Apache Flame

by Madeline Baker

His arms were ready for her, open and inviting, just as they had always been, and she stepped into his embrace, wary as a rabbit scenting danger, eager as a child reaching for a treat that been too long denied.

  “‘Lisha!”

  His arms closed around her, crushing her close. She buried her face against his shoulder, her hands sliding up and down his back, restless and wanting. He was taller, broader, than she remembered.

  “I’ve dreamed of this,” she murmured, her voice muffled. “Dreamed of it and yearned for it.”

  She felt his lips move in her hair, felt his arms tighten around her, and then he was lifting her chin, gazing down into her eyes, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

  Her eyelids fluttered down as his mouth closed over hers. As if by magic, the years fell away, and she was thirteen again, being kissed for the first time. It was as wonderful, as magical, as she recalled. At thirteen, she had been confused by the yearnings of her body, by the heat that had flowed through every particle of her being, by feelings she had not understood. At twenty-three, she knew what desire was, knew that one kiss would surely lead to another, and another. And feared that she was no more capable of denying him, of denying herself, now than she had been at seventeen.

  She pressed against him, reveling in the feel of his arms around her—arms that were stronger and more muscled than she remembered. She breathed in his scent, ran her fingers through the thick hair at his nape. How had she lived all these years without this, without him?

  She closed her eyes, imprinting this memory in her mind

  And then, summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, she drew away, her hands clenched at her sides. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she said. “It can’t happen again.”

  “Tell me you didn’t like it.” His gaze bored into hers, demanding the truth. “Tell me you don’t want me to do it again.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m promised to Roger. And I keep my promises.”

  “Is that right?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the barely suppressed anger in his voice. “What about the promise you made to me?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dammit, ‘Lisha, I told you I would have come back for you, but I thought you were married.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I’m engaged to Roger, and I won’t hurt him. He’s been good to me.” She knew about hurt, about the pain of broken promises and broken hearts. She wrapped her arms around her body to keep from reaching for him. “Please, Mitch, just go away and leave me alone.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, “but if you mean what you say, I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “I do mean it.”

  Mitch nodded slowly. “All right, ‘Lisha, if that’s the way you want it. I hope you won’t regret it.”

  “I won’t,” she said, but it was a lie, the worst lie she had ever told. She watched him turn and walk away, and it felt as though he was taking her heart and soul with him.

  When he was out of sight, she hurried home, trying to convince herself she had done the right thing in sending Mitch away. For a moment, she stood on the porch, staring down at the creek. He was crazy to think they could just pick up where they had left off five years ago, and she had been crazy to consider it even for a moment. She had promised to marry Roger, and she meant to keep that promise.

  What about the promise you made me? Mitch’s voice rang in her mind, his voice angry and hurt-filled.

  With a sigh, she opened the door and stepped into the foyer. “I’m home, Papa.”

  “In here, Alisha.”

  She followed the sound of her father’s voice into the den.

  Her father looked up from the letter he was writing. “Roger came by a little while ago.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. He said he was sorry he missed you. So,” Russell said, dipping his pen in the ink well on the corner of his desk. “How did it go? Did you get everything straightened out with Will and his folks?”

  “What?”

  Russell frowned. “Are you feeling well? You look a little pale.”

  “Papa, why did you write to Mitch and tell him I married Roger?”

  There was a taut silence. The pen dropped from her father’s hand. Drops of ink spread over the neatly written letter.

  “What?” Russell asked weakly. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. How could you do such a terrible thing? What gave you the right?”

  “How…?” Russell stammered. “Who?” He shook his head. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “From Mitch. I went to dinner with him tonight.”

  Russell surged to his feet. “You did what?”

  “I had dinner with him tonight.”

  “You lied to me.”

  She fought back the anger rising within her. “You know all about lies, don’t you, Papa?” she asked quietly.

  The color drained from her father’s face, but he didn’t deny it. “He was no good, Alisha. A half-breed with no future. I did what I thought was best for you, the same as any father would have done.” He held his hands out, palm up, in a gesture of supplication. “Surely you can see that?”

  “No, Papa, I can’t see that. I loved Mitch, and he loved me. “

  “I made the right decision.”

  “Papa, I was old enough to make my own decisions.”

  “Old enough,” he scoffed. “Why you were still a child, barely seventeen.”

  “Mama was sixteen when she married you.” Alisha shook her head, her faith in her father badly shaken. “I’ve always believed everything you taught me. How many of them have been lies, Papa?” she asked, her voice and her temper rising. “How many?”

  Russell stared at his daughter, each word like a blow striking his heart. “Alisha, please…”

  “How could you do such a dreadful thing?” she exclaimed. “You ruined my life! I’ll never believe anything you tell me again,” she declared as she turned and ran out of the room. “Never!”

  “Alisha, wait!” Russell felt a stab of pain in his chest as he watched his daughter run out of the room. “Angela,” he murmured as he slumped back in his chair. “Angela, what have I done?”

