by Diana Palmer
“You’re fickle, Richard,” Julie said brokenly. She didn’t look pretty. She looked worn and upset.
He turned and stared into her red face. “Most men take a woman at her own valuation,” he said shortly. “Women who behave cheaply demean themselves.”
Julie gasped and went scarlet. “How could you! How could you say such a thing? I love you. I only wanted you to know that I love you. It isn’t as if anything even happened!”
“Your behavior was intolerable,” he said bluntly, and didn’t back down. “You demeaned yourself, whatever your motive.”
Julie buried her face in her hands and began to weep.
“That was cruel,” Sissy told her brother. “You are no gentleman!”
“Who are you to discuss morals with me, when you permitted a red Indian to put his filthy hands on you?” Richard returned.
Sissy’s eyes flashed furiously. “You mangy cur!” she raged.
“Please,” Trilby interrupted shortly. “We’re in a very dangerous situation. This is not the time to fight among ourselves.”
“Trilby’s right,” Richard said, smiling at her to disguise the upset his sister’s unexpected temper had dealt him. “Let’s get back to the ranch while we can.”
“I hope Thorn and Naki will be all right,” Sissy said in a subdued tone.
“So do I,” Trilby agreed.
With a brokenhearted Julie trailing behind, they made it to the horses—and Trilby had an anxious moment when her gentle mount almost deposited her back on the ground. But in minutes they were riding back along the dirt trail down the mountain. In the distance there was a sudden, sharp report, followed by many more. The fighting had begun. Trilby began to pray as she thought of Thorn wounded and in pain, with enemies all around him and no one to take care of him.
He has to be all right, she thought, her troubled eyes looking back the way they’d come. Please, God, he has to be all right!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FIRST SHOT came from behind a tree. Thorn whirled with his pistol out even as he heard it. He fired, catching a badly concealed man in ragged clothes and a faded, colorful serape in the shoulder.
“Look there!” Naki called quickly.
Three more Mexicans were rushing over the brief clearing between the rocks and the trees, their rifles firing sporadically.
Naki’s rifle spoke, dropping one of the men. Thorn accounted for another. The two men dived for cover as the third Mexican began fanning his pistol.
There was a rapid-fire burst of Spanish and the sound of many more footsteps.
“Damn!” Thorn muttered, glaring at Naki. “Now see what you’ve done!”
“Me?” the Apache asked.
“That’s right, act innocent.” He reloaded his gun quickly.
“If you trip over a rock, it’s my fault,” Naki muttered as he peered around his boulder.
“Well, usually it is,” the other man said.
A bullet whanged nearby and took off a shard of the boulder behind which they were crouching.
“Damned greasers,” Thorn raged.
“Shame on you for resorting to racial insults.”
He glared at Naki. “Bloodthirsty savage.”
Naki looked skyward. “And I thought I might reform you— Look out!” He flashed the rifle around and shot over Thorn’s shoulders, just in time to stop his friend from being killed by a shadowy figure in a homespun poncho. There was a groan and a thud.
“Thanks,” Thorn said huskily. He was breathing hard, like Naki, adrenaline raging through his system as he spared a thought to Trilby and the others. He couldn’t afford to worry about that. He had to keep his mind on what he was doing to protect them.
Naki echoed his thoughts. “We’re going to be pinned down if we don’t do something, and there’s no guarantee they won’t go after the others. Where’s that cocky white Eastern peacock?”
“Now who’s using racial insults?”
“Well, he is cocky,” Naki said, defending himself. “I’ll circle around and get behind them.”
“Be quiet about it.”
“I’m an Apache,” Naki pointed out. “Who do you think invented being quiet?”
He was gone seconds later, vanished like a wraith in the darkness, and so quietly that not one footfall could be heard.
Naki eased through the undergrowth, using trees and boulders for shelter….
