Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  “Yes,” she said, “he did, didn’t he.” Then, with a shiver, she pushed all thoughts of Cochise and Apaches away. “But he’s not the same as my real father.” However, the man she called father wasn’t the same as he used to be, either.

  Daniella wanted to hate her stepmother for persuading her father to send her away three years ago, but somehow the emotion just wouldn’t take hold. She realized her present circumstance wasn’t all Sylvia’s fault. Howard Blackwood was a grown man, well able to make his own decisions. If he wanted his daughter home badly enough, Sylvia would never have been able to convince him to send her away.

  No. It wasn’t all Sylvia’s fault. Daniella’s father bore his share of the blame.

  And me, too, Daniella finally admitted to herself. She hadn’t exactly welcomed Sylvia with open arms when Howard had married her. Daniella had been only fourteen then, and jealous of the attention her father paid his new bride. She’d thought Sylvia was trying to take her mother’s place, and no one had ever bothered to tell her differently.

  They were all to blame. All three of them. Yet Daniella was the one who paid the highest price for their failure to become a family. She was the one without a home. Without a home, and running out of time.

  She knew she’d delayed leaving long enough. Her father could barely stand the sight of her. Then there was Sylvia. The woman spent most of her time locked away in one of the spare bedrooms near the back of the house. No telling what she did in there. When she happened to venture out, she refused to so much as look at Daniella.

  If nothing else, Sylvia’s comment to Howard the morning after Daniella’s third screaming nightmare was enough to send Daniella packing—if only she’d had someplace to go.

  Daniella had been sitting in the courtyard, letting the morning sun ease the sharp pain in her head, residue from her nightmare, when her parents came out. She never knew if they saw her or not; all she remembered was Sylvia’s voice, cold and hard and filled with hatred.

  “It’s got to stop, Howard. The girl has to go. Ramón is afraid to go to sleep at night for all the screaming that goes on around here. Your daughter is not the same girl who left here three years ago. The Apaches made her a whore. She is ruined. What chance will Ramón have at a normal life once our friends and neighbors learn what’s happened to her? We’ll all be scorned. She must go away.”

  Daniella shivered at the memory of the hatred in Sylvia’s voice. And at her father’s telling silence.

  How dare Sylvia call her a whore. If the sounds coming from the master bedroom meant anything, Sylvia had been spreading herself beneath Daniella’s father almost nightly—and apparently enjoying every minute of it.

  From what little Daniella had learned on the subject in Boston, both from her grandmother and the gossip at school, nice girls—ladies—did not derive enjoyment from performing their wifely duties. That’s why men used whores. For fun. But they never married them. They married ladies.

  And she calls me a whore.

  It was time to go. Past time. But where? The question had been bouncing off the walls of her mind for days. Where could she go?

  Wandering around her father’s study late that night, she noticed papers scattered across his usually immaculate desk. She carried the lantern over to investigate and discovered the deed to her late uncle’s ranch.

  Her pulse quickened; her hands trembled. This is it! El Valle de Esperanza—The Valley of Hope. That’s where I’ll go!

  It was perfect. Even the name was perfect. Hope rose in her chest—hope for the future.

  El Valle wasn’t close enough to a town that she’d have to deal with strangers all the time, strangers who would undoubtedly stare at her hair and call her filthy names, yet it was close enough to Tucson that getting supplies wouldn’t be a problem. Of course, running a ranch would be hard work, but the little valley was small enough that she felt confident she and Tucker could manage. If not, maybe they could hire help.

  Plans and ideas ran through her mind so fast she had to sit and write them down so as not to forget them. The list of things she would need became much more definite than the vague ideas she’d had for days.

  Uncle John died last summer of a heart attack. Would there still be anything left in the small adobe house in the little valley, like furniture? She could find that out tomorrow. All she really had to do was get her father to deed the valley to her. He’d do it, too, just to be rid of her.

  The next morning Daniella dragged Tucker along for moral support and joined the family for breakfast. The two were, as usual, ignored.

