Spellbound Trilogy: The Wind Casts No Shadow, Heart of the Jaguar, Shadows in the Mirror

by Jeanne Rose

  Then she caught him with those big, pleading eyes.

  Hell and damnation, he wasn't any hero. Far from it! And he wasn't much good with words.

  About to tell her that, Chaco couldn't force the denial from his mouth. Not when she acted so brave herself. And not when she was looking at him like that, like he was the only man in the world she could count on.

  He felt himself weaken.

  Maybe he could find the band. He'd learned to track when his mother had taken him to the camps of her relatives. And though his ancestors were Chiracahua, he could speak several Apache dialects, including that of the Jicarilla. If he used his head, he might be able to reach the shaman, who could then influence the others to turn back and keep the fragile peace. He glanced around the room and took in the arsonal.

  "All right," he growled. "I'll do it." And pray he would live and not regret the decision. Frances's immediate smile cut through him and Chaco shifted his gaze to de Arguello. "If you'll call off your men."

  The Hidalgo didn't answer immediately. He studied Chaco as if estimating his worth. Chaco's gaze didn't waver, and he was almost surprised when the white head dipped in agreement.

  "I shall not send my men out. But we will prepare for trouble should it seek us."

  He signaled his men who picked up guns and ammunition and carried them out of the room. Even Ynez seemed intent on showing her support for her husband. Giving Chaco a cold stare, she moved to a gun rack where she awkwardly lifted down a rifle one-handed and then almost dropped it, catching the weapon before it hit the floor. She winced, as if she'd hurt herself, but quickly masked her discomfort.

  "God go with you, my son," de Arguello said, guiding his wife out of the room.

  Chaco had to clench his jaw so he wouldn't utter a curse in return. He only hoped the old man didn't think he was acting like some heroic fool for him.

  As if she sensed his inner turmoil, Frances touched Chaco's arm. "You can do this."

  Gazing at her, reading the faith in him in her eyes, he nearly believed it. "You're the one good with words."

  "Then I'll come and – "

  "No! No telling what might go on out there. You'll be safer here." And if something happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

  On returning to the horses, Adolpho also volunteered to ride out with him, but Chaco refused this offer, as well, telling him to take care of the women. Luz gave him a filthy look...then removed a small leather pouch from around her neck and offered it to him.

  "For protection."

  Remembering the skinwalker was a woman, that she had already planted some of her witchery on him, Chaco hesitated. He looked deep into Luz's eyes and saw only concern and an edgy pride. She would be insulted and hurt if he refused her.

  "Thanks," he said, taking the pouch and slipping it into a pocket. "I can use all the luck I can get."

  A white-faced Frances watched him mount. "This will work," she said softly. "It must."

  And in her face, he read something more than simple concern of one human being for another. She reached up and covered one of his hands with hers, shooting a rush of warmth up his arm and straight to his heart.

  As he turned away, he swore he heard her echo de Arguello's words. "May God go with you."

  Chaco might wish it, too, if only he knew whose God to pray to.

  He set off at an easy lope, quickly putting distance between him and the others, passing the sentries with a wave. But he hadn't gotten far when a gut-level warning kicked in. Still within sight of the estancia, he knew his back wasn't the only part of him being watched.

  The very hills had eyes.

  Slowing his horse to a walk, he threw back his hat, letting loose the shoulder length black hair that was his legacy from his Indian ancestors. He shouted a greeting in Apache. "I come in peace to share the wisdom of your wise man."

  Though he could see nothing but rocks and cactus, sagebrush and a few cottonwood trees, he had no doubt Jicarilla warriors surrounded him. The question was how many. And how long before they attacked.

  Chaco reined in his mount. Raising one hand, he slowly drew his rifle from its sheath with the other, careful to keep his actions slow and unthreatening. He hoisted the weapon above his head. Clasping the barrel with his free hand, he held the rifle high.

  "I, too, seek the diablera who walks as a woman by day and on the legs of a wolf by night."

