Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  Suddenly Pace moved on his own. Jessie held her breath. He struggled to get his feet beneath him and throw off his captors.

  “Pace! Oh, my God, Pace.” Jessie raced to him and shoved at one of the guards. “Stop this! Let him go this instant,” she cried.

  “Jessie?”

  His faint voice somehow penetrated the thunder of her own heartbeat in her ears. “I’m here, Pace, I’m here.”

  Slowly he raised his battered face. It was all Jessie could do to keep from screaming at the up-close sight of his injuries.

  “Get…out…of here,” he managed between swollen, bloody lips. “Go…home.”

  Jessie stiffened. “I will not! If you think I’m going to let them get away with this—”

  “Jessie!” he barked. “There’s nothing you can do. Get away.”

  It was then that she caught a certain look in the one eye that remained open. Another surge of fury swept her. The imbecile was embarrassed! She was supposed to let them drag her brother off to prison because he was embarrassed for her to see him at anything other than his best and strongest?

  Then a guard stepped between them, and he and another soldier dragged Pace onto the train.

  “No!” Jessie whirled and saw Lieutenant Gatewood. “How can you let this happen? You’re supposed to be his friend!”

  Gatewood flushed and looked away.

  Jessie turned on General Miles. “You can’t do this! He’s never ridden with Geronimo. You know that. You can’t do this!”

  Miles met her torment and fury with cool amusement. “I believe, Miss Colton, that I already have.”

  Jessie’s thoughts scrambled for a way to stop him, but she was totally out of her depth, and she knew it. For the first time in her life, she wished she were more like her sister or mother. Serena and Mama wouldn’t simply stand here and let this happen. They would know what to do. They would stop it. They would get Pace off that train if they had to do it at gunpoint.

  But Jessie wasn’t Serena, she wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t anything like either of them. And for the first time in her life, she regretted it. She was always the calm, level-headed one who never lost her temper, never raised her voice in anger. But now was not the time for calm. She had to do something!

  Behind her the engineer let off a blast of steam.

  Frantic, Jessie stepped toward the car where they’d carried Pace, fully intending to board. If she couldn’t get him free, she could at least go with him and make sure he was all right. When the train reached Florida, no one was going to mistake her for an Apache. Not with her blond hair and fair skin.

  But before she could reach the door of the car, the unthinkable happened. A band of steel in the form of a man’s blue-clad arm snaked around her waist and dragged her back against a rock-hard body.

  It had been the outside of enough when General Miles halted her earlier with a hand to her arm, but no one had ever, ever dared to handle her in such a manner as she was now being subjected to. And all to keep her from getting to Pace.

  For the first time in her life, Jessie felt true rage burn hot and strong through her veins. She had never had to fight for her freedom before, but she fought now. For herself, for Pace.

  With a shriek loud enough to rival the train whistle, Jessie clawed and squirmed and kicked at her unseen captor. Her walking boot connected sharply with the man’s shin.

  His grunt of pain didn’t begin to satisfy the blood lust nearly choking her. “Let—me—go!”

  Chapter Two

  Captain Blake Renard cursed as he tried to dodge the flailing arms and lethal shoes. Damn, who would have thought the prim little thing could kick like a mule?

  Jesus God Almighty. What was the world coming to when a pretty little sweetheart who looked like a china doll and smelled like heaven would make such a public spectacle of herself over a goddamn half-breed? The very thought made him sick.

  As ordered, he held on to her—barely—until the train pulled away from the station. Then, with another curse for the way she clawed at the backs of his hands, he tightened his hold. The little shrew had as many moves as a bag full of cats.

  “You can turn her loose,” General Miles said as he approached. “It’s safe enough now that the train’s gone.”

  Blake had his doubts about how safe he’d be once he let her go, but he set her down on her feet and loosened his hold. She was out of his arms in a flash, whirling on him and Miles.

  As if he were standing next to the punch bowl at a cotillion, Miles introduced them. “I don’t believe the two of you have met. Miss Jessica Colton, Captain Blake Renard.”

