Velvet Thunder (23 page)

Heath truly saw red, blood red. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Erica's throat and squeeze until her haughty face turned purple. When he spoke, his voice trembled with rage. “If you say one more word to offend Stevie, you will be camping elsewhere. Do you understand me?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and stomped away. He followed Stevie to the edge of camp, where he found her perched on a boulder, dribbling sugar water into the baby's mouth. His eyes and heart softened at the sight they presented. He moved closer, standing so near to Stevie their thighs touched. “She looks like a hungry little bird.”

She swiveled her legs, turning slightly away from him.

He knew why she was angry at him, but it didn't make her rejection sting any less. “Honey, let me explain.”

Stevie refused to meet his eye. “I'd rather you didn't.”

He looked as if he would say more, then thought better of it. Stevie was too distraught to think rationally. She wouldn't appreciate his explanation, that society would judge her harshly for touching a white woman, even if that white woman deserved to have her neck wrung. “I'll check the horses,” was all he said.

When he returned to camp, both women were lying on their blankets. Erica was snoring.

The only sound coming from Stevie was a soft snubbing sound like that of a child who had cried long and hard. He closed the distance between them quietly, dropped his gaze, and stared down at her slender form.

She looked so small, so helpless, little more than a child herself. Life was cruel, he acknowledged. This precious woman with a heart the size of Texas—though she tried to hide it—had been hurt time and again by all the Ericas of her world. He wanted to protect her, if only she would she let him.

“Stevie,” he whispered. She pretended to be asleep. Placing his blanket close to hers, he lay down. Her back to him, he drew her into his embrace. “I love you, sugar,” he whispered tenderly.

“Don't.”

“Don't touch you?”

“Don't love me.”

“Too late. I already do.”

What could she say? She should move away from him, but couldn't if her life depended on it. She needed to be close to him tonight.

His body warming her back, she fought in vain for the mind-numbing oblivion of sleep. A lone tear slid softly down her cheek, disappearing into the sleeping infant's ebony hair as it mingled with her own white-blond tresses. Pressing the baby's tiny body against her breast as if she could keep her heart from shattering into a million pieces, she prayed for the strength to deny her all-encompassing love for Heath, love for a white man, a love that might well destroy them both.

Two hours outside Adobe Wells they saw a swarm of buzzards winging in the distance.

“I'd better check it out,” Heath said.

“Not me,” Erica whined. “I don't want to see anything dead.”

Heath glanced back at Erica and noted the unpleasant smirk on her face. “Suit yourself.”

“Unless it's Indians,” she added spitefully.

Heath stiffened. When he looked toward Stevie, she acted as if she had not heard Erica's hateful statement.

“You coming, sugar?” he asked softly. Truth to tell, he didn't want to drag her to a scene of carnage—human or animal—after what she had been through with Gentle Fawn. Yet he didn't want to leave her to suffer Erica's verbal abuse either. He was in a dilemma.

Stevie took the matter out of his hands as she kicked her horse in a gallop and headed toward the circling carnivores.

Heath soon drew alongside her and they moved down the trail in silence. The stench that met them caused Stevie to gag over the side of her horse. He offered her his blue bandanna to cover her nose and mouth.

Stevie was not surprised at what they found, nor was she particularly saddened. Lying around a smoldering campfire, like wax figures, their scalps bloody and bare, with feathered arrows protruding from them like giant winged porcupine quills, were the men—minus Sims—who had pursued them into the mountains. The same men—Stevie knew—who had attacked Gentle Fawn's village. She sat her horse in silence, the sleeping infant clutched to her breast.

Heath dismounted and checked each man to determine whether he was alive or dead. They were all dead. After they had been shot with arrow or bullet, their throats had been slit. It looked as if they all had grisly smiles tucked beneath their chins.

He stood above Two Paws's lifeless body and raised his gaze to Stevie. What he saw in the ebony depths caused his stomach to lurch, accusation and distrust, directed at him. What had he ever done to her that would make her look at him that way?

“I suppose you'll report this to the army and they'll hunt them down like animals,” Stevie said tonelessly.

Heath was hurt that she had so little faith in him. He pointed to the dead men scattered about him like fallen toy soldiers on a parlor rug. “This doesn't bother you?” he accused, striking back without thinking.

“These men attacked Gentle Fawn's village in the dead of night. They shot everything moving—men, women, children, animals. The ones they couldn't smoke out of their lodges, they burned alive. After everyone was slaughtered and the village was in flames, they found Gentle Fawn in the birthing lodge with the medicine woman, Cares for Everyone. They shot Cares, and while she was dying they cut her breasts off, bragging that the soft brown skin would make good tobacco pouches.”

