Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  “Leave them be, Jenny.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Stop fussing over me. I’ll be all right.”

  She relented, but reluctantly.

  “Where’s Howard?”

  “Right here,” Will said, stepping from the saddle. “How’re you feeling?”

  “How do you think?”

  Howard chuckled. “I suppose you’ve been better.”

  Fallon nodded. “And worse.”

  “Think you can travel?”

  “Yeah.” Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ryder sat up. “Give me a hand, Will.”

  “Sure.” Howard took hold of Fallon’s right forearm. “This is gonna hurt some.”

  “It already hurts,” Ryder muttered. He grunted softly as Will pulled him to his feet.

  “Ryder…?”

  “I’ll be all right, Jenny girl,” he said. “Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  “Maybe you should rest awhile.”

  “No.”

  “You’re afraid Kayitah will change his mind and come back, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think he’d break his word,” Fallon replied slowly. “But I’d rather not be around if he does.” He glanced over his shoulder at Will Howard. “I think I’ll need a little help mounting up.”

  Jenny watched anxiously as Ryder put his foot into the stirrup. He muttered a vile oath, his face turning fish-belly white, as Will Howard boosted him into the saddle.

  Fearing he might faint, she scrambled up behind him, her arms sliding around his waist. “Are you all right?”

  He grunted softly as he covered her arms with one of his own. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jenny hovered over him for the next week, insisting he stay in bed. No matter how often he assured her that he was fine, she remained adamant, feeding him even when he insisted he wasn’t so damn weak he couldn’t hold a spoon. Worst of all, she wouldn’t even let him out of bed to relieve himself.

  And Wyatt agreed with her.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” the old sawbones had said when Ryder complained. “Won’t hurt you to take it easy for a week or so.”

  It seemed as if the whole valley came by to see how he was doing and to wish him well. It was damned disconcerting, lying there in bed while women hovered over him, bringing him cakes and pies, exclaiming over what a brave thing he’d done.

  “Dammit, Jenny, does the whole valley have to know our business?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t mean to tell anyone. But Mrs. Johnson overheard Will asking me how you were, and one thing led to another, and the next thing you knew, it just seemed easier to tell her the whole story.”

  Jenny bent to examine the wound in his side, pleased to see that it was healing nicely. “Everyone’s been so kind.”

  Ryder took her hand in his. “No regrets, Jenny girl?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Cosito belongs with his father. I know that now.”

  “Jenny…”

  She heard it all in his voice, his uncertainty, his doubts. She knew he was afraid she would come to hate him, that one day she’d be sorry she’d given Cosito back to Kayitah.

  She reassured him in the only way she knew how. “I’m pregnant, Ryder.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  His gaze swept over her slender figure, then settled on her face once again.

  “How do you feel? Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She was carrying his child. Tenderly, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Fallon laid his hammer aside and stood up, flexing his tired muscles. Another two dozen shingles and the roof on the baby’s room would be just about finished.

  From his lofty perch, he commanded a view of the entire valley, but he had eyes only for his own domain, the crops growing in neat rows, the horses standing head to tail in the corral alongside the house, the calf bawling in the pen behind the cabin, the chickens scratching for grubs near the front door.

  Twenty-five head of prime white-faced cattle grazed on the verdant hills behind the house.

  Fallon removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. Things had been tight at first, but he’d scraped up a little cash and ridden to Canyon Springs. There, in an all-night poker game, he had parlayed a few dollars into a sizable bankroll.

  They had put the money to good use, buying cattle and seed, clothing, a plow, a new hat for Jenny because he wanted to buy her something pretty and impractical.

  They had accomplished a great deal in the few short months since he’d gone after Cosito, yet nothing had given him as much pleasure or satisfaction as carving the cradle that would hold their child.

  The corners of Fallon’s mouth turned up in a wry grin. Somehow, he could not imagine himself as a father. Occasionally, as now, he wondered if it was wise for them to have a child. Looking back over his life, he was suddenly afraid that they had made a terrible mistake, and that their son or daughter would suffer for it. Life as a mixed blood was never easy.

  Unwilling to spoil Jenny’s happiness, he kept his misgivings to himself, and as the golden summer days passed into fall, and his love for Jenny grew and deepened, he laid his doubts aside, determined not to let what might happen in the future mar the beauty of the present.

  Standing there, he lifted his face toward heaven and uttered a silent prayer, beseeching Usen to bless Jenny with a healthy baby and an easy delivery.

  He was still amazed that she’d been willing to give up her son to save his miserable hide, but she’d done it, and he knew he’d never be able to repay her for that, not if he lived to be a hundred.

  Most amazing of all was the fact that she seemed to be truly at peace. Sometimes she asked him about his childhood with the Indians, and he knew she was thinking of Cosito, picturing him doing the things that he had done. But there were no tears.

  She spent a good deal of time with Nell Howard, making tiny baby clothes and quilts, diapers and gowns.

  “Please, God, please let this baby be all right. She wants it so bad. And deserves it so much.”

  He heard the front door open and, glancing over the edge of the roof, saw Jenny standing in the yard, her shopping basket over her arm.

  Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked up at him and smiled.

