by Sharon Ihle
Then the thunderous crack of gunfire splintered the night air.
Patrick Callahan's daughter dropped to the ground with a sickening thud.
CHAPTER FOUR
She was swimming.
She swirled down, spiraling into the deep dark waters.
Sunny was cutting through the strong current of her beloved Colorado River as if she swam in melted butter. She felt the cool water washing over her, through her hair, soothing her. Then she felt a sharp sting on her cheek.
"Sunflower. Wake up, it's all right."
The waters called her name over and over. It had never sounded more beautiful. Then she realized the voice did not belong to the river but to a man. And she wasn't swimming, she was lying amongst rocks and sand.
Alarmed, Sunny bolted upright, her eyes wide and fearful.
"Easy, Sunflower," Cole reassured. "It's over. He's dead."
Wild-eyed, she looked around the campsite and spotted the evil stranger sprawled in the sand a few feet beyond the fire. "What happened?"
"You caught the recoil of my Colt right between your eyes. You knocked yourself out, Sunflower." Cole brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek, then continued in a soft comforting tone. "The minute the gun went off, you both dropped to the ground like a couple of sacks of feed. I wasn't sure who shot who at first."
She had shot the stranger. Sunny buried her face in her hands and tried to stifle a heavy sob. Salty tears streaked across her palms as she realized the enormity of her deed.
"I killed him," she cried. "I have murdered another human being."
"No, no. Not exactly." Cole gathered her in his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder. Stroking her satiny hair, he began to rock her. "He tried to pull the gun out of your hand. It was an accident. If anything, he killed himself."
"But—"
"No buts about it. You're not to blame. I just wish I could have gotten free sooner."
He continued to stroke her ebony hair, allowed her the silence and chance to weep away the terrors of the night until he could no longer ignore the heat of her bare breasts pressed against his chest. She'd endured the humiliation of one madman's lust this night. She wouldn't have to deal with yet another. Cole released her and got to his feet.
"Wait here for a minute, Sunflower. I'll be right back."
"Sunny," she said in a small voice. "My family and friends call me Sunny."
"Sunny?" He repeated the name several times thinking how well it fit her, how like a ray of sunshine she seemed to illuminate a corner of his life.In what capacity?he suddenly wondered. She was lovely, exciting, and spirited. But she was also Indian. How could he be so attracted to her?
A toddler when the Fremont family made the dusty, danger-filled trek from Texas to Arizona, Cole's only memories of Indian attacks during the journey were supplied by his father, Nathan. But Cole needed no reminders of his eleventh year, of the vicious Chiricahua ambush on the Triple F ranch and the painful losses that nearly tore the Fremont family apart.
As if it were yesterday, Cole could see his mother, Olive, writhing on the floor of her burning home, delivering Nathan's third son too early, stillborn. No stories from the past were necessary to prompt the image of his fifteen-year- old brother after the Chiricahua were finished with him, either. The day after the attack, when they were certain Olive was out of danger, Nathan and Cole had set out to search for the youth.
The Chiricahua had released the boy, using his body as a warning, a message to all ranchers in the area. The youth's flesh was a pincushion of arrows, each carefully placed so they wouldn't pierce a vital organ. The eldest Fremont brother's death had been agonizingly slow and painful, its message forever stamped on Cole's heart.
Shaking off his ugly thoughts, Cole spun on his heel, catching his bare foot on the comer of a jagged rock, and hobbled off to his saddle. After slipping into his jeans and boots, he fastened his holster around his waist and sheathed the Colt. Then he picked up Sunflower's shirt and took it to her.
"Cover yourself," he said more harshly than he'd intended.
Startled by the change in his attitude, Sunny grabbed the shirt and quickly dressed. Why had he changed so? He'd been so warm, so tender, before the man had come and again after he had died. What had she done to displease him?
Sunny's puzzled expression, the hurt in her eyes, told Cole more than anything she could have said at that moment. Although his memories and Nathan's bitterness towards all Indians were a part of his life he couldn't ignore, Cole was not without sympathy for these native Americans, especially for the gentler tribes like the Pima. He could hardly blame Sunflower for the tragedies in the Fremont family.