Three Mexicans were crouching behind two large boulders, trying to peer through the darkness. They gabbled among themselves and began to argue about tactics, which worked to Naki’s advantage. While they were shouting at one another, they couldn’t hear him.
He eased the knife from his sheath and waited, all his senses alert. His body tensed as he poised to do what was necessary to save the lives of his friend and the woman who was rapidly becoming everything to him.
One of the party threw his hand downward at the others in disgust and said that he was going to go it alone, damn them.
It would be the last thing he ever said. He reached the trees where Naki was waiting—and was quickly and efficiently sent to join his ancestors.
Naki cleaned his knife on the Mexican’s pants leg and quickly donned his sombrero and poncho. He kept his head down and eased out into the open, the rifle held in his right hand as he approached the other two. They were discussing the ransom they hoped to get for the gringos they meant to kidnap, and as Naki listened stealthily it became quite clear that saving poor Mexican comrades was less important to them than stuffing their own pockets with American currency.
They wheeled and started to shoot.
“¡Chihuahua! It is only Juan!” one of them growled. They turned away.
“Lo siento, compadres,” Naki said, throwing off the sombrero, “pero, no me llamo Juan.”
They reacted to the voice telling them his name wasn’t Juan, but too late. Naki swung the rifle into position and fired from the hip, quickly dropping both men. He hated killing, but these men would have had no hesitation whatsoever about killing his party. They were desperate.
In some way, he could understand their desperation, but he couldn’t allow them to harm Sissy. His blood boiled when he thought of the Mexicans who had killed his brother-in-law Luis and his wife Conchita. Those had been Federales, and these were not. He had to remember that. He knew very well the plight of the poor Mexican peons, and he could sympathize with them. But these men would have taken Sissy’s life. Some of the revolutionaries, as he knew, were less than honorable and not above making a profit in the cause of liberty. The thought made him vaguely nauseous.
Thorn called to him suddenly as he came into the clearing.
Naki looked up, once again the calm and educated friend of years, not the ancient Apache with his prey.
“I see you found them,” Thorn said.
“Fortunately, I found them in time,” he answered. He stood up and sheathed the knife.
“There were two others, but they made a run for it,” Thorn told him. “I let them go.”
Naki exchanged a knowing look with the other man. “It was Mexicans who killed your parents.”
“Yes. But I’m no more a cold-blooded killer than you are. I’ll shoot only in self-defense.”
Before Naki could respond, noisy movements fell on the silence, and both whirled with their rifles leveled as Richard came panting into view with the others behind him.
“For God’s sake, keep the women back!” Thorn yelled.
“Did the Apache scalp anyone?” one of the women exclaimed. Julie, of course.
“No, the Apache didn’t scalp anyone,” Naki said angrily. “Apaches don’t scalp people or raid wagon trains. This is 1910, for God’s sake.”
Trilby looked past Richard and her supper made a repeat performance. She rushed into the bushes and vomited, the sight of the dead men even in the dim light so graphic and violent that she couldn’t bear it.
Sissy darted around Richard and went forward, her eyes wide and curious.
“No!” Naki said firmly, his stance as fierce as the dark eyes that found her face. “Get back.”
“Don’t you order my sister around,” Richard growled. “Come here, Sissy,” he added for good measure.
“He can’t order me around, but you can?” Sissy asked haughtily, glaring at her brother. “I’m not squeamish. If they aren’t dead, I know a bit of first aid.”
“They’re dead, all right,” Naki said coldly.
Sissy knew, because he’d told her, why he had reason to hate some Mexicans. But he didn’t look triumphant; he looked drawn. She wanted to go to him, but the circumstances made that impossible—and so did his unapproachable demeanor.
Her eyes ran over the ground one last time before she turned and went back to the others. Death held no fear for her; she believed in an afterlife. But she was sorry for the dead Mexicans, just the same. This wasn’t the time to mention it, she decided.
“How could you look at that?” Julie choked when she rejoined the small group. “It’s savage.”
