He tossed restlessly on the buffalo robes, and the muffled clatter of chains reminded him of the biggest obstacle in his path to freedom. Until he found a way to rid himself of his leg irons, he wasn’t going anywhere, with or without Jenny.
Once he managed to rid himself of his shackles, there would be other problems to contend with, like a horse for Jenny, food, water. And he would need a weapon of some kind.
Pondering each item separately, it all seemed easy enough. Stealing a horse was no problem, food could be hunted along the way, water could be found without much difficulty if you knew where to look, unless they decided to go south through Diablo Canyon Pass. But that way was suicide. No white man and few Indians had ever ventured into that barren wasteland and lived to tell the tale.
He could steal a weapon. Kayitah’s bow, perhaps, or better yet, his rifle.
With the coming of dawn, Fallon slipped out of his blankets, shrugged into his shirt and left the wickiup. Outside, the air was crisp and chill, reminding him that chawn-chissy, winter, was not far off.
The eastern sky gradually mushroomed with color as the rising sun climbed over the canyon walls, streaking the craggy peaks with fiery shades of orange and vermillion, edging the wispy clouds with pink and silver lace.
Fallon watched the spectacular display appreciatively, frowning as it occurred to him that, should his plan fail, he would probably not live to see the dawn of another day.
It was a sobering thought. Pensive now, he reconsidered the plan he had formulated in the black hours just before dawn. Last night, his plan to rid himself of his shackles had seemed like a pretty good idea, but now, in the cold light of day, he was not so sure.
The success of his plan hinged on three things—his ability to correctly predict how Alope would react to a given situation, his own ability to withstand whatever punishment Kayitah decreed and the Apache’s almost fanatical admiration for courage.
Perhaps more than any other tribe in the Southwest, the Dineh respected a brave man. More often than not, a warrior’s courage was measured by his ability to withstand pain, to laugh in the face of certain death or meet it in stoic silence. The West was replete with tales of men, both red and white, who, on the verge of certain destruction, had cheated death at the hands of the Apache by a last desperate show of bravado.
The smell of ash cakes and looted Army coffee intruded on Fallon’s thoughts. The rising sun caressed him with a delicious warmth. A child’s carefree laughter bubbled from a nearby lodge, while a multitude of birds sang hymns to welcome the birth of a new day. A doe-eyed maiden smiled at Fallon as she made her way to the river for water.
Fallon sighed heavily as he drank in the beauty of the morning. Pondering the wisdom of setting his plan in motion, he decided to forget the whole thing. Life was too good to throw away, he mused, especially when he was risking it for a woman who would never be his.
But then Kayitah stepped out of the lodge, his arm around Jenny’s shoulders, and Fallon knew he couldn’t take it much longer. He couldn’t go on living in the same lodge with Jenny. Couldn’t go on watching her share her bed with Kayitah. Just seeing the warrior touch Jenny was enough to tie his guts in a knot. Sooner or later, he’d do something stupid, say something stupid, and Kayitah would kill him for it, and maybe Jenny too.
Alope stepped out of the lodge a few minutes later. “We need wood,” she said curtly. “Get it.”
Ryder Fallon took a deep breath. “No.”
Alope stared at Kladetahe, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. He had never refused to obey her before. Why did he have to do it now, when Kayitah and the white woman were watching?
Aquiver with indignation, she jabbed her finger in Kladetahe’s direction. “You will find wood, now,” she snapped. “And then you will go to the river for water.”
Fallon shook his head. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever again.”
Anger suffused Alope’s cheeks. “If you do not work, you will die,” she reminded him, and felt a twinge of regret. Now that her anger at him had passed, she knew she would miss his strong back. But she had her pride, and she would not back down, not with Kayitah watching her.
“Death to dishonor,” Fallon muttered under his breath, in English.
Alope frowned at him. “What?”
“I said no.” Fallon glanced at Jenny, thinking again how beautiful she was. She wore a tunic of bleached elkskin. The skirt was ankle-length, the bodice and sleeves decorated with rows of blue and yellow porcupine quills. Her hair fell to her waist in soft golden waves.
