by Jeanne Rose
"That's how you, uh, met Louisa's father," Frances assumed.
Belle wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Whites call them savages, but he never beat me like Ralph did. He mighta been a horse thief – the thing that got him killed by a posse just before Louisa was born – but he never did to a child what Ralph did to Tommy." Eyes red and still swimming with tears, she asked, "Frankie, honey, you don't think Louisa's dead, do you?"
"No, of course not," Frances said, unable to think of that vital young life snuffed out. "She hasn't even been gone a day. She can take care of herself, Belle."
"Out in the wilderness? Oh, she talks big and rides good. But she ain't never been on her own. She's so young and beautiful. She had a future!"
Frances noticed Ruby standing in the doorway, whiskey in hand, big eyes filled with tears. Wondering if the blonde ever dreamed of a different future than the one she now faced, Frances waved her in and took the glass, which she handed to Belle.
"Drink. It'll steady your nerves."
Belle obeyed, swallowing the liquor in one big gulp. "What am I gonna do? I can't lose my girl."
"I'll find her for you," Frances promised. There'd been enough deaths. She wouldn't let Louisa be next.
"You?" Belle gave her a look of astonishment. "You barely learned to ride. And you ain't familiar with the country."
"But I know someone who is."
Frances longed for a shot of that whiskey herself. Maybe it would give her the courage to ask Chaco for his help.
CHACO WAS DOWNING A DRINK, steadying his nerves so he'd be able to spend another evening watching Frances ignore him when she suddenly appeared at the saloon's bar.
"I have to talk to you."
He studied her grim expression, wondered if she was about to fire him. "You're the boss lady."
"Not as your employer."
"You want to talk about us?" he asked, afraid to get his hopes up.
"Louisa Janks."
The spark of hope died. He should have known it wouldn't be anything personal. Should have known it was a mistake to come back to the Blue Sky at all. Maybe he should have taken de Arguello up on his proposition rather than promising he'd think about it.
"Drink?" he signaled Jack .
"No, nothing, thank you." Frances waved the bartender away.
When she turned back to him with an intent expression, Chaco admitted, "Heard about the girl. A crying shame what lies narrow-minded folks can dream up. And the things they don't believe in." He didn't say skinwalker, didn't know if Frances believed.
His thoughts turned to Louisa. He felt for her, maybe because they had a lot in common. From his childhood, he'd been called all kinds of rotten names and had been accused of all kinds of things for no good reason other than his mixed blood. He'd learned to handle himself and a gun in self-defense.
Frances asked, "Did you know she's missing?"
"When?"
"Sometime this morning. She ran away and now Belle's frantic thinking the worst will happen to Louisa." Taking a deep breath, Frances added, "I need your help to find her."
He frowned. "I didn't know the girl well enough to figure where she might be."
"A neighbor saw her heading south on Defiant, the blooded horse she bought over at Fort Marcy. Since you at least know the road she took..."
Chaco thought about it. "Should be able to pick up her tracks, then, unless a cavalry regiment's been in the area recently." When she gave him a questioning look, he explained, "The army uses different shoes than the town blacksmith. I can recognize the marks." He realized he was, in effect, agreeing.
"You'll take me, then?"
"Take you?" Not wanting to torture himself by spending time alone with a woman he ached for but who didn't want him, he shook his head. "I'll go alone."
"And what about when you find her. Louisa doesn't know you very well. It's doubtful you'd be be able to talk her into coming back to Santa Fe with you."
"Don't have to talk. I can just bring her whether she wants to come or not."
"She's a very scared young woman. I won't have you terrifying her on top of what's already happened," Frances insisted. "I'm coming with you."
Chaco didn't like it, not one bit. He could go alone if he chose, could leave Frances Gannon in his dust if she tried to follow. But Louisa Janks was the important one here. Frances sure as hell was right about the poor kid being scared. Thinking about being hounded by a woman of Minna Tucker's ilk, he didn't blame her. And he didn't want to put her through more torture either. Undoubtedly, Louisa would be relieved to see Frances, so his objections faded before he could put them in words.
