Love Forevermore (25 page)

Throwing back the covers, she jumped out of bed and ran into the parlor, only to come to an abrupt halt when she saw him standing before the fireplace, his arms raised toward heaven, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

What an enigma he was, Loralee thought, watching him. Was the real Shad Zuniga the violent man who had killed his own father? The tender lover? The angry warrior? The proud father? Or this quiet man standing before her, naked, primal, as he supplicated his god?

Zuniga dropped his arms as he became aware of Loralee’s presence.

“I’m sorry,” Loralee said. “I didn’t know you were praying. I was afraid you’d gone.”

Zuniga smiled at her, his eyes filled with love and sadness. “Without saying goodbye?”

Loralee shrugged. “I was afraid you might not want to say goodbye.”

“It is not really goodbye,” Zuniga said, drawing her to him. “For us, there will be no goodbyes. I will always come back to you, Loralee, as long as there is life in my body.”

He was leaving her, and she felt as though her heart would break. The hardships he had described the night before, the danger to herself and her child, no longer seemed important. He was her life, and he was going away.

“Take me with you.” She knew he would refuse even before she spoke the words.

“I cannot,” he said heavily.

Loralee smiled wistfully. “I know. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Zuniga nodded. “Fix me some coffee, and then I must go.” He dressed quickly. Going to the nursery, he bent over the crib and stroked his son’s cheek. It was hard to leave, but he had stayed too long already. Soon, the fort would come to life.

He drank the coffee Loralee offered him in three hasty swallows, kissed Loralee deeply, and slipped out the back door. Silent as a shadow, he ghosted around the corner of the house, vaulted over the back fence, and ran to where the dun was tethered.

He heard the clear notes of a bugle playing reveille as he put the stallion into a lope.

Mike came home just before sundown, looking beat. He gave Loralee a wry smile as he shrugged off his uniform shirt and pulled off his boots. They had been trailing Zuniga for weeks, but they hadn’t been able to catch him. Like a will-o’-the-wisp, the Apache managed to slip through their fingers.

Mike cursed under his breath. None of the Indians would scout against one of their own. He had offered to let them name their own price, but to no avail. Zuniga was the last hero they had, and they would not ride against him, not for any amount of money, not even for whiskey.

Mike went to bed immediately after dinner, his dreams haunted by visions of Shad Zuniga laughing at him and at all the men who had ever worn Army blue.

Loralee sat up late that night, the baby cradled in her arms. How much longer could she stay here with Mike? How much longer could she go on hurting him? Mike had never done anything but love her and what had she given him in return? Nothing. She lived in his house, ate his food, slept in his bed. And repaid his kindness by loving another man.

Loralee hummed softly as she sewed a new gown for her son. Mike was out on patrol again, searching for Zuniga. He was becoming obsessed with the need to capture the Apache. His obvious hatred for Shad, his single-minded goal to capture Zuniga at any cost and see him hanged for the killing of Sergeant Blakely, frightened Loralee and put a new strain on their already strained relationship.

It was a subject they never mentioned, and the fact that they couldn’t talk about it made other conversation uncomfortable. Mike knew that Loralee hoped he would never capture Shad, that he would give up the hunt and let him go. But that was something he had vowed never to do. The need to see Zuniga destroyed haunted Mike like a demon, driving him to spend long hours combing the hills. Often he did not come home at night. His men grumbled under their breath. For all they knew, the Apache could have left the territory by now. But Lieutenant Schofield refused to give up.

Loralee sighed as she put her sewing aside for the evening. It was almost time to feed little Shad.

She felt his presence even before she felt his hand on her shoulder. Heart pounding, blood singing, she rose to her feet and melted into his arms.

“I could not stay away,” Zuniga murmured, his lips moving in her hair. “I started out for Mexico, then circled back and hid out in the hills.”

His words warmed Loralee’s heart through and through. With a sigh, she laid her head against his chest, content to be held in his arms, to know he missed her as much as she missed him.

“When will he be back?”

“I don’t know. Not before tomorrow night.”

Zuniga nodded, his arms hugging her tight.

They made love before the fireplace, bathed together, shared a cup of coffee, and made love again. Later, when the baby woke for his midnight feeding, Zuniga sat beside Loralee while she nursed their child, his arm around her shoulder.

