White Apache

by tiffy

  What goes on behind those violet eyes? Smoky eyes when he took her in passion, deep purple eyes when she was angry or afraid. And, for all her courage, Elise Louvois knew fear. Her past held specters that haunted her, but she refused to speak of them. Of course, Santiago was forced to admit that he, too, had not revealed much of his past.

  But Iʹm not involved in political intrigue. He knew her fierce determination to reach Santa Fe had something to do with the Pike expedition that General Wilkinson had sent west. His mind replayed the scene in camp the preceding week, when he had approached their fire, secluded away from the rest of the caravan.

  Elise had been writing in the small leather volume she always kept close at hand in her saddle pack. When she sensed his presence, she had closed it abruptly.

  ʺDark secrets? Or confessions of love?ʺ he had asked lightly.

  She had regarded him warily. ʺJust a simple diary Iʹve kept since I was a girl. As to confessions of love, I thought we had an agreement. Our liaison is only to last until journeyʹs end, with no illusions about a permanent relationship.ʺ

  As she sat by the fire, he studied her. Her loose hair gleamed in the flickering light that obscured her features. ʺNo illusions, Elise. But what about deceptions?ʺ

  ʺIʹve not deceived you in anything. We made a business arrangement in St.

  Louis,ʺ she said defensively.

  ʺTo reunite you with your lost brother . . . What did you say his name was?ʺ

  She clutched the diary tightly. ʺI didnʹt say. What does it matter to you?ʺ

  ʺWhat does it matter to youor himthat you refuse to give his name? Is he a wanted man?ʺ

  She laughed with soft irony. ʺYou were the wanted man, Santiago, not my brother.ʺ

  ʺAnd precisely because I was a man with a price on my head, I know all the pitfalls of dealing with the Spanish in New Mexico. They will arrest a party of American soldiers if they catch them on Spanish soil.ʺ

  She stared at him levelly. ʺMy brother is not a soldier.ʺ

  He studied her. ʺYou know, you are good, very good indeed at concealing what you donʹt wish known. But I think this ʹbrotherʹ is a soldier. Perhaps not in uniform?ʺ He waited for her to react, then shrugged when she did not. ʺIt wonʹt matter to Governor Alencastre whether the Americans are soldiers or civilians. A real stickler, the governor, honest to a fault, which is highly unusual in a backwater colony like New Mexico. If you think you can offer a bribe . . .ʺ He let the implication of futility dangle.

  She studied him, then carefully replaced the diary and her writing instruments in her pack and laced it. ʺI shall manage to secure my brotherʹs safety. Your job is to get me there as quickly as possible. Weʹve been delayed interminably.ʺ

  ʺNow you fault me for the weather?ʺ He strode up to her and shoved the leather pack away from their bedroll with one foot. ʺI can do nothing about flash floods and clouds of mosquitoes, but as to my job . . . right now it is to make love to you Elise.ʺ

  When he had knelt on the blanket and pulled her into his embrace, she had come willingly, almost too willingly, as if their passion would erase the memory of their earlier conversation.

  Santiago rode up to Elise and Spybuck. When we get to Santa Fe, I will find out who this brother isif he even exists, and if he is indeed your brother.

  As he pulled up beside them, Elise was saying, ʺIʹve seen no trees or bushes all day today. What will we use to build our fires tonight?ʺ ʺWeʹll set to gathering fuel as soon as we make camp.

  She looked at him, her expression one of impatience mixed with curiosity. He was teasing her again, damn him. ʺWhat fuel is there but woodwhich is surely not present unless it grows below ground. Although, given the perversity of this wilderness, Iʹd not doubt such.ʺ She had watched in amazement on several occasions when the men had dug in the beds of dried‐up streams to find water, which welled up slowly from what looked like parched earth.

  When they made camp that night, Elise found out what the ʺfuelʺ waslarge, dried‐out piles of manure left by buffalo herds. ʺSurely it will stink! How can we eat anything cooked over . . . over that?ʺ She had endured the dust and the danger, broiling heat and bruising hail, even swallowed swarms of mosquitoes, but this was too much!

  ʺWell, at last you finally show a touch of feminine sensibility,ʺ Santiago said, chuckling at her expression of outrage.

