Love's Serenade

by Madeline Baker

  Her heart raced as Devlin buried his hands in her hair, his lips trailing fire as he kissed her cheek, the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat.

  Little tremors of pleasure stirred within her as she undressed him, her hands gliding over his hard-muscled flesh. They were so different, she thought. Her hair was light where his was dark, he was tall and broad-shouldered where she was short and slight. And yet they fit together so perfectly.

  Heart filled with tenderness, Sarah traced the awful scar that marred an otherwise beautiful body. Souvenir of an old knife wound, the scar cut across Devlin’s left cheek, angled down his neck, then continued across his chest and belly to the point of his right thigh.

  She looked at her hand, resting on his thigh. Her skin, despite long hours in the sun, remained the color of ivory, his was the color of burnished copper, smooth and beautiful. She never tired of touching him, of looking at him.

  Devlin closed his eyes. As always, her touch made him weak. She was the only woman he had ever known who had every right to hate him, the only one who hadn’t been repelled by his scars, who hadn’t cared that he was a half-breed.

  Miraculously, she had never held him responsible for the raid against her home or for the death of her husband.

  Opening his eyes, he watched her fingertips trace the scar across his chest. She had touched his scars the first time they had made love, too. It was a memory he had never forgotten.

  “Don’t.” He had caught her hand in his before she could touch him.

  “I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “To prove to you that it doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t it?” he asked, knowing she could hear the bitterness in his voice, his fear of being rejected.

  “I love you, Devlin,” she said quietly. “The scars don’t matter.”

  “I’m not Devlin. I’m Toklanni. I’m not a white man, I’m a half-breed. Can you accept that?”

  Can you accept that? He had been afraid to believe they could have a life together, but Sarah had refused to allow his fears to come between them. She loved him wholly, completely, asking for nothing but his love in return.

  Whispering her name, he carried her to their bed. Stretching out beside her, he reveled in her softness, her sweetness, in hearing his Indian name on her lips.

  “Toklanni.” She murmured his name again and again as they soared toward the heights of ecstasy and, as his life spilled into her, he prayed that this time Usen would bless them with a strong, healthy child.

  Chapter Two

  Sarah hummed softly as she prepared the evening meal. Looking out the kitchen window, she could see Danny and Devlin washing up at the pump.

  Danny, now almost eleven, was tall and lanky. His hair, the same shade of blond as hers, needed cutting badly. He laughed at something Devlin said, his teeth flashing white in the late afternoon sun, and she felt her heart swell with tenderness. He was a fine boy, honest and straightforward, well-mannered, eager to please.

  But it was Devlin who drew her gaze time and again. Shirtless, he was a sight to behold. Drops of water clung to his dusky skin. His muscles rippled as he shook the water from his waist-length hair, then toweled his body dry. He was magnificent, tall and lean, his skin a smooth dark bronze, his hair as sleek and black as a crow’s wing. In the four years that they’d been married, he had never once raised his voice in anger. He treated Danny like his own son; he treated her with unfailing kindness and respect and expected Danny to do the same. She could not have asked for a kinder, more patient man to be a father to her son, could not have asked for a gentler, more loving husband.

  He waved when he saw her at the window and she waved back, marveling that the newness of their love hadn’t worn off, that his look still made her tremble with longing, that her touch made her shiver with delight.

  Devlin threw his arm over Danny’s shoulders and together they walked up to the house.

  Sarah smiled at her two men. This was her favorite time of the day, when they sat at the table together, discussing the day’s events, making plans for the future.

  She felt a flush of pleasure warm her cheeks as Devlin sought her gaze again and again, his dark eyes filled with love and reassurance. He knew how desperately she wanted another child, how grievously she had mourned the deaths of the two little boys they had lost. One had been stillborn; the other, born three months early, had lived only a few moments. Devlin had not wanted her to get pregnant again, but she had begged him to let her try one more time. And because it was hard for him to refuse her anything, he had agreed.