She stopped speaking and dropped her head back on her shoulders. After drawing a cleansing breath into her lungs, she was able to continue. “Then they started on Gentle Fawn. She was in labor, but that didn't stop them from taking turns raping her. One of these fine, upstanding men even raped the medicine woman. Gentle Fawn wasn't sure, but she thought Cares was already dead.” Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Oh, by the way”—her voice rose hysterically—“did I tell you that Cares was seventy-three years old?” She laughed without humor. “And that she delivered me after the good people of Adobe Wells refused to tend my mother?”

“Stevie.” Heath's voice was husky with emotion. He stepped toward her.

She raised her arm as if to ward him off. “No! Let me finish. They threw Gentle Fawn over the back of a horse then. By that time her pains were almost continuous and she was bleeding like a stuck hog. But they decided to take her along as sexual entertainment . . . for as long as she lasted. When they got word that there was a party of renegades in the area, they threw her off the horse while it was still moving, They didn't even slow down. We found her an hour later.”

She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. “And she died, what, an hour after that? So, what was your question, Heath? Oh, yes, does seeing these poor dead men lying on the ground bother me?” She wheeled her horse about. Over her shoulder, she spat out, “Not one damn bit!”

 

 

“The lady has a valid point.”

Heath whirled and drew on Jay, reminiscent of the scene on Mustang Mesa moments after he had seen Stevie for the first time. How long ago that seemed now. Jay looked different this time. “What the—” Heath exclaimed.

If he had not recognized Jay's intelligent green eyes staring back at him from a face blackened with soot, he'd have shot his partner where he stood. To say that the gentleman from Georgia—who had given more than one fair maiden a fit of the vapors—looked disreputable would be a serious understatement.

And how had he blackened his teeth, making them look like decayed snags hanging precariously in a slack mouth? Heath wondered inanely. It was as if the gap-toothed smile mesmerized him. Heath shook free of the spell and sighed heavily. “What are you supposed to be?” he asked, holstering his gun.

“I'm supposed to be an undercover marshal. Which, if memory serves correctly, so are you. Why aren't you in Adobe Wells getting shed of Judge Jack and that gang of cutthroats he's surrounded by?”

Heath didn't answer Jay's question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “You've been in Adobe Wells? I thought you were hot on Rachel Jackson's trail. She give you the slip again?”

“Yes and no. Yes, I was in Adobe Wells. But no, Rachel Jackson didn't give me the slip.”

“You mean Rachel's in Adobe Wells?”

Jay nodded.

“Damn! That's all I need. How am I supposed to avoid her?”

“You won't be able to. She's up to her double chins in the judge's diamond deal. 'Spect you'll run into her soon as you hit town.”

Heath thought about the new obstacle to his job. Finally, he shrugged. He was so very weary, he didn't need another complication. “Guess I'll just have to convince her I'm on the other side of the law now.”

“With your charm and Rachel's disposition you shouldn't have any trouble with her,” Jay said, trying to wipe a layer of soot from his boyishly handsome face. “She always was a hot—” he began, shrugging. “Guess I'm still too much of a southern gentleman to say it. Suffice it to say that she's rotten to the core. She actually asked the judge to have Marshal Reno killed. Might've been orderin' a mint julep, for all the emotion in her voice.” He shook his head. “Reno's so worthless, poor kid, I was tempted to shoot him m'self.”

Heath was well aware that Jay didn't mean what he said about Ted. And he could tell his partner's brush with Rachel had affected him more than he let on. Jay's drawl always thickened when he was distraught. And it sounded like buttered molasses in January to Heath. “Please tell me he refused to kill the kid.”

Jay reassured Heath that the marshal was safe for the time being. Then he filled him in on the remainder of Judge Jack and Rachel's plan. “So I'm on my way to warn Shackelford. Obviously, Rachel's not goin' anywhere till money changes hands. But just the same, keep an eye on her for me. Hear?”

Heath nodded, hiding a tired smile. When Jay said “hear,” it sounded like he'ah. He
must
be upset. “How do you plan to protect Shackelford without Jack knowing we're on to him?”

“I don't know.” He smiled and continued. “But I'll think of something between here and Santa Fe.”