  ʺMore like human sensibility, a quality youʹve long since abandoned,ʺ she snapped.

  ʺFires made with buffalo droppings burn bright, hot and quite clean as long as the materials used are dry,ʺ Spybuck interjected. ʺCome, watch and I shall show you.ʺ

  With a fulminating glare at Santiago, she followed the Creek to where Soames and Gravois were engaged in stacking a pile of the dried dung into a crude pyramid. True enough, when ignited, the evil‐looking stuff burned with a hot orange flame that was almost odorless and gave off less smoke than a hardwood fire.

  As she sat staring into the flames that night, Elise thought of the weeks she had spent with Santiago Quinn. When she had engaged his services as a guide and escort in St. Louis, she had never in her wildest imaginings thought he could become her lover.

  You were drawn to him from the moment he claimed you in that dance. But the elegantly dressed gentleman in the Chouteausʹ ballroom was a far cry from the dangerous‐looking renegade standing on the opposite side of the campfire. Even with a dayʹs growth of beard darkening his face, armed with evil‐looking knives and guns, and dressed in rough buckskins, he was a magnificent savage, virile and compelling.

  Why had he chosen to turn his back on civilization and live among cutthroats and red Indians? Even if he had been wanted by Spanish authorities in New Orleans for that duel, they no longer ruled Louisiana. He could even have returned and cleared his name. He did not have to be the White Apache. He chose to be. All of his mysterious past was somehow tied to the Irish father whom he had so curtly refused to discuss.

  Why do I fret over him? Soon he will walk out of my life forever. Yet the thought of never again hearing his easy laughter, seeing the wicked white slash of his smile, or experiencing the sensuous glory of his lovemaking, made her heart ache.

  Circumstances had thrown them together and forced her to give in to what she now knew were natural instinctsinstincts Edouard had almost destroyed. She should simply be grateful to Santiago for her awakening as a woman and remember him fondly, but the thought of living the rest of her life with only memories made her even more wretched.

  Perhaps when she returned to civilization, she might seek other lovers now that she had overcome her fear of the sensual side of her nature. The idea held no appeal. She returned her gaze to the flames and tried to think about finding Samuel in Santa Fe.

  When the weather turned burning hot, they began to travel from twilight until moonset, sleeping and resting the livestock as the sun arced high across the vast azure dome of sky. Earlier they had all cursed the rain that fell in driving sheets, halting their travel. Now water holes grew further apart and more brackish; they began to pray for more rain. Finally, the dry air grew heavy with moisture and clouds billowed over the horizon.

  Elise sighed in relief as she wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple. ʺIʹve never seen such a welcome sight.ʺ

  ʺDonʹt speak too soon,ʺ Santiago said as he watched the clouds roll by. Suddenly they seemed to stand still in the heavens. The sun was beginning to set, and the caravan was preparing to move out. He studied the becalmed sky and then exchanged some words with Spybuck in Spanish.

  ʺHave Chaco tie all the mules and horses in the remuda on short lines and keep them bunched close.ʺ

  ʺDo you think the killing winds will come? It is late in the year for them. There is little to offer cover on this flat stretch of land.ʺ Spybuckʹs Spanish was as precise as his English.

  Elise listened to them discuss precautions for something they called el tornado, a term with which she was not familiar. ʺWhatʹs going on? Arenʹt we breaking camp?ʺ she asked Sant
iago after Spybuck went off.

  ʺYes. Mount Up and stay close beside me. If I tell you to dismount, donʹt question me, do exactly as I say.ʺ Within minutes, the pack train was headed southwest and the sky had turned an ominous grayish yellow, nothing like the spectacular rainbow‐hued sunsets she was used to seeing out west. They rode for about a quarter of an hour when the wind came up, stinging their faces with sand and whistling in an eerie fashion akin to a scream of agony. The men all watched the horizon intently, none more so than Santiago, who kept Elise close by his side.

  They had just sighted a dry streambed when Santiago saw the tornado moving across the northern sky like a great writhing snake. A vast gray funnel twisted and danced, touching the ground with such force that it sent sand, brush, and rocks flying. The wind was howling so loudly his voice could scarcely be heard over it as he shouted to Elise. ʹʹRide as fast as you can to that gully and dismount.

