This Savage Heart (27 page)

There was a pained look on his hawklike face as he held out a small clay pot. “I took this from our shaman when he was away from his tent.”

Julie cautiously took the pot. The smell was horrible, and she swayed. Dark Buffalo reached out to steady her, then withdrew his hand as she steadied herself. “How long since you have eaten?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Between my empty stomach and the horrible smell of whatever is in that jar, I feel sick.”

He reached for the leather pouch that hung from his belt. Digging inside it, he brought out a handful of white stalks. “Squaw cabbage. It’s better boiled, but you can eat it raw. I also have this, a loaf made from breadroot, mesquite beans, and flour. It will give you strength, and there’s enough for him,” he said, nodding at Derek. “The night before warriors go out to battle, they take peyote. Afterwards, when the shaman gives them this, they are no longer possessed by peyote.”

Julie eyed him and said frankly, “I have no choice but to trust you, Dark Buffalo.”

He shook his head firmly. “I do not lie. I grieved for the way the Navajo squaw was treated. It was I who cared for her and fed her. We became friends, and she told me about you. Yes, I know it is you she talked about. I do not lie to you. I risk my life to be here now, but I wish to help you both.”

Julie listened quietly, warmed, and said, “I thank you, Dark Buffalo. You’ve given us a chance to live, just as you gave Sujen a chance to live. She is alive, and by now she is probably safe.” She guessed correctly that he had been afraid to ask about Sujen. His eyes glowed as he learned Sujen was alive. Then he looked at Derek once more and left the tent without another word.

Derek drank all that was in the pot, then lay back and looked at Julie. He reached up and lovingly touched her face. “Misty eyes, it is you…”

She smiled, her whole heart in the smile. Then she gave him the loaf and the rest of the squaw cabbage, and as he ate, she told him whatever he hadn’t been able to recall himself. Finally, desperately, she asked, “Are you able to fight, Derek? Is there a chance for us?”

Derek answered matter-of-factly, “I think so. You see—I’m mad,” he said. “I’d say I’m as goddamn mad as I’ve ever been in my whole life.” This, she thought joyfully, was her Derek—fighting mad and ready for battle! Her heart swelled with love and pride. They had a chance.

In a level voice, he told her what he planned for their future, after the morning battle. “Misty eyes, it’s a new life for us. God knows, we’ve been to hell and back, and now it’s time for a little bit of heaven. It’s not going to be easy, but for us it never has been. We’re going to that fort, and we’re going to take Myles’s and Teresa’s baby whether Thatcher likes it or not. Then we’re going west. California. We’ll make our life together there. And we won’t look back. The past is a cobweb that holds people in its miseries and keeps them from going on to the future.”

He kissed her for long, precious moments; all the love, tenderness, hope, and promise of a better tomorrow was in that kiss.

When he finally released her she whispered, “Derek, if you should die…”

He silenced her with his fingertips. “That’s not going to happen.” His lips twisted in that familiar, arrogant grin, the grin that had once annoyed her so. “After all, I mastered the winds and the tides. And I conquered your love—just as I swore I would. How can anything stop me now?”

She matched his grin with an incandescent smile, but there was nothing she could do about the tears that followed.

Chapter Twenty-Six

There was a strange, unnatural stillness in the air. Not the slightest breeze stirred the feathery mesquites or ruffled the burr grass. The Apache men, bare-chested, wearing only breechclouts and moccasins, ringed an area in the middle of the camp, their eyes upon Derek as he and Julie approached the circle. Their faces were stony. The women stood far behind the men, clearly observing but not taking part in the ritual. The children were nowhere to be seen. This was deadly serious, no place for children.

When Julie and Derek reached the circle, two warriors approached and removed her from Derek, positioning her behind the circle of men, one on each side of her. She was caged. It was very little comfort that one of the men was Dark Buffalo. Derek leaped for her but was stopped by a warrior with a lance.

“It’s all right,” Derek called to her. “You won’t be harmed. They’re just holding on to you while the fight takes place.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile.