  Sarah placed a protective hand over her belly, praying that this child would live.

  * * * * *

  Devlin rose early the following morning, careful not to disturb Sarah as he dressed and left their room. Danny was waiting for him in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go.

  After a quick cup of hot coffee, Devlin took up his rifle and they left the house. Minutes later, they were riding toward the hills across the river. If Usen was with them, they would return with fresh game. A deer, if they were lucky, perhaps a couple of rabbits and sage hens, as well.

  Danny glanced at the man riding beside him, his heart filled with respect and admiration. He had only vague memories of his real father, but he knew in his heart that his real father couldn’t have loved him any more than did Devlin Dennehy. Danny vividly remembered the first time he had seen Devlin in the Apache camp. At first, he had been afraid of the tall, scar-faced man who had fought his own brother to rescue a frightened white boy from the Indians. But that fear had quickly vanished, put to rest by the kindness in Devlin’s dark eyes, in the quiet patience of his voice.

  In the years since then, Danny had learned a lot about the Apache way of life. Devlin had told him that the Apache looked upon all other people as their enemies. A warrior who could kill without being killed, one who could steal from the enemy without being caught, was a man to be honored. From birth, every Apache boy wanted to be a warrior. Pity was an emotion almost unknown among the People. Truth was a virtue held in high regard. An Apache did not steal from his own people; he shared what he had with those in need. Parents loved their children, they treated their old ones with reverence.

  Besides telling him of the history of the People, Devlin had taught him to hunt and to fight, to track game both large and small, to conceal his whereabouts, to use a bow and arrow as well as a rifle. Devlin’s skill with a bow was nothing short of remarkable. He could shoot an arrow five hundred feet with fatal accuracy.

  He was hunting with the bow today. It was a powerful weapon, strengthened with layers of sinew. His arrows were more than three feet long, made of light yet well-seasoned wood.

  They rode for over an hour. Sometimes Devlin asked Danny what he saw—did he notice the wolf tracks beside the stream, had he seen the scattered remains of a deer half-buried in the brush?

  As they neared the foothills, conversation ceased and Danny felt his heart began to beat faster as he looked forward to the hunt. But first, there were prayers to be offered to the Great Spirit, asking for His guidance and for His blessing on their efforts.

  * * * * *

  Sarah pressed a hand to her back as she straightened from the wash tub. Devlin had warned her not to overdo and today she was taking him at his word. The clothes could wait a while.

  Returning to the house, she put a pot of water on for tea, then sat down at the kitchen table, her feet propped up on an overturned crate. Ah, but it felt good to sit down.

  Gazing out the kitchen window, she wondered if Devlin had found a deer, if Danny’s good trousers would last another year, if the baby she carried beneath her heart was a boy or a girl.

  Secretly, she hoped for a little girl with Devlin’s black hair and dark eyes. But it didn’t matter, boy or girl, both would be equally welcome, equally cherished. Her arms ached to hold a child. Devlin’s child. How she loved him! In those first terrible weeks after Vern’s death, Devlin had brought her food and fir
ewood, had stayed nearby, making sure she was safe. In his arms, she had found tenderness, a sense of peace and belonging, that she had found nowhere else.

  She was brewing a cup of tea when she heard a disturbance near the horses. Thinking Devlin had come back early, she hurried out the back door.

  The smile of welcome died on her lips as she came face to face with an image straight out of one of her old nightmares. Turning on her heel, she fled for the safety of the house, a scream of terror rising in her throat as the Indian grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her to a halt.

  “No!” She shrieked the word, sickened by the war paint that covered his face, by the feral gleam in his cold black eyes. “No!”

  It couldn’t be happening again.

  The warrior spoke to her, his words harsh, guttural, and totally without meaning. She watched, mesmerized with fear, as he laid his hand over her stomach.

  “No apu,” he remarked, and then smiled, his teeth very white against the hideous black paint that covered most of his face.