  Lie flat against the western wall!ʺ

  He issued directives and gestured toward the meager shelter of the dry stream bed, riding up and down the line of horsemen to communicate with them. Every few moments he glanced back to check Eliseʹs progress toward shelter. Suddenly, a gray vortex of wind‐borne sand enveloped her as it danced between the scattered riders and terrified animals.

  Elise spurred her mare furiously onward while holding her braid across her eyes in a vain attempt to shield them from the stinging sand. She felt the wind velocity shift but could see nothing. Ladybug broke stride and stumbled to her knees with a frantic cry, dumping her rider into the whirling, shrieking inferno.

  Then the terrified horse bolted.

  Santiago saw Ladybug reappear riderless. He drove his stallion through the howling wind, past stampeding mules and horses toward where he had last seen Elise. He screamed her name into the wind, and the wind threw it back. Elise lost all sense of direction as she struggled to her feet. Just standing took tremendous effort. She stumbled and then tried to walk toward what she hoped was the ravine. I am going to die out here alone. ʺSantiago!ʺ

  She did not know she had cried out his name, but somehow he heard it even though he could not see her. He kneed True Blood toward her, knowing how such storms could distort sound. Miraculously he saw her then, almost directly in his path.

  Elise felt a strong arm wrap around her waist and lift her up onto a horse. She knew Santiago had found her. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she clung to him as the whirlwind continued. The destructive funnel hopscotched across the flat plain, leaving them behind. A fierce wind‐driven rain washed the gritty sand from the air, but they could see no more than before, for now the rain enveloped them. True Blood instinctively found a small formation of rocks.

  With Elise clinging to him, Santiago dismounted and sought shelter for them inside the lip of the overhang. The big bay stallion stood beside the rocks, his body providing protection from the raging storm. As they lay on the sandy ground, Santiagoʹs back blocked the wind and rain from her while he cradled her in his arms.

  He kissed her wet face and whispered above the howling noise, ʺYouʹre alive. I found you. Thank God I found you!ʺ

  He spoke in Spanish. Wordlessly, Elise returned his kiss with a fierce surge of tenderness. Repeatedly this man had risked his life to protect her. Now he offered his body as a buffer between her and the hostile elements. He, too, could have been swallowed up in the tornado that swept by them.

  ʺWeʹre alive, my darling, weʹre alive. Thatʹs all that matters.ʺ She framed his beard‐stubbled face with her hands and kissed him softly, deeply.

  Santiago brushed wet locks of inky hair from her cheeks with trembling fingers and slanted his mouth across hers, drinking in the sweet essence that was Elise, mixed with the salty taste of rain, sweat and tears. He felt a fierce, exultant joy in being alive and knew she shared it with him. Her hands tugged at the lacing on his shirt and slid inside to feel his heartbeat. He cupped her breasts, then peeled away the sheer wet cloth and enveloped her chilled nipples with the heat of his mouth.

  Arching against him in response, she reached for his fly and began to unfasten the now familiar buttons. The soaked buckskin resisted her slipping fingers. He helped her, then tore at her baggy boyʹs breeches. She gave a twist of her hips to assist in freeing herself for his possession. I belong to you, Santiago. As he thrust into her, she closed her eyes and dug her nails into his shoulders, uncertain, uncaring if she had said the words aloud.

  They loved as fiercely as the storm raging around them. The warm rain beat down in a steady tattoo, in rhythm with their joining, while the soughing winds matched their labored breathing as they quickly scaled the heights. Jagged bolts of lightning streaked across the sky and thunder shook the earth beneath them.

  And in their coming together, they were one with the fury.

  Elise felt the ecstatic contractions begin to radiate deep inside her, like the lightning bolts overhead. She felt his staff swell and pulse its life against her womb, bringing her over the crest as he joined her in a long, searing moment of perfect unity.

  Santiago lay over her, feeling her heart pound as his did. ʺThe storm has broken,ʺ

  he whispered, rolling to his back with her atop him. ʺI know,ʺ she murmured, oblivious to the dying wind and rain, filled only with a deep sense of peace as he held her in his arms.

  ʺElise . . .ʺ He hesitated, uncertain of what to say, or whether he wanted to say anything.

