Wrapping her arms around her swollen belly, Sarah prayed that the child was safe, that she would be allowed to live until it was born. Devlin had told her that the Indians loved children, all children. She only hoped that her baby would be given a chance to live.
The Indians had gathered into a group, talking and gesturing as they passed a waterskin between them. Another warrior opened a pouch and withdrew several chunks of dried meat. Sarah accepted the one that was offered to her. Sitting on the hard ground, she chewed on the tough strip of jerky, wondering if they would kill her here or wait until they reached their camp.
The warrior who had captured her came to stand in front of her and she knew a moment of heart-stopping fear, but he only handed her the waterskin and turned away. For a moment, she stared at it in disgust, repulsed to drink from something made from the intestine of an animal, but, in the end, thirst won out and she drank greedily, not caring that the water was warm, trying not to think of the dozen savages who had drank out of it before her.
Ten minutes later, they were riding again. Sarah tried to keep her mind blank, tried not to think of what awaited her at the journey’s end, but all the horror stories she had ever heard jumped to the forefront of her mind—terrible stories of women who had been raped until they died, tales of women who had been killed, their unborn children cut out of their wombs, whispered accounts of women who had been taken captive, forced to pleasure one man after another in order to survive.
She bit down on her lip as a host of horrible images filled her mind, knowing she would rather die than let any of these savages lay a hand on her.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for help, prayed that Devlin wouldn’t come after her, that she would be allowed to die before she could be shamed and humiliated. She wept for her unborn child, for Danny, for Devlin. Wept until exhaustion claimed her and she tumbled into the forgetfulness of oblivion.
The sudden cessation of movement woke her. Opening her eyes, she saw that it was dark and the Indians were making camp for the night.
She was stiff and sore in every muscle and a soft cry of protest escaped her lips when her captor lifted her from the back of the horse.
He muttered something to her as he cut her hands free and gestured into the darkness beyond the fire. Hoping he meant what she thought he did, she went behind a bush and relieved herself. For a moment, she closed her eyes. She was so tired. So sore. She hurt in places she hadn’t know existed until now.
Rising to her feet, she peered through the underbrush. The Indians seemed to be preoccupied with looking after their horses. As near as she could tell, none of them were watching her.
Lifting her skirts, she started walking away from the camp and then, when she figured she was out of ear shot, she began to run. Fear gave wings to her feet and she ran blindly into the night, praying that she wouldn’t fall, that she would be able to find a place to hide.
With only the sound of the wind in her ears, she ran on, a tiny ray of hope beginning to bud within her breast. Please, please, please…the silent prayer repeated itself in her mind.
Her side was aching, her lungs were on fire, sweat dripped into her eyes and still she ran onward. And then, like the harsh echo of doom, she heard the quick tattoo of hoofbeats coming up behind her.
“No!” She had run so hard, so far, it wasn’t fair! “No!” She screamed in protest as the warrior leaned over the side of his horse and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her easily onto the horse’s back.
His arm was like iron as he held her against him. He was yelling at her, his face distorted beneath the hideous black paint he wore.
When they reached the camp, he lifted her roughly from the back of the horse, then bound her hands, jerking the rope tight.
“Kahtu!” he said, and pushed her down to the ground, the look in his dark eyes warning her to stay put or suffer the consequences.
As punishment, he refused to give her anything to eat or drink and at last she fell into a troubled sleep, her dreams haunted by horrible images of rape and torture at the hands of heartless savages.
Morning arrived all too soon.
She was given a hunk of charred rabbit to eat and a drink of water for breakfast, allowed to relieve herself and then they were riding again, heading south, toward the Staked Plains.
Sarah sent one last glance behind her, a cold shiver stealing down her spine as she bid a silent farewell to everything she had ever known, everyone she had ever loved, certain that not even Devlin would be able to find her now.
Chapter Four
Devlin was bone weary when he reined his horse to a halt that night.
Dismounting, he gathered an armful of dry wood for a fire, then huddled deeper into the coat Loomis had loaned him while he waited for the twigs to catch.
He ate a part of the grub Mary Kate had packed, hardly aware of what he was eating. All he could think of was Sarah, seven-and-a-half months pregnant and in the hands of marauding Comanches.
Chewing on a hunk of brown bread, he felt his frustration growing with each passing minute. He couldn’t even hate the Indians, he thought ruefully. He had been in their place. He knew how they felt about the whites invading their land. He knew why they had attacked the house, why they had stolen his horses, taken his woman.
Sarah. If he hadn’t gone with Noche to raid her ranch, he would never have met her. And now she was in the hands of another warrior…
His hands clenched into tight fists as jealousy burned through every fiber of his being at the thought of another man holding her, touching her. She was his woman, his wife, and he would kill any man who dared lay a hand on her.
* * * * *
Devlin followed the tracks of the war party easily enough, seeing where they had paused to rest their horses, experiencing a deep-seated sense of relief when he saw Sarah’s footprints. Thank God, she was still alive. That was all that mattered.
He had been on the trail for almost three hours when he topped a small rise and came face to face with three Comanche warriors who were apparently hanging back to make certain the main party wasn’t being followed.