  She cast Blake a harsh glance, then sneered. “The pleasure is all his, I’m certain.”

  Blake’s mouth twisted. “I doubt it.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” she said coldly to Miles.

  Miles smirked. “Now that I’ve gotten rid of Geronimo, I can get out of this hellish territory. I doubt our paths will ever cross again.”

  “Oh, but you’re mistaken, General.” Her smooth cultured voice slid down Blake’s spine with surprising ease. “Our paths will most definitely cross again,” she told Miles. “And when they do, you will rue the day you ever crossed a Colton. And you will pay, dearly, for what you’ve done today. That, I promise you.”

  As she flounced away, Blake frowned at the way Miles laughed a little too loud, as though trying to convince himself the girl was harmless. Interesting, Blake thought. Doubly interesting that Miles sent a man to follow her.

  But then Miles was an interesting man. Blake had never met an officer who so blithely ignored orders from Washington the way Miles seemed to. Not more than an hour ago a telegram had come from the president himself. Miles had known it was coming. He’d known Cleveland wanted Geronimo and the other renegades turned over to civil authorities to stand trial. To hang.

  But he was clever, the general was. The minute he had arrived in Bowie that morning with his prisoners, Miles had given orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He’d ordered Captain Thompson to “handle things,” stating he wanted no interruptions of any kind until the train left with the prisoners.

  The telegram from President Cleveland had arrived just after Blake had ridden in. Under Miles’s orders, Thompson had pocketed it. He would probably keep it for another hour or so for good measure, then “remember” to give it to Miles.

  Of course, Blake couldn’t prove any of it, and wouldn’t bother trying. Neither could he prove that Miles had sent him to Fort Apache to deliberately keep him away from the surrender proceedings. He didn’t have to prove it, because it had happened.

  He couldn’t say he blamed Miles any for that move, though. Blake had been more or less foisted off onto him. Blake was an unknown, and Miles had his hands full just getting someone close enough to Geronimo to talk. To send a stranger in instead of Gatewood, who was known to and trusted by the Apaches, would have been to send Geronimo deeper in the Sierra Madres. Even dynamite wouldn’t have been able to blast him out.

  Blake knew all this. It was logical. It made sense. And it pissed the hell out of him, because it had cost him his chance at Geronimo. If Miles had had his way, Blake would still be cooling his heels up at Fort Apache.

  Yet at Fort Apache, Blake had received his own telegram, or he wouldn’t have made it to Bowie in time to see the train off. Blake’s telegram had been simple, direct, and prearranged. “Go,” was all it said. It had, of course, been unsigned.

  That Miles hadn’t commented on Blake’s arrival, hadn’t even seemed surprised to see him, told Blake that Miles knew more than he was supposed to. Miles should have been furious that Blake had apparently disobeyed orders and returned on his own. He should right then have been threatening disciplinary action.

  Instead, he was looking at Blake with obvious speculation.

  “Stay right here, Captain. I’ll be right back.”

  With narrowed eyes, Blake watched as Miles met with the sergeant he’d sent to follow the Colton girl. The two m
en spoke for a moment, then the sergeant took off into town at a brisk jog.

  Miles returned to Blake’s side. Something shrewd and conniving flashed across the general’s eyes. Something Blake didn’t think he cared for.

  “I’ve got an assignment for you,” Miles said with a slick smile. “One I think you’ll enjoy, if my guess about you is right.”

  “Sir?”

  Miles waved a hand before his face. “Never mind the innocent act, Renard. You don’t need it with me. I don’t know who you are, why you were sent here, or how, in this day and age, someone as young as you ended up with the rank of captain. I do know you wanted to be on hand for Geronimo’s surrender, and I think I know why. Doesn’t matter, because it’s none of my business.”

  Blake kept his expression bland. It didn’t matter what Miles thought, because not only could Blake not prove anything about the man’s actions, neither could Miles prove any of his suspicions—whatever they were—about Blake. And if Miles did prove them, it could cost the him his stars.