  After several minutes of listening to her father and stepmother discuss what a beautiful day it was going to be, Daniella interrupted them. “I’ll be leaving soon, Papa.”

  There was a long, tense silence while Howard studied his plate. He finally threw down his fork and took a deep breath. “Good,” he said without looking at her.

  “I want you to sign over the deed to El Valle to me.”

  He whipped his head around and gaped. “You want what?”

  “There’s no need to shout, Papa.” Oh, she enjoyed this. “I believe you heard me.”

  “That is a very valuable piece of property. There’s no way in hell I’m turning it over to an irresponsible young girl.”

  “It’s a valuable piece of property only if used to its potential, and you aren’t using it at all. And I’m not an irresponsible young girl. I’m your daughter, whether you like to admit it or not, and I know a lot about running a ranch. I learned from you, remember? Sign it over and I’ll go there and never bother you again.”

  Howard stood so abruptly and with such force he knocked his chair over, startling a squeak from Sylvia. He stormed out of the room. A moment later everyone in the house heard his study door slam. The dining room filled with silence. Finally Sylvia exited in a flurry of rustling silk, leaving Daniella and Tucker alone at the table.

  After a moment Tucker chuckled. “You sure know how to stir up trouble, girlie. What if he don’t sign?”

  “Oh, he’ll sign, all right,” she said with a sneer. “He wants me gone from here bad enough to do about anything. If he’s reluctant, I’m sure Sylvia will talk him in to it.”

  Sylvia was back in a matter of minutes. She resumed her place at the table, a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

  Daniella’s stomach tightened with uncertainty. What if Sylvia convinced Howard not to sign? She might have, out of spite, simply because Daniella wanted the deed.

  She felt her hands turn to ice. What if—.

  “Ramón, no!” The shriek came from the other end of the house, followed by the slamming of a door and, of all things, a childish giggle.

  It was the third time Daniella had heard the name Ramón since she’d been home. Just who was he, anyway, and why hadn’t she seen him?

  Howard returned from his study, his mouth no more than a grim line in his harsh face. As he sat down, a small, brown-eyed boy of about two burst in from the other door, followed immediately by an overweight Mexican woman who wrung her hands and chewed on her lower lip.

  “¡Madre! ¡Padre!” the little boy cried.

  Daniella felt like she’d been punched in the stomach.

  Mother? Father?

  Howard and Sylvia stood at once and moved toward the boy. Sylvia reached him first and swept him up in her arms. She raised her head proudly and glared an unmistakable challenge at Daniella. “This is Ramón. I have given your father the son he has always wanted.”

  Daniella’s lips formed a soundless “O” before they parted in a wide grin. “I have a brother? I have a brother! Hello, Ramón.” She slid her chair back and stood, holding out her arms. “Will you come see me?”

  Ramón widened his big brown eyes and smiled back at her. With chubby arms he reached out, but Sylvia tightened her hold on him and stepped back. “He’s only your half brother, and he doesn’t like strangers,” she said sharply.

  Daniella started to protest that she wasn’t a stranger, s
he was the boy’s sister. Something in Sylvia’s eyes stopped her.

  “Do you think I’d let a girl who whores for Apaches near my son?” Sylvia shrieked.

  Ramón’s lower lip trembled at his mother’s tone. Sylvia thrust him into the arms of the fat servant and hissed, “This time do as you’re told and keep him in his room.”

  Daniella gripped the edge of the table, her eyes locked on the tiny dark head as it disappeared through the doorway. My God. A brother. And they hadn’t even told her. Hadn’t planned to ever tell her. It wasn’t fair!

  Her nails dug gouges into the underside of the table. She forced herself to concentrate. She couldn’t let them see her pain. Anger and contempt were all they deserved from her. With new resolve, she sat back down and centered her gaze on her father. “When I leave here I’ll be taking my sheep. How many do I have these days, anyway?”

  Howard looked away. Sylvia’s jaw tensed and her eyes narrowed. When neither answered, Daniella prodded. “Well?”

  “Well what?” Sylvia demanded.