They spotted him at the same moment. As one, the three warriors charged toward him. Two were armed with bows, the third carried a rifle. With an oath, Devlin reined his horse around and dug his heels into the bay’s flanks, hoping he could outride the Indians.
The sound of their war cries rose in the air as they pursued him. He leaned over the mare’s neck, asking her for more speed, and felt her willing response.
He swore softly as an arrow hissed by his ear. He felt the bay stumble, heard the sharp report of a rifle. Pain exploded in his left leg and then the horse was going down and the ground was rushing up to meet him.
For a moment, there was only darkness. When the world stopped spinning, he was lying on his back. He could see the bay lying a few feet away, struggling to rise in spite of the arrow quivering in her neck. The sound of hoofbeats drew his attention and he glanced over his shoulder to see the warriors riding toward him. He swore under his breath as he realized his rifle was out of reach.
Devlin was struggling to gain his feet when he heard a welcome sound. On his hands and knees, he watched as a dozen Apache warriors thundered across the open prairie, the high, piercing war cry of the People filling the air.
The Comanches immediately turned tail and ran for home. Nine of the Apaches lined out in hot pursuit; the other three rode toward Devlin. Two were young, the third had iron in his hair.
“Ho, brothers,” he said, the Apache words sounding strange on his tongue.
The young warrior to his left sneered at him. “Brother?” His laugh was filled with scorn. Devlin nodded. “I am Toklanni, brother to Noche.”
The warrior grunted softly, his expression changing from derision to respect.
One of the warriors gave him a strip of rawhide to bite down on while the oldest man among them dug the bullet out of his thigh, then wrapped the bloody wound with a strip of cloth torn from Devlin�
�s shirttail.
That done, the three Apaches quickly gathered up his weapons, stripped his gear from the bay and put the horse out of its misery. The youngest warrior took Devlin up behind him and then they set out for home, with the oldest warrior leading the way.
Devlin cursed softly as the sun climbed in the sky. The Apache Rancheria lay due west; Sarah’s trail went south. But there was no help for it now. He was in no condition to follow her.
It was after dark when they reached the Apache camp. By then, the cloth wrapped around his leg was soaked with blood and he was burning with fever.
He was only vaguely aware of being lifted from the back of the horse, carried into a lodge, covered with furs. Voices hummed around his head like annoying insects. He tensed, a grown rising deep in his throat when someone probed the wound in his leg, igniting new fires with every touch.
Sounds and images became fragmented…the muted whisper of a rattle, the fragrant scent of white sage, the taste of strong green tea made from the bark of a tree. He cried out, tension spiraling through his body, when someone laid the flat of a heated blade over the wound in his thigh and then the world went black…
He sat on his heels on the far side of the stream, hidden from view by a tangled mass of scrub brush and cottonwoods as he watched the woman walk toward the stream. She stopped at a flat-topped rock, sat down, and removed her shoes and stockings; then, lifting her skirts to keep them dry, she made her way into the water, squealing a little as the cold water covered her feet and ankles.
He liked looking at her, liked the way she moved, graceful as a willow in the wind. Her hair caught the light of the sun, the water that clung to her legs glistened like dew drops. Sometimes, when he looked at her, he saw a woman full grown, ripe and desirable…
“Sarah.” He woke with the sound of her name echoing in his ears, felt a cool hand on his brow.
“Sleep, Toklanni,” murmured a soft voice. “All is well.”
“Sarah?”
“Sleep now,” the voice repeated.
He tried to see her face, but all he could make out in the darkness was the outline of a woman with long dark hair. Questions rose in his mind, but his eyelids felt like lead. He heard the woman speaking to him again. The soothing sound of her voice speaking the language of his father lulled him to sleep.
When next he opened his eyes, Noche was sitting beside him.
“Chickasay,” Devlin murmured. Brother.
Noche nodded. “You have been long in the land of shadows, my brother.”
“How long?”
“Two sleeps.”
Two days. Devlin swore softly, thinking of the time he had lost. The trail would be cold by now. Each minute that passed saw Sarah that much deeper into the land of the Comanche.
“You have lost much blood,” Noche remarked. “You should rest.”
“I’ve got to go.” Devlin sat up, aware for the first time that he was naked beneath the furs. The movement sent a bright hot shaft of pain down the length of his left leg.
“Where is it you must go in such a hurry?”
“Comanches took Sarah.”
“Ah, the white woman you were to have killed.”
“She’s my wife, Noche. And she’s pregnant.”
With an effort, he forced himself to his feet, but his left leg refused to support his weight and he dropped back down on the furs, a muffled oath erupting from his lips.
“Toklanni! You must not get up so soon.”
Devlin smiled as Noche’s wife hurried into the lodge. He realized it had been her voice he had heard in the darkness the night before. Natanh had once been a lovely woman, but she had been mutilated by some white hunters and now her face was badly scarred. Noche’s attack on Sarah’s house four years ago had been an act of revenge for what had been done to Natanh.
“How are you, my sister?”
“I am well.” She patted her stomach, which was as big and round as a ripe melon. “We are to have a child.”
Devlin nodded. “I see.”