  In answer, a thwang reverberated over his head and between his raised arms, almost making Chaco bolt for cover. An arrow, its tip undoubtedly treated with poison concocted from blood and venom aged in putrifying animal extracts, fell harmlessly behind him. But he'd felt the whisper of its power, too close for comfort.

  Sweat rolled down his back.

  Gritting his teeth, knowing they would have killed him if that had been their intent, Chaco waited, still and silent on his mount. Fine-tuned with his surroundings, he caught a soft snort and a brush of hoof against loose rock. A moment later, the high desert sprouted life: nearly a dozen braves surrounded him. All were armed, not only with traditional bows and arrows, war clubs and decorated buffalo-hide war shields, but with the white man's rifles, as well.

  He and the others hadn't arrived on de Arguello land too soon, Chaco realized. Another hour and who knew what they might have found. And if he couldn't present a convincing argument against it, blood would run, starting with his own.

  "Who are you that speaks our tongue?" one of them finally asked.

  Chaco stared at the warrior, dressed in a combination of white man's cloth pants and shirt and the traditional Apache buckskin breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. While many of the others were bareheaded but for a thick band circling their foreheads and holding back their long, loose hair, this one wore a buckskin headdress, beaded and decorated with antelope horns. Only seasoned warriors were allowed the highly individualized war caps, so Chaco addressed him directly.

  "I am Apache."

  "You are not one of us."

  "My mother was Chiricahua," Chaco added, hoping that the particular band these men belonged to had no active feud with her people. Slowly, he lowered his arms but continued to hold the rifle before him balanced against the saddle horn in a non-threatening manner. "And the diablera who is your enemy is my enemy."

  Knowing this was the man to convince, Chaco said, "Our minds are as one – "

  "No! Your Apache blood runs thin. You live among the White Eyes. You seek to protect them."

  "I do not want to see blood shed, this is true."

  "If they give up the witch," the war leader said, "no blood will be spilled but hers."

  "They do not know her." And even if they did, white men would not give over one of their own to men they considered to be savages.

  "You know this evil woman?"

  "Not in her human form," Chaco admitted. "Not yet. But I will." He shuddered even thinking about it – though he might not know the reason, he was certain she wasn't done with him yet. "She has sought me when she skinwalks."

  "I am no fool!" the war leader thundered. "Your throat is still whole."

  "Because I wounded her with a bullet."

  To show his disbelief of and contempt for Chaco's claim, the other man spat on the ground.

  And, desperate to convince him that he was telling the truth – that he had the ability to sense and therefore protect himself against such evil – Chaco admitted, "Some say I am di-yin."

  That got the man's attention. His eyes narrowed and his black gaze penetrated Chaco, who almost felt as if the warrior were inside his skin, peering around, gauging the purity of his heart.

  Chaco went on. "Perhaps you have heard of Goyahkla...the white man calls him Geronimo. He and my mother shared the same father."

  The admission set off a reaction around him, the braves talking among themselves. And Chaco sat still and silent, his gaze flying over each and every one of them, calculating which were the fiercest warriors.

  Just in case...

  Then the w
ar leader urged his mount forward and all speculation ceased. Chaco kept his eyes on the weathered face, watching for any betrayal of the man's thoughts. He could read nothing. Could only sense that the other man was fair. And smart. Still, by the time the Indian pony stopped a few feet away, Chaco was covered in a light sweat.

  The warrior kept him in suspense for a moment longer. Still testing. Probing with impenetrable black eyes. Making up his mind. Finally, he nodded and backed the pony off just enough to give Chaco breathing room.

  "What do you want from us?" he asked.

  Though he felt like sagging in relief, Chaco knew he could not show a moment's weakness. "Keep the peace. That will be best for everyone, white and Apache."

  "We must avenge our own."

  "But only one person was responsible for the death."

  "And she lives among the White Eyes. We must do what is necessary to destroy her."

