White Apache

by tiffy

  He repeated the process over and over on both punctures until Spybuck placed his hand gently on Santiagoʹs shoulder.

  ʺYou have cleansed all you can. Now let us bind up the bleeding. She must be kept warm and quiet.ʺ

  By this time, all the men had dismounted and were watching, as subdued as the impassive squaws, while the beautiful white lady who had won their respect lay near death.

  Santiago took the blanket Spybuck handed him and wrapped Elise in it, then carried her to his horse. She tried to free her throbbing arm, which was beginning to feel oddly numb.

  ʺDonʹt try to move,ʺ he whispered as he handed her to the Creek and swung into his saddle.

  Wordlessly, Spybuck handed her up in understanding. They were several daysʹ

  ride from Santa Fe, but if Santiago cut through the pass to the north, he could reach Joaquinʹs ranch by nightfall. Orlena had been taught the healing arts by her foster mother, She Who Dreams. ʺI will take the caravan through the mountains and make camp at the sulfur springs in the valley. We will await you there.ʺ

  With a nod, Santiago kneed True Blood into a ground‐eating canter and rode north.

  Orlena placed little Aurelia in the cradle that Joaquin had made sixteen years ago for their firstborn, Bartolomé. She kissed her infant daughter, who cooed and fell quickly asleep. Running her fingers across the smooth black oak headboard brought back bittersweet memories of her earlier years in this enchanted land she had come to love.

  The pounding of hoofbeats and shouts of vaqueros roused her. Pulling on a shawl against the chill autumn air, she rushed from the room to check on the disturbance. ʺPlease, Holy Mother, do not let Joaquin be injured!ʺ The Night Wind had been raiding in the south for weeks. Her heart beat with terror as she heard the footfalls in the front foyer. Rounding the corner, she froze in her tracks.

  ʺSantiago!ʺ

  Her half brother paused in the center of the large arched doorway of the sala, holding a blanketwrapped woman in his arms. His face was pale and tense.

  ʺQuickly, bring your medicines! She was bitten by a rattlesnake early this morning,ʺ he said, brushing past her with his burden, heading down the corridor to the bedroom that was his when he visited.

  Orlena was at the bedside with her supplies by the time he had removed the blanket from the woman and placed her beneath the bedcovers. She looked at the womanʹs strikingly beautiful face, a chalky hue beneath her sun‐darkened skin.

  ʺShe is going into a feverish sleep,ʺ Orlena said as she unwrapped the binding on the injured arm. Tersely, Santiago explained what had happened.

  ʺYou were right to open the punctures and suck out the poison at once. I shall prepare a poultice from these herbs to further cleanse the wounded area, then brew some cherry bark infusion to combat fever.ʺ She selected dried green needles and gray leaves from several small pouches and mixed them together in a small bowl of clear water, then placed the sticky mass over the wound and rebound it securely with clean strips of cloth.

  Orlena sent her serving woman Lupe to boil water while she crushed cherry bark into a cup. When the black‐haired woman moaned, Santiago knelt by the bedside and held her hand in his, murmuring low in Spanish, ʺIt is all right, beloved. You are going to be fine, You are safe now.ʺ

  Orlena watched the way he stroked her brow and looked at her waxen face.

  ʺWho is this woman, Santiago?ʺ she asked softly.

  ʺHer name is Elise Louvois,ʺ he replied. His fiercely possessive gaze never left the unconscious womanʹs face.

  ʺShe is French?ʺ Considering how his first infatuation with a Frenchwoman had ended, Orlena was surprised.

  ʺHalf French, but she considers herself an American.ʺ

  ʺAn American,ʺ Orlena echoed in amazement. ʺHow did a white woman from so far away come to New Mexico?ʺ She had never met an American woman before.

  ʺI met her in St. Louis.ʺ Santiago quickly outlined their journey and the mysterious circumstances precipitating Eliseʹs joining his caravan to Santa Fe. He omitted any mention of their having become lovers. ʺShe hopes to find her brother in the capital. I suspect he is a soldier with an expedition sent by the American general, Wilkinson, to provoke a war with Spain. Elise claims she and this brother are bent on preventing war.ʹʹ

  Orlena watched his face as he spoke, digesting his words carefully, noting what he said and what he chose not to say. When he had finished, she said, ʺYou do not trust her, yet you love her.ʺ

  A stricken look crossed his face, then vanished, replaced by the hard mask he had worn for many years now. Ah, Santiago, what happened to the carefree little brother I knew so well back in Spain?

