Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  “Go to sleep, honey,” he said at last. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Jenny…”

  “I want to know.”

  “It’s bad.” He thought of the half-breeds he’d known over the years. Most of them, himself included, were caught between two worlds and never quite at home in either one. Many of them, unable to accept their lot in life, turned outlaw or daily drank their way into oblivion, unable to cope with the constant abuse meted out by an intolerant society.

  Jenny gazed down at her son, so beautiful, so perfect, and wondered if perhaps she should have stayed with the Apache. Her son would have been loved there. No one would have belittled him because his mother was a white woman.

  She let out a long sigh, too weary to worry about it any longer. With her son lovingly enfolded in her arms, she closed her eyes.

  Ryder couldn’t stop looking at Jenny. Sitting there, with the rifle close at hand, he felt a vague sense of loss, a longing for something that had once been his, long ago. With some surprise, he realized that Jenny reminded him of Nahdaste. She had the same ready smile, the same innocent air of sensuality that made a man aware of, and immensely pleased with, the difference between male and female.

  Seeing her lying there, sleeping peacefully beside her son, he was suddenly conscious of just how empty and meaningless his life had been since Nahdaste’s death. A wave of loneliness swept over him as he sat there, listening to the gentle patter of the raindrops and the quiet swish of the wind through the trees.

  Overhead, the clouds moved east, revealing a golden sun and an azure sky. Raindrops sparkled in the treetops like diamonds tossed aloft by a careless hand. Birds lifted their voices to greet the new day; in the distance, a lone hawk circled high in the sky.

  The shrill whinny of the stallion brought Fallon to his feet, the rifle cocked and ready in his hands. He glanced at the black, saw that it was staring into the trees, its nostrils flared as it sniffed the wind, its ears pricked forward.

  “I hear them,” Ryder muttered, and laying the Winchester aside, he carefully eased the baby from Jenny’s arms. Then, muttering an oath, he drew his knife and laid the edge of the blade against the infant’s throat.

  And that was how Kayitah found them when he rode up a few minutes later, flanked by twenty heavily armed warriors.

  The Apache chief took in the scene at a glance—the dead gelding, Jenny sleeping soundly, the blanket-wrapped infant cradled in the crook of the half-breed’s arm, the long blade of a skinning knife at its throat.

  “You have a son,” Fallon said tersely. “Tell your warriors to drop their weapons, or the child goes to its ancestors.”

  Kayitah glowered at Fallon. “If you spill a drop of my son’s blood, I will take your life an inch at a time.”

  “Your son will still be dead. My hand grows weary. Take your warriors and go home.”

  “I will not leave without my son.”

  Fallon shook his head. “No. The child will assure us a safe journey from the land of the Apache.”

  “No.” Kayitah nocked an arrow to his bow and sighted down the shaft. Jenny was his target. “Give me my son,” he demanded softly, “or the woman dies now, and then you will die, slowly, cursing the mother who gave you life.”

  “And if I give you the child?”

  “You and the woman are free to go. But I will peel the skin from your body an inch at a time if you ever return to the rancheria.”

  Fallon nodded. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sheathed his knife and handed the infant to Kayitah.

  “Ryder, no!”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Jenny sitting up, her arms outstretched.

  “Jenny…”

  “No!”

  “Jenny, there’s nothing I can do.”

  She turned her desperate gaze on Kayitah, her arms still outstretched. “Please.”

  “He is my son,” Kayitah said.

  “I’m his mother.”

  “No.”

  “Then take me with you.”

  Kayitah nodded in Fallon’s direction. “You have chosen the path you will travel,” the chief said, his voice harsh and cold. “I give you the freedom you have begged for so often. The white man will guide you back to your people.”

  “Let me hold him just once more,” she said, sobbing.

  “No.”

  “At least let me feed him before you go.”

  Kayitah paused for a moment, then nodded curtly. He could not deny his son nourishment.