  “I asked about my sheep. How many are there?”

  Sylvia screwed up her face as if she’d just smelled something rotten. Then slowly her expression changed to one of malicious delight. “Well, let me see.” Her lips formed a perfect pout. One long, buffed nail tapped thoughtfully at a dusky cheek. “At last count I believe there were none.”

  The words slipped right past Daniella for a moment, then whirled and struck her in the stomach. “I don’t believe it,” she said, coming slowly to her feet.

  Sylvia dropped all pretense of cordiality. “Believe it!”

  “Where are they? What happened to them?”

  “Ha!” Sylvia tossed her head, carefully, so as not to disturb a single curl. “We sold them.”

  “You what?” Daniella shrieked.

  “Sheep have no place in cattle country. They smell, they ruin the grass, and all they’re good for is feeding the coyotes.” Sylvia’s voice rose in pitch and volume; her eyes glittered darkly. “We sold them the day you left for Boston. We got rid of all our troubles in one day. Except you had to come back, didn’t you, and ruin everything. You’ve always ruined everything. When are you going to get out of here?”

  Daniella’s mind refused to believe her sheep were gone.

  “You didn’t. Papa, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t sell my sheep. I know you wouldn’t.” Clenching her fists, she took a step toward Sylvia and glared. “Tell me where they are, Sylvia. Where are my sheep?”

  Sylvia smirked. “Tell her, Howard. Tell her where her precious sheep are.”

  Daniella looked to her father. His gaze darted to Daniella, then away. A muscle ticked along his jaw.

  Pain stabbed through her heart as she realized this final betrayal. She braced herself against it. No! her mind screamed. “It’s true then? You really sold them, Papa?” she asked in a voice so smooth she doubted it was hers.

  “We sold them.”

  At his calm, matter-of-fact statement, the string inside Daniella—the one holding her rioting emotions in check—gave a sharp tug in her gut, then snapped in two. Pain and despair ricocheted off every nerve and muscle in her body until they struck sparks off each other, igniting a flame that forged the two into a solid knot of fury deep in her chest.

  Her father watched her face and frowned. He took a step back from the heated glare she cast him. “Now Ella—”

  “Don’t you now Ella me,” she hissed. “Damn you! Damn you both to hell. First you treat me like a leper for something that wasn’t my fault, then you don’t even bother to tell me I have a brother, now you say you sold my sheep. You had no right! Those were my sheep, not yours. They were my mother’s. She gave them to me. One of the last things she said when she lay dying in her bed was, ‘Take care of my sheep, sweetheart.’ She said it to me, not you. You had no right!”

  “Ella,” her father said, glaring at her. “Listen to me…”

  She returned his glare. “Listen? Listen? That’s all I’ve done since I’ve been home is listen. Listen to you call me names. Listen to how worried you are about what people are saying about me. You’re sorry? Sorry my ass! The only thing you’re sorry about is that the Apaches didn’t kill me. Listen? I’m sick to death of listening to you. As far as I’m concerned, Papa, you can go straight to hell, and you can take your bitch of a wife with you. From this moment on, you’re not my father.”

  Through a haze of red, Daniella shoved her way between her startled parents. Her father grabbed her arm and stopped her.

  “Now see here, young lady, you can’t talk—”

  “Let go of my arm.”

  Responding unconsciously to the threat in her voice, Howard released her.

  “I pity Ramón as he grows up,” she told him coldly. “You’ve forgotten what little you ever knew about being a father. I hope he isn’t expecting any love or loyalty out of you.”

  With that, she hiked her skirt above her ankles and fled.

  Behind her she heard Tucker mumble as he left the house.

  The surge of adrenaline that fortified her through this latest ordeal stayed with her. She marched into her room, slammed the door behind her, and started yanking off her clothes. She was through walking around like a whipped puppy, by God. She was through letting them belittle her and make her feel guilty for being alive.

  So she’d been captured by Apaches. So they’d—. Did that make her any less a person? No, dammit, it didn’t!