He gave her a curt nod. "First light."
"Can't we go now, while the tracks are fresh?"
"No use in it. Kid's got a good head start on us. Sun's already down. By the time we get provisions and our horses, it'll be dark."
Nodding, Frances started to turn away. "I'll tell Belle." Then stopped. She was swallowing rapidly and he could tell whatever she had to say wasn't coming easy. "Chaco, you didn't have to do this, not after...I mean...I want you to know how I – "
Coldly, he cut her off. "I'm doing it for the girl."
And watched her walk away, back stiff, head high.
He tried convincing himself he was doing it for Louisa just as he'd told himself he'd come back to the job merely to thwart de Arguello's plans for him.
Truth be, he was becoming a practiced liar.
There was nothing he wouldn't do for Frances, he thought, until he remembered Martinez.
Almost nothing...
DAWN HAD BARELY BROKEN before they were on their way. Belle pointed out the area where the neighbor had spotted Louisa, and, to Frances's relief, Chaco easily picked up her trail. Giving Belle a hug and an assurance that they would find her daughter, Frances mounted the sorrel without assistance and followed Chaco, who headed south. Her saddlebags bulged with food Elena had prepared, but she hoped they would return with Louisa before seriously depleting the supplies.
Chill nipped the early morning air and the eastern sky was streaked with vivid colors as the sun peaked over the horizon. It would be a romantic escape if their mission weren't so serious, and if Chaco himself weren't so grim. After he'd rebuffed her halting attempt at squaring things between them the night before, she wouldn't try again. At least not until she had some sign that Chaco was ready to talk about what happened...and to see her point of view.
Until then, she would try to put what had passed between them out of mind. She would try to look at him and not be affected by the hard planes of his face or by the sensual curve of his mouth or by the seductive way his loose hair fluttered against his neck as he rode. She would try not to ache for his touch or for the feel of his arms around her.
She would try...but Frances feared she would not succeed. An empty place within her awaited him.
A short piece down the road, Chaco dismounted, squatted and inspected the trail. "Looks like someone joined up with Louisa here."
Frances was immediately alarmed. "Oh, no, what if one of the townspeople – "
"Army," he cut her off. Straightening, he led the chestnut several dozen yards further, then checked again. "Here they're riding together side-by-side."
"You're saying Louisa has an official escort?"
"Official?" He shrugged and got back into the saddle. "She's not alone. Or wasn't."
Frances tried to cheer herself up with that news. But, remembering how young Belle's daughter was, knowing that all men didn't have the proper respect for a female of any age, she only hoped Louisa was safe.
Not too long afterward, Chaco led her off the main road into rougher terrain. One hill rolled after another, the pale earth dotted with vegetation. Pinons turned and twisted their reddish trunks as they attempted to get the most of land and sky, and were interspersed with patches of bushy and freely branched juniper. Lower to the ground grew sagebrush, gray and shreddy with age.
"Looks like Louisa was afraid someone would catch up with her if
she headed straight for Albuquerque," Chaco explained of his detour. Before she could panic, he added, "Don't worry. I'll still be able to track her."
Frances took a relieved breath. "Did she go off alone?"
"Nope. Still two sets of tracks. Her escort is sticking with her."
They rode for hours, keeping to an easy pace, stopping only the few times Chaco needed to check the tracks up close. Frances got wise enough to dismount when he did, if but for a few minutes, so that she could relieve her legs and back of the awful monotony of the saddle. He only spoke to her when necessary. The silence that stretched between them didn't seem to bother him a bit. It was as if he didn't care, as if she meant nothing to him.
Frances felt her anger grow and feed on his neglect.
Eventually, she goosed her mare alongside him and forced a conversation. "After we find Louisa, what then?"
"We go back to Santa Fe." He turned cool gray eyes on her. "Or did you have someplace else in mind?"
"I was talking about the true murderer. How do we find her?"