  Tears streamed from Jenny’s eyes as she put her son to her breast. She blocked everyone else from her mind, her gaze focused on her child’s face as she stroked his downy cheek with her fingertip. His eyes were dark, his nose tiny and perfect, his hair like ebony-colored silk. He gazed up at her through dark eyes fringed by fine black lashes.

  “I love you,” she murmured brokenly. “You’ll never know how much.”

  Too soon, Kayitah took the child from her arms.

  Fallon stood beside Jenny, watching the silent tears course down her cheeks as the Apache chief rode away, surrounded by his warriors.

  When Kayitah was out of sight, Jenny curled into a ball and began to sob, her cries tearing at Fallon’s heart.

  For a moment, he stood there, filled with a sense of helplessness and impotent rage. Maybe he should have refused to give Kayitah the child. Maybe he should have called the chief’s bluff, but he’d lacked the nerve to gamble with Jenny’s life. And in his heart, he knew the child would be better off with the Apache. In the rancheria, the boy would grow up surrounded by people who would love him in spite of the white blood in his veins. He would not be so readily accepted in the white man’s world. But what could he say to Jenny?

  “It’s all my fault,” Jenny sobbed. “All my fault. I was afraid to have my baby in the village. I wanted a nice clean bed and a doctor to help me, and now I’ve lost him.”

  “Jenny, don’t…”

  “I’ve lost him. I’ll never see him take his first steps, never hear his voice…”

  “Jenny, don’t blame yourself. If you need to blame someone, blame me. I was a fool to bring you with me.”

  “Who’ll take care of him?” she wailed softly. “Who’ll feed him and tell him stories and kiss his hurts? Oh Ryder, what have I done?”

  He had no answers to her questions, no words that would comfort her. Instead, he took her in his arms and held her close. And suddenly it was Nahdaste in his arms, bleeding to death from a child that had been born too soon.

  Fallon glanced apprehensively at the blood-soaked cloths bunched between Jenny’s thighs and felt his heart go cold.

  Twenty minutes later-he was riding north with Jenny cradled in his arms. With luck, they’d reach the nearest town before dark tomorrow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The town of Broken Fork lay nestled in a narrow valley surrounded by rolling hills. A cutting wind whipped between the whitewashed buildings that lined the main street, stirring whirling dust devils around the stallion’s hooves. There were few people in evidence, and those that Ryder saw stared openly at the two mud-spattered figures riding double on the big black stud.

  Fallon ignored their curious glances as he reined the black to a halt at the hitch rack fronting the Hendrix Hotel.

  Dismounting, he lifted Jenny from the stallion’s back, dismayed by the dark smudges under her eyes and by the total lack of color in her face.

  “You okay?” he asked doubtfully, but she turned her head aside, refusing to meet his worried gaze.

  Frowning, he scooped Jenny into his arms and carried her into the hotel lobby.

  Jason Orley peered over his newspaper as the hotel door swung open, admitting a long blast of cold air and two disreputable-looking patrons clad in travel-stained buckskins.

  An angry scowl darkened Jason’s pinched features when he got a good look at the man’s face. Half-breed, he thought derisively.

  Fallon crossed
the room in three long strides. “I need a room, quick,” he said, ignoring the clerk’s unspoken animosity.

  “The management don’t…” Orley began, then swallowed hard as the half-breed’s narrowed eyes took on an ominous glint. “I mean…that is… I, uh, we’re full up.”

  “I need a room,” Fallon repeated. “A room for the lady, and if I don’t get one now, the management will be in need of a new clerk. You savvy my meaning, fella?”

  “Yessir,” Jason answered meekly. “Take room fourteen, at the top of the stairs. First door on your right.”

  Fallon grunted as he took the key from the clerk’s trembling hand. “You got a doctor in this town?”

  “Yessir, and a good one too,” Orley babbled nervously. “Doc Findley. Elias Findley. Lives in a two-story green house down at the east end of Main Street.”