“I must agree,” Richard said haughtily. “Was it necessary to—to butcher them?”
“They had an equal opportunity to butcher us,” Naki said, without preamble, standing taller as he stared at the white man. “Would you like to know what they would have done to the women?” he added, with a cold smile.
Sissy knew already. “Richard, that’s enough,” she told him when he seemed disposed to argue.
“Aren’t you forgetting your place?” her brother demanded.
“My place,” she told him, “is wherever I choose to be. You have no rights over me and no authority. And don’t you forget it.”
“I shall certainly have something to say to Mother about your behavior,” Richard promised her.
Her eyes flashed at him. “Do you think I care?”
“You must not,” he returned, “considering the company you keep!”
Her hand flashed at his cheek, connecting with a loud crack. He touched his face and stared at her in patient astonishment.
“You hit me!” he gasped.
“I certainly did, and I enjoyed every second of it,” she replied. “Now shall we go, brother, dear?”
He didn’t say another word. Sissy didn’t look at Naki as she walked past her brother, back the way they’d come. She was observing the Apache custom, and he had to know it. He did. He smiled secretly to himself as he joined Thorn to bury the dead Mexicans.
The men were left in shallow graves and covered with rocks. It was arduous work in the rocky ground, but no trace of them could be left for the others to find.
“We’ll have to notify the army,” Thorn said afterward. “This could be the start of something very unpleasant. I don’t like the idea of Mexican revolutionists dancing across the border like this, despite my sympathy for their cause. I’ll bet you ten dollars to a tin bucket that they had kidnapping on their minds.”
“Yes, they did, but they weren’t part of the revolutionary force. I overheard them talking,” Naki said. He told Thorn the rest of it. The other man glanced toward Trilby, who was just getting herself back together, and he thought vaguely that his world might have ended if the renegades had succeeded in harming her.
They gathered the others and packed up their camp. The hunting trip was definitely over. Fortunately it hadn’t ended in tragedy.
TRILBY FOUND HERSELF riding beside Thorn as they left the mountain trail and started back down the long, winding dirt road toward the ranch. She was no better a horsewoman now than she had been in the past, but she couldn’t bear to share Thorn’s mount. He seemed to know it, because he didn’t insist.
“Are you all right now?” he asked quietly.
She was still a bit green, but as he’d once said, she was game. “Yes,” she said.
He glanced toward her with open interest. She looked younger somehow, very fragile and vulnerable. He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her down the mountain and keep her forever. His sense of possession was disturbing.
“I meant it about getting married,” he said slowly.
“I know. But—but you don’t have to—” she began.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want to.” He shifted the reins in his lean hand, his tall body rocking gracefully with the motion of the horse. He seemed almost part of it. Trilby, on the other hand, was bouncing all over her saddle and barely staying on. “It’s Christmas in a little less than three weeks. We could be married before then, if you like.”
“That…would be all right,” she agreed finally. “Would we live at Los Santos?”
His heart lifted at her agreement. “Where else?” he asked reasonably. “It’s my home; mine and Samantha’s.”
She felt walls closing in on her. There really was no way out. But even now, she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She was shy and nervous with him, as she had been in the very early days of their turbulent relationship.
“I could go back East….” she began.
His dark eyes pierced hers. “And do what? Pretend to adopt a child, if I have really given you one? And where would you live, Trilby?”
She grimaced. “It’s so difficult,” she managed to say.
His face hardened as he watched her gaze ricochet off Richard, who was riding with Julie again. They hardly spoke, but he did glance at her from time to time, and she was acting like a different woman from the silly flirt who’d arrived on the train. Richard had shown what he really was, and Trilby was sick at heart thinking she could have been demented enough to think herself in love with him. Even Julie seemed to be having second thoughts. Richard might be handsome, but he was shallow and selfish.
“Because of him?” Thorn asked curtly, nodding toward Richard. “You aren’t even going to be in the running when he gets his mind sorted out.”