Loralee’s heart ached with a bittersweet pain. How right it felt to have Shad at her side, to be able to reach out and touch him, look at him. For this moment, they were a family as they were meant to be. It was a moment to be treasured.

When her son finished nursing, she changed his diaper, then placed the boy in Zuniga’s arms. “You two should get acquainted,” she said, smiling.

Zuniga nodded. The child was small and fragile, and he felt awkward cradling the infant in his arms. Still, it was a good feeling, holding his son. He had cared for only a few people in his life: his mother, Nachi, Loralee, and now this tiny scrap of humanity that he had created without thought or consideration. The baby caught hold of Zuniga’s finger, clasping it tightly in its small fist, and Zuniga felt a rush of love for the boy. This was his son, flesh of his flesh, and he would live and die for the child, and for Loralee.

He held the baby until it fell asleep in his arms, then gently placed the child in its bed. Loralee was waiting for him on the sofa, her soft brown eyes warm and loving.

He made love to her one more time before slipping out of the house, promising to return when he could.

Mike came home the following night, his face drawn, his eyes weary and filled with discouragement. They had ridden for hours, hoping to pick up Zuniga’s trail, but all in vain. The rain had washed out his tracks completely, and Mike was at a loss as to where to pick it up again. Where would the bastard go? Back to the Dragoons? To Mexico? Into the Sierra Madres? Who the hell could say what an Indian would do?

He bathed and changed into a pair of clean trousers and a shirt, then went into the kitchen. Loralee was warming a pot of soup for him. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he watched her as she stirred the soup, poured a generous amount into a large bowl, sliced a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and poured him a cup of coffee. She looked different, he mused thoughtfully. There was a sparkle in her eye, a bounce in her step that had not been there before.

She sat at the table with him while he ate, filling him in on the latest news at the fort. The Colonel’s wife had ordered a whole houseful of new furniture from an Eastern catalog. Sally Stockman was pregnant.

Mike nodded absently. He didn’t care if Stella Freeman ordered a new house from the East, couldn’t care less if Sally Stockman had one child or twenty, but he did care about Loralee, and he knew her well enough to know that something had happened while he was away.

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

“Oh, the usual things. Cleaned the house and looked after the baby. You know, like always.”

Nodding, Mike left the kitchen and went into the parlor to stand before the fireplace. He stared into the cold hearth, eyes thoughtful, and then swore softly as a bit of color caught his eye. Bending, he picked up a narrow piece of buckskin. He stared at it for a long moment, not wanting to believe what he knew to be true.

He did not turn around when Loralee came into the room.

“So you did the usual while I was gone,” Mike said in a tight voice. “Cleaned the house and looked after the baby.” He whirled around, thrusting the bit of buckskin into her face. “And played the whore for that bastard Indian!”

Loralee stared at the piece of fringe dangling from her husband’s hand, her heart in her throat. What could she possibly say to defend herself?

“How many times has he been here?” Mike demanded angrily.

“Mike, please.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Slut,” Mike hissed through clenched teeth. “You slept with him here, in my house. Didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“Mike—”

He threw her a look of disgust, then strode into the bedroom. Moments later he emerged dressed in a clean uniform. Snatching his hat from the back of a chair, he stalked out of the house, his face a dark mask of rage.

With a sob, Loralee sank down on the sofa, her face buried in her hands. What a mess she had made of everything. Mike had every reason to be angry. She wept for an hour, then crept into her son’s nursery to be sure he was covered. How precious he was.

Still weeping softly, she went to bed, only to lie awake listening as the clock struck the hours.

It was just after midnight when she heard the front door swing open. Footsteps. A crash and a vile curse, and then Mike was silhouetted in the bedroom doorway, a Mike she had never seen before. His uniform was rumpled and stained, his hair mussed, his eyes glazed with drink.

“You.” He sneered the word, his expression twisted with anger and disgust. “You wouldn’t share my bed,” he accused drunkenly. “I wasn’t good enough for you. I loved you, gave you my name, provided a home for you and that bastard, and you repaid me by sleeping with that dirty redskin.”

“Mike, don’t. Please don’t.”

“Shut up, you tramp. Tonight you’ll play the whore for me, by damn, for me!”