  “Obliged,” Fallon rasped, and moved toward the carpeted stairway, his arms tightening around Jenny as he took the stairs two at a time.

  Room fourteen was clean and neat. Somber-hued wallpaper covered the walls. A double bed, a commode, a four-drawer chest and a straight-backed chair crowded the floor. Frilly white lace curtains seemed strangely out of place amid the austere mahogany furniture and brown rag rug.

  Fallon lowered Jenny onto the bed, carefully removed her blood-stained tunic and mud-caked moccasins, then covered her with the patchwork quilt folded across the foot of the bed.

  For a moment he stood beside the bed gazing down at her, his dark eyes clouded with worry. She looked so pale and worn out, so fragile. So sad. Had he been wise to move her so soon? She had endured the grueling ride without complaint, her great green eyes closed, her mouth compressed in a tight line of sorrow and pain.

  Releasing a heavy sigh, he took up the Winchester and left the room.

  Dr. Elias Findley was frowning over his account book when his housekeeper, Emma Flaherty, bustled into the room.

  “You’ve not even touched your supper,” she scolded, arms akimbo. “I don’t know why I bother to cook for you at all!”

  “Now, Emma…”

  “Don’t be wasting your sweet talk on me, Elias Findley. Save it for your patients. And why you waste your time with that book is beyond me. Half the people in it can’t afford to pay you, and the other half don’t seem to be in any hurry.”

  “Now, Emma, would you have me refuse to help some poor soul just because he can’t afford to pay me?”

  “It’s not my place to tell you how to run your practice, but if it’s charity cases you’re looking for, you’ll be delighted to see the gent waiting in the parlor. I’ll wager my back pay that he hasn’t got a penny to his name.”

  “Well,” Findley said with a grin, “send him in and let’s find out.”

  Elias Findley listened without interruption as the bearded man in travel-stained buckskins related the details of the difficult delivery. After asking a few pertinent questions, the doctor grabbed his hat and medical bag and accompanied Fallon to the hotel, politely but firmly requesting that Fallon wait in the hallway while he examined the patient.

  Fallon paced restlessly outside Jenny’s room, hoping Findley knew what he was doing. He’d told the sawbones that the child had died, because it seemed easier and less complicated than telling the truth.

  He paused to stare at the door. What was taking so long? He had little faith in doctors, white ones anyway, and would have preferred some of Cochinay’s Apache magic. He had seen Indian medicine men perform more than one miracle. And that was what he needed now, he mused ruefully, a first-class miracle that would ease the hurt in Jenny’s heart and erase the soul-shattering pain from her eyes.

  After what seemed like hours, Findley stepped out into the hallway.

  “How is she, Doc?” Ryder inquired anxiously.

  “She’s going to be fine, just fine,” Findley murmured absently as, head cocked to one side, he studied the half-breed with a practiced eye, noting the deep lines of worry and fatigue etched in the man’s lean face. “I’m not so sure about you though,” the doctor added with a smile. “When’s the last time you had a decent meal and a good night’s sleep?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe, but in my opinion, you look like a man who could use a good stiff drink.”

  “Thanks, Doc, but I—”

  Findley brushed Fallon’s protests aside with a wave of his hand. “Strictly medicinal,” he said sternly. “And I’m buying.”

  “Okay, Doc,” Fallon agreed with a wry grin, and followed the doctor out of the hotel and across the street to the saloon.

  At the bar, the doctor ordered a beer for himself and a shot of whiskey for Fallon. “Are you planning to stay in town long?” Findley asked affably.

  “Just passing through.”

  “I’m aware of the fact that personal questions are taboo in these parts,” Findley said with a shrug. “But are you in trouble with the law?” There was no condemnation in his tone, only concern.

  “No, Doc. Just dead broke. And you sure Jenny’s gonna be all right?”

  “Certain sure. She’s young and strong. A few weeks in bed will put her right as rain. I give you my word on it.” Findley placed a kindly hand on Fallon’s shoulder. “Trust me, son. Time’s the best healer of all.”