  In a distant part of Sarah’s mind, she realized the Indian was pleased that she was pregnant.

  She also realized that he wasn’t Apache. Her first reaction was relief. Apaches had killed Vern. But her relief quickly turned to despair. With an Apache, she might have had a chance. They were, after all, Devlin’s people.

  She screamed as the warrior dragged her toward his horse; screamed again as he lashed her hands together, then stuffed a dirty rag into her mouth. That done, he lifted her onto the back of a calico gelding and quickly vaulted up behind her.

  Only then did she realize that other Indians were raiding the house. She felt an overwhelming sadness as she saw one of the warriors wearing the fancy blue bonnet Vern had bought for her years ago. She had never had an occasion to wear the hat; now she never would. Another Indian was waving her apron over his head with one hand and carrying her mother’s cherry wood music box in the other.

  Sick at heart, she saw her few priceless belongings carried off.

  A churning cloud of dust filled the air as the Indians turned the horses loose. She thought of all the hours Devlin had spent chasing down the herd, breaking the horses to ride. All that time and effort, wasted. There was a loud squawking as some of the warriors chased down the chickens. At any other time, she might have admired their riding skill, but all she felt now was a mind-numbing despair.

  She wept as she saw the first bright tongues of flame lick at the walls of the house. Her house. She had been so happy there these past four years. She thought of the cradle Devlin had made for their baby, of the shirt she had been making for Danny, of the china she had brought with her from back east. Gone now, all gone.

  She sent a last look at her home as the Indians carried her away, grateful that Danny and Devlin would be spared the horrible fate that awaited her.

  Chapter Three

  Devlin smelled the smoke long before he saw the flames. Fear gripped his heart as he urged the big bay mare into a lope.

  Sarah! Please, God, let her be all right!

  He repeated the silent prayer over and over again as he raced toward home, felt his heart turn cold as he crossed the river. The barn was on fire; the house was almost gone.

  He pulled back on the reins, his feet hitting the ground at a run before the animal had come to a halt.

  “Sarah! Sarah!” He hollered her name as he circled the house, unable to get too close for the heat of the flames.

  “Mom!”

  He heard Danny’s voice and then the boy was there beside him. “Is she…?”

  “I don’t know.” Devlin drew a deep breath, held it a long moment before releasing it in a heavy sigh. “Stay here while I have a look around.”

  Moving cautiously now, Devlin circled the house, looking for tracks. He knew a moment of gut-wrenching relief when he saw Sarah’s tracks, her hard-soled shoes easy to identify amidst the sea of moccasin prints.

  The story was there, etched in the ground as clear as words on a page. She had left the house by the back door, been grabbed by a warrior, Comanche, by the cut of his moccasins. Struggling, she had been dragged across the yard and lifted onto the back of a horse. Her captor had vaulted up behind her and they had ridden away from the house, following the mustangs he had been working with for the last three months. But the horses didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Sarah.

  Devlin glanced back at the house and the barn, now smoldering piles of charred embers, and felt the rage grow within him. Everything Sarah loved, everything they had worked for, had been destroyed.

  “Is she…can you tell if she’s…” Danny’s voice broke on a sob.

  “She’s still alive,” Devlin said. Choking back his anger, he put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

  Danny turned his head away, not wanting Devlin to see the tears in his eyes. Tears were a sign of weakness. Surely his adopted father never cried. He was such a strong man, so self-assured, so confident, a man who knew who and what he was, a man who was comfortable in his own skin.

  “It’s all right, ciye,” Devlin said, squeezing the boy’s shoulders. “Never be ashamed of your tears.”

  “Men don’t cry.”

  “Sure they do.”

  Danny sniffed noisily. “Have you ever cried?”

  “A time or two,” Devlin admitted, remembering how his throat had swelled with tears the day he had returned Danny to his mother’s arms. The look of relief on Sarah’s face was a memory he held close to his heart.