He lurched into the room and staggered toward the bed, removing his shirt as he crossed the floor. There was a cruel, determined look in his eye, and Loralee shrank back against the bed, her heart pounding with fear. She had never seen Mike drunk before, or this angry. He looked as if he hated her, as if he wanted to hurt her, and she could not blame him. She had wronged him horribly.

She grimaced as he fell on top of her, his breath foul with the odor of stale whiskey. His hands grasped her breasts, hurting her, as his mouth closed over hers, his lips grinding against hers until she felt her lower lip split. She tasted blood in her mouth and she began to thrash about, trying to free herself from the rough hands that roamed over her flesh.

“Mike, no!”

“Mike, yes!” he shouted. Grabbing her hands in his, he imprisoned her body beneath his own, holding her helpless as he kissed her again and again. Transferring both her hands to one of his, he ripped her nightgown from her body, his blue eyes hot with drunken lust as he fondled her breasts.

Loralee began to cry helplessly as Mike unfastened his trousers. He was going to rape her and there was nothing she could say or do to stop him. Indeed, she had no right to stop him. He was her husband, after all, and entitled to love her whenever he wished. Only this wasn’t love…

She felt his manhood probe between her thighs, felt his lips brush her cheek, and then he was still, his breathing heavy and loud.

Loralee went limp with relief as she realized he had passed out. With an effort, she managed to inch out from under him, then she lay there, sobbing quietly, wondering what she was going to do.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mike was withdrawn and cold toward her in the morning. He dressed slowly, carefully, and Loralee knew he was suffering from a terrible hangover. He made no comment about the night before and neither did she.

When she offered to fix him breakfast, he refused with a curt shake of his head. Picking up his hat, he started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Loralee asked.

“After Zuniga.” Mike faced her, his blue eyes as cold as ice. “I won’t be back until he’s dead.”

From his vantage point, Zuniga watched Mike Schofield ride out of the fort, followed by twenty heavily armed men and several mules packed with supplies. They headed southwest. Zuniga frowned thoughtfully. Were they headed for the Dragoons?

He stayed where he was throughout the day, dozing fitfully. He had intended to light out for Mexico and lie low for a few months, then return for Loralee and the baby when the child was older and fit to travel. But the thought of being away from Loralee for longer than a few days was more than he could bear. The thought of seeing her, holding her, drew him like a magnet and he was powerless to resist.

With the inborn patience of a warrior, he squatted in the shade of a high bluff, waiting for night to fall. He sat there for hours, unmoving, his mind emptied of all thought. A squirrel darted past him. A lizard crawled over his foot. And still he gazed straight ahead, willing the hours to pass.

Darkness fell, covering the land like a dark cloud. Rising, he led the stallion to water and let him drink his fill. Then, swinging aboard the stud’s back, he headed toward the fort. Dismounting some twenty yards from the first outbuilding, he tethered the stallion to a tree, then padded toward Loralee’s house, blending into the shadows as he passed the other homes along the way.

He paused briefly at the front steps, his eyes darting warily from side to side. Too late, he sensed he was not alone.

He whirled around and ran silently back the way he had come. He had gone only a few feet when the bullet slammed into his back, knocking him off his feet. He heard the sound of the report, then a victorious cry as Mike Schofield stood up on the roof of his house and jacked another round into the breech of his rifle.

Zuniga muttered an oath as he scrambled to his feet and began to run.

From up and down Officer’s Row, doors were thrown open and men raced outside, pulling on their boots and pants as they looked around for the source of the gunshots. From somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed. Lights went on all over the fort.

“Get him!” Schofield hollered. He sighted down the barrel, squeezed the trigger, and cursed loudly when his shot went wide.

Loralee stood at the window, her hand at her throat, as she watched Zuniga melt into the shadows.

Breathless, his back soaked with blood, Zuniga grabbed the stallion’s reins and climbed into the saddle. He drummed his heels into the animal’s flanks, wrapped one hand in the stallion’s mane as the horse broke into a gallop.

Mike Schofield hurried down from the roof and ran to where Zuniga had fallen. He smiled triumphantly as he saw the blood that stained the ground. “I got him!” he shouted gleefully. “By damn, I got him!” He laughed out loud. “He walked right into my trap,” Mike said excitedly, speaking to the men who were gathering around him. “I knew he’d come back here. I knew it. All I had to do was wait!”