  ʺI do not know if I love her,ʺ he said in a measured voice, trying to deny what he knew was obvious. ʺPerhaps if I could trust her, it would be easier. . . .ʺ

  ʺLove is never easy, nor do we always understand those we love. I loved Joaquin long before I knew of the demons that drove him. To know the truth is to share great pain. Sometimes that is the only way to exorcise it.ʺ

  ʺWhat is between you and Joaquin is different, Orlena. You are not like Elise.ʺ

  She smiled as she tested the cherry bark steeping in the boiled water. ʺI do not know. I, too, came from a far countrya rich, spoiled woman who fell in love with a renegade. It would appear your Elise and I have much in common.ʺ Orlena motioned for him to raise Eliseʹs head, then began to spoon the infusion down her throat.

  He smiled grimly at the comparison. ʺI imagine there is much more than Conal Quinnʹs green eyes that my half‐brother and I have in common.ʺ

  ʺHis Lipan blood made him a renegade. He did not choose to live outside the law. You have embraced this dangerous life because you thrive on it, as a sort of penance for your fatherʹs sins.ʺ She put her slim hand over her brotherʹs large dark one. ʺConal is dead, Santiago,ʺ she said earnestly. ʺEven the Night Wind, who has far more reason to hate him than you, has let him rest. You must, too.ʺ

  He stood up and paced away from the bed to stare out the window at the starry sky. ʺConalʹs Apache son did not ever know a fatherʹs love. He always saw our father for the monster he truly was. I . . . I worshipped him.ʺ

  ʺAnd I did not?ʺ she asked sharply. ʺHe raised me as if I were his own daughter, and then . . . then he turned his twisted lust on me.ʺ Her gold eyes darkened as she remembered the horrors they had all lived through. ʺBut we survived, Santiago. All of us, and just because you have Conalʹs blood does not make you guilty of his crimes.ʺ

  ʺI can do no less than my brother, who still risks his life to free Indian slaves.ʺ

  ʺHe is Lipan, but he is also a rancher who cares for his family.ʺ

  ʺI would be Lipan, too, for I do not pride myself in Motherʹs blood any more than you do. You abandoned a life of luxury at the Spanish court to remain here.ʺ

  ʺFor the man I love, Santiago.ʺ She looked in his eyes and said, ʺIf you love this American as I love your brother, you must cease this life of gunrunning. You have the money to live any way you choose.ʺ

  His eyes darted down to the unconscious woman lying so pale and still on the bed. The silence remained unbroken as he pondered. ʺI suppose I do love her.ʺ

  His voice was confused, uncertain. ʺWhen she spoke of parting in Santa Fe, I could not imagine my life beyond that point. The thought of her dying fair robs me of breath.ʺ He looked at his sister with wry humor. ʺIs that love, Orlena?ʺ

  ʺYou must answer that yourself, Santiago.ʺ The Guadeloupe Mountains Desert Flower stood in front of She Who Dreamsʹ sturdy bison‐hide lodge. The wind whipped across the village, and a few faint dry snowflakes swirled about her as she waited. The old medicine woman knew she was outside, but She Who Dreams answered in her own good time.

  The hide flap on the lodge opened, and the squat solid figure of Desert Flowerʹs mentor appeared. ʺCome. We will walk.ʺ They strolled among the villageʹs scattered lodges where women were tending fires and men helping with heavy camp chores. Children darted by, laughing and calling ou
t to each other. No one disturbed the serene passage of She Who Dreams and her young charge.

  ʺYou have seen this white woman from beyond the sunrise.ʺ

  Desert Flower looked at the old womanʹs impassive face. Reluctantly she replied, ʺYes, dimly. She is in the home of your daughter.ʺ

  She Who Dreams nodded. ʺYou are curious, for you can tell nothing of her spirit.

  She lies in a sick sleep.ʺ

  ʺPerhaps she shall die.ʺ

  The old woman chuckled mirthlessly. ʺIf the Spirits will it. Do you truly wish her to?ʺ

  Desert Flower sighed. ʺNo,ʺ she replied in a small, ragged voice. ʺThe Red Eagle loves her, but I do not know if she will make him happy. Perhaps she is like the other white woman he loved.ʺ

  ʺPerhaps not. There is but one way for you to find out. It will take great courage, for you may not like what you learn.ʺ

  Desert Flowerʹs eyes narrowed. ʺI have the courage of a Lipan, and I will let no one harm the Red Eagle.ʺ ʺThen go to your foster motherʹs home.ʺ She Who Dreams watched the young woman depart. A troubled expression marred her usually impassive face. ʺYou have much to learn, daughter of my daughter.

