Apache Flame (4 page)

And now he was back in Canyon Creek, back where he had
started.

But not for long.

Chapter Three

Russell Faraday sat at his desk, his hands clasped in an
attitude of supplication. It couldn’t be true. After all these years, Mitch
Garrett was back.

Russell closed his eyes, an urgent prayer wending its way
toward heaven.
For my daughter’s sake, don’t let him stay.

Even now, over five years later, he could remember how
shocked he had been when Alisha told him she was in love with Con Garret’s
half-breed bastard son. Not only that, she’d said, but she was going to marry
young Garret as soon as he found a job.

Russell had stared at her, unable to believe his beautiful
angel daughter had been spending time with young Garret.

But worse things were yet to come. Two months after
declaring she was in love with Garret, Alisha had come to him in tears to tell
him she was carrying Garret’s bastard. Pain had clutched Russell’s heart, so
sharp and intense he had been certain he was going to die.

It was at that moment that he had fully realized how much he
had relied on his wife. Angela had been his strength. When she died, a part of
him, the best part, had died with her. He had needed Angela then as never
before, needed her strength, her womanly intuition to guide him. For the first
time since his wife passed away, he had admitted that he wasn’t strong enough,
wise enough, to raise their daughter alone. Self-recriminations followed. He
should have paid more attention to Alisha, spent more time with her, listened
more intently, instead of shutting himself away from her. Obviously, she had
been searching for the love and affection he had denied her.

He had spent the rest of that night in his study, on his
knees, fervently praying for help, for guidance, for wisdom.

The following day, he had put Chloe and Alisha on a stage.
He told his congregation they had gone east, for a visit, which was both the
truth and a lie. They had gone east, but only as far east as the next town.

He had been there when the child was born. He remembered how
his daughter cried when he told her the baby had been stillborn. Two days later,
he had taken Chloe and Alisha home.

They had never mentioned that awful time in their lives
again.

Alisha had become the schoolmistress a year later when Mr.
Fontaine retired. She was a respected member of the community. She played the
organ in church on Sunday and for the choir on Wednesday night. She was engaged
to be married to a decent, hard-working man. Her life was settled. Respectable.
Above reproach.

And now Garret was back.

With a sigh, Russell Faraday sank to his knees, praying that
the house of cards he had so carefully built would not come tumbling down
around him.

Chapter Four

Alisha took off her gloves and tucked them in the pocket of
her coat, then hung her coat and hat on the hall tree inside the door.

“Father? I’m home.”

“In here, Alisha.”

Alisha followed the sound of her father’s voice to the
study. He was seated at his desk, working on Sunday’s sermon. She felt a rush
of tenderness as she looked at him. He had taken her mother’s death hard, and
it had aged him. His hair, once dark brown, was now gray. His eyes, once a deep
emerald green, seemed to have faded. He rarely smiled anymore.

He looked up from his desk as she entered the room. “Good
evening, daughter. How was your day?”

“Fine.”

She sat down on the arm of the sofa, wondering if he knew
Mitch was back in town.

Alisha took a deep breath. Might as well get it out in the
open and get it over with. “I guess you’ve heard the news.”

He didn’t pretend ignorance. “Yes. Are you all right?”

“Of course.” She pasted a smile on her face. “Why wouldn’t I
be?”

“I know you once thought you were in love with him.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”

“How’s your sermon coming along?”

Russell shrugged. “Fine, fine.”

Rising, she walked around the desk and gave her father a
hug. “I know it’ll be wonderful, like always. I’ll go fix dinner.”

In the kitchen, she stared out the kitchen window while she
waited for the soup to heat, sighing as her thoughts turned toward Mitch, as
they had doing all day.

Why hadn’t he sent for her? When her father insisted she
leave town until the baby was born, she had made him promise he would forward
any mail she received, but none had been forthcoming. Still, she had waited,
hoping, for months and months. Every time her father went to the post office to
pick up the mail, she had been certain that she would hear from Mitchy, but the
days and weeks passed, and there had been no word from him and finally she
realized he was never going to send for her, that his love, like his promise,
had been a lie.