His voice cracking, he said, "I'm sorry for barking at you like that. I'm tired. Let's use what's left of the night for some rest."
Cole reached for Sunny's hands, pulling her to her feet, then impulsively scooped her into his arms. "You've had a rough night. I'll stay by your side." Inclining his head towards the fire, he added, "I'll take care of our friend in the morning. Then we'll talk."
Suddenly exhausted, Sunny nodded weakly and allowed her head to drop to his shoulder. When they reached the bed roll, Cole positioned himself with his back to the cliff, then fit Sunny's body against the curve of his.
"Goodnight, Sunfl—Sunny. Rest well, little flower."
"I will try. Goodnight."
Cole's arm rested on her hip, but it was more protection than embrace. She needed more. Gripped by an overwhelming sense of loss, of isolation, Sunny longed for Cole to gather her in his arms. Never had she felt so alone, so vulnerable, or in such need of another's strength and touch. What would he do should she turn to embrace him?
Did he, like the disgusting outlaw, look on her as a half-breed whore? A nuisance? What of the kisses they'd shared? Mother would know. Sunny mouthed the words silently, missing her so much she thought her breastbone would split from the ache inside. Rage slowly replaced self-pity, and even in her exhausted state, she resumed her plans for revenge. If Cole's offer to escort her to his ranch was still good, she would take him up on it. Continuing east, there was a chance she might encounter her mother's killers on the way—west toward home would mean defeat and allow the murdering scum their freedom.
It was a very long time before sleep came to Sunny that night, and the following morning she slept well past the dawn. When she finally did awaken, it was with a start. She was alone. Propping herself on one elbow, she glanced around the campsite and found Cole at the edge near a stand of Palo Verde trees. He was piling stones on the outlaw's grave.
After dragging her fingers through sleep-tangled hair, she approached him. "Why didn't you wake me? I should have helped you bury the viper."
Wiping the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve, Cole turned to face her. She was even more beautiful this morning than she'd been in the moonlight, her sleep-drugged eyes languid and seductively stunning. Wheeling around, Cole resumed piling rocks on the fresh mound of earth before he trusted himself to answer her.
"I thought you'd seen enough of his ugly face. You needed the rest."
Again she sensed a coolness in his attitude. Puzzled, Sunny circled the grave and began piling rocks across from him.
"You said we would talk this morning." She heaved a large stone onto the center of the grave, then brought her hands to her hips. "If you will spare me the blarney, I would like to know what I did to raise your ire so."
With a heavy sigh, Cole reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch. As he loosened the drawstring, he wondered how he could explain his feelings without hurting hers, skip over the "blarney" as she'd put it and ... blarney? Cole's upper lip curled in amusement as he thought of the Irish phrases scattered throughout her speech, not to mention the string of curses she'd spat at him during their struggle the night before.
Striking a match to his cigarette, he cocked a suspicious blond brow. "I'll be happy to dispense with the blarney if you will."
Sunny lifted he
r chin. "I will not be handing you any."
"Good." He took a deep drag and blew a long stream of smoke down to the outlaw's grave. "How does a young woman of Pima extraction happen to be so full of Irish expressions?"
"Oh," she laughed lightly, "that."
Stalling, Sunny began to carve a series of circular figures in the sand with the toe of her boot. Should she tell him everything? Could he really be trusted with the truth? Before the outlaw had come upon them, her suspicions about Cole had nearly vanished, and now that their moments of terror were behind them, the last little nagging doubts seemed to be dissolving as well. Maybe if she told him everything, he might even be able to help her. Maybe if she—But an impatient Cole sliced into her thoughts.
"All right. If you don't want to explain that, perhaps you'd like to shed some light on your midnight attack on me." He rubbed his aching shoulder where the knife had pierced his skin. "You know, when I woke up and saw you at the business end of my gun, I actually thought you were trying to kill me."
"I was," she admitted, remembering the struggle and how close she'd come to slitting his throat.
