Love Forevermore (18 page)

Loralee laughed silently, mirthlessly. Even if she had a gun, Zuniga would still be in control. He would know she lacked the courage to use it, and that knowledge would make the gun useless in her hands.

She slid a glance in his direction. He was hunkered down across the fire from her. The flames cast dancing shadows across the hard planes of his face, making him look wild and primitive and beautiful. If only she could tell him what was in her heart. If only he would listen.

She was pouring herself a cup of lukewarm coffee when four men dressed in denim pants, dark shirts, and heavy jackets rode into camp. Zuniga rose smoothly to his feet, his hand curling around the butt of the gun shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

A smile of welcome crossed Loralee’s face as she glimpsed the badge pinned to the shirt of the man in the lead. They were Arizona Rangers, and she felt a flicker of hope ignite within her breast. Perhaps her salvation was at hand.

Zuniga studied the four men. The Arizona Rangers had been organized in 1901 by Governor Nathan Murphy, mainly to take action against smugglers and rustlers. The newspapers loved the Rangers, Zuniga recalled scornfully. Loralee had let him read several newspapers from various Arizona towns while she was tutoring him. The pages had been filled with the heroic exploits of the Rangers, describing in glowing terms their bravery, loyalty and ability to get the job done.

“Smelled your coffee, ma’am,” the leader of the riders remarked, touching his hat brim respectfully. “Could you spare a little for four thirsty men?”

“Of course,” Loralee answered, ignoring the warning look that Zuniga slanted in her direction. “Please, step down and join us.”

The four lawmen dismounted. Pulling tin cups from their saddlebags, they hunkered down around the fire. Loralee filled their coffee cups, smiling and chatting amiably as the men introduced themselves.

The leader was Captain Colin Webster. His men, all in their early thirties, were Sergeant Jody Powell, Private Seth Parker, and Private Tom Davidson.

“Where are you folks headed?” Webster asked. He spoke to Loralee, but his eyes were on Zuniga. What the hell was a white woman doing way out here with an Indian?

“We’re headed for New Mexico,” Zuniga answered. The lie rolled easily off his tongue. There was no shame in lying to the enemy. “My wife has family there.”

Colin Webster nodded, but his eyes were doubtful. He had been a lawman for over twenty years, and his instincts told him something wasn’t right. He turned his gaze on Loralee, noting the ring on her finger, the slight swell of her belly, and the way she avoided looking directly at the Indian. The tension between the white woman and the Apache was almost visible. Something was definitely amiss, Webster thought. He’d gamble his reputation on it.

“Are you searching for an escaped felon, Captain?” Loralee asked.

“No, ma’am. Just scouting around. I have three hundred and fifty miles to cover each month.” He smiled affably. “It’s all routine but it takes a heap of time.” Webster slid a casual glance in the Indian’s direction again. Was it possible he was the woman’s husband? It didn’t seem likely. The woman was obviously a lady of quality and good breeding. Such women didn’t marry Apache bucks.

“I see.” Loralee felt a twinge of dismay. She had hoped that the lawmen were searching for her. “More coffee?”

“Half a cup, thanks,” Webster said, holding out his cup. “Then we’d best be on our way.”

“So soon?”

Colin Webster quickly caught the note of panic in Loralee’s voice. His expression did not change as he rose smoothly to his feet. Casually he shifted his coffee cup to his left hand, his right hand moving toward his hip so that his gun was only inches from his grasp.

It was a move that did not go unnoticed by Zuniga. Or by Webster’s deputies. One by one, the three lawmen rose to their feet, acutely aware of the tension building around the campfire.

Colin Webster sipped his coffee slowly, his eyes on Loralee’s face.
Just give me a sign, lady
, he mused,
and I’ll drop the redskin where he stands.

Zuniga glanced at Loralee, and then his eyes moved over the four lawmen. It was up to Loralee now, he thought. Colin Webster was suspicious, but you couldn’t arrest a man because of what you thought.

Loralee chewed on the inside of her lower lip, suddenly uncertain as to what she should do. If she asked the Rangers for help, there was sure to be trouble. She knew that Zuniga would not surrender without a fight, and it was highly unlikely that he could outgun four trained lawmen. More likely he would be captured, perhaps killed. She could not bear the thought of his death, nor could she abide the thought of seeing him sent to prison, his wild spirit caged behind cold iron bars.

Webster was watching her intently, waiting for her to make the first move.