  Chapter Eight

  He’d said he would stay away from her, and he had meant it, but it seemed that every time Mitch turned around in the next few days, Alisha was there. In the general store. Crossing the street. At the bank. Or maybe, subconsciously, he was seeking her out. All he knew was that seeing her every day was driving him crazy. And seeing her with Roger Smithfield was enough to tie his stomach in knots.

  Smithfield. Always the teacher’s pet in school. Always clean and neat, his shoes always shined, his blond hair slicked back. Never in trouble. Mitch would have died before he would have admitted it, but he’d always been a little jealous of Smithfield’s scrubbed good looks. The girls had always fawned over him, all except Alisha.

  Much to his surprise, Mitch found himself in church again the following Sunday morning. He hadn’t intended to go and had, in fact, been more than a little late in arriving. The congregation was halfway through the second hymn when he slipped into the first vacant seat he came to. Glancing around, he found himself sitting across the aisle from Roger Smithfield. Looking at the man, it was easy to see why Alisha wanted to marry him. He was tall and good-looking, with his wavy blond hair and winning smile. Mitch had seen the house Smithfield was building for Alisha. It was going to be the showplace of the county. No doubt she would be very happy there, in her new house, with her new husband…

  He shifted in his seat. What the devil was he doing here, driving himself crazy?

  He didn’t hear a word of Faraday’s sermon. All he could think of was Alisha living in another man’s house, cooking his meals, mending his clothes, sharing his life, his bed…

  When Russell Faraday stood to offer the benediction, Mitch left the church and headed for the jail. Removing his badge, he tossed it on the desk, then wrote
a short note to the city fathers telling them to find someone else for the job.

  Going up to the house—it would never be home—he packed his gear. He had always intended to visit his mother’s people, and this seemed like a damn good time to do just that.

  A light rain was falling when he stepped outside. His horse looked up at him and shook her head. With a grin, Mitch closed the front door, then descended the stairs. He patted the bay on the shoulder, then slid his rifle into the boot and swung into the saddle. He remembered his mother telling him that the Apache were usually in Apache Pass this time of the year. If he rode hard, he could be there day after tomorrow.

  Settling his hat on his head, he lifting the reins and urged his horse into a lope. A long ride in the rain was just what he needed.

  Alisha lifted her head as her father said the final Amen. Taking her seat at the organ, she glanced quickly toward the back of the church, frowned when she saw that Mitch was gone. She told herself it was just as well; she had nothing more to say to him, but she couldn’t suppress her disappointment. She like having Mitch around, liked knowing he was there.

  Roger was waiting for her when she left the church a few minutes later.

  “Hello, Alisha,” he said. “Right nice sermon your father preached today.”

  She smiled up at him. It was the same thing he said every Sunday.

  “Yes.” She glanced around the churchyard, hoping to see Mitch loitering about.

  “Mind if I walk you home?”

  “Of course not.” He asked that, in one form or another, every Sunday, too. It had never bothered her before. Why did she suddenly find it so annoying? And where was Mitch?

  “Is your father feeling well?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Roger patted her shoulder. “Nothing. He just looks a little pale this morning.”

  “Does he?” She felt a stab of guilt of conscience, remembering the scene she had caused the night she’d had dinner with Mitch. Her father had been unusually quiet and withdrawn ever since then. Now that she thought about it, he had looked a little wan these past few days.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Roger said. He patted her shoulder again. “You haven’t been out to see the house in the last few days. It should be finished by the end of next week.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Shall we go look at it now?”

  “If you like.”

  “I think you’ll be pleased,” Roger said, taking her hand in his.

  Reversing direction, they walked through the town. Alisha nodded at the people they passed—old Mr. West sitting in a rocking chair in front of the barber shop, Mrs. Chamberlain, who was sweeping the boardwalk in front of her shop, the Kensington twins who were tossing a ball back and forth in the alley beside the sheriff’s office.

  They turned left at the corner of Front Street and First and followed the narrow rutted road that led to the house they would share when they were married.

  “Oh, Roger, it’s lovely,” Alisha exclaimed.

  “You said you wanted yellow trim. I hope it’s the right shade.”

  “It’s perfect.” The house was L-shaped, with a peaked roof and a red brick chimney. She slipped her hand from his and ran up the three stairs to the verandah. Opening the front door, she stepped into the foyer, then moved into the parlor. Roger was planning to quit his job at the store and devote all his time to his trade. The house was the first he had built entirely on his own, and he was hoping that when people saw what a good job he had done, they would want to hire him. He loved his work and took pride in his craft, and it was reflected in every room. The floors were made of oak, sanded and waxed to a high sheen. The walls were painted white.

  She moved through the house, imagining how she would decorate each room. She paused in the bedroom they would share, feeling a twinge of unease as she imagined sharing a bed with Roger. Would he be disappointed when he learned she wasn’t a virgin? Should she tell him before the wedding? She wished she had someone to talk to, someone she could confide in. She had no close friends in town. Even though no one knew she had born a child out of wedlock, speculation had run rampant when she and Chloe left town, ostensibly to visit family in the east. She had, on several occasions, considered asking Chloe for advice. Chloe had married Sylvester Quimby, publisher of the Canyon Creek Gazette, and moved into her own home the year Alisha turned eighteen.