Loralee turned away from the window, her heart aching. Mike had set a trap for Shad, and she had been the bait. If Zuniga died, it would be all her fault.

She stood in the middle of the parlor, staring into the cold fireplace, listening as Mike called his men together and set out after Shad. In minutes the parade ground was quiet, the lights were out, and it was as though nothing had happened.

Loralee went back to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw visions of Shad, wounded, bleeding, dying.

Just before dawn she fed her son, bundled him up in a warm blanket, dressed herself, and slipped out of the house.

Sally Stockman frowned when she saw Loralee standing on her doorstep. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Is anything wrong?”

“I don’t have time to explain, Sally. Can you watch the baby for me for a few days?”

“Of course, I’d love to, but…why? Where are you going?”

“I can’t tell you. Not now.”

Sally smiled as she took the sleeping infant in her arms. “I’ll look after him as though he were my own,” she promised. “Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Sally. You’ll never know how much I appreciate this.”

“Loralee, does this have something to do with the shots we heard last night?”

“Yes.”

Sally nodded. “What shall I tell Mike if he comes looking for you?”

“Don’t tell him anything. And don’t let him take the baby. Promise me.”

“I promise. Be careful.”

Loralee gave Sally’s shoulder a warm squeeze of affection, kissed her son’s cheek, and left before she could change her mind.

Back at home, she saddled Lady, then rode purposefully toward the reservation and Short Bear’s lodge. Dismounting, she rapped loudly on the lodge flap. What would she do if he wasn’t home? What if he refused to help her?

Short Bear threw back the lodgeflap and glared at Loralee. “What do you want?”

“Zuniga’s been shot. I need your help.”

“I’ll be right out.”

Loralee waited impatiently, each second seeming like an hour. What could be taking the boy so long to get ready? Why didn’t he hurry?

Short Bear emerged from his lodge a few minutes later. “I need a horse,” he said, and walked off toward a corral located some yards away. Loralee fretted as Short Bear threw a bridle over the head of a stocky gray quarter horse and swung onto its back. Every minute of delay could be costing Shad his life.

Dawn was brightening the horizon when they rode away from the lodges of the Apache. Short Bear spent a few minutes at Loralee’s house, studying the ground where Shad had been wounded, and then they began riding westward. Short Bear paused now and then to study the ground, checking for a sign.

“Here,” Short Bear said a little over an hour later. “He is on foot. The soldiers went that way,” he said, pointing south. “They are chasing Zuniga’s horse. It will not take them long to realize their mistake.”

Loralee’s heart began to pound. How far could Shad go, wounded and on foot? Short Bear dismounted and scouted the trail. Loralee saw nothing to indicate that anyone had passed this way, but Short Bear went steadily onward, his sharp eyes picking up clues where she saw only dirt and rock.

They were in the foothills now. Brush and stunted trees covered the rocky slope, cacti were plentiful. They climbed steadily upward. Once, Loralee saw a dark smear on the face of a rock. She didn’t need Short Bear to tell her it was blood.

When they reached the top of the slope, Short Bear paused, his dark eyes scanning the ground intently. To the left the land stretched away flat as a tabletop. To the right were a series of small hills crowded with boulders and gray-green shrubs.

Short Bear turned to the right and began slowly picking his way up the side of the first low hill. Loralee followed, urging Lady up the rocky slope.

Near the top of the second hill there was a small cave, barely visible behind a screen of brush.

“In here,” Short Bear said.

Quickly Loralee grabbed a bag from her saddle horn and dismounted.

“Wait,” Short Bear admonished. Carefully he walked to the mouth of the cave. “Zuniga,” he called softly. “It is Short Bear.” He hesitated, waiting for an answer. “Zuniga? Are you there?”

Still no answer.

“I’m going inside,” Loralee said.

Short Bear nodded. Fearful of what they might find, he followed Loralee into the cavern.

Zuniga was lying face down in the back of the cave, unconscious. His shirt and pants were caked with blood.

“Start a fire,” Loralee directed. “There are matches in the bag. Hand me the scissors, will you, and then heat some water.”