  Much, indeed.ʺ

  ʺHow much longer can she remain unconscious?ʺ Santiago asked as he bathed Eliseʹs feverish dry skin with cool cloths.

  Orlena was worried. ʺI do not know. If only I had been there with the poultice when the poison first entered her body . . . But She Who Dreams has saved many men who were carried even greater distances than you brought Elise.ʺ

  ʺBut they were warriors, toughened by this harsh land.ʺ

  Orlena smiled a bit. ʺWomeneven we white ladiesare a great deal tougher than men like to think. You have been sitting with her all night. You must rest. Let me take over, or you will frighten her when she awakens.ʺ

  She watched him sway on his feet with exhaustion. He had ridden, carrying her in his arms all day yesterday, then sat up with her all night. His face was covered with a grizzled reddish beard and his eyes were bloodshot. ʺLupe has prepared a bath and some food. Then to sleep with you.ʺ

  After he had quit the room, Orlena resumed the ministrations to the woman on the bed. ʺWho are you, Elise Louvois?ʺ she murmured to herself. The woman was stunningly beautiful, but that only explained Santiagoʹs physical attraction to her. Her roguishly handsome brother had always turned womenʹs heads. The hard, dangerous aura about him seemed to fascinate them. He used and discarded them as ruthlessly as Juliette Castal had used him. The irony of this womanʹs French ancestry did not escape Orlena. How Santiago must have fought his growing feelings for her! But this was no green girl out on a lark. Judging from what her brother had told her, Elise was a very resilient and determined woman, desperate to reach Santa Fe. But men had died around her, some trying to kill her. Until she learned more, Orlena would withhold judgment.

  Elise awakened slowly as something cold touched her face. Her eyes flitted open and she tried to speak, but her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth.

  ʺHere, drink this slowly.ʺ A beautiful woman with dark gold hair falling across her shoulders was speaking in Spanish. Before Elise could reply in that tongue and give away her secret, the lady switched to perfectly accented French and repeated the instructions. As she sipped the blissfully cool water, Elise struggled to gather her thoughts. Her brain felt as if it had been set out in the desert sun to bake.

  The room was handsome and large, with whitewashed walls and a polished oak floor. The furnishings were masculine, of dark walnut, satiny and expensively finished. The bed was curtained with velvet hangings. This was no rude jacal.

  Then she remembered that Santiago had a half sister, a Spanish noblewoman.

  That explained her cultured French. She had been raised at the Spanish court, where Bourbon monarchs had reigned for over a hundred years.

  ʺYou speak my language,ʺ she said guardedly. ʺWho are you?ʺ

  Orlena was astonished when she stared into Eliseʹs eyes. Violet‐colored, they were striking in a sundarkened face framed by ebony hair. Smiling, she replied, ʺI am Orlena Valdés de Quinn, Santiagoʹs sister, Joaquin Quinnʹs wife.ʺ

  Elise was addled and disoriented. ʺYou are Santiagoʹs sister, yet wed to his brother?ʺ

  Orlena chuckled. ʺʹTis confusing, I know, but my husband and I share no blood.

  We are each bound to Santiago by half our blood. Santiago and I share the same mother. He and my husband share the same father.ʺ

  ʺConal Quinn,ʺ Elise said.

  ʺConal Quinn,ʺ Orlena echoed softly, her eyes darkening.

  ʺIs Santiagoʺ

  ʺHe is asleep in the next room. After he sat up all night with you, I forced him to rest.ʺ She again picked up the cool cloth with which she had been bathing Eliseʹs face and wrung it out. ʺHere, allow me. It will help clear your head now that the fever has broken.ʺ

  ʺI can do it.ʺ Elise reached for the cloth with her right arm, then whitened as a stab of agony lanced through her body.

  ʺSantiago had to cut deep to remove the snakeʹs venom, but it will heal without much scarring.ʺ She carefully wiped Eliseʹs face as she continued, ʺI have used a Lipan poultice on it. My foster mother has made a fair medicine woman of me.ʺ

  As her mind began to clear, Elise recalled Santiagoʹs explanation regarding his brother who was a half‐breed. Had the Night Windʹs wife, too, lived with the savages? ʺYour foster mother?ʺ she prompted. This was an opportunity to learn more about what drove Santiago Quinn.

