children watching them.

  Tyree glanced over his shoulder and scowled. “Go on, get lost,” he muttered irritably, and Rachel laughed out loud as the children scattered.

  “Oh, Tyree,” she murmured, “it’s so good to be alive.”

  As Rachel’s strength returned, they began to take long walks together, resting when she grew weary, sometimes napping in the shade of a windblown pine. Tyree looked wonderful in the buckskins he wore, Rachel thought proudly. His hair, uncut for the last six months, hung past his shoulders, emphasizing his Indian blood. His skin had regained its healthy color now that he no longer spent the daylight hours underground, and from a distance it was hard to distinguish Tyree from the other Indian men.

  Despite the fact that she was surrounded by a savage people and living in a crudely built brush hut, despite the strange food and the harsh, guttural language she could not understand, Rachel was happier than she had ever been in her life. Tyree was alive and well. His amber eyes glowed with longing when he looked at her, and she could hardly wait until she was well again, until she could show him how much she loved him.

  The old medicine man moved out of his lodge, taking up residence with his sister for the duration of their stay so that Tyree and his woman could be alone. Sometimes Rachel felt as if they were the only two people in the world, especially late at night when the village was asleep and she lay wrapped in Tyree’s arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his breath warm against her face.

  The first night they made love was like something out of a dream. The fire cast eerie shadows on the walls of the lodge. The buffalo robe beneath her was soft and warm, primitive. Tyree lay naked beside her, his dark bronze skin kissed by the light of the flickering flames. His eyes glowed brighter than the fire as he lowered his body over hers, his mouth caressing every inch of her eagerly quivering flesh, his hands moving intimately over her body until she was aflame with desire. She whispered his name, her arms twining around his neck as her hips lifted to receive him. Their flesh merged and now, engulfing him, she felt whole, fulfilled. Together, they soared upward, ever upward, leaving the earth and its cares far behind…

  Many nights, after the evening meal had been eaten and the children were in bed, the Apaches gathered around a central campfire to dance and sing and tell stories.

  Rachel watched, fascinated, as the warriors danced and postured around the fire, recounting tales of great battles, of enemie
s slain and coup counted. Their copper-hued skin glistened brightly in the flickering light of the flames. Their faces, hideously streaked with paint, were reminiscent of spirits escaped from the bowels of hell. The rhythmic beat of the drums, the high-pitched chanting of the drummers, the rapt faces of the women and old men, all combined to make Rachel feel as if she were caught up in a world that was not quite real.

  One night, Tyree joined the men as they danced. Rachel stared at him in wonder. Now, for this moment, he was totally Indian. His shoulder-length hair was held from his face with a strip of red cloth. His skin, as swarthy as any of the Apaches, glowed in the firelight. He was clad only in a brief wolfskin clout and knee-high moccasins, and Rachel felt a queer churning in the pit of her stomach as she watched him dance. He belongs here, she thought absently. He’s a part of this, a part of the People. He was so handsome, so male, she felt a sudden rush of desire as he passed before her, his amber eyes alight with the joy of the dance, his head thrown back as he uttered a shrill cry.

  It was good, Tyree thought exultantly, good to dance the dances of the People, good to be a part of the whole instead of standing on the outside looking in. He laughed aloud, filled with the joy of being alive. How easy it was to shed the veneer of civilization, he mused. How easy it was to revert to the old ways, the ancient ways. He knew a sudden yearning to ride to war, to feel the wind in his face as he went out in search of scalps and glory.

  His feet moved easily to the rhythm of the drum, the Apache words came readily to his lips as he joined in the song. The night was filled with stars, the air was heavy with the scent of sage and wood smoke and tobacco. The firelight danced along the sides of the wickiups, creating shadow dancers who bobbed and swayed to the beat of the drum. His eyes sought Rachel’s face and he felt the desire swell in his loins as she smiled at him. Her blue eyes were wide as she watched him dance, and he wondered what she was thinking. Did she find him frightening, disgusting, repulsive? His steps carried him nearer to where she sat with some of the other women, and he let out a wild cry as he read the expression in her eyes. She was not disgusted by what she saw. The drumming, the dancing, the sweat dripping down his torso had awakened a primal urge within the core of her being. He saw it in her eyes and was glad.

  Later, alone in their borrowed lodge, he made love to her, possessing her wildly, fiercely, making her feel like some primitive, uncivilized female completely devoid of modesty or shame. Caught up in the moment, Rachel gave herself to Tyree with carefree abandon, holding nothing back, but gladly giving all she had to give.

  She was embarrassed to face him the following morning. What would he think of her? No lady worthy of the name would have behaved in such an uninhibited fashion. She had touched him and fondled him as never before, boldly exploring his lean frame, finding new ways to excite him. It had all seemed so right under cover of darkness, but now she was not so sure. Perhaps she had gone too far. But when she found the courage to meet his eyes, she saw only tenderness there.

  The days passed, one upon the other. They walked in the woods, swam in the icy river, made love beneath the bold blue sky.

  One night Tyree pulled her into the circle of dancing men and women. Rachel blushed, her awkwardness making her uncomfortable and self-conscious. But Tyree refused to let her quit. The steps were simple, few in number, and she quickly learned the dance. She smiled at Tyree, pleased with her success, letting herself sway in time to the soft beat of the drums, basking in the desire she read in his eyes.

  They had been in the Indian camp about three weeks when several of the young girls reached puberty. This was, Rachel learned, a time of celebration. The girls were dressed in elaborately painted and beaded costumes and then they danced before the tribe. The ceremony lasted four days. Four, Tyree explained, was a magic number. There were four directions to the earth, four seasons in the year.