He watched her as she prepared them something to eat. He felt uncomfortable in his brother’s lodge. They had parted with bad blood between them four years ago. Now the chasm of time and hard feelings lay between them and he didn’t know how to cross it.
They ate in silence. From outside came the sound of children laughing as they ran through the village. He heard men’s voices raised in excitement and concluded that some of the warriors were gambling nearby.
The scent of roasting mule meat drifted into the lodge, along with smell of dust and the faint aroma of sage. And over all lay the myriad smells of the mountains, the trees and the earth itself.
When Devlin finished eating, he laid the bowl aside and eased himself down on the furs again, seeking escape from the ache in his leg and the pain of old memories in sleep.
He felt a little better the next day. Sitting outside, he watched the people go about their daily tasks. Men he had known since childhood came by to say hello; others, less well-known, regarded him through dark, unfriendly eyes, reminding him that he had been long away, that he was no longer considered one of the People. Their censure hurt, but he couldn’t blame them for the way they felt. He had chosen a white woman over his own people and there were some, including his own brother, who would never forgive him for that.
Sitting there, wrapped in a thick fur, Devlin watched several young boys as they set up a target, then took turns testing their skill with the bow.
Memories of his own childhood came flooding back. Surely there was no life better than that of a young Apache boy. He had no responsibilities, but was free to run and play all the day long. He had learned to ride, to hunt the deer and the buffalo, the rabbit and the fox, to read the tracks of man and beast, to distinguish a friend from an enemy by a moccasin print. Each tribe’s heel fringes, soles and toe forms were different. One-piece moccasins were common among the Northern Plains tribes. The Comanche used buckskin heel fringes; the Cheyenne used two small tails of deer skin or a buffalo tail which trailed behind. Apache moccasins had high tops to protect the wearer’s legs from snake bite and keep the sand out. The soles were of stiff rawhide, the toes turned up to protect the feet from cactus thorns.
At first, he had carried a small bow and shot at make-believe enemies, but as he grew older, he began to hunt in earnest, tracking rabbits and small game as his skill with the bow increased, all with an eye toward the day when he would be a warrior.
To be a warrior was not easy and the training was rigorous. As a novice warrior, he had been required to plunge into ice water, to run long distances over rough country with a heavy load strapped to his back. He had to keep his mouth shut and breathe through his nose. He had to be able to make his own weapons and use them with skill. To test his endurance, he was made to go for long periods without sleep and as his training reached an end, he was sent alone into the wilds, to live by his own skill for two weeks.
By the time he was fifteen, he had been ready to go on the warpath. It had been a time of great excitement. A ceremony had been performed on his behalf, a helmet and shield were made for him. There had been a war dance and he had been required to take part, to show his agility and endurance. He had been taught the stylized language of the warpath and when he was ready, he had accompanied the proven warriors on four raids. He was not yet allowed to fight, instead, he had been assigned menial tasks, like building the fires, preparing and cooking the food, looking after the horses, standing guard at night. Not until the fifth raid had he been allowed to take part in the actual fighting.
It had been frightening, exhilarating. He had learned the true meaning of courage. And he had learned how quickly a life could be taken.
Drawing his gaze from the boys, Devlin stared into the distance, wondering if Sarah were still alive, fretting at his inability to go after her.
It was another two days before he could walk without aid.
When he told Noche and Natanh he would be leaving in the morning, Natanh
tried to convince him to wait another day or two.
But Devlin couldn’t wait any longer.
“I am all right, my sister,” he assured her. “I thank you for the warmth of your lodge, but now I must go.”
She didn’t argue further. Instead, she began to pack a parfleche with food for the trail.
“I need a good horse,” Devlin told his brother. “And some buckskins.”
“Why should I help you?” Noche asked. “You turned your back on us. You have not come to see me or our people in four winters.”
“You made it known that I was not welcome in the lodges of the Apache when last I was here.”
Noche hesitated. He gazed at Toklanni for a long moment, his expression impassive, and then he sighed. “Perhaps I was wrong.”
“Perhaps?”
“Natanh will get you a change of clothes,” Noche said. “I will see about a horse.” And with that, he left the lodge.
“He is a proud man,” Natanh remarked, coming up behind Devlin. “You hurt him deeply when you chose the white woman over your own people.”
“I didn’t make that choice,” Devlin said bitterly. “He made it for me.”
“He has always been jealous of you,” she remarked, her dark eyes filled with understanding. “Many people were angry when he forced you to fight him for the white boy. Many people are still angry because he drove you away.” A faint smile played over her lips. “Many people are angry with you because you left us.”
“I did what I had to do. I have no regrets.”
“None?”
Devlin dragged a hand through his hair. “Your eyes see deep, Natanh. I have missed my people. No matter that I have made my home with the whites, my soul is still Apache.”
“I know this. Do not stay away so long this time, Toklanni. It is not good for brothers to be divided.”
“I hear you,” Devlin said.
Natanh smiled at him, then handed him a pile of clothing she had pulled from a basket in the rear of the lodge.
“Good hunting, chickasay,” she said, and squeezing his hand, she left the lodge so he could change.
Love's Serenade Page 10