"You were?" Stunned, Cole lifted his brows. "Why? All I did was try to help you. Why would you want to kill me for that?"
Suddenly remorseful, Sunny lowered her lashes. "I thought you were someone else. I was following a trail from Yuma."
"You followed me all the way from Yuma? Why?"
Sunny's heart constricted at this. Had she been wrong about his innocence, made another mistake? Until now, she'd only guessed he'd been in her homeland. Still able to hope that he could not have been involved in her mother's murder, she became the interrogator.
"I followed two riders from Yuma. Men whose horses bore the same prints as yours."
Cole shrugged. "I rode out alone. As for the prints, I suppose other ranches have horseshoes made in about the same way." He took a deep drag on his cigarette and tried to make sense out of all she'd told him. "Why were you on my trail?"
"I told you. I am looking for two men. One of them has a nasty wound on his right leg. When I came into your camp, I saw you were limping."
With a short laugh, Cole said, "You'd limp too if you were stupid enough to sit on a Gila monster. Damn thing chewed through my jeans and started working on my leg before I could get his teeth pried apart with my gun barrel."
"You have been bitten by a Gila monster?" she said. "Why aren't you dead?"
"I didn't give him enough time to chew his poison into me. He just got enough in to give me a belly ache and a damn painful swollen leg."
"Oh?" she breathed in awe. "My mother's people believe the breath of a Gila monster is enough to kill a man. How could you survive the bite?"
Familiar with the old Indian tale, Cole chuckled softly. "Don't tell me you believe that. Only Indians—" He cut off his words when he remembered the girl's description of her family. "You're mother's people? You told me she was white."
Certain now that Cole was not one of the men she hunted, Sunny resumed drawing figures in the sand. "I was afraid to tell you my mother was Quechan, afraid if you were the man I sought, you might guess my true purpose." Her large dark eyes glistened with tears as she explained. "My mother and older brother were murdered by the men whose trail I followed. I thought you might have been one of them."
"Oh, Sunflower." He groaned, thinking of her pain, remembering she'd also lost her father. "I'm sorry for your terrible losses, but please believe me. I had nothing to do with their deaths."
"I realize that." She nodded. "And I am sorry for the wound I gave you. Is it deep? Does it give you much pain?"
"Don't worry about me," he assured, wondering how he could feel such compassion for an Indian—one who'd tried to kill him at that. "It's just a scratch."
Still feeling a deep empathy, Cole approached her and slid a comforting hand along her shoulder. "You're not alone, Sunny. You may have lost your entire family, but my offer is still open. Come to Triple F ranch with me. You might even find some relatives at Fort McDowell."
Taken aback at first, Sunny recalled her earlier story about mining the Superstitions. "There is one more thing you should know. My father is not a Pima Indian. He's Patrick Callahan, straight from Killarney, Ireland."
Surprise trapping a puff of smoke in his throat, Cole coughed and tossed his cigarette on the grave. He'd expected the Gaelic bits of her conversation had come from an educator, mentor, or perhaps even a husband, but her father?
Cole stepped away from her and stood with hands on hips. "You said, is. Am I to assume your father wasn't murdered?"
"No, I forgot to set you straight. My father and older brother, Sean, are seeking gold somewhere north of Yuma. They should be in La Paz or maybe Fort Mohave by now."
"I see," he muttered thoughtfully, but he really didn't. She'd told him so many stories, he didn't know what to believe. Had she lied about anything else? Did she have other surprises planned for him if he went ahead and escorted her back to the ranch? He'd let his guard down around her once and it had nearly cost him his life. It wouldn't happen again. "I think it's time we had a very long and truthful discussion. Join me at the fire."
Sensing an underlying storm in his words, Sunny followed him to the campfire and accepted the cup of coffee he offered. Settling cross-legged into the sand, she took a cautious sip of the hot brew and waited for Cole to take the lead.
"All right," he said after rolling and lighting another cigarette. "I want the truth from you. Every bit of it."