  Her smoky gaze caressed him with an unspoken question. Bemused, she ran her fingertips across his lips, tracing their elegantly sculpted lines. Then she smiled sadly and said, ʺThere is something between us, Santiago, but it isnʹt trust. For now, letʹs be grateful just to be alive and together . . . non? ʺ

  He studied her with hooded eyes, knowing she was right. He desired her but did not understand what mysterious mission had brought her to him. Nor was he willing to reveal the painful secrets of Colorado Quinn to her.

  ʺYou are, as usual, ma cherie, infuriatingly logical. Spybuck will be searching for us. Weʹd best repair ourselves and find the others.ʺ

  Chapter Sixteen

  Miraculously, the train lost only two horses and a mule in the storm. None of the men was seriously injured, and the goods they were carrying remained intact.

  They rested and repacked the following day, then set out that night. Within two days, they sighted the first peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  ʺWe must be nearing Santa Fe,ʺ Elise said, shadowing her eyes with her hand and peering at the jagged lavender ridges on the horizon.

  Santiago smiled as several of the seasoned veterans of the trail laughed and teased her good‐naturedly. Then he explained, ʺThe air out here is very thin and clear. It distorts distances. What appears on the horizon one day often will seem no closer after the next dayʹs journey. Weʹve only now crossed from American into Spanish territory. It will be a slow climb toward the valley of the Rio Bravo, lasting for many days yet. Weʹll stop at small villages along the way and do some trading.ʺ

  ʺIt was my understanding that the Spanish government allows only licensed Spanish traders into its territory. Why donʹt the royal soldiers arrest you?ʺ

  He shrugged, turning his coat collar up against a chill wind that had risen as they climbed to higher elevations. ʺWhy would they wish to cut off their cheapest supply of tools, cloth, jewelry, even whiskey? How do you know I havenʹt secured a license? In New Spain most officials are amenable to bribes.ʺ

  ʺAll except Governor Alencastre?ʺ She remembered his earlier warning to her.

  ʺAll except for him,ʺ Santiago echoed. ʺThe governor fights a losing battle.

  Unlicensed traders, French and Anglos, have been slipping into New Mexico for decades, bringing goods more cheaply from St. Louis and New Orleans than they can be hauled from the City of Mexico, which is a much greater distance.ʺ

  ʺThen you must make a great deal of money as a reward for the rigors of the trail.ʺ She was dubious about the fact, especially considering the
way that he chose to live.

  ʺWe make enough,ʺ he replied tersely.

  Since they had climbed to sufficient elevation for the temperature to drop markedly, the train once again traveled by day and camped nights. Elise grew even more appreciative of Santiagoʹs body heat when they slept, for their blankets seemed thin as the mountain air.

  The first of the villages they visited began with a tiny scattering of crude brush jacals, which were poor protection indeed against the night air. The central square contained several more substantial buildings made of adobe bricks in the peculiar architectural design called Pueblo, modeled after the flat‐roofed dwellings of the landʹs earliest inhabitants. Exposed timbers supported the roofs, which were then thatched with woven willow boughs, sealed with a paste of mud and ashes. The walls extended several feet above the roof, allowing their inhabitants to use them as fortifications in time of attack by hostile Indians.

  Everyone in the village came out to greet the caravan, small naked children running among men and women of all ages. The men wore simple white cotton tunics and baggy trousers, the women thin, low‐cut camisas and full, brightly colored skirts. Shoes, if any, were crude leather sandals.

  After he greeted the villagers in Spanish, Santiago explained in English to Elise.

  ʺThey are genízaros from various Indian tribes, many of mixed Spanish blood who have been raised as Christians by their Spanish benefactors.ʺ He stressed the last word bitterly. ʺThe government uses them in an outer defense perimeter against the Comanche and other warring tribes.ʺ

  ʺLike the Apache?ʺ she asked the man the Osage called White Apache.

  ʺLike the Apache. All the Indiansthese peaceful, mixed‐blood farmers and the free tribes in the mountainsare being cheated of their land by the whites. To hold on to these small plots, the genízaros must serve in the Spanish militia.ʺ

  She would have questioned him further, but the alcalde, a short, rotund man with thinning gray hair and an ill‐trimmed goatee, bowed before them and began to chatter excitedly in Spanish.