Dark Buffalo, without any of the previous night’s friendliness, spoke to Julie. Lips set, as though he had only contempt for the impudent white squaw, he said, “It is expected that I speak with you, for it is known we speak the same language. I can help you in no way now, so do not ask. Now, I must be one of my people. You understand?”

She nodded. She couldn’t expect him to endanger himself more than he already had.

She was about to ask what they were waiting for when Storm Face emerged from one of the tents, striding toward the circle. The other warriors and the squaws stepped aside for him, but some didn’t move quickly enough, and he shoved them aside. His face was heavily painted—white streaks beneath his eyes, black down his nose, and an arrowhead of ochre painted on each cheek. He looked vicious. His eyes locked with Derek’s, transmitting his message of hatred…and the solemn promise of death. Derek, unflinching, returned his stare. There was no hatred in Derek’s face, but his eyes were just as deadly.

Satisfied that he had made a public display of his courage, Storm Face turned conspicuously and looked at Julie. She was shocked at the look he gave her. This man wanted her, believed in his right to her, and meant to have her. Before she could react, the watching Apache began murmuring among themselves. In a moment, Cochise appeared. He walked slowly, arms folded across his chest. Unlike the others, he did not wear a breechclout. He wore long buckskin trousers. His chest was bare but adorned with even more necklaces and beads than he’d had the day before. A rag was tied around his forehead, holding back his shining, straight black hair. Moving directly to the middle of the circle, he stopped and gazed at Derek for a long time. Then he spoke to him, calmly, melodiously.

Julie did not even have to ask Dark Buffalo to translate. He spoke loudly, so Derek could hear him. “Cochise repeats his decree. If Storm Face is victorious, the woman will remain here to do his bidding as long as Storm Face wishes. If the other wins, the two of you will go in peace. He says he has looked upon the white man as friend, and his heart will be sad however the battle ends, for Cochise and the white man will not meet again.”

Derek yelled to Dark Buffalo, his eyes on Cochise. “Tell him I have something to say.”

The message was relayed, and Cochise signaled his willingness to listen.

“Tell him,” Derek commanded, his voice crackling through the air, “that I am very angry with the Apache for the slaughter of my people. But though I am angry, I am grateful that he saw fit to spare me, and glad he has looked upon me as a friend. I have no intention of returning to this place, nor will I tell any of my people where to find it. If we meet again one day, I hope we can smoke the pipe of peace. No more blood must be spilled between our peoples.”

Dark Buffalo translated rapidly, but there was no visible reaction from his leader. With a final look around, Cochise withdrew a knife tucked in his waistband. Holding it high above his head, he made one quick, downward thrust, sending the knife into the ground.

Storm Face screamed a piercing shriek and leaped for the knife, and in that instant, Derek understood. There was to be only one weapon, and they would fight over it. He lunged, and the two men reached the knife together. Storm Face’s hands clutched Derek’s throat and his knee came up to smash into Derek’s crotch. Derek groaned, fingers squeezing the Indian’s wrists with all his might. He felt a bone snap, but Storm Face neither cried out nor loosened his hold.

The two fell over and thrashed in the dirt, rolling over and over, the spectators moving back cautiously as they rolled beyond the boundaries of the circle. Storm Face, shrieking his death cry again, saw the large rock before Derek did. He grabbed the rock and brought it smashing down, just as Derek jerked to one side. The rock scraped his ear, a glancing blow. Storm Face swung again, and Derek was stunned—just long enough for Storm Face to leap forward and grab the knife.

Derek rallied, stumbled forward, and caught his ankles. Storm Face fell onto his back. Rising a little, his powerful arm plunged the blade toward Derek’s back.

In one movement Derek caught Storm Face’s wrist in mid-flight, twisted it upward, and forced the warrior’s hand to drive the knife into his own chest. Derek felt the thud as flesh was split, and he pressed harder, driving the knife all the way in. Blood spurted, covering Storm Face’s chest and running down into the sand.