"But I have told the truth," she objected, suddenly indignant. "There is nothing more."
"And the truth is—your mother was Quechan, murdered by unknown assailants, and instead of going to your Irish father for help, you took off, alone, with the idea of taking care of the varmints by yourself?" His tone incredulous, Cole raised it another notch and added, "You really expect me to believe that?"
" 'Tis the truth," she snapped, banging the tin cup against her knee. Wincing as droplets of hot coffee burned through her cotton breeches and shirt, Sunny tossed the cup across the fire towards Cole's boot. "Believe what you wish you yellow-haired leavings of a bull-headed coyote, but I swear by Saint Patrick, those are the facts."
As he regarded the dark coffee stain spreading across the toe of his boot, Cole's mustache began to twitch, but even he couldn't be sure if it jerked with anger or mirth.
Chancing a glance into her midnight-blue eyes, he said, "You expect me to accept the fact that a smart girl like you didn't think of the danger she'd be in crossing Arizona alone?"
"I knew of the danger," she sniffed. "But if I had gone alone after my father, the danger would have been no less." Indignation gave way to anger and Sunny jumped to her feet. "I suppose you think I should have stayed at the farm, alone, wailing and weeping for the next two or three months until my father returned?"
His ire rising to meet hers, Cole got up and stood facing her across the dying fire. "You might have at least gone to the sheriff and let him handle things."
Sunny's laugh was bitter as she said, "You actually think the sheriff would go out of his way to find the murderers of another damned Indian?"
With an inward groan, Cole shrugged. "Some might."
"Not this one." Holding her head high, Sunny tossed her long raven hair over her shoulders, clearly signaling Cole to make the next move.
Uncomfortable, he took a couple of steps around the outside of the smoldering fire, kicking pebbles and rocks out of his way as he went. "What about your mother's tribe? Don't you have some kind of leader who would have helped you?"
"I thought of that," she bit off. "Our leader is Pasqual, a man of great vision. But if I had gone to him, if I tried to—" Sunny let out a long sigh and looked into Cole's green eyes. What she saw, either skepticism or disapproval, made up her mind for her. "You have the head of a pig-eyed goat. You would not understand."
Sunny whirled on her boot heel and stalked off towards Paddy, mumbling over her shoulder as she kicked up
the sand, "If I may have a minute, I will be happy to give you your rid of me and all the doubts plaguing your blitherin' fool for a brain."
Cole rolled his eyes and blew out a long exaggerated breath before he approached her. She'd managed to put him on the defense, and while he didn't understand that, or her solitary journey into the badlands, he knew one thing for certain. He couldn't just let her ride off alone again.
"Don't be in such a hurry to run off, Sunflower," he began softly. "I'd like to understand, and could if you'd just give me a chance."
Her back to him as she arranged her traveling sacks across Paddy's neck, Sunny gave him a sideways glance. This time, his spring-like eyes reflected only sincerity, honesty. Keeping her back to Cole, she stroked the pony's mane.
She would try one more time because she really did want his protection on the trail. "If I had gone to Pasqual, it would have been a waste of my time."
"I still don't understand, Sunny. Surely he would have sent some braves, men adept at tracking, after your mother's killers, and saved you the trouble."
Sunny turned and faced him at this. Fighting to keep the hostility from her eyes, she said, "He would have wanted to track the men, of that I have no doubt. But," she lowered her head and stared down at the earth, "the cost would have been too great. If Pasqual sent a few braves after these men, they surely would have found then killed them as honor demanded."
"As you set out to do. I don't see the difference, except you were alone and put yourself in grave danger."
"And if Pasqual chose the same path as I, which he would not have, the entire Quechan nation would have been in grave danger. We are a peaceful tribe, and love our land and the relative freedom we enjoy." She turned a frosty indigo eye on him as she added, "Surely a man as smart as you can guess the price our nation would pay should a band of savage Quechans attack a couple of innocent white men."
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. Cole shook his head then pulled his fingers through his wavy hair. "I suppose General Crook would pull some of his troops off Geronimo and send them after your people."
