by Sharon Ihle
Panting, Cole got to his feet and waited as his captive spit and coughed the sand from his mouth. When the intruder's breathing eased, Cole slowly circled his prisoner, rolling another cigarette as he regarded the man. Even in the dim light of the fire, he could see the man's skin was a shade darker than his own. Pulling a match from his pocket, Cole struck it with his blunt thumbnail and lit the cigarette.
Trying to keep his tone casual, even though his dislike of Indians ran deep, he said, "Are you Apache? Did Geronimo or Mangus send you on some kind of mission?"
Knowing silence was her only real option, Sunny pressed her sand-painted lips together, and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Talk or I'll kick the answers out of you."
Still, she remained mute.
"Come on now, speak up." Impatient, his leg throbbing, Cole dug the toe of his boot into the Indian's ribs. "What evil are you up to, disguised as a white man? I want some answers, Apache."
She gave him one. Sunny turned her head to the side and spit on his boots.
"So that's how it's going to be, is it?"
Cole lashed out with his injured leg and kicked the Indian in the shinbone, drawing a groan from both himself and his prisoner. Hobbling, he backed away.
Sunny peered out from under the brim of her hat, her eyes following the movement of her captor's boots as he crossed back and forth, circling her body. There was no mistaking the awkward gait. He limped badly on his right foot. Had she found her quarry so soon?
In no mood to keep up the one-sided conversation, much less stand on his leg any longer, he threatened, "Fine. Have it your way. I'm tired and hungry. If you get thirsty, all you have to do is talk."
He stalked over to his saddle and removed a coil of rope. Then he returned to his prisoner, fastened one end of the rope to the ankle bindings, looped it through the coils joining the Indian's wrists, and wrapped a length around the man's neck before tying it off on the sturdy trunk of a mesquite tree. This renegade might try to slither off during the night, but if he did, he would find it difficult—if not damn near impossible—to breathe.
Her eyes dark, the color of a thunderstorm at midnight, Sunny watched the killer return to his fire and pull the rabbit from the dying flames. Hatred for the man nearly drove all thoughts of her hunger and thirst from her mind as she plotted her revenge.
Nearly two days ago she'd lost the tracks of the horses she followed, and allowed instinct to lead her on a more northerly route toward Phoenix. She'd been preparing camp for the night a few yards down the side of this rocky slope, when the aroma of roasting meat guided her to the clearing.
Directed by the customs of her ancestors, she'd survived during the past few days by eating only a few sweet beans plucked from the branches of mesquite trees along the way and an occasional bite of her mother's corn flour cakes. No meat, fish, or salt were allowed in the first few days following the death of a family member. And only a few cupfuls of warm water, just enough to sustain life, were permitted.
Sunny stifled an ironic laugh as she thought about how the ravenous appetite brought on by her mother's death had led her to the very man who'd caused it. Lifting her chin, then settling it in a pillow of soft sand, she cocked her head for a better look at her captor. She would commit his features to memory in case he slipped away from her, and hunt him down again if it took the rest of her life.
Trying to ignore the hunks of tender white meat he consumed, Sunny examined the profile he offered. A straight aristocratic nose rested above a drooping mustache the color of pale mustard, but his thick wavy hair beckoned her gaze to return again and again. Illuminated by the glow of the dying fire, its blond strands glistened like the shafts of new wheat on her father's farm, she was reminded her of her mission.
There could be only one solution to correct the wrong that had been done. The man would have to die. And for that to happen, Sunny would have to find a way to gain an advantage over him. What were his strengths, his weaknesses?
He was a remarkably handsome man, almost too well- dressed for the trail in a pair of blue denim pants, grey shirt with a plain blue scarf tied around his throat, and a black leather vest. A gentleman, some would say.
He would be the kind of man who attracted white women of all ages, Sunny supposed, the kind who'd broken numerous hearts along the way, tickled thousands of mouths with the thick brush he wore on his upper lip. A dandy. A bully. A murderer.
She had to find a way to blindside him, to catch him off guard when he would least expect it, but her mind wouldn't cooperate. Exhaustion, hunger, and thirst overwhelmed her concentration.