"You don't want to find her."
"No, I don't," Frances admitted. "But you have to. Until then, Louisa – none of us – will be safe."
His eyes turned spooky and stared right through her. He didn't say anything.
"Magdalena insisted going after a skinwalker would be lunacy."
That got a reaction out of him. His gaze connected with hers. "You talked to Magdalena about it? What else did she have to say?"
"Only that a more powerful shaman could stop the diablera. And you talked the war leader out of going after the evil one on your...on the de Arguello property," she said, thinking of the Jicarillas Chaco had intercepted.
"He's probably sitting back waiting to see how far I get before she kills me, too. Then he can learn from my mistakes."
Frances felt sick at the thought of Chaco being some kind of scapegoat. Not wanting to pursue the conversation, she dropped back into position behind him. Suddenly she had difficulty breathing. Her chest felt heavy and she was certain her heart was to blame. She'd thought it had broken when he'd killed Martinez. Then why did she feel so awful at the notion of Chaco himself dying? Honest with herself, Frances knew she loved him no matter what he had done, her feelings going far deeper than she had even guessed.
She was brooding on the matter, weighing her options, trying to decide what to do about this self-discovery, when her mare nosed into the buckskin's rump and stopped. Before her, his horse unmoving, Chaco sat straight in the saddle, his back stiff, his hand held out to her in a silent command. About to demand an explanation, she let the words die in her throat.
She sensed...danger.
A sweep of the rolling land before and around them didn't reassure or enlighten her. She saw nothing. Heard nothing. The very air was still as if the earth itself were holding its breath.
But her skin crawled and her heart drummed as the sensation of being watched shot through her.
Frances waited for Chaco to give her some signal, to explain what was happening, to tell her what to do. Anything. But he remained stiff and silent in his saddle. Seconds stretched into minutes. Interminable. Tedious.
Frightening.
And then she heard it. The near-silent whisper, the muffled sound seeming to surround them. And drawing closer.
"Chaco!" she whispered to no avail.
She could only watch in horror as the hills came alive with armed riders and realized they were surrounded by an Apache war party. Trembling inside, not knowing what to expect next, she looked to Chaco, wondering why he did nothing to protect them. Her gaze shot back to the heavily armed Indians. They, too, sat still and silent above them, as if in some kind of standoff.
Her heart practically beat out of her chest as Frances watched a final warrior, older than most of the others, move his pony into a break in the line. His nose was broad, his forehead low and wrinkled, his chin strong. His eyes were dark, two bits of obsidian with a light behind them, and his mouth was a thin-lipped gash without a softening curve. His loose shoulder-length hair was capped by beaded buckskin and he was wearing both breechcloth and moccasins, but his pants, shirt and jacket were of the white man's cloth and cut. She was certain he was the leader.
Now Chaco lifted his arm in greeting and spoke directly to the older warrior, his foreign-sounding words delivered in a staccato rhythm. He sounded at ease using their language, as if it were a part of him.
Frances understood not a wit of what he was saying until he uttered the name, "Geronimo!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHACO SENSED Frances's need to panic but would not allow it lest she shame him before his uncle. He sought her gaze, connected, and without words reassured her she was safe. Gradually, her too-pale face regained its natural color.
He signaled to her to follow him. They joined the Apache who led them to a nearby stream where they allowed their ponies to drink and then gathered in small groups to eat or talk. Chaco and Frances, along with Geronimo and another warrior, his lifelong friend Juh, sat along the bank, beneath the shade of several peachleaf willow trees.
"What brings you so far from home?" Chaco asked as soon as they were settled.
Geronimo and his men were hundreds miles from the area they normally traversed in playing hide and seek from the Army, not to mention the San Carlos Reservation where many of the Chiricahua were interred.
"A vision summoned me."
"What kind of vision?"
"A she-wolf. An evil witch."
Giving Frances a reassuring glance since she had no idea about what they spoke, Chaco then asked his uncle, "You have heard of the skinwalker?"