Alope turned to her husband. “He will not work.”
Kayitah nodded, mildly surprised by the defiant expression on the face of the half-breed.
“Work or die, Kladetahe,” Kayitah said succinctly. “The choice is up to you.”
“A Cheyenne is as much a warrior as an Apache,” Fallon replied flatly. “No longer will I do the work of women.” He drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly, hoping he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life. “If I cannot live as a warrior, then I will die like one.”
Jenny listened in stunned silence as the man she had pinned all her hopes of escape on calmly talked about dying. Had he gone mad?
“Brave words,” Kayitah remarked at last. “We shall see if there is substance in your words or if they are empty, like the words of the white man. Gopi! Sanza!”
The two warriors summoned by the chief came forward, nodding their understanding as Kayitah issued his orders.
Jenny felt her insides turn to ice as Sanza produced a length of rope and quickly tied Fallon’s hands together. That done, he tossed the loose end of the rope over a tree branch, then both warriors took hold of the rope and pulled, lifting Fallon off his feet. A few quick turns of the rope secured it to the trunk, leaving the half-breed dangling in midair.
“An Apache warrior endures pain in silence,” Kayitah remarked as he drew his knife from his belt. “We will see if a half-breed Cheyenne can do as well.”
Jenny held her breath as Kayitah cut away Fallon’s shirt and stripped off his leggings. With deliberate slowness, the chief dragged the point of the blade across Fallon’s shoulders and chest, opening several long, shallow cuts. When there was no reaction from the prisoner other than a sharp intake of breath, Kayitah raked the edge of the blade down the length of Fallon’s thighs, slicing just deep enough to draw blood.
Looking satisfied, Kayitah stepped back a few paces and hunkered down on his heels. Gopi and Sanza sank down beside him.
Kayitah smiled faintly as he stared up at Kladetahe. Once, they had been friends, but no more. Once, Kladetahe had been one of them, a warrior as fierce and loyal as any of the men in the village, but no more. He had betrayed that trust. Better he should die now than betray that trust again, as surely he would, sooner or later.
News of Kladetahe’s defiance spread quickly through the village, causing a great deal of excitement among the warriors. So, the half-breed had finally found the courage to act like a man! Well, that was something to see, and one by one, the men left their lodges and gathered around the half-breed, laughing and making jokes as they speculated on how long the prisoner’s newfound courage would last.
Jenny ducked into her lodge and emerged a few minutes later carrying a pair of unadorned moccasins. Taking a place in front of the wickiup, she began to decorate the moccasins with dyed porcupine quills, but it was Fallon who held her attention. Whatever had possessed him to defy Alope? What did he hope to gain by making her angry? Surely he had known he would be punished. It was only the fact that he had been willing to be her slave that had kept him alive this long.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty.
Fallon’s gaze swept over the sea of dark brown faces until he saw Jenny sitting near the door of Kayitah’s wickiup, her head bowed as she worked on a pair of winter moccasins. Her long golden hair gleamed like the sun itself, and when she raised her head, he saw that her eyes were dark with worry. He wished fleetingly that he h
ad stolen a kiss when he had the chance. Even now, hanging from a tree like a side of beef, he could feel himself wanting her.
He glanced at Kayitah’s impassive countenance. What if he had misjudged the Apache chief? What if Kayitah decided to kill him outright? What if he had misjudged his own ability to withstand the chief’s punishment?
He shook his doubts aside and focused on Jenny, and what he hoped to gain.
Thirty minutes slipped by. Thirty-five.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders began to protest at the strain of bearing his weight. Despite the cool breeze that whispered through the camp, sweat poured from his body, the salty moisture stinging the cuts Kayitah had inflicted.
Sixty minutes, and it seemed like sixty years. The rough hemp sliced into his wrists, and the flies deserted the blood drying on his shoulders and thighs to feast on the warm red rivers trickling down his forearms.