Sunny squeezed her eyes shut, determined to get the rest she needed to carry out her plans. She squirmed in the sand, trying to ignore the strips of cloth she'd bound around her breasts to flatten them, but the material bit painfully into her tender flesh. Sharp pebbles and rocks poked at her hips and ribs, and her grandfather's war club dug into her waist. Somehow she would sleep. Tomorrow, she had to be clearheaded enough to think of a way to escape from this madman, and then kill him.
After he finished the last of the rabbit, Cole tossed the bones in the campfire and cleaned the remnants from his fingers with a handful of sand. He glanced over to his sleeping prisoner and shook his head. What could Geronimo be thinking of? This was no angry warrior—he knew that much from the softness of the boy's body during their struggle. In the morning sun, Cole was sure he'd be looking into the large frightened eyes of a child barely old enough to leave his mother's breast. That would be proof to him that these murderous Indians had as little regard for their own young as they did for the children of white settlers. Cole gritted his teeth against memories of long ago and added this evening's experience to the growing list of reasons to get the Indian mess taken care of and the hostiles under control.
With a heavy sigh, Cole spread his bedroll across an area he'd cleared earlier and stretched his lanky body across it. Tomorrow he would have to make a decision about the Indian. If released, the kid would probably continue to follow him and ambush him at the first opportunity. If he kept the young brave prisoner, what would he do with him? Take him all the way to the San Carlos Reservation? Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about it, and by then he would be able to make the correct decision.
At dawn the following morning, the first thing Sunny noticed was the size and texture of her tongue. It seemed to fill her mouth with the bark of a cottonwood tree and begged her to soak it with a cup of water. Pins and needles stabbing at her flesh alerted her to the bruised and stiffened condition of her body.
Then, a miracle. Drops of cool, fresh water sprinkled her cheeks and rolled into the corner of her mouth. Sunny turned her head skyward and opened her eyes.
"Could you use a swallow or two?"
The killer loomed above her, his cool green eyes guarded. Her first impulse was to tell him to go to hell, but Sunny knew that if she continued to refuse food and water, she would be unable to carry out her purpose. She dropped her head to the sand and nodded.
"That's more like it." Cole set the cup of water aside, then released the length of rope binding the Indian to the tree. He slipped his hands beneath the boy's armpits and helped him to his knees, then to a standing position.
After reaching for the cup, he pressed it to the boy's mouth. The Indian drank greedily from the cup, choking and spitting as the fluid tried to find passage through a swollen throat.
"Take it easy," Cole ordered. "There's more where this came from. A sip at a time will ease your thirst faster than those horse-swallows you're taking."
When the cup was empty, Cole tossed it towards the campsite, then grabbed the young brave by the shoulders. "Now you're going to tell me who you are and why you were following me."
As he waited for a reply, Cole noticed the strange shape of the young man's torso. With a sharp rap against the Indian's chest, he demanded, "What do you have in there? Weapons?"
She shook her head, even though the man apparently realized he'd negl
ected to search her the night before. Then in one quick movement he pulled the tattered brown shirt from her breeches and jerked it open.
An eyebrow shot up in surprise as Cole studied the cloth wrapped around the boy. A hiding place for extra weapons—or bindings for a terrible wound? Tiring of asking unanswered questions, Cole shrugged and pulled his Bowie knife from the sheath near his back pocket. After grabbing the bottom of the material, he slit it up the middle.
"No," Sunny said at the same moment the knife touched her skin.
But he was too fast. She was exposed.
Cole staggered a few steps back. The knife dropped to the sand. His mouth fell open as he stared at the full up-turned breasts peeking out at him from the opening in her shirt. She was like a mirage shimmering up from the Sonoran Desert. He closed his eyes, shook his head, then opened them again. But the ripe buds were still there, more beautiful and beckoning than any he'd ever seen.
"I didn’t know," he choked out, momentarily at a loss for words.
He averted his gaze, collecting himself, and took several gulps of air before remembering that, woman or not, she was a savage and would probably kill him if given a chance.