Even now, she could remember how devastated she had been
when she finally admitted to herself that she was waiting for a letter that was
never going to come. She had felt so lost, so lonely, so bereft. She had cried
until she was certain she had no tears left, and then she had cried some more.

She had been determined to put him out of her mind, and she
had turned her every thought to the baby she carried. She might not have Mitch,
but she would have his child.

But even that comfort had been denied her. She had never
seen her son. Her father had told her the baby was born dead, that it was for
the best if she didn’t see the child, that she should put the whole affair
behind her and go on with her life. For months afterward, she had dreamed that she
heard her baby crying, that it was wandering in the dark, looking for her.

Gradually, the dreams had stopped and she had sought to take
her father’s advice, to put that period of her life behind her. She had thought
herself quite successful at it until today, when just hearing Mitch’s name
brought it all back, made her remember how desperately she had loved him, how
her heart had ached when he left her, how empty her arms had been when the
child she had longed for was taken from her.

Tears burned her eyes and slid down her cheeks and she
dashed them away. She would not cry for Mitch Garret. Not now, not ever again.

She was going to marry Roger Smithfield. They had grown up
together, gone to school together. He was a good man, an ambitious man, and she
cared deeply for him. Soon he would have his own business. They would have a
home of their own, a family of their own. She was going to be the best wife any
man ever had. And if Roger didn’t make her heart sing the way Mitch had, if
Roger didn’t make her flesh ache for his touch, well, she could just live
without that. Love and lust had brought her nothing but misery and despair.

Sniffing back her tears, she removed a pan of biscuits from
the oven, filled two bowls with beef stew, and went to tell her father that
dinner was ready.

Chapter Five

Mitch shook hands with his father’s lawyer then left the
man’s office. Closing the door, he stood on the boardwalk for a moment, then
shoved the legal documents into his back pocket. The ranch was legally his now,
to do with as he pleased. Ironic, he mused as he descended the stairs and
crossed the street, that the first piece of property he had ever owned should
be a place that held nothing but unhappy memories.

He muttered an oath as he stepped onto the boardwalk. Why had
he come back here? Why hadn’t he just written to the lawyer and told him to
sell the ranch, lock, stock, and barrel and send him the money?

Shit, he knew why. He had come back to Canyon Creek hoping
for a miracle, hoping that
she
would still be here, that he would have a
chance to confront her, to ask her why she hadn’t waited for him, like she’d
promised she would. Damn, after all this time, it shouldn’t matter anymore. But
it did.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the woman exiting the
mercantile until he had slammed into her, nearly knocking her off the
boardwalk.

“I’m sorry,” Mitch exclaimed, grabbing her arm to keep her
from tumbling down the stairs. “I wasn’t looking where I was…”

The words died in his throat. For a moment, all he could do
was stare. “’Lisha.” She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, with her
honey-gold hair and sparkling brown eyes.

Alisha stared at the man in front of her, scarcely able to
speak past the lump in her throat. “Mitch.” She tried to smile, and failed. “I
heard you were back in town. I’m…I’m sorry about your father.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She looked down at his hand, still holding her arm. It was a
large hand, dark, calloused. Strong. She remembered the touch of it on her
skin, the way the merest touch had made her tingle from head to toe. Mitch’s
hand, caressing her, his fingertips gliding over thigh, his skin so dark
against her own…

He followed her gaze, then jerked his hand away. “Sorry.”

Silence stretched between them.

I never had trouble talking to him before
, Alisha
thought.
Now he seems like a stranger.
“How long will you be in town?”

“I’m not sure. Until I sell the old man’s house, I reckon.
How’s Smithfield?” He glanced at her hand, steeling himself for the sight of
another man’s ring on her finger, then noticed she was wearing gloves.

“He’s doing very well, thank you.”

Mitch grunted softly, all too aware that they weren’t alone,
that people were watching, staring. Remembering.