Jenny blinked back tears of sympathy as the minutes ticked by. Ninety minutes had passed now, and she knew that each second must seem like a lifetime to Fallon. Again, she wondered why he had defied Alope. Did he find slavery so unbearable that even death seemed better?
The watching warriors had lapsed into silence, their thoughts unfathomable as they stared at the half-breed.
Two hours passed, and Fallon’s suffering was clearly reflected in Jenny’s eyes. Sweat sheened his entire body now, trickling down his chest and belly to gather in shallow puddles on the ground at his feet. It was an effort for him to breathe, and his breath came in hard, short gasps.
Three hours, and Fallon marveled at the Apaches’ ability to sit motionless for so long; at the patience that held them immobile as they waited for him to break, to scream, to plead for mercy.
He remembered lying on top of a rise with a number of warriors years ago, waiting to ambush a Comanche camp. They had remained motionless for hours, but that had been a matter of life and death. What held the Apache now?
Jenny stared at Fallon, the moccasins in her lap forgotten long ago. He was truly a brave man, she mused, to endure such pain without a murmur. Indeed, he might have been dead save for the labored rasp of his breathing. Her heart went out to him, and she yearned to go to him, to offer him a drink of cool water, to wipe the blood and sweat from his punished flesh. She hardly knew him, yet she ached for his pain, yearned for his touch.
Four hours passed, and now knifelike pains darted down Fallon’s back and sides. His wrists were raw, his shoulders throbbed with aching monotony. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, and only his stubborn pride and the faint remembrance of what he hoped to gain stilled the animal-like cry of anguish that rose in his throat.
Jenny held her breath as Kayitah rose to his feet.
“You have only to ask for mercy,” the chief advised the half-breed as he unsheathed his knife, “and I will send you swiftly to the land of your ancestors.”
Jenny’s hand went to her heart as she waited for Fallon’s reply. Would he surrender his pain for a quick, merciful death? How much longer could he hang there before he gave voice to his agony, before he begged for relief?
“No,” Fallon rasped, and Jenny felt herself go weak with relief. As long as he lived, so long as he could endure, her hope of escape lived also.
A strange half smile flitted across the chief’s swarthy face as he laid the knife’s keen-edged blade against Fallon’s throat.
Fallon sent one quick glance in Jenny’s direction, wanting to imprint her image on his mind so that he might carry it with him into the afterlife, and then he stared impassively into Kayitah’s eyes, felt the muscles in the back of his neck grow taut as he waited for the chief to slit his throat.
Instead, Kayitah raised the knife and severed the rope binding Fallon’s wrists.
He hit the ground hard, stumbled, but did not fall. There was a new pain in his arms and legs as the creeping numbness that had set in began to recede, but he kept his face blank, betraying none of what he was feeling or thinking.
“Follow me,” Kayitah ordered curtly, and walked briskly toward his lodge, his admiration for the half-breed stronger now than his hatred.
It was Jenny who followed them into the lodge, Jenny who, with gentle hands, wiped the blood from Fallon’s legs and chest, bound the cuts with strips of cloth that had been soaked in warm water and aloe. Not once did she speak or meet Fallon’s eyes, but he was keenly aware of her presence. The touch of her hands on his flesh made Fallon wonder anew what it would be like to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his own, to run his hands through the golden silk of her hair, to caress the womanly sweetness hidden beneath the shapeless doeskin tunic.
Once, looking up, he saw Kayitah watching them, his dark eyes thoughtful.
Jenny was acutely conscious of Fallon’s eyes watching her. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips; his nearness made her insides quiver strangely even as a flood of heat suffused her. He was so very handsome, so very male. She was sorely tempted to let her fingers explore his hard-muscled arms, to feel them close around her. The very thought sent a thrill down her spine. It was disturbing, the effect he had on her, and she was suddenly grateful that Kayitah was there to protect her from her own foolishness.
When she finished treating Fallon’s wounds, she left the wickiup, relieved to be away from the man who stirred her emotions in ways she did not care to examine too closely.
Fallon watched Jenny leave the lodge, all else forgotten until Kayitah spoke.