"I have felt her presence. And her kills." The old warrior had a far-off look as if even now the visions haunted him.
"The witch condemns those she stalks to range through the afterlife mutilated as she leaves them," Juh said. "This, even though Apache blood runs through her cursed veins."
"Someone must exact vengeance against this evil one," Geronimo said gravely. "Soon."
Knowing different bands of Apache had no particular affection for one another, Chaco found it hard to believe Geronimo had ridden so far north to avenge the Jicarilla. The Navajo and Spaniards were even less to him.
"There must be more."
Geronimo nodded his agreement. "You, the son of my sister."
At which Chaco's skin crawled. "You have seen me in this vision of yours?"
Once more his uncle nodded gravely.
"Does she...kill me?"
"This I cannot say. The skinwalker threatens you. But you are stronger than even you know, Chaco. Like me, you are di-yin. Accept this gift from our ancestors and use it as a weapon against the evil that plagues our land."
Though he'd mostly ignored his own potential as a medicine man over the years, Chaco figured it might be the right time to explore the gift further. "So you traveled far from home merely to warn me?"
"You are of my blood. You are all that is left of Oneida." With that, Geronimo sank into silence.
Next to him, Frances whispered, "What does he say?"
"That he has seen the diablera in his visions and has sought me out to tell me that I am in danger."
"Do you believe that's all there is to it?"
Figuring Frances feared Geronimo was on the warpath, Chaco attempted to ease her mind. "My uncle lost a mother, wife and three children to the Mexican soldiers in a single raid. Considering he's been avenging their spirits for nearly three decades now, I guess it isn't too much to think he'd take the time to warn me."
Then, in an oddly tight voice, she asked, "His visions...are they the same as yours? Or might they involve someone else also?"
"What do you mean? Who?"
"I, uh, had this really awful dream the other night," Frances admitted, appearing uncomfortable under his steady gaze. "A wolf trapped me in a deserted warehouse. I grabbed onto her and she kept changing from wolf to woman and woman to wolf, only I couldn't see her face. In the end
, you drove her away."
Chaco didn't want to believe that Frances, too, was in danger. If so, then he was to blame. "You had a lot on your mind."
"That's what I thought...before I realized my hand was hurt."
She held it out to him and Chaco frowned at the fading signs of bruises and scrapes. "You didn't do anything to – "
"Nothing."
Chaco suddenly realized Frances had his uncle's undivided attention. Geronimo was staring at her as if weighing her worth. She realized it, too. Her eyes widened and she swallowed hard, but he could tell she was trying not to show fear.
"Doesn't he like me?" Frances whispered, holding the obsidian stare without flinching.
"You are the woman of my sister's son," Geronimo said slowly and in English. "Though I have no love for the White Eyes, I accept you as my family."
"Thank you. I-I am honored," Frances told him.
Geronimo inclined his head, then removed something from a buckskin bag hanging from his gunbelt. A small beaded pouch. He held it out to her.
Hesitantly, Frances took it and inspected it more closely.
"Is this a medicine bag?"
"War charm," Geronimo told her. "For protection and good luck." At her surprised expression, he said, "In the papers all over the world they say I am a bad man, but this is a bad thing to say. I never do wrong without a cause. There is one God looking down on us all. We are children of the one God. God is listening to me. The sun, the darkness, the winds are all listening."
Frances stared down at the pouch in her hand, then at Geronimo. "Yes, children of one God." Her eyes shone as she said, "This I, too, believe. I accept your gift with respect and with my heart."
As she slipped the pouch into the pocket of her split skirt, Chaco slid back into the Chiricahua dialect and asked his uncle about his plans now that he'd shared his vision. Geronimo was purposely vague and Chaco didn't press him.
A while later, after they'd shared a meal with his uncle and Juh, Chaco figured they'd better get on with their search for Louisa. He and Frances gathered their horses, but before leaving, Chaco couldn't help giving Geronimo advice that came from his head rather than his heart.