  “The young lady you just met, Miss Colton—she’s up to no good. She’s bought herself a ticket on the afternoon train heading east so she can follow that stinking half-breed. And I know that young lady. She’ll make trouble. She’d do anything for him, including try to get him free.”

  Blake’s eyes cut to the depot in time to see her emerge. He remembered the feel of her as he’d held her pressed against him. Her waist was nearly small enough for him to span with his hands. He remembered her delicate scent, like spring flowers. Roses. He remembered the softness of her golden hair as it had brushed his cheek. Remembered the shiver that had raced down his spine at the contact.

  Her eyes, when she’d turned to face him, had spit gray fire from that lovely face with its small, turned-up nose, graceful cheeks, finely arched brows, and lips that…

  And she wanted a breed. Not just any breed, but the worst of the lot—a half-breed Chiricahua Apache.

  Blake learned something about himself in that moment as he watched her march stiffly away from the depot, something unpleasant.

  From the time he was old enough to understand the meaning of hate, he had hated Geronimo in particular, and renegades in general. He didn’t think he’d ever learned to hate Apaches merely because they were Apaches. But maybe he had. He’d known one or two scouts and more or less liked them, but they were the exception. He’d been stunned that Miles had arrested Martine and Kayitah. Stunned and appalled.

  But when Blake thought of any Apache, even a half-breed, touching that sweet, pale skin…when he thought of how Jessica Colton had felt in his arms…

  No. He didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he thought about her giving herself to a half-breed. How she hadn’t cared what anyone thought as she’d fought to reach the one called Fire Seeker. It made him sick. And in that moment, he admitted he hated half-breeds—just on principal.

  “It’ll be your job,” Miles said, “to see that she fails. You’re to keep her away from him.”

  “Begging the general’s pardon…” Blake had to make a real effort to keep from grinding his teeth. “But the lady in question seems a little old to need a nanny.”

  Miles snorted. “What she needs is a keeper. All those damn Colton women are nothing but she-cats.”

  Blake glanced down at the marks along the backs of his thick leather gauntlets and silently agreed. If he’d been barehanded, Miss Jessica Colton would have shredded his skin. And all to save her half-breed lover.

  “Now.” Miles fingered one end of his mustache. “As to your orders.”

  The telegraph office down the street from the train station did a brisk business that morning. The governor’s aide sent a wire to Prescott; the mayors of Tucson, Tombstone, and Globe sent word back to their respective towns. A lovely young lady with yellow hair, flushed cheeks, and fire in her gray eyes sent messages to Tucson, Chicago, and Washington, D.C. A cavalry captain wired his family he’d be stopping by to visit. Even the ticket agent from the Southern Pacific depot sent messages.

  It wasn’t even eleven yet and the sun was broiling hot when two telegrams clicked in at the Western Union office in Deming, New Mexico. The first message wasn’t for anyone in particular. It was sent from Bowie, Arizona, to all points east along the Southern Pacific line: The train carrying Geronimo to prison left Bowie less than an hour ago.

  The celebration that ensued was exuberant. Folks on the outlying farms and ranches would throw even bigger parties when they got the word. They had been at the mercy of Geronimo’s lightning quick raids for far too many years. They could now breathe easy. No more Indian attacks.

  To say that everyone in the area was pleased with the news would have been an exaggeration. The average citizens were, to be sure. But a few of the more avaricious merchants and cattle brokers understood immediately what the new turn of events meant—loss of revenue. With no more marauding Apaches, the Army would no longer need so many soldiers in the area. Fewer drinks—after the celebration, anyway—would cross the bars in the saloons. Merchants would sell fewer guns, less ammunition. Even the undertaker’s business was bound to slack off. Farmers would lose Army contracts for their crops. Ranchers would sell less beef.

  Wade Sinclair, too, would sell less beef. Not that he could rightfully call himself a rancher. Hell, he didn’t want to be a rancher. Let his old man sweat and bleed in the dry New Mexico scrub for barely enough money to put food on the table. Wade didn’t want to work. Wade wanted to be rich. To that end, he had a little cattle stealing operation going on over in Arizona that had been bringing in quite a tidy little sum. Stolen cattle sold to the government just as well as any other kind of cattle, and with a hell of a lot less work involved than raising the damn beeves himself.