“You have proved you still have the heart of a warrior,” the chief acknowledged grudgingly. “No longer will you work with the women.”
The words “thank you” were seldom spoken by the Apache people, and Fallon did not voice them now. Instead, he lifted his gaze toward heaven in the traditional sign of thanksgiving, thereby acknowledging Usen’s hand in all things.
For a time, the two men studied each other; then Kayitah bent down and unlocked the shackles on Fallon’s feet and tossed them aside. “Though you are no longer a slave, you are still a prisoner,” the chief said tersely. “Apache ears are sharp. Our eyes are keen. Our memories are long. We do not forget those who have wronged us. If you betray us a second time, you wish for death a thousand times before it comes for you.”
Fallon nodded, his dark eyes expressionless. Running away with the war chief’s favorite wife would, he supposed, be considered the worst type of betrayal.
Kayitah rose smoothly to his feet. “Come, let us refresh ourselves in the sweat lodge,” he suggested.
It was the first indication of Fallon’s new status with the tribe.
Chapter Nine
“How could you take such a terrible chance?” Jenny demanded furiously. “Kayitah might have killed you!”
“Well, he didn’t!” Fallon snapped, annoyed by her outburst. “Anyway, it was my neck on the line, not yours.”
Jenny choked back the hot words that sprang to her lips, but her thoughts were easily read in her bright-green eyes, and in the sudden flush that stained her cheeks. If Fallon died, all her dreams of escape would die with him.
Ryder Fallon scowled into the distance, bemused by his anger. And he was angry, not because she had been giving him the rough side of her tongue for the last ten minutes, but because he knew that, once he got her away from Kayitah, she would no longer give a damn whether he lived or died. And he wanted her to care.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t cash in until I get you out of here,” he muttered irritably, and a hostile silence fell between them.
Jenny glanced warily over her shoulder, making sure they were still alone on the riverbank. She did not like to think what would happen if Kayitah found her alone with Fallon. The Apache chief had been very possessive lately, even more so than usual, watching her, sometimes coming to look for her if he thought she was gone too long.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a while. “It’s just that…”
“I know. Forget it,” Fallon growled. “Damn, I wish I had a cigarette
.”
“I wish I was home.”
Fallon skimmed a small flat stone across the placid water, his anger forgotten. She sounded so forlorn, so heartbreakingly sad, he longed to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears that glistened in the corners of her eyes. Instead, he asked, “Where’s home?”
“Widow Ridge. Hank went ahead to find us a place to live. I was on my way to meet him there when the Apaches attacked the stage.” Jenny shuddered with the recollection. “I was taken prisoner. Everyone else was killed.”
Fallon nodded sympathetically. He could only imagine how scared she must have been, even as he felt a quick surge of gratitude that Kayitah had spared her life.
“Oh Ryder, will I ever get away from here?”
“Sure, honey,” he drawled softly, thinking that her eyes, no longer flashing fire, were as green as emeralds, as deep as a high mountain lake.
Jenny sighed. “I’d love to go home, but that’s silly, isn’t it? I’ve never even been there. But oh how I’d love to sleep in a real bed again, and take a hot bath in a real tub with real soap. I want to wear dresses again, and petticoats, and real shoes. And I’m dying for a glass of cold milk and a slice of hot apple pie.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And I want to see Hank again.” Tears stung her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands. It would be so good to see her husband again, to live with a man who desired nothing more of her than companionship and affection. “Oh Hank,” she sobbed, “I miss you so!” Ryder Fallon looked away, moved by her tears, touched by the aching loneliness in her voice. It had been a long time since a woman loved him the way Jenny Braedon appeared to love her husband.
“Ryder?” She didn’t look up, and her voice was muffled by her hands.
“I’m listening,” he answered quietly.
“I’ve been Kayitah’s prisoner for over four years. If you were Hank, would you…would it make any difference?” Jenny held her breath as she waited for Fallon’s answer. Did he think she was ruined because she had lived with an Indian? Would the fact that she’d been Kayitah’s wife change her relationship with Hank?
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