  During the celebration, many ritual chants and dances were performed, punctuated with feasting, entertainment and gift-giving. Rachel stared in awe as four Apache warriors stepped into the firelight one evening. They were dressed in spectacular kilts, black masks, and wooden headdresses. Each carried a wooden sword. They were called Gans, Tyree said, and represented the mountain spirits. Usually they danced to ward off evil or to cure an illness, but on this night they danced only to entertain.

  At the end of the four days, the girls returned to their lodges. It was strange, Rachel thought, that the Indians made such a fuss over a condition of nature that white women spoke of only in whispers.

  It was January when Rachel began to think about going home. Pleasant as her stay with the Indians had been, she could not remain at the rancheria indefinitely. Soon, her father and Claire would return from St. Louis. She did not want her absence to cause her father to worry when there was nothing to worry about. Not only that, but she was beginning to miss the comforts she was accustomed to, things like a hot bath in a tub, clean sheets on a soft bed, a downy pillow, fresh milk and cheese and bread. She wanted to put on a clean dress and go shopping in town, buy a new hat, visit with Carol Ann, go to church, read her Bible…so many things to do, things she had never thought she would miss until they were out of reach.

  Yes, it was time to go home. She voiced the idea to Tyree later that night when they were alone in their lodge.

  “Home.” Tyree stared into the coals. “For me, this is home. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it all until now.”

  He slanted a glance in Rachel’s direction, saw the dismay in her eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wry grin. “I’ll take you back to Yellow Creek.” His voice grew harsh, his expression ominous. “I have a little unfinished business with a certain black-hearted bitch.”

  “Annabelle.” Rachel breathed the name aloud, hardly aware that she had spoken.

  “Yes,” Tyree said flatly. “Annabelle.”

  “Tyree, I thought that we…that you and I…I mean.” She looked at him helplessly. He had not mentioned loving her, had not mentioned marriage. And now, suddenly, neither could she. “You know what I mean?”

  “I know. We’ll talk about it later. Right now you’d better get some sleep. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  They left the winter camp early the next morning. For Rachel, going home had lost some of its enchantment. Tyree had spoken of the Indian camp as home. Would he return to the Apache once he had delivered her safely to Yellow Creek and her father’s house? She could not bear the thought of losing him again, yet she could not summon the courage to ask what his plans were. If he was going to leave her, she did not want to know it. Not yet. They talked of inconsequential things as they rode across the prairie. Rachel spoke of her father and Claire, of how Annabelle had burned the Lazy H, how Slash W cattle were running on Halloran range. She spoke of the new mercantile, of the five new families that had moved into town. She did not ask Tyree about the six months he had spent in the mine, and he did not enlighten her. She knew, nevertheless, that it had been hard on him. There was a new tenseness about him, a new bitterness in his eyes. There was something else, too, an intangible something she could not quite put her finger on. Sometimes she caught a hint of it when he thought she wasn’t looking at him, an odd look lurking in the back of his eyes. She worried over it for several days and then, late one night, she saw Tyree staring into the flames and she knew what was driving him. It was a deep-rooted need for vengeance against Annabelle Walsh.

  Despite the heat of the fire, Rachel felt suddenly cold all over. Logan Tyree was a violent man, a dangerous man to run afoul of. She felt a sudden surge of pity for Annabelle.

  It took ten days to reach Yellow Creek. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as she rode into the side yard and stepped wearily from her horse. This place would never be home the way the Lazy H had been home, but just now it looked like a king’s palace. She smiled at Tyree as he came up behind her and took the buckskin’s reins.

  “I’ll put the horses away,” he said.
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  Rachel nodded. “I’ll put the coffee on,” she remarked, and hurried inside, weak with happiness because he wasn’t just going to drop her off and ride on.

  Claire’s house was not particularly large, but compared to an Apache wickiup, it seemed huge. She bustled about, and all the while she was thinking of Tyree, wanting Tyree.

  She felt a rush of anticipation as he entered the kitchen and closed the door.

  “Would you like to wash up?” Rachel asked. “There’s a tub on the porch. It will only take a few minutes to heat some water.”

  “Sounds good.” He pulled a chair out from the table, threw a leg over the seat and rested his arms on the back.

  Rachel poured him a cup of coffee, aware of Tyree’s eyes following her every move. She filled several large kettles with water from the pump and set them on the stove to heat.

  “How’s Wesley?” Tyree asked after a lengthy silence.

  “He’s fine,” Rachel answered, frowning. “Why?”

  Tyree shrugged. “Just curious. He still hanging around?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Does he still want to marry you?”

  Rachel felt herself go cold all over. “Yes, he does.”

  Tyree nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

  “Tyree—”

  “That water hot yet?”

  “Yes.”

  With fluid grace, he unfolded from the chair, brought the tub inside, emptied the steaming pots of water into the tub. He swung around to face her, one heavy brow raised in question. “You gonna watch?” he asked laconically. “Or join me?”

  “Neither,” Rachel said, unable to stay the color suffusing her cheeks. “I’ll wait in the parlor.”

  She left the room quickly, her cheeks burning. With the Apache, they had been so close. They had talked and laughed and shared the most intimate moments she had ever known. But here, in this house, she felt shy and ill at ease.

  In the parlor, she paced the floor, her thoughts chaotic. Why hadn’t Tyree mentioned marriage? What would her father say when he came home and found Tyree in the house? What would she say to Clint? Even though she had told Clint she could not marry him, ever, she knew he felt it was only a matter of time before she changed her mind and said yes. What would she do if Tyree left in the morning? And what about Annabelle?