  The other implication of Geronimo’s surrender was just as bad. With no more Geronimo to chase, Wade’s cousin, Blake, would surely leave the Army next spring when his commission was up. Then the sorry bastard would want to take that fancy Arabian stud of his, and his four Arabian mares, and settle on his ranch. The one in Arizona. Tres Colinas. Three Hills Ranch, which Wade had been using the past couple of years as the headquarters for his “business.”

  Damn Geronimo, anyway. And damn Blake Renard.

  The Army would still need beef for the Indians on the reservations. Not as much beef as before, because they wouldn’t need as many troops in the area. Still, Wade could line his pockets a while longer. But not if Blake decided to take possession of Tres Colinas.

  No two ways about it. Blake Renard would have to go. The son of a bitch had interfered in Wade’s life one too many times.

  Wade was nursing his fourth beer at The Watering Hole Saloon before heading down the street to eat lunch, trying to come up with a way to rid himself of Blake, when the second telegram of the day arrived in Deming hot on the heels of the first. This one was addressed to Wade’s father. Because the telegraph operator knew Phillip Sinclair was out at the ranch but Wade could generally always be found in one of the saloons, the wire was delivered to Wade.

  The delivery boy, skinny and smelling like peppermint, leaned against the table where Wade sat. The boy was obviously waiting for a tip while he stared goggle-eyed at a place his mama surely never allowed him to even peek at before. Wade belched. Western Union paid the kid a salary. Wade wasn’t inclined to tip him for merely doing the job he was paid for. He stared at the kid until the kid gulped and skittered out the door.

  Finally, in relative privacy, Wade opened the message to his father. As he read, his mind sped and his smile widened.

  “You look like a damn coyote who just got the fattest hen.”

  Wade looked up to find his partner taking the chair across the table. “I tell you, Hank, life just keeps gettin’ sweeter by the minute.”

  “Good news?”

  “The best. My esteemed cousin has just handed me the perfect opportunity to get rid of him.”

  Hank squinted. “Renard?”

  “Yeah. Now that Geronimo’s beyo
nd his reach, he’ll be getting out of the Army and wanting his ranch.”

  Hank frowned. “You gonna go after him? Stop him?”

  “Nope.” Wade held his beer aloft. “Won’t have to. He’s coming to me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s coming through town on the train that stops here for supper. Wants to know if my folks can ride into town for a short visit.”

  Hank grinned. “What’re ya gonna do, poison his gravy?”

  “Nope.” Wade took a long, deep swallow of beer. “And it’s not what I’m going to do, it’s what we’re going to do.”

  “We?”

  Wade nodded. “Get the boys together. We’ve got a job to do that will not only rid me of a problem, but line our pockets, too.”

  The next train headed east from Bowie didn’t leave until 3:30 that afternoon. By the time Jessie boarded, her nerves and composure were stretched to their limits. While that despicable Captain Renard had stood at one end of the street and watched her, a sergeant had dogged her every step after she’d walked away from General Miles that morning.

  She’d been followed and watched while she bought her train ticket. The sergeant had been right behind her as she’d gone to the telegraph office and sent messages to the ranch, to her parents in Washington, D.C., and to Matt and Serena in Chicago. He had even followed her to the boarding house.

  In anticipation of having to spend the night in Bowie, Jessie had taken a room at Mrs. Harrigan’s that morning and left her valise there while waiting for the Apaches to arrive from the fort that morning. She’d had to go back and retrieve her bag. The sergeant had boldly followed her right up to the door.

  By the time she boarded the next train east to follow Pace, both her patience and her nerves were stretched taut. Seeing Pace battered and bloody, watching him being dragged aboard a prison train…It was unthinkable. Yet it had happened. The horror of it had yet to loosen its grip on her mind and heart.

  A cloud of guilt surrounded her so thickly she felt suffocated. Guilt, and ineffectiveness. She should have done something. She should have stopped it, somehow.