Loralee concentrated on the task at hand, refusing to consider the possibility that Shad might die. His breathing was erratic, his face as pale as death itself. She willed her hands to stop shaking as she began to cut away his shirt and pants. In many places dried blood had glued the fabric to his skin, and when she pulled the material away, the wound began to bleed again. She stanched it with a strip of cloth, disinfected the wound with carbolic, washed the wound, and disinfected it again before she bandaged the ugly hole. Thank God the bullet had gone through flesh only.

When the wound in his back was carefully bandaged, she dipped a strip of cloth in warm water and began to wash the dirt and dust from his face and body. As she worked, she prayed, pleading with God to spare Zuniga’s life.

When she had finished bathing him, she covered him with a blanket and sat down to wait.

Short Bear studied the white woman as she tended his cousin’s wounds and his respect for her increased tenfold. She was not squeamish like the other white women he had known. She saw what had to be done and she did it. Her hands were gentle and yet firm. Her movements were quick and sure, and she did not cringe at the sight of blood. He was suddenly sorry for all the snakes and grasshoppers and bugs he had tormented her with.

When Zuniga was resting comfortably, Short Bear stood up. “I will go back to the reservation now,” he said. “I will see what I can find out. Tonight I will be back with food and water.”

“Thank you, Short Bear.”

A quick nod and the boy was gone.

Loralee sat beside Zuniga all that day, his head cradled in her lap. He slept so soundly that she feared he might not regain consciousness. She stroked his hair, ran her fingertips over his forehead, and bent from time to time to brush his lips with her own. And always, in the back of her mind, a prayer lifted toward heaven.

Just after sundown he began to thrash about, and Loralee held him down, afraid his wound would reopen. He had lost too much blood already, she thought in despair. He could not afford to lose any more.

Once, his eyes flickered open, but he did not see her. He drank greedily when she offered him some water, then closed his eyes and was quickly asleep.

Sitting there in the dusky cave, she wondered where it would all end. Holding his hand, she willed her strength into him, wishing she could absorb some of the pain he was suffering, wishing she could work a miracle.

Zuniga began to mumble in his sleep, his words sometimes coherent, sometimes rambling and unintelligible.

She began to weep softly when he murmured her name.

Mike Schofield pushed his men relentlessly. Mile after mile, they searched in ever-widening circles, looking for some clue as to where Zuniga had gone.

“It’s like he disappeared from the face of the earth,” one of the troopers muttered under his breath.

“He hasn’t disappeared!” Mike snapped angrily. “He’s flesh and blood like anybody else, and I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do!”

At nightfall Mike called a halt. They would make camp for a few hours to rest the horses. His men slept, but Mike did not. He paced the dark night, fretting over the time that was being wasted. Not this
time
, he promised himself.
This time he won’t get away.

At dawn his men were back in the saddle.

Mike rode like a man possessed by the devil. Where had Zuniga gone? How could a man vanish without a trace, especially a man who had been wounded? It wasn’t possible.

Playing a hunch, Mike led his men back to the fort, then started out again. Two sets of tracks led away from the bloodstained patch of ground near the house.

Mike grunted softly. Two sets of tracks, he mused, where before there had been only one. Someone was following Zuniga, someone from the reservation. He followed the second set of prints, certain he was on the right path at last. Someone had gone after Zuniga, and that someone would lead him to the man he sought.

But the new trail gave out at the base of the foothills. Mike sat his horse for a long time, his eyes moving over the hills and the desert. Someone had erased both sets of tracks. That much was obvious. But who? And where had they gone?

His eyes returned to the hills. “Sergeant, take the men back to the fort.”

“Sir?”

“Do as I said, Carter. I’m going the rest of the way alone.”

“Is that wise, sir?”

“I don’t know,” Mike murmured, spurring his horse up the hill. “I don’t know.”

He rode up the hillside, his eyes carefully searching the ground for sign. Cactus and catclaw snagged at his uniform, but he was too intent on his search for sign to notice. His instincts told him he was getting closer to his quarry, and the blood pounded hot in his veins.

Midway up the hill, he dismounted and took up the search on foot. It was a steep hill, and he was breathing heavily by the time he neared the top. Pausing, he removed his hat and mopped the sweat from his face and neck.

Moving on, he studied the ground, the rocks, the bushes and trees. Nothing, he mused angrily. Not a hoof print, not a rock out of place, not so much as a strand of horse hair. Visions of Shad Zuniga sitting back on his heels and laughing at him drove Mike steadily onward.