  “I’m going to the trading post for some salt and sugar,” she called. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a grin. “How about a cold beer and a skinny woman?”

  Jenny made a face at him, then turned and flounced down the path that led to the gate. Skinny woman, indeed, she mused, and then smiled because she knew he was only teasing, and that he would love her if she weighed three hundred pounds!

  Fallon spent a pleasant moment watching Jenny’s backside. She seemed to grow more beautiful with each passing day. Sometimes in the evening as he sat watching her mend one of his shirts, his heart ached with loving her.

  A movement on the outskirts of the valley drew his attention and he frowned as he shook off a vague sense of foreboding.

  Four riders, he judged by the cloud of dust they raised on the narrow trail. Settling his hat on his head, he watched their progress into the valley.

  As they drew nearer, he saw they were Comanche. And they had a prisoner. Blond hair, long and unkempt, identified the captive as a white man. His hands were bound behind his back; a rope circled his neck like a leash. Head hanging, shoulders sagging in defeat, the prisoner shuffled listlessly behind the lead warrior’s horse.

  Fallon swung down from the roof as the Indians drew rein outside the fence that separated their homestead from the road that led into Twin Rivers.

  He raised his hand in the traditional sign of peace. “Welcome, brothers,” he said in the Comanche tongue. “You are far from home.”

  The lead warrior n
odded as he raised his right hand, returning Fallon’s gesture of peace.

  “Come, step down,” Fallon invited.

  “I am Isawura,” the warrior said as he dismounted. “And these are Kebakowe, Isananaka and Tabe Kwine.”

  Fallon nodded to each man in turn. “Welcome. Will you stay and eat with us? My woman will be back soon to prepare supper.”

  The warriors conferred briefly. “We will stay,” Isawura announced, and tethered his spotted pony to the fence post.

  Isawura gave a tug on the rope around the captive’s neck and the man stumbled forward.

  Ryder frowned thoughtfully. There was something disturbingly familiar about the prisoner.

  Feeling Fallon’s gaze, the captive lifted his head. Recognition flickered in the depths of his blue eyes. “You!” he gasped.

  Ryder felt the muscles tighten in the back of his neck, felt his whole body grow tense as he stared into the ashen face of Jenny’s husband.

  Rage boiled up inside Fallon as he thought of all the pain, both mental and physical, that Hank Braedon had caused Jenny. He remembered how he’d found Jenny wandering aimlessly in the darkness the night after Hank had beaten her. There had been bruises on her arms, her left eye red and swollen, a souvenir of Braedon’s fist. Fallon swore softly as he remembered Jenny’s tears, how she had curled into his arms, needing him, trusting him.

  Damn. Why wasn’t the bastard dead?

  Hank stared at Fallon, unable to believe his bad luck. When the Indians had turned down the valley, he had hoped to beg for help from one of the residents. But he’d find no mercy here, he thought bleakly. Fallon would be more likely to cut out his heart than help him.

  Hank shook his head, trying to clear it. If Fallon was here, then Jenny must be here. Jenny… She’d always had a soft heart, taking in strays and caring for the weak and helpless. She had once cared for him. Maybe she still cared, a little, but even if she didn’t, even if she hated him, she wouldn’t let Fallon kill him. She might even be able to persuade the Indians to let him go.

  For the first time in weeks, he felt a tiny surge of hope. If only he could see Jenny, talk to her, he might yet find a way out of this mess, he thought.

  And then he looked into Ryder Fallon’s cold blue eyes and knew he was a dead man.

  Ryder jerked a thumb in Hank’s direction. “Your prisoner,” he said to Isawura. “Did you take him in battle?”

  The warrior shook his head. “No. We took him in trade from the Kiowa. I am taking him home to my woman.”

  “He looks sick,” Fallon remarked.

  Isawura shrugged. “If he dies, it will be no loss.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Ryder muttered in English.

  He led the warriors to a shady spot beside the cabin, bade them sit down and rest. Isawura tied his prisoner to a tree near the cabin before going to sit cross-legged with his traveling companions.

  Fallon stared at Braedon, who sat with his back resting against the tree. For a moment, he imagined Hank hanging from one of the branches, his body swaying in the breeze, his face swollen and black.

  Abruptly, he turned away and went into the house. He was serving the warriors coffee when he heard Jenny call his name.

  “Back here,” he said, and walked toward the front of the house to meet her, wondering how to explain that Hank Braedon wasn’t dead, and that their marriage was no longer valid.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Jenny was smiling as she rounded the corner of the house. “I couldn’t find any skinny women,” she said, “and the beer wasn’t cold. Who do those horses belong to…”

  Her voice trailed off when she saw the quartet of warriors sitting on the ground. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s all right, Jenny,” Ryder assured her, chiding himself because he couldn’t bring himself to tell her about Hank. “How about rustling us up some chow? I promised them supper.”

  “Oh you did, did you? Maybe I should make you fix it then.”

  Ryder ruffled her hair affectionately. “Be a good wife, Jenny girl,” he teased, “or I shall have to beat you to save face.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Jenny replied saucily, and dropped a proper curtsey before heading for the front door.