  Devlin gave Danny’s shoulder another squeeze. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Right.” Danny fisted the tears from his eyes. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m going alone, ciye.”

  “But…”

  “I’m sorry, I know you want to help, but I’ll be able to travel faster alone.” He ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Besides, if anything happened to you, your mother would never forgive me.”

  Danny didn’t argue. Wordlessly, he swung into the saddle, his blue eyes filled with silent reproach.

  “We’ll stop by the Loomis place and see if they’ll put you up for a few days,” Devlin said, thinking out loud. “You’ll be safe there.”

  The Loomis place was close to town and big enough to make even a Comanche war party think twice about attacking it.

  Danny nodded and Devlin felt his heart go out to the boy, but there was no help for it this time. He would be riding hard and fast, traveling through Indian territory all the way. It was one thing to risk his own life, but he wasn’t willing to risk Danny’s, too.

  Joe Loomis was plowing his field when they arrived. Loomis was a big bear of a man, with shaggy brown hair, brown eyes and a quick smile. But he wasn’t smiling when he crossed the field.

  “What is it?” he asked, his hooded gaze raking over Devlin’s face. “What’s happened?”

  “Comanches. They burned our place to the ground and took Sarah.”

  Loomis swore softly. “I’ll get my rifle and go along with ya.”

  “No.” Devlin laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it would be better if I went alone. I’d like to leave Danny here.”

  “Sure, sure.” Loomis nodded agreeably. “You’ll be needin’ supplies. Danny, go up to the house and tell Mary Kate to put some grub together, enough for two or three days. Now, then, what else can I do for ya?”

  “I could use a heavy jacket, maybe some gloves. A bedroll.”

  “You’ve got ‘em. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on up to the house. You can take time for a cup of hot coffee while I collect your gear.”

  Mary Kate insisted on fixing Devlin a hot meal before he left. She hovered over him while he ate, urging him to have another slice of pie, reminding that it might be a long time before he had another home-cooked meal. She was a plain woman, with limp brown hair and pale blue eyes. She had given birth to seven boys in eight years of marriage and the strain was
beginning to show. But she was kindness itself as she hovered over Devlin.

  “Don’t worry about Danny while you’re gone,” she said, pouring Devlin another cup of coffee. “We’ll take good care of him. Poor lamb. First his pa kilt by them no-good savages and now his ma…”

  Mary Kate broke off, her cheeks flooding with color as she gazed at Devlin. “I’m sorry…I”

  She glanced away, but not before he saw the faint flicker of fear in the depths of her eyes.

  “Forget it, Mary Kate.”

  He finished his coffee quickly, thanked her for the meal and left the kitchen, irritated by her sudden embarrassment, angered by his reaction to it. They had been neighbors for the last four years. He had helped Joe raise a new barn, he had sat at their table, had them to his house and yet, when she had looked at him just now, he had felt like a stranger.

  Danny and Joe were waiting for him outside.

  “Everything’s ready,” Loomis said. “Gear’s all packed. I threw in an old coffee pot and a sack of Arbuckles. I stuck an extra Colt in your bedroll, too, just in case.”

  “Thanks, Joe.” Devlin shook the other man’s hand, then wrapped his arm around Danny’s shoulders. “You behave yourself. Don’t be causing Mrs. Loomis any trouble.” Heaving a sigh, he gave the boy a hug. “Don’t worry, ciye. I’ll find her.”

  Danny nodded. “I know you will.”

  There was nothing more to say. Giving the boy a last, quick hug, Devlin swung into the saddle and rode out of the yard.

  * * * * *

  Sarah groaned as her captor lowered her to the ground. They had been riding nonstop since that morning and with each mile, she had fallen deeper and deeper into despair.

  She was trembling from head to foot as she made her way behind a clump of brush, too weary to care if anyone followed her or not. Myriad fears chased themselves across her mind, fear that Devlin and Danny would come after her and be killed, fear that the constant bone-jarring ride would cause her to lose the baby.