Pasting a stiff smile on her face, Loralee went to stand beside Zuniga. Her arm slid around his waist and she gazed up at him, hoping she looked like an adoring wife.

“I guess we shouldn’t keep you any longer, Captain,” Loralee said with regret. “It’s just that we haven’t had a chance to talk to many folks in the last few days.”

Colin Webster frowned. There was definitely something wrong here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Keeping his eyes on Zuniga, he drained the last of the coffee from his cup.

“Our thanks, ma’am, for your hospitality,” Webster said. He swung into the saddle, sent a last look in Zuniga’s direction, and rode out of camp. His men tipped their hats to Loralee, then followed after Webster.

Zuniga did not relax until he was certain they were gone, and then he looked at Loralee inquisitively. “Why?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to see anyone get hurt,” she answered, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want anyone killed because of me. Not even you.”

Zuniga grunted, his expression thoughtful.

Loralee turned away from him, afraid he might see the truth in her eyes. Moving briskly, she smothered the fire and laid out their blankets. Slipping off her shoes, she crawled into bed and closed her eyes. Images of Zuniga rose in her mind…Zuniga sitting in her classroom, his deep voice filling the room as he read the story of Jack and Charles. Zuniga lying naked beside her at Shadow Lake, his mouth on hers. Zuniga smiling fondly at his grandfather. Zuniga standing beside the ashes of Nachi’s lodge.

Zuniga. She had known him only a short time, yet he had become an integral part of her life. She carried his child beneath her heart.

Chapter Seventeen

After five days of hard riding, Zuniga reached his destination, a sheltered valley enclosed by the towering cliffs of the Dragoon Mountains.

He paused at the entrance, letting his eyes wander over the ancient Apache stronghold. It was a place rich in the history of his people. From here, Cochise had waged a long and bloody war against the whites—a war the white men started and the Indians had finished. It had all begun in 1861 when a band of Pinal Apaches kidnapped a white boy and rustled some stock. Cochise’s tribe had been accused of the crime. Cochise had gone to parley with Lieutenant George Bascomb of the Seventh Cavalry near Apache Pass. Bascomb had demanded the return of the kidnapped boy but Cochise had insisted that his people were not to blame. He had volunteered to help locate the missing boy, but Bascomb had called Cochise a liar and ordered his arrest. Cochise had managed to escape, but three of his warriors were captured.

In turn, Cochise captured several whites as hostages and demanded that his people be released. Bascomb refused, and hanged the three Indians. Cochise tortured his prisoners in retaliation, and the war was on. Cochise had been an amazing fighter. He had never lost a battle, outfighting and outwitting everyone sent against him.

The war might have lasted forever if it were not for the bravery of a man named Tom Jeffords. Jeffords was a New Yorker who had gone West as a young man. He had worked as a hunter and an Army scout, fighting against the Apache. He had also done some prospecting. During the Civil War, he had worked as supervisor of the United States mail. Cochise frequently attacked the mail coaches, sometimes killing the drivers. In a brave move, Jeffords went alone to see Cochise. The Apache chief admired Jeffords for his courage and honesty and agreed to let the mail coaches travel in safety.

Zuniga sighed as he thought of the old days, the good days. Cochise and Jeffords had become close friends, and Jeffords had been a frequent visitor at the stronghold. He had even married an Apache maiden. In 1871, General O. O. Howard, who was often called the “Christian General”, came to Arizona for the purpose of arranging a peace treaty with Cochise. It was Jeffords who had guided the general to the Apache stronghold in the Chiricahua Mountains.

Nachi had been at that meeting. Many warriors had been against the peace, Nachi had said, and many had walked away, preferring to go on fighting against the whites, who, they said, could not be trusted. But Cochise had trusted Jeffords and the treaty had been made. Cochise kept the peace until he died in 1874. He was buried here, in the place he loved best, in a deep crevasse known to only a few ancient warriors.

Zuniga gazed at the mountains. Had peace been such a good thing? His people were no better off now than before. Personally, he would rather have died in battle than live in peace on the reservation, subject to the rule and whim of the whites.

He remained mounted for a long time, listening to the awesome quiet of the place. There were plateaus here, and canyons, and sheer cliffs that rose a thousand feet high. There was only one entrance to the rancheria. In the old days, ten well-armed warriors could have held off ten thousand invaders. He cocked his head as the wind soughed through the ancient oaks, the sound like the whisper of ghosts long dead. He shivered as the inbred Apache fear of the dead rose within him, then shook the feeling away. The dead could not hurt the living, but the wind was talking to him again, singing like voices out of the past.