  Fallon and the warriors passed the time in quiet conversation as they waited for supper. The Indians spoke of their growing concern over the increasing number of whites encroaching on their land, of great chiefs, of battles won and lost.

  They were discussing the war talk spreading over the plains when Jenny appeared bearing a steaming platter of beef, potatoes, biscuits and gravy, and a pot of coffee.

  The warriors grunted with pleasure as they helped themselves to the food, ignoring the silverware Jenny had provided in favor of their own knives.

  Jenny was about to return to the house when she noticed the man tied to the tree. He looked quite pathetic sitting there, she thought sadly. His clothes were ragged and covered with filth, there were holes in his boots. A thin red line circled his neck, caused by the constant chafing of the coarse rope. He was so covered with mud and grime she couldn’t see the color of his skin, but the color of his hair quickly identified him as a white man.

  When it grew evident that no one was going to feed him, Jenny plucked a fat slice of meat from the platter, buttered two fluffy biscuits, and resolutely placed them on a plate.

  Smiling timidly, she started toward the prisoner, wondering what she could say to put the man at ease, when Fallon placed a restraining hand on her arm.

  “No, Jenny.”

  “But he’s had nothing to eat,” she protested.

  “He’s their prisoner. You mustn’t interfere.”

  “Some water then? Surely they wouldn’t object to that?”

  “Dammit, Jenny, stay out of it!”

  “Don’t listen to him, Jen,” Hank croaked. “He’d like to see me dead.”

  Jenny gaped at the prisoner. “Hank?” It couldn’t be. He was dead. Images of that awful night at the rancheria crowded her mind—the gunshots, the fear as they raced through the darkness, the hiss of unseen arrows. She remembered the hatred blazing in Kayitah’s eyes, Hank’s scream as one of those arrows found its mark, her last sight of him as he tumbled off the horse to be swallowed up by the night.

  Hank. Time shifted backward and she recalled the day she had met Hank Braedon, the loneliness that had drawn them together, the sweet affection they had once shared, the slow deterioration of that affection, the recriminations…

  Hank was alive.

  He was her husband.

  Ryder swore softly as recognition spread across Jenny’s face, quickly followed by a variety of emotions ranging from mild affection to pity. He knew the exact moment when she realized that they’d been living a lie, that she was still Braedon’s wife.

  Before she could say or do anything else, he grabbed her by the arm, hustled her into the cabin and closed the door.

  “Jenny, listen to me…”

  “Ryder, you’ve got to do something. They’ll kill him.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “How can you be so callous?” Jenny demanded, arms akimbo.

  “Callous! After the way he treated you?” Ryder sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. “You don’t have to worry. Isawura isn’t gonna kill him.”

  “What then?”

  “Isawura is taking Hank home, as a present for his wife.”

  “To be a slave, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Jenny’s green eyes were as turbulent as an angry sea. “How can you let that happen?” she demanded incredulously. “You, of all people! Have you forgotten Alope? Have you forgotten how you hated being her slave? How humiliating it was?”

  “No,” Fallon acknowledged quietly. “And I haven’t forgotten how you looked after that bastard hit you either.”

  “He didn’t mean it, Ryder. He was hurt and angry.”

  Fallon muttered a vile oath. How could she be so concerned about a man who
had hit her hard enough to leave bruises on her arms, a man who had slapped her so hard she had carried the imprint of his hand for days?

  “Please, Ryder,” Jenny asked softly, “can’t you do something?”

  He couldn’t ignore the pleading note in her voice, or the trust in her eyes, could not deny her anything that was in his power to give. And if she wanted Hank Braedon, he would get the bastard for her.

  “I’ll try, Jenny,” he said heavily, “but I can’t promise anything.”

  Outside, the warriors were getting ready to ride on. Hank stood forlornly behind Isawura’s horse, expressing no interest in what was going on around him. He’d spent weeks as Kayitah’s prisoner, living in abject misery, waiting for the Indians to kill him the way they’d killed Charlie.

  To his regret, the Apaches hadn’t killed him. He’d been ready for death. What he hadn’t been ready for was the abuse, the constant mockery. Once it was discovered that he was less than a man, the women had belittled him constantly, the men had looked at him with pity. For a time, the Apaches had forced him to wear a dress, to sit with the women, to gather wood and water. It had been humiliating beyond belief or description. And when they finally tired of him, they had traded him to the Kiowa, where he’d fared little better. And then the Kiowa had traded him to the Comanche warrior known as Isawura.

  He had felt a glimmer of hope when he saw Jenny, but Fallon had taken her inside and he hadn’t seen her since. And what did it matter? He had nothing to offer her. Nothing at all.

  The sight of her, happy and swollen with new life, had pierced his heart like a knife. The jealousy he’d felt when he looked at Fallon, the envy, had been so strong it had been almost physical.

  But it didn’t matter, he thought, too tired and ill to care what happened to him. Nothing mattered. Charlie was dead. Jenny had found someone else. And in a few months, he’d be dead.

  Fallon watched the warriors for a few moments; then, with a sigh of resignation, he approached Isawura.

  Stopping beside the warrior, he patted the Indian’s horse on the shoulder. Of the four men, Isawura had the poorest mount.