  “Alisha? Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s lovely,” she replied quickly. “I was just…just decorating it. In my head, you know? What would you think of doing the bedroom in blue? I saw a lovely spread at the mercantile…”

  Roger stepped up behind her, close enough that she could feel his breath moving in her hair.

  “Alisha.” She didn’t resist when he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “Is it all right?”

  “Of course.”

  He drew her into his arms and kissed her and Alisha closed her eyes, remembering another man’s arms, another man’s lips. Mitch had never asked if he could kiss her. There had been nothing hesitant in his manner, no uncertainty in his voice or his kiss. Mitch had always known what he wanted. What she needed. She remembered the nights she had met him down by the creek—starlit summer nights when the air was soft and warm and the crickets and tree frogs serenaded them, rainy winter nights when storm clouds hid the moon and the heat between them drove away the cold.

  Guilt rose up within her. She had no business thinking of Mitch, especially now, when she was in Roger’s arms. She had pledged her heart to Roger when she agreed to marry him. He deserved her affection and her loyalty.

  “I’ll try to make you happy, Alisha,” Roger whispered.

  “I know you will.”

  “I told Mr. Halstead over to the mercantile you’d be coming by to look at curtain material and the like.” Roger draped his arm around her shoulder as they left the house. “Buy whatever you want for our house, Alisha, whatever you think we need. Mr. Halstead will put it on my account.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Roger.”

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am.” The lie pricked her conscience. She seemed to be telling a lot of untruths these days—to her father, to Roger, to Mitch. To herself. “We should go,” she said. “Father will be wondering what happened to us.”

  With a nod, Roger brushed a kiss across her forehead and released her. Hand in hand, they left the house.

  * * * * *

  It wasn’t until the next night that Alisha heard that Mitch had left town.

  She stared at Roger, unable to believe the news. “Left? How do you know? Where did he go? When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” Roger replied with a shrug. “What difference does it make?”

  “None, of course. I was just curious.”

  The next day, after school, she went by the Sheriff’s Office. The shades were drawn, the door was locked. A sign in the window advised anyone needing help to contact Casey Waller or Fred Plumber.

  She couldn’t believe he would leave town without telling her. Unable to help herself, she made the long walk up to the Garret house.

  She was breathless when she reached the top of the rise. With one hand pressed to her side, she studied the place. In all the years she had known Mitch, she had never come here.

  She knew the house was empty even before she climbed the steps and knocked on the door. She wondered what she would have said if he had come to the door. Moving to the left, she peered in the window, but it was too dark inside for her to see anything.

  Overcome with curiosity, she tried the front door. It opened with a squeak. She battled her conscience for a moment, then stepped inside. The interior was dark and quiet. Her footsteps sounded extraordinarily loud as she walked down the short hallway to the parlor. The room was dark and oppressive. The air smelled musty, tinged with stale tobacco.

  Leaving the parlo
r, she walked slowly from room to room. He was gone, there was no doubt about that. The house felt empty, abandoned.

  Feeling heavy-hearted, she left the house, shutting the door behind her. Why had he left town so abruptly? Where had he gone? Was he coming back?

  She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. Whatever they had once shared, whatever tender feelings she had once felt for Mitch were dead and buried years ago and could not be resurrected no matter how she might wish it.

  And yet she couldn’t help but wonder what her life would have been like if her father hadn’t interfered, if Mitch had sent for her, if her baby had lived…

  Resolutely, she put such thought from her mind. There was no point going over it again, no point wondering, wishing. It was over and done, and she was glad he was gone again, apparently for good.

  “Still lying to yourself, aren’t you, Alisha Faraday?” she muttered as she hurried toward home. And knew she would always wonder how her life would have turned out if Mitch had ignored her father’s letter and come back for her all those years ago.

  Chapter Nine

  It was midafternoon four days later when Mitch reached the entrance to the Apache stronghold. He had removed his hat and shirt, hoping that any scouts who saw him would recognize him as one of their own.

  He rode easy in the saddle, his hands well away from his guns. He had been riding up the mountainside about an hour when he felt a tightening between his shoulder blades and knew he was being watched.

  Resisting the urge to look behind him, he kept riding. The trail grew narrower, flanked by the mountain on one side, and a sheer drop on the other. His horse snorted and shied as a rabbit sprang out from under a bush and darted up the path ahead. Mitch felt a sudden sinking in the pit of his stomach as the mare’s hindquarters came perilously close to the edge of the trail.

  Winding upward, the trail widened a little, hemmed in on both sides by the mountains.

  A short time later, he came to a fork in the trail. He was pondering whether to turn to the left or the right when he heard the unmistakable sound of several rifles being cocked.