“
Hi-disho
,” the wind seemed to say. “It is finished.”

He gazed into the distance. Almost, he could see the ghost of Cochise walking along the wooded paths where the lodges of the Chiricahua had once stood. He saw the faces of warriors long dead, the smile of a maiden he had once thought to marry, the face of his mother as she laughed with the other women.

He glanced over his shoulder. There, beneath a gnarled oak, had stood the wickiup where he had been born almost thirty-four years ago. Nothing remained now but a memory.

His gaze moved westward. There, in the distance, were the Chiricahua Mountains, site of Cochise’s second stronghold. Memories, so many memories.

Loralee grimaced as she watched Zuniga dismount. No one would ever find her here. She was Zuniga’s prisoner now, as surely as if she were bound to him by heavy chains, and she would remain so until her child was born.

The very stillness of the place seemed ominous. Generations of Apaches had lived and died here. The great chief, Cochise, had walked this land, had likely stood on the very place she now stood. General Oliver O. Howard had come here to make peace over thirty years ago. Howard had described Cochise as being six feet tall, well-proportioned, with large dark eyes and a pleasant expression.

As Loralee surveyed the land that had once been the Apache homeland, she recalled an article she had read in an old copy of the
Arizona Citizen
.

“The kind of war needed for the Chiricahua Apache,” the column read, “is steady, unrelenting, hopeless and undiscriminating war, slaying men, women, and children…until every valley and crest and crag and fastness shall send to high heaven the grateful incense of festering and rotting Chiricahuas.”

She felt a sudden sadness for the Apache people. Their land was gone. Their way of life was gone. She looked at Zuniga, a man who hungered for the old ways. Was he also hearing the cry of spirits that had once walked this lonely valley? Was that the grieving wail of an Apache squaw, or only the wind sighing through the trees?

With a shake of her head, Loralee put such fanciful notions from her mind. The Apache and their destiny were not her problems now. She had her own problems, her own concerns.

She felt Zuniga’s eyes studying her, and she met his gaze defiantly. She would not allow him to frighten her any longer. Though he no longer cared for her, she knew that he would not abuse her, or intimidate her. Not while she carried his child.

He grinned faintly, and Loralee wondered if he were reading her mind. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to know what she was thinking.

With a grunt, he removed the saddle and bridle from her horse, pulled the bridle from the stallion, and turned the horses loose to graze.

Loralee watched Zuniga. What now? she thought. They had no lodge to shelter them from the cold, no food save what little remained in the burlap bag. At least they would not die of thirst, she mused dourly. A shallow stream shimmered in the afternoon sun.

“Gather some wood,” Zuniga said curtly. “Build a fire.”

“I’m not your squaw,” Loralee retorted. “Do it yourself.”

“If you do not work, you do not eat,” Zuniga replied flatly. “Gather some wood and build a fire.”

Eyes flashing rebellion, Loralee wandered down the valley. It took only a few moments to gather an armful of dry wood, and in a short time she was sitting before a small, cheery fire.

She sat there, enjoying the warmth, while Zuniga cut several long branches. She continued to watch, fascinated, as he tied the long, slender poles together, fashioning the framework for a wickiup. He sent her a wry grin as he began to cover the framework with brush and yucca leaves, leaving a hole at the top to allow smoke to escape from the firepit which would be laid in the center of the lodge. A blanket was used to cover the narrow doorway.

Loralee smiled ruefully. It was the ugliest structure she had ever seen.

“Your house awaits,” Zuniga remarked dryly. “Make yourself at home.”

With a nod, Loralee gathered up her blankets and the burlap bag and entered the lodge. She was suddenly nervous, standing there in the alien dwelling. This crude hovel would be her home until her child was born. She would live here, sleep here, and give birth to her child here. For the next four and a half months, she would see no one but Zuniga. It was a sobering thought.

Suddenly needing to be busy, she spread her blankets at the back of the lodge along the right side. That done, she emptied the burlap bag, placing the cooking utensils in a neat pile on the left side of the lodge. Using a sharp stick, she dug a shallow firepit, then went outside to gather more wood.

Zuniga was nowhere in sight. Alarmed, she looked right and left, but he had vanished without a trace. Where had he gone? Why had he taken the horses? Surely he did not intend to leave her here to fend for herself until the baby was born?