Silence settled between them again, punctuated by memories
of what might have been.

“I have to go,” Alisha said. “It was nice seeing you,
Mitchell.”

Mitchell.
She had never called him that in all the
years he had known her. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Nice.”

“Well, good day.” Head high, she turned and walked away,
hardly able to see where she was going for the tears that flooded her eyes.

Mitch watched her until she was out of sight. Going into the
nearest saloon, he ordered a bottle of the best bourbon the house had to offer,
then carried it to a table in the back corner of the room and sat down,
determined to drown her memory in whiskey, to obliterate every thought, every
memory, every regret.

It wouldn’t work, of course. But then, it never had.

He was about a fourth of the way through the bottle when he
heard the gunshots. Years of being a lawman rose to the fore and sent him
running out of the saloon, gun in hand. It took only a moment to size up the
situation. Three men were exiting the bank, pushing their way through the
handful of townspeople gathered on the boardwalk.

Saul Jordan, owner of the Canyon Creek Cattleman’s Bank, was
sprawled face down across the doorway. Blood oozed from his left shoulder.

A woman screamed as one of the robbers shoved her out of the
way.

Mitch didn’t stop to think, just did what came naturally
after being a lawman for nearly three years. He fired a warning shot in the air
and hollered, “Throw down your weapons!”

He didn’t expect the outlaws to comply, and they didn’t.
They turned to face him, their guns swinging in his direction. Without
hesitation, he fired at the man in front. The outlaw went down, and Mitch fired
at the second man. The third bandit threw his gun into the street and raised
his hands over his head.

One of the moneybags had burst open when it hit the ground
and greenbacks fluttered in the air like paper butterflies.

A man swore as the scent of blood and gun smoke rose on the
wind. Somewhere in the distance, a child cried for its mother.

When the smoke cleared, two of the bank robbers lay dead in
the dirt. The third outlaw hadn’t moved. He was staring at Mitch, his
expression virulent. “You dirty half-breed! You killed my brother!”

“Shut your mouth,” Mitch replied mildly. “Or you’ll join
him.”

The outlaw fell silent, but he continued to stare at Mitch,
his expression filled with loathing.

“Damn!” exclaimed a man standing near the newspaper office.
“That was some shootin’.”

“Like greased lightning!”

“Never seen nothing like it!”

Mitch nodded as men came forward to slap him on the back.
Two of the bank tellers rushed out of the bank and began picking greenbacks up
from the street and boardwalk.

Someone called for the doctor. Another man ran forward with
a piece of rope and tied the surviving outlaw’s hands behind his back.

Holstering his Colt, Mitch turned away and almost bumped
into old man West, who had left his rocking chair across the way to get a
closer look at the dead men.

“Where the hell’s your sheriff?” Mitch asked.

Mr. West shrugged. “We’re sort of between lawmen at the
moment.”

“Not anymore!”

Mitch glanced over his shoulder to see who had spoken, and
saw two men walking toward him. They both wore dark suits, and they were both
smiling broadly.

The taller of the two pumped Mitch’s hand vigorously. He had
wavy brown hair and guileless gray eyes. Mitch figured he was in his
mid-forties.

“Casey Waller,” he said. “I’m one of the city fathers. This
here is Fred Plumber.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Mitch said. He nodded at the second
man. Fred Plumber had sandy-colored hair and pale blue eyes. He sported a
handlebar mustache and thick sideburns, and appeared to be about the same age
as Waller.

“Unless I miss my guess, you’re worn a badge before,” Waller
said. “How’d you like to be our new sheriff? Pays ten dollars a month, plus
room and board.”

Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so, but thanks for the
offer.”

“Now, now, don’t be too hasty. We might be able to offer
more. Say, twenty a month?”

“Cowboys make more than that,” Mitch said, “and they don’t
have to worry about getting shot.”

“Twenty-five,” Waller said, “plus room and board.” He smiled
expansively. “That’s a mighty sweet deal for the right man,” he glanced over at
the activity in the street, “and we think you’re the right man.”