Cole turned back to her, angry to have been fooled, embarrassed for her. He hastily crossed the torn edges of her shirt to cover her breasts and said, "Why didn't you tell me you were a woman last night? Do you think I'd have left you tied up like a calf at branding time if I'd known?"
Looking for a way to gain his confidence, Sunny lowered her head and spoke in hushed tones. "I was afraid."
"Damn," he muttered, touched by the frightened tone of her voice. Tired of talking to the brim of her hat, Cole reached over and gently removed it. Thick sheets of ebony hair tumbled down her shoulders and across her breasts. Slowly, she lifted her chin and turned mournful cobalt-blue eyes on him.
Cole's throat suddenly constricted, and he had to work at clearing it before he softly said, "Don't be afraid of me. I don't want to hurt you. Why were you following me?"
In the same tiny voice, she murmured, "I was hungry. I smelled your meat cooking."
A sense of guilt played skip rope with his gut and he said the first thing that came to mind. "Damn."
Now what? He could hardly leave her tied and hobbled, and yet she looked to be at least part Indian. What might she do if he freed her? He still hadn't searched her for weapons. It hardly seemed likely she could survive in this land without them.
Absently stroking the silky corners of his mustache, Cole studied the young woman. She was sturdy and broad shouldered, yet remarkably lithe and fragile to the touch. He'd noticed that much after he'd bulldogged her last night. Shrugging off the warmth growing in his abdomen, Cole gazed at her features and tried to guess her tribe. She was lovely, quite beautiful in fact, with high strong cheekbones and a nose much too small and pert to be Apache. What was she doing out here alone? Or was she so alone?
His suspicions growing, Cole glanced around the campsite, then said, "Why are you traveling alone in these parts?"
Working to keep a pitiful, helpless expression, Sunny said, "My father and I, we were heading to the Superstition Mountains to look for gold when Apaches surprised us in the night. I escaped on my pony, but my father, he ... he was killed."
"Damn. Dammit all, anyway."
Sunny twisted away from him and slumped her shoulders, giving the appearance of a weeping attack.
"Oh, come on. Please don't cry."
Her lip curled in amusement to know the man was so easily fooled, and she nearly laughed out loud as she imagined his expression when she drove her father's knife into his belly.
A gentle hand on her shoulder sobered her expression. She stiffened but did not turn around.
"I'm sorry I added to your grief," Cole whispered in a low, soothing tone, "but I thought—well, you know what I thought." Filled with compassion for her plight, he reached for his knife and cut the bonds from her hands, then removed his belt from her ankles.
Relief and pain flooded her aching joints and shoulders. Sunny stretched her arms, and then made an adjustment on Cole's attempt to cover her. She tied the tails of her buttonless shirt in a knot just below her breasts, then faced him.
"I am very hungry," she murmured quietly. "And I have not yet quenched my thirst."
"Oh, sure. I have some—" Cole cut off his own words when he noticed the strange bulge beneath her breeches, an oblong outline clearly revealed now that her shirt no longer hung down to her thighs. He pointed a long, tanned finger toward her waist. "What have you got in there?"
A blush raced up the sides of her neck and spread to her cheeks when she realized her grandfather's war club was practically in full view. She hedged, kicking a small pebble as she searched for a reasonable explanation. "It is only a small piece of wood." She hastily added, "It is my only protection."
Cole frowned and extended his palm. "May I have a look at it?"
Sunny's fists coiled at her sides when she realized she had no choice. She must be patient. When the time was right, she would know it. Besides, giving up the club would convince him she had no other weapons. He wouldn't dare search her right thigh, the private place she had chosen to tie her father's hunting knife. But then, she reminded herself, he'd dared much more with her mother.
Sunny managed to keep her innocent expression as she surrendered the weapon, but couldn't keep the defiance out of her flashing eyes when the killer began to unwrap her grandfather'skelyaxwai.
After removing the canvas covering, Cole stared down at the object in disbelief. Not more than a foot long, the piece of wood was shaped much like a potato masher with a thick, jagged block at the end of a grip-sized shaft. What caught his attention and raised his brows, however, was the two-inch spike protruding from the handle.