Frightened, she gathered an armful of wood and returned to her wickiup. Lighting a small fire, she sat on her blankets, her eyes glued to the entrance of the lodge, her ears straining for some sound that would indicate Zuniga had returned.

Hours passed. The sky grew dark. Stars appeared. And still no sign of Zuniga.

She was too frightened to think of food, and she sat there, unmoving, until she fell asleep.

The raucous cawing of a crow roused Loralee from a deep sleep. It was just past dawn. For a moment, she stared at the inside of the wickiup, confused by her strange surroundings. And then, with a start, she sat up. Zuniga!

Rising, she ran out of the lodge and smack into his arms.

“You!” she shouted, backing away from him. “Where have you been? Why did you go off and leave me alone?”

Zuniga’s brows rushed together in an angry frown. “Hold your tongue, woman,” he admonished sharply. “I am not your husband, to be bullied and abused.”

“Thank God for that!” Loralee snapped, her fright gone now that he was near. “But you might have told me you were leaving.”

“Why? Did you worry?”

“Of course not, but I—”

“Fix breakfast.”

“Don’t you ever say please?” Loralee asked sulkily.

“No.” He thrust a pair of rabbits into her hands. “Fix breakfast.”

Loralee glanced at the rabbits in dismay. She had never cooked wild game, let alone skinned any. The very thought of cutting into fur and flesh made her stomach churn.

Zuniga made a sound of disgust low in his throat as he snatched the rabbits from Loralee’s hands. White women, he mused sourly, and then sighed. She was pregnant, after all, and not accustomed to living in the mountains. She was used to living in a neat little house, cooking on a wood stove, sleeping in a bed.

He grinned wryly. She had wanted to help his people, to understand them. Soon she would learn more about Apache ways than she had ever wanted to know.

Loralee turned away, sick to her stomach, as Zuniga drew his knife and deftly skinned the rabbits, then spitted the carcasses over the firepit she had built the day before.

While the meat cooked, Zuniga scraped the remaining flesh from the inside of the hides and then stretched the hides between two stout sticks.

The aroma of roasting meat tickled Loralee’s nose, quickening her appetite. She had not eaten since lunch the day before and she was suddenly famished. She watched eagerly as Zuniga turned the meat. Juice dripped into the fire, sizzling loudly as it struck the hot stones.

It was the best food she had ever eaten, Loralee thought with surprise, or maybe it only tasted that way because she was so hungry. She amazed herself and Zuniga by eating most of one whole rabbit.

When the meal was over, Zuniga rose abruptly to his feet and went to his horse.

“Where are you going?” Loralee asked.

“Bisbee.”

“Bisbee? Why?”

“We need supplies.”

“Oh.”

Zuniga felt a flicker of compassion for her. She sounded so forlorn. Almost, he was tempted to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to assure her that he would look after her until the baby was born. But then he remembered Schofield.

“I will be back late tonight,” he said tersely. “Or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Her shoulder slumped dejectedly as she thought of spending another night alone. Two large tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered irritably. “I will be back tonight.” Suddenly angry with himself, he swung onto the dun’s back and rode away.

Loralee was overcome with loneliness as she watched him ride out of sight. And then it occurred to her that now was her chance to escape.

She looked around, hoping he had brought her horse back with him, and then she laughed a short, bitter laugh. Damn him. He had known she would try to leave if he left her alone. That was why he had hidden her horse.

With a sigh, she began to walk. She had no destination in mind, and she wandered aimlessly up a narrow trail that led to a plateau. She paused a moment, looking out over the valley below, trying to imagine what it had been like when Cochise and his band had lived here. Closing her eyes, she pictured hundreds of dome-shaped wickiups, smoke rising from the smoke holes, the aroma of roasting meat and ash cakes filling the air, the barking of dogs, the laughter of women and children.

Lifting her skirt, she climbed around the base of a tall tower, passing several deep crevasses. It was a quiet place, peaceful in the early morning sunshine.

Another half-mile along a winding trail brought her through small wooded glens. Farther on, she came to Treaty Rock where Jeffords, Cochise, and Howard had made peace and signed the treaty that ended the ten-year war started by Bascomb.

Here she sat down on the ground to rest, her chin cupped in the palms of her hands. The sun felt warm on her skin, the sky was a clear azure blue, the air was fragrant with the scent of pines. No wonder the Apache had loved this land. No wonder they had fought so hard to keep it.