  Chaco thought quickly. "Maybe this is what she wants – your breaking the peace, being responsible for killing innocent people to get to her. Then the white man's government will send their soldiers for more revenge. Apache will be massacred. The bloodshed will go on and on, and all because of one evil woman who is not worth a single life."

  Chaco could tell the warrior was considering his words seriously. For a man who mostly kept his thoughts to himself, he figured he'd done all right. Good enough to make Frances proud? he wondered.

  "Your words are wise," the leader finally said. "But the witch cannot go unpunished."

  "She won't," Chaco assured him too quickly, figuring someone was bound to be strong enough to fight her, perhaps even to kill her.

  "You will see that she receives justice? That she doesn't seduce more Apache with her evil ways?"

  The sweat started up again, slipping and sliding beneath his shirt. While Chaco knew the skinwalker hadn't finished with him, he hadn't thought in terms of being personally responsible for her. But that's exactly what the wiley fox was suggesting.

  "I can't promise anything..." Chaco let his denial trail off when he noted the hardening of the other man's expression. "...but that I will try."

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, Chaco felt as if he had condemned himself to the white man's hell. The diablera would be a formidable enemy, one he was not trained to fight. He'd made a living with his gun, had killed more men over the years than he wanted to think on. His possible death to save other lives now...to keep Frances Gannon safe . . .

  Honest with himself, Chaco figured maybe it wasn't such a bad trade.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT WAS ALL THAT Frances could do to restrain herself when Chaco rode up to the stable area looking as unscathed as he had when he'd left. Though he'd been gone less than an hour, she was fraught with tension; her nerves were ready to snap. Tempted to throw herself at him when he dismounted from the buckskin – and no doubt make a fool of herself – she stood back while the others gathered around him eagerly.

  "Good to see you alive and still the owner of all that pretty hair, compadre," Adolpho said heartily.

  One arm around Luz's waist, he gave her a big squeeze. She didn't object.

  Obviously disliking the Mexican's jest, Don Armando scowled down at him. "What happened?"

  His expression grimmer than Frances had ever seen it, Chaco said, "They agreed to wait."

  "Wait for what?" the elderly man asked.

  "For the witch to be brought to justice. Until the next new moon."

  "Less than two weeks away," Luz said.

  "As long as no other of their clan dies by her magic before then. Otherwise..."

  He didn't have to finish. Frances shivered. She could imagine the horrors in store for innocent people, white and red alike. And now that she looked closer, there was something about Chaco that made her doubly uneasy. Certainly, he was troubled over the situation as they all were, but she sensed something far more personal tormented him.

  Chaco met her gaze, his spooky gray eyes hollow. "We ought to get back to Santa Fe."

  "Yes, that would be best," Frances agreed, though she wasn't exactly looking forward to getting on a horse again. She didn't want to think about how long she would be stuck in the saddle.

  "First you must eat," Don Armando protested.

  "Maybe something for the trail." Chaco again looked at Frances. "We can eat when we rest."

  A surprising declaration since he hadn't seen fit to go easy on her earlier.

  The ranch owner imperiously gestured to his young wife. "Dona Ynez, gather together food for our guests."

  Frances noticed the woman was not made happy by the demand. But her resentful expression quickly faded to be replaced by the compliant smile of a good Spanish wife as she scurried to do her husband's bidding.

  "Luz and I will eat with my family," Adolpho said. "We're going back to let them know what happened."

  Luz disentangled herself from his possessive arm and moved closer to Frances. "Would you give Belle a message?" she asked in a low voice. "Tell her we'll be staying the night with Adolpho's people, and that we won't be back at the Blue Sky until sometime tomorrow."

  A wide-eyed Frances agreed. In a few short days, Luz had gone from protesting Adolpho's attention to spending the night with him. Was love always so unpredictable? Remembering Belle's reaction to Avandera and the shepherd, Frances wasn't looking forward to passing on this news, but personally, she was happy for Luz. Maybe a life other than selling herself would be possible for at least one of Belle's girls, after all.