  “Yeah. Listen, Doc, about the bill—”

  “Plenty of time to worry about that after your missus is on her feet again.”

  Your missus… Ryder let the doctor’s assumption go unconnected. He was in no mood to explain what he and Jenny were doing together, or how they had gotten together in the first place.

  Findley drained his glass, then wiped the suds from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll be by to look in on Mrs. Fallon first thing in the morning. Don’t fret if she sleeps all night and a good part of tomorrow. I gave her a pretty potent sedative.”

  “Thanks for everything, Doc.”

  Findley nodded, then summoned the bartender with a wave of his hand. “Give my friend here another drink and put it on my tab.”

  Alone, Fallon stared pensively into the mirror that spanned the wall behind the gleaming mahogany bar. With Jenny taken care of, his next problem was money—money to pay the doctor, to pay for Jenny’s room at the hotel, for food, for new clothes for the two of them, for hay and lodging for his horse.

  Frowning at his reflection, he drained his glass in a single swallow, then dragged the back of his hand over the coarse black beard that covered the lower half of his face. He was in dire need of a bath, he mused. And a shave.

  With a sigh, he stared thoughtfully at Kayitah’s Winchester. It was a good rifle, nearly new. He’d likely be able to get a fair price for it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The brilliant yellow sunlight streaming through the window coaxed Jenny awake. For a moment, she stared up at the whitewashed ceiling, unable to remember where she was, and then, in a rush, it all came back to her—the midnight escape from the rancheria, their headlong flight through the rain-swept night, the gelding’s fall, the concern in Ryder Fallon’s eyes as he knelt beside her in the mud, the knifelike pains that had threatened to split her in two, the unbelievable miracle of birth.

  Hot tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled the tiny infant Fallon had placed in her arms. Her heart had swelled with love as she gazed into her son’s dark eyes. What peace, what contentment, she had known as she cuddled that tiny bit of humanity to her breast. Almost, she could have loved the father, so thrilled was she with the child.

  A sob tore at her throat as she relived the horror of watching Fallon hand her son to its father. Willingly would she have gone back to the rancheria to be with her baby, but Kayitah had refused to take her.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the urge to scream. She’d lost her son as surely as if he had died, and it was all her fault. She should have known Kayitah would come after her, that he would never let her go while she was carrying his child. But she’d wanted so badly to go back to her own people, she’d had to t
ake the chance when it came. And she’d been so afraid of having her baby in the wilderness… Oh if only she’d known how things would have turned out, she would have stayed with Kayitah. Even now, she’d go back to him for the sake of her child, only she knew Kayitah would never take her back. She had spurned him in front of his warriors, and he would never forgive her for that.

  Burdened by a horrible sense of loss, Jenny gave in to the rising tide of grief that welled deep within her breast. Sobbing uncontrollably, she poured out her sorrow and anguish in a torrent of bitter tears. Her child had been taken from her and she’d never see him again. Her arms were empty, so empty; her breasts were heavy with milk.

  Overcome with grief, she closed her eyes and sought relief in the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  When she woke again, it was late afternoon. Feeling listless, she sat up, then stared at the man standing at the foot of the bed, her sorrow momentarily forgotten. Gone was the bearded drifter in travel-stained buckskins, and in his place stood a clean-shaven, ruggedly handsome man. He was dressed in black whipcord britches and a gray wool shirt. A black kerchief was loosely knotted at his throat, a black Stetson was pushed back on his head. The moccasins on his feet had been brushed free of dirt. A .44 Colt with plain walnut grips nestled in a holster low on his right thigh.

  “How are you feeling?” Ryder asked.

  Jenny shrugged and looked away. Fallon had been her best friend, her only friend. She’d trusted him, depended on him, and he’d given her son away. She would never forgive him for that. Never.

  Fallon took a deep breath, dismayed by the silent accusation in her eyes. “Are you hungry?”