“I have no doubt that you will. Meantime, I'll head on back to Adobe Wells, keep the marshal's fat out of the fire, and deal with Rachel.” Then abruptly, he asked, “Do you have your grandfather's watch?”

Jay looked at him suspiciously. Anybody who knew Jay Hampton knew that his granddaddy had given all three of his grandsons ornate pocket watches with their initials engraved on the back. He was never without it; none of them was. Sliding the expensive timepiece from his breeches pocket and handing it to Heath, he asked, “You wanta know the time of day, or you just got a hankerin' for my property?”

“Neither. Rachel knows that you wouldn't part with this while there was still life in your body. So I'm going to show it to her as proof that I got tired of working for pennies as a lawman”—his voice was dry, a twinkle lit his eyes—“and stole this from you after I put a few dozen bullets in your hide.”

Jay smiled his appreciation for Heath's plan. It was simple enough to work. Still, he couldn't help teasing Heath. “Nobody' d believe that you could shoot me. I'm such a fine fella and all.”

“Somehow, I don't think Rachel would agree. You did put her in jail once, and she has to know it's only a matter of time before you do it again.”

“If you don't let her get away.”

“I'll keep my eye on her.”

Reassured, Jay said, “Do we have to bury these bastards?”

Heath glanced around at the corpses for the first time since he and Jay began speaking. “I'd let them rot where they lay, but if the army found them, there'd be hell to pay for every Indian north of the Rio Grande.”

Jay agreed. “I was afraid you'd see it that way.”

But the earth was too hard to penetrate with a shovel. So one by one they dragged the bodies to a deep ravine and sent them hurtling over the side of the cliff. They threw branches into the hole after them. Silently looking down, they were satisfied that the men would not be found.

Stretching his stiff neck, rotating it from side to side, Heath raised his gaze. The sun was low in the sky, casting a rosy glow over the mountains. A red veil draped from peak to peak. It looked like the whole world was tinted with blood. Sangre de Cristo—the blood of Christ—these mountains were aptly named, he decided.

Considering the bloodshed that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours, the name was even more apt. Not to mention the bloodshed that had occurred for the past several years, with whites attacking Indians, Indians raiding whites.

He was beset by a series of questions that seemed to have no answer. Where would the struggle end? With every renegade Indian dead or imprisoned on a reservation with the rest of the Comanche nation? And how long would the battle go on? How many innocents—like Stevie, Winter, the new baby, and even himself—would get caught up in it?

Genocide or freedom—which would be the Indians' fate? Manifest destiny—the battle cry of the white masses.

Who would triumph? Who would lose? The answer was painfully clear. The Indians would lose in the end. But they would not give up easily. Admiration and sadness swept over Heath in equal measure.

As he bid Jay good-bye and made his way back to Stevie, he was sure he had never yearned for New York quite as much as he did now. But an even stronger motive for leaving the West was his desire to take Stevie home with him, to whisk her, the baby, and Winter away from this violent country, away from the racial war that would break Stevie's gentle heart.

 

 

“What was it?” Erica asked as soon as Heath rode into the makeshift camp. She jerked her head in Stevie's direction. “She wouldn't say.”

Heath felt Stevie's eyes on him. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. “A pair of jennies. Both had broken a leg. The owner put the animals out of their misery. But he was too lazy to bury them where scavengers couldn't find them. I took care of it.”

Stevie exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath. “You buried them where they can't be found?” The silent words “by the army,” hung in the air.

“Nobody will ever find them.”

Bored with the conversation, Erica moved over to her horse, rummaging around in her saddlebags for a hairbrush.

Heath's eyes met Stevie's. They looked at each other for a moment, communicating with their eyes. Understanding passed between them. The renegade band had dispensed its form of justice—killing the men who destroyed Gentle Fawn's band of peaceful Comanches. They would not be hunted like animals and executed for doing something that had to be done.

Stevie smiled tentatively at Heath and mouthed, “Thank you.”

He sketched a slight bow, his heart suddenly light. Stevie's gentle smile could make his day. Dare he be so dramatic as to say that the lack of it could break his heart?

“Let's go home,” he told her softly.

The gloaming cast a silver shadow over the threesome as they made their way back to Adobe Wells. Stevie and Heath both remembered their brief, beautiful stay in the majestic Sangre de Cristo mountains. In ways they could scarcely imagine, this idyllic time had changed them drastically, irrevocably.

They would realize in the days to come just how much. They would learn that they needed each other more than air to breathe, water to drink, or food to eat. And they would both realize what they already suspected, that apart, they were only half alive.