“I do know that,” she said stiffly.
“Then face facts,” he told her. “You and I slept together and you were a virgin. In my world, that means you marry me. We’re doing the right thing to correct our mistake,” he continued softly. “Doesn’t that make up for it, a little?”
She lifted her wide, gray eyes to his. “This is no sudden decision on your part, Thorn. I have no idea if you planned what happened, even unconsciously. I have heard the rumors, you know.”
“What rumors?” he asked slowly.
“That Los Santos has poisoned water holes here and on your holdings in Mexico and you need access to the water on our land,” she said bravely. “Is marrying me not a solution to that problem?”
He nodded. “Yes, it is,” he said honestly. “But you must realize that I want you. Even an innocent could hardly mistake my interest for greed.”
“I do know that,” she agreed. “It will mean that I can never go home again,” she said, almost to herself. “I will have to stay with you.” She buried her face in her hands. It was simply too much at once.
“Don’t do that,” he said angrily, wounded by her lack of enthusiasm for becoming his wife. It wasn’t as if he asked every third woman to marry him. In fact, Sally was the only woman to whom he’d ever proposed. “It is hardly the end of the world because you have to marry me, Trilby.”
“Is it not?”
His lean face set in unfamiliar lines as the insult registered. He wanted to remind her that she was as abandoned as any madam in his arms, but that would be unfair. His hands were tied now. She would marry him, but her heart still belonged to the Eastern man. How could he fight that? And more importantly, why did he want to? The question plagued him all the way home.
LISA MORRIS WAS still in the infirmary two days later. She was better, but not quite well enough to leave. She would have to go to Mrs. Moye, and for that, she had not quite enough strength.
In the meanwhile, it was pleasant to lie and listen to a very irritable Todd Powell going about his household chores in the evening.
He grumbled as he managed to make a pot of stew. The meat was underdone and the vegetables were overdone, but the broth was at least proper
ly seasoned. He brought a bowl of it to Lisa and wouldn’t be satisfied until he spoon-fed her every drop of it.
She was too thin, he told her. In the flannel gown she wore, it was easy to tell that she had lost weight.
“Your husband sent word that he will not contest the divorce,” he told her. “It appears that he intends to marry the woman in Douglas.”
She nodded. “I’m not really surprised.” She lay back against the pillows with a soft sigh. “It’s for the best. We were little more than enemies long before I lost the baby.”
He put the bowl and spoon aside and took her pulse. It was a bit fast, and he smiled at the evidence of how he affected her. He put the stethoscope around his neck and looped it up to his ears. “Cough,” he instructed, sliding it under the bodice of the gown against her warm, soft skin.
She did, but the feel of his hand was making her giddy. She knew that her heart was going crazy, and that he could hear it. Her whole body clenched at the faintest brush of his fingers.
He lifted his head, suddenly aware of her nervousness. He stared at her, but he didn’t move his hand. Very slowly, almost experimentally, he moved his fingers away from the broad metal circle of the stethoscope and onto her bare breast.
She caught her breath audibly. But she didn’t move. Or push at his hand. Or protest. Her eyes grew very wide and curious.
His lips parted. He stared intently into her eyes while he explored the soft curve of her breast, lingering on the sudden hardness of her nipple. He took it between his thumb and forefinger and caressed it very gently.
“Oh, my dear,” he whispered roughly.
She was shaking. He couldn’t help but notice it.
He withdrew the stethoscope and put it aside. His big hands went to the buttons of the flannel gown, tremulous as they hesitated there.
She put her own hands on top of them and pressed, very gently.
It took a few seconds, because he was clumsy in his need to see her, to touch her. He helped her to sit up and slowly pushed the gown down to her waist, careful not to hurt her where she was burned.
She sat there, enthralled, her eyes on her breasts as he traced them with just the tips of his big, square-tipped fingers.