  ʺShe Who Dreams and White Crane adopted me as their daughter. They have dealt with me and my brother far more decently than has the civilized world.ʺ

  ʺIs that why Santiago sells them weapons?ʺ The instant she said it, Elise cursed her fever‐fogged brain. She had revealed something that might cost her life! Yet Orlenaʹs face did not seem hostile, and the Spaniard had nursed her through a terrible ordeal.

  ʺSantiago does not sell the guns to our people. He buys them through intermediaries in your American cities, then gives them to the Lipan. You have not been here long, else you would know of the cruelty in this land that forces children in woolen mills and silver mines to work until they starve or are beaten to death.ʺ

  ʺThen Santiago does not traffic in slaves.ʺ Somehow Elise knew that was true.

  ʺOf course not!ʺ Orlena exclaimed. ʺHis own halfbrother escaped from such a fate. My husband was sold into slavery by their father.ʺ

  Elise gasped in spite of her resolve to control her emotions. ʺConal Quinn. No wonder Santiago hates his father so. He refused to speak of him.ʺ

  Orlena smiled sadly. ʺWhen you are stronger, I will tell you a long and twisted tale about our families and how fate chanced to bring us all together here. For now, only know that the Lipan do not wantonly kill and enslave as the Spanish and their Comanche allies do. They are a small people, surrounded by enemies.

  Santiago only helps them survive.ʺ

  Elise digested that bit of possibly biased information as Orlena rose. ʺYou must rest some more, but first let me bring you some clear broth for nourishment.ʺ

  ʺThank you for saving my life, Orlena,ʺ she said gravely.

  The blonde smiled wistfully and said, ʺʹTwas not I but Santiago who did that.ʺ

  She turned and left the room, giving Elise a great deal to ponder. Elise gingerly raised her arm, testing its strength. The pain was a dull ache now that she moved slowly. She took time to appraise her situation, attempting to sit up in the big soft bed. After several false starts, she accomplished the feat. The rattlesnake had well and truly poisoned her. Her body felt sore and aching, her head dizzy and light. Just as she was about to slide her legs from beneath the bedcovers and attempt to stand up, voices from the hallway speaking in soft Spanish caught her attention.

  ʺTruly you do have the gift, Ana, to know Santiago was here with a white woman who has been gravely ill,ʺ Orlenaʹs voice said.

  ʺShe is recovering then?ʺ the woman called Ana asked.

  ʺYes, I
think she will be fine. A good thing, for I fear my womanizing brother is quite enamored of her,ʺ Orlena replied. There was a gentle warning in her voice.

  ʺI am most anxious to meet such a woman as could bring Santiago to heel. Here, give me that broth. I will see to her. You have a new baby to feed.ʺ

  The door opened, and the most striking Indian woman Elise had ever seen entered. She looked nothing like the squaws on the caravan or even the most handsome of the Osage women. This Ana was small and slender, with skin of a coppery hue. She wore her thick, straight hair in an elegant coronet of braids atop her head and was dressed in a beautifully embroidered camisa, a full red skirt, and riding boots. The only items on her person that were Apache rather than Spanish were the eagle feather necklace around her slender throat and the beaten copper belt that circled her tiny waist. Her face was delicately formed, with a high forehead and finely arched brows. A straight nose and generous lips complemented her high cheekbones, but most compelling of all were her eyes, which were huge, luminous, ebonyand hostile.

  Ana inspected Elise as the white woman did her, then glided over to the bedside table with the bowl of hot chicken broth.

  ʺI am Ana, and you are the white woman Santiago has brought among us,ʺ she said in perfect French.

  ʺI am Elise Louvois. You must be the Lipan child Orlena raised with her own children.ʺ Elise tried a friendly smile.

  One slim black eyebrow rose disdainfully. ʺI am not a child. I have been educated in white menʹs ways. I read your language as well as speak it.ʺ She raised a spoon of the broth toward Eliseʹs mouth.

  Taking the bowl and spoon to hold herself, Elise sipped, then replied, ʺI am American by birth, not French. Do you speak English?ʺ

  ʺDo you speak the Lipan tongue?ʺ

  Deciding the sparing would get her nowhere, Elise tried a direct approach. ʺYou do not like me, Ana. Why?ʺ

  Ana betrayed a hint of grudging respect. ʺNo. Nor do I trust you. The Americans and the French both covet the land the Spanish have stolen from my people.