"That's some piece of wood you got here, young lady." Cole squinted a green eye in her direction and swung the club back and forth between them.
"What do you suppose a fellow might do with it? I expect the business end," he patted the block, "might soften even the toughest piece of meat. And this?" Cole fingered the needle-sharp tip of the spike, never taking his eyes off her. "This probably makes one hell of a toothpick, huh?"
Pressing her lips together, Sunny stared down at her boots and said nothing.
"Then again," Cole continued thoughtfully, "your little piece of wood could be a handy thing to have in a fight. Just bash a fella over the head, twirl the handle, and stick him in the heart before he hits the ground. Do I have it right yet?"
Sunny raised her head and met his gaze. Her blue eyes sparkled with hatred. "I said," she hissed, forgetting her little girl voice, "it is my only protection."
Cole stepped back and raised his eyebrows. He rolled a cigarette and regarded her over his cupped hands as he lit the tobacco.
Blowing a puff of smoke in her direction, he grinned.
"I'll be happy to provide protection for you for the time being, but I think it's best if we retire your club to my saddlebags. Wearing a thing like this inside your trousers could—well, you could hurt yourself real bad."
Cole strolled over to his saddle, motioning for her to follow, and buried the war club in the depths of the bag. Then he pulled out a small package and offered it to her. "Sit down. There's some biscuits and jerky in there. The biscuits are a little stale, but the jerky is good forever. I'll get you some more water."
Easing down in the patch of soft sand, Sunny sat cross-legged and studied the man as she stuffed chunks of dry biscuit into her mouth. His limp was barely noticeable this morning. The injury was healing. Soon, she mused with a coldness that surprised her, he would have a wound that would never heal.
Cole returned with a canteen and cup, then propped his long body against a tree stump across from her. "I expect it's time we were introduced," he said. "My name's Cole Fremont from the Triple F ranch just east of Phoenix."
Sunny took a long drink of water, wondering how much she should tell him. She wiped her mouth and said,
"I am called Sunflower."
"Sunflower?Hmm. A pretty name for a pretty girl. What's your last name?"
She tore off a piece of jerky, muttering, "Just Sunflower."
Although Cole didn't want to make her feel as if he were interrogating her, he was intrigued and interested in knowing more about her, sensed she was a lot more complex— and intelligent—than she let on. "Do you have family near here? I'd be happy to escort you back home."
Refusing to meet his gaze, Sunny shook her head and continued to fill her belly.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
When she didn't respond, Cole reached for his black Stetson hat and dropped it in his lap. Dragging a hand through his hair, he pondered his next move. Should he question her about her heritage? She looked Indian, and yet she didn't. Her high slashing cheekbones could have come from anywhere, he supposed, but the light copper complexion, the thick, straight, jet-black hair, not to mention the brutal club, all cried out Indian to his way of thinking.
Then he thought of her striking indigo-blue eyes, eyes she carefully hid from him most of the time. Cole chuckled to himself as he recalled their response when he'd discussed the uses of her club. Those expressive, captivating eyes had flashed round and wide, showing him a spirit and sense of independence he'd never seen in a woman before.
He'd also never seen a woman quite as tall. Around five foot six or seven, she was especially tall for an Indian. And her body was soft and rounded, not like the square, bony shapes of the tribes he'd been exposed to. This thought prompted an image of her bare, dusky peaked breasts.
Taking a deep breath, he addressed her again. "Are you Indian, Sunflower? Maybe I can escort you back to your people."
This caught her in mid-chew. She looked over at the stranger, her mind a blank. She'd thought of everything but that. If she told him she was Quechan, he would know she belonged in the Yuma area. He might guess her true purpose.
Sunny blurted out the name of the first nearby tribe she could think of. "My father was Pima."
Cole raised his brows. He'd crossed paths with some of the Pima on the Fort McDowell Reservation, and while they were easier on the eyes than the Apache or Navajo, none possessed the strikingly beautiful features of this enchanting creature.