Cries of shock and disbelief rose all around. Mouth gaping in a silent scream, Storm Face stared up at Derek, eyes wide with pain. Then the eyes went blank. The women began wailing their grief, but the men all stared, stunned, making no move or sound. It was as though they expected Storm Face to rise from the ground.

Derek got to his feet and looked around for Julie. Sobbing, she wanted to run to him, but found she couldn’t move. Adoration, relief, love, all kept her rooted where she stood. God had given them their one chance, and that was all she could comprehend.

Beside her, Dark Buffalo remained coldly composed. “It is over and you are free to go. Go now. Do not look back. Keep your word that you will not tell your soldiers where to find us. We will move to another camp, but we will still know if you have not kept your word. You have been given the chance to live. Do not live foolishly.”

Derek beckoned to Julie, and then she came alive, running into his waiting arms. He held her but only briefly. “We must go—now.”

Cochise, having looked at the dead Storm Face for only a moment, had left. They wouldn’t see him again.

It was Dark Buffalo who led them to a horse, tethered just outside the camp, and left for them on Cochise’s orders.

“Do you know the way to the fort?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Go east, down the mountain, and follow the great gully to the south.” After Dark Buffalo had told them where water could be found, he nodded to them and left, walking briskly toward the center of the camp, his back rigid. He didn’t look back.

Derek threw his arms around the horse’s neck and swung himself onto its back, then grasped Julie’s arms and pulled her up behind him. They held their breath as they left the camp, but no one tried to stop them. Julie clung to Derek, head pressed against his broad back. The azure sky was clear, the winds warm and gentle. She lifted her face to the sun and gave silent thanks for the day…for their chance…for their freedom.

They found the water Dark Buffalo had promised within an hour, and drank their fill. Before they got back on the horse, Derek searched Julie’s eyes. “You look…very tired. Are you worried about getting the baby from the fort? Don’t be. I promise you, we won’t leave that fort without him.”

With a brilliant smile straight from her heart she said, “We still have rough times ahead, I know it. But right now I can’t feel anything but joy.”

They rode hard, straight for the fort and the baby. Later, they would search for Myles.

The sky went from azure to turquoise, and the desert stretched on forever, daring them to find its end. But they would. Hadn’t they come through the slaughter of their wagon train, the death of Teresa and disappearance of Myles, Derek’s captivity, Julie’s torment? When everything seemed lost, hadn’t they found each other?

It came to Julie as they rode into the horizon that only one thing had ever really kept them apart—their own stubborn pride. Only her pride and his had ever threatened their love.
Their
love. It wasn’t her love and his any longer, but their love, the two made one through fire and death and grief and endless trials. One love: theirs.

Derek turned just a little, looking at her face for a moment. “It won’t be easy making Thatcher understand, but we’ll get the baby, Julie. And we’ll find Myles, I swear it. And then…” He paused for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to finish. And then,” he said, “we’ll go. Maybe California, I don’t know. Wherever it is, we’re going back to the mountaintop, Julie.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it, and she squeezed back with all her might.

“Julie…come with me. We’ll go to a new life, a place at the top of the mountain. We’ll go to where the wild flowers grow.”

About the Author

Patricia Hagan might be the New York Times bestselling author of 38 novels and 2500 short stories, but she can also lay claim to being among the vanguard of women writers covering NASCAR stock-car racing. The first woman granted garage passes to major speedways, she has awards in TV commentary, newspaper and magazine articles, and for several years wrote and produced a twice-weekly racing program heard on 42 radio stations in the south.

Patricia’s books have been translated into many languages, and she has made promotional trips to Europe, including England, France, Italy, Norway, Greece, Turkey, Croatia, Spain and Ireland.

Hagan’s exciting eight-book Coltrane saga, which spans from the Civil War to the Russian Revolution, has appeared on every major bestseller list and is one of the most popular series published in France, never having been out-of-print in that country in nearly 30 years.