  She threw her dress and petticoats to the floor, then dug through the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out the old breeches and shirt she’d worn around the ranch before she’d been sent away. With muttered curses, she jerked the clothes on. After tugging on her tall, Apache moccasins, she flung the bedroom door open so hard it bounced off the wall and slammed shut behind her. With her back as stiff as a fence post, she marched down the hall and out of the house. Her stomach rumbled in protest; she hadn’t eaten a bite of breakfast.

  She shielded her eyes from the sun with a hand and scanned the men leaning against the corral fence. “Tucker!” she bellowed. He met her halfway. “Pick out the best draft horses and bring the sturdiest wagon up to the front of the house. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  The old man’s bristly, gray beard split with a slow grin. “Whatever you say, girlie.”

  Daniella marched back into the house. She began a systematic raiding of every room, every closet. She hauled pots and pans, lanterns and candles, sheets and blankets, her mother’s spinning wheel, and anything else she thought they might need, and piled them outside the front door. From there, Tucker loaded them into the wagon. They didn’t stop for dinner or darkness or anything. Not even to answer questions from the curious vaqueros.

  It was late when she shoved open the door of her father’s study without knocking and grabbed the brand new Spencer repeating rifle she’d sent him for Christmas from the rack on the wall. She’d heard one of the men say her father preferred his old Sharps anyway, and she needed a rifle. Might as well take the new one. She also grabbed up a Colt Navy, holster, and ammunition for both guns, while Howard watched in stony silence.

  Halfway to the door she stopped and spun back to his desk.

  “I want the money you got for my sheep.”

  Howard’s face hardened. Without a word, he got up from his desk, moved his chair, flipped the heavy, wool rug beneath it aside, and opened the floor safe. The bag he retrieved and dropped onto the desk gave a satisfying clink. Next to it he tossed the deed to El Valle, his signature boldly scrawled across the bottom, her own name written in as the new owner.

  Daniella grabbed the deed, hefted the coins, and gave her father a twisted smile. “Thank you. You’re so good to me.”

  She had to unload several items to get to her trunk in the wagon bed. Beneath her clothes she stashed the bag of gold coins and the deed to her new property.

  “Is that it?” Tucker asked, holding a lantern beside her. Daniella ran down her mental list of things t
o take, then nodded. “That’s it from the house. My mare and the two geldings to pull the wagon should be enough horses. We’ll cut out a few head of cattle on the south range on our way to Fort Buchanan.”

  “Thought you said we was headed west. Fort’s south.”

  “We’re headed west, by way of the fort. We’ll need supplies.”

  A moment later a rooster crowed, warning that dawn was near. “Damn,” Daniella said. I nearly forgot the chickens.”

  “Chickens? You’re taking chickens?”

  “Well, you like fresh eggs, don’t you?”

  Tucker grinned again. “Sure do.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  By the time they loaded the chickens and hitched the team to the wagon, the sky was turning pink over the Dragoon Mountains.

  A few minutes later, the faint pink turning to red streaks, Tucker slapped the reins against the horses’ backs and the wagon pulled out. Harnesses jingled, wheels creaked, and the chickens, trapped in their crates on top of the supplies, squawked and shrieked in protest. Daniella, mounted on Blaze, rode beside the wagon. She didn’t look back to see if anyone came out to watch them leave. She knew they wouldn’t.

  She didn’t even look back for a final look at her home. It wasn’t her home anymore.

  The anger that had sustained her throughout the night faded, leaving her numb and exhausted. God, how did all of this happen? Just a few short months ago she’d eagerly looked forward to coming home. Now here she was, leaving again, this time for good, and she was frightened. If it hadn’t been for Tucker’s level head, she didn’t know what she would have done these past few weeks.

  Thank God for Tucker.

  The urge to turn and take a final look was strong. So strong, she couldn’t resist any longer. As her gaze swept over the whitewashed house one last time, a movement caught her eye. Heavy drapes at one of the windows parted. A face appeared, a tiny, dark face, nearly swallowed by huge, brown eyes. Ramón stared at her solemnly from his bedroom window.