  The couple left immediately, and the three other riders, anxious to get back to Santa Fe as soon as possible, headed out with them.

  "Before you go," Don Armando said to Chaco, "I have something for you."

  Frances was startled when Chaco vehemently said, "I told you before I don't want anything of yours!"

  When they'd first arrived, she'd gotten the idea the two men were acquainted but disliked each other. Now it seemed the association wasn't that simple.

  "Your mother made this." The elderly man's expression was sad as he pulled his hand from a pocket, withdrawing a strip of hide decorated with a beaded design. "I did love Oneida, but society's attitudes were such that we could not be man and wife. I am truly sorry about everything she suffered, Chaco. And you. She gave me this token before she left. It is all I have had to remember her by."

  Don Armando held out the strip of beadwork. Chaco stared a moment, seemed reluctant to take it from him, then did so with a curt nod.

  That's when Frances got an uncomfortable feeling that made her turn to find Ynez standing in the doorway, clutching a bulging leather pouch. Fixed on Chaco, her dark eyes were filled with complex emotions, one of which Frances recognized as pure hatred.

  Because her husband had once loved Chaco's mother?

  The two men were staring at each other, both appearing ill- at-ease. Clearing his throat, Don Armando was the first to look away, grumbling, "Where is that woman with the food?"

  "I am here, Husband."

  And as she stepped forward with the offering, Ynez had never looked lovelier. Or happier. She smiled radiantly at both men. And if she hadn't made up her mind about Don Armando's wife before, Frances now was certain she disliked and distrusted the two-faced woman.

  They took their leave. Both men were sober. Unemotional. Almost like strangers. But Frances felt the underlying tension between them. Filled with questions for Chaco, she nevertheless waited until they were a good ways out on the trail, setting a steady pace back to Santa Fe, before she broached what she was certain was a sensitive issue.

  "Don Armando...your mother loved him?"

  "If she did, she was a foolish young woman."

  "He loved her."

  "So he says."

  "He sounded sincere." Frances only hoped her thinking so would make Chaco feel better. "And he kept the beadwork she gave him."

  "Probably forgot about it until now."

  "Then what reminded him?" she asked, even knowing the answer
. "You?"

  "Yeah. I'm something the old man all-of-a-sudden can't forget."

  Reluctant to intrude on his privacy, Frances couldn't help herself. "His son."

  Chaco gave her a wild look and his horse a sharp kick. The buckskin took off and her own mare followed close behind. Frances clenched her jaw and hung on for the short time it took him to get his temper in check.

  He slowed with a mumbled, "Sorry. Shouldn't take my problems out on you."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  He shook his head. "Not now."

  That left the future open. And Frances feeling as if she had something to look forward to. Why should she care whether or not Chaco Jones was willing to tell her how he felt about his father? Because she cared about him. Because she was falling in love. Not the kind of love she'd had for Nate who'd filled her with gratitude and a sense of adventure and a false future to look forward to.

  But the kind of love that came from knowing a man inside.

  From respecting him.

  The realization took away her breath. She respected the man responsible for her husband's death more than she respected the dead man. Nate had deceived her, if not maliciously, then to protect himself. And while Chaco was rarely open about himself, she knew she could trust anything he told her.

  "Just keep something in mind," Frances advised him. "I'm sure you have reason to distrust Don Armando. Maybe to hate him. But he made the first move. You have a chance to settle things with him, make your peace." She thought of her own uncompromising father and of her meek mother who wouldn't stand up to her own husband. "Some of us may never have that opportunity."

  His gaze scorched her. Cheeks flaming, she shifted, trying to find a more comfortable seat. Instead she found more sore spots.

  "You look miserable." Chaco sighed and reined in his horse. "Let's get down and walk a while, stretch our legs, maybe sample those vittles."

  Dismounting, he quickly moved to help her, though Frances beat him to it and got off on her own. She tottered a few steps as the stiffness in her legs and back eased, then found a more comfortable rhythm.