White Apache

by tiffy

  A single candle flickered on the bedside table as twilight gathered outside the window. Intent on slowly undressing each other, they were oblivious to the fading light, seeing only by the glow of love in their eyes. They caressed each other with looks, sighs, and gliding, experimental touches. The evening air, redolent with the perfume of the exotic city beyond, grew warm.

  He unfastened her veil and tossed it toward a chair. It floated down in a cloud of violets as he slid her gown softly from her shoulders and let it whisper to the floor. Then he began to work on her sheer white undergarments. Everywhere his hands touched, fire consumed her. She arched into his caresses and matched him, kiss for kiss, peeling off his shirt and unbuttoning his tight black trousers.

  When she pulled them low on his hips and freed his straining sex, he trembled in her small hands. And it pleased her, she who had believed for so long that she was incapable of invoking this response from a man.

  ʹʹ Querida, we must go slower or weʹll not make it across the room to the bed that Odine took such pains to make up.ʺ His voice was hoarse as he pulled her busy hands away from his aching staff. Quickly, he kicked off his shoes and finished removing his trousers and hose. Completely naked, he stood before her, letting her drink in her fill. ʺWhen you look at me that way . . .ʺ Words failed him. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he laid her down as if she were fragile porcelain.

  His eyes devoured her body, as slender as ever after the birth of their child, except for her breasts, which were heavy with milk. He reached down and touched them, cupping each rounded globe with deft hands and clever fingers.

  ʺAaah,ʺ she arched up into the caress, letting her hair spill from its pins as she tossed her head from side to side, caught up in fiery ecstasy. ʺSo long,ʺ she sobbed, ʺIʹve waited for so long.ʺ She felt hungry and helpless as he slid her delicate chemise off and then unfastened the tapes to her lacy underdrawers. His hands glided across her flat belly and down her legs, pulling the soft cloth with them until he reached her garters and stockings.

  He paused, watching her writhing, her hair spread like spilled ink on the snowy pillow. His breathing was labored as he pulled off her underdrawers and raised one slim leg by its trim ankle. He removed her kid slipper and then unrolled the silk stocking along with its garter.

  When he raised her foot and kissed the arch, letting his tongue graze the tender skin, she felt a frisson of amazement. Elise had never imagined her feet could feel such erotic pleasure! He repeated the seductive strip of her other leg and again saluted her foot. Her toes curled in bliss. Then he let his hands rove back up her body, with his hot seeking mouth following in their wake, kissing, licking, nipping tenderly, until he lay stretched out on the bed beside her.

  Elise took her hands and framed his face, letting her fingers comb his curly russet hair. She rimmed his lips and then kissed him, all the while panting softly as their tongues met, twined and danced. Her face was flushed and her body on fire. The heat of him enveloped her, and she longed to envelope him, to take him deeply inside her.

  Slowly, he broke off the kiss and then raised her so she was leaning over him, curtaining his head and shoulders with black, silky hair. She could feel his hands on her hips, positioning her as he whispered in Spanish, ʺGo slowly, beloved. I donʹt want to hurt you. Take me, all that you can hold.ʺ Sweat beaded his upper lip as he rasped out the command and felt her begin to lower herself onto his hard, straining staff. He wanted to urge her to be careful, to move slower, but words failed him and his loins tightened as she bore down, her sleek, hot flesh enveloping him all the way, until they were one.

  He fought the urge to thrust up, but Elise rolled her hips and whispered, ʺGive in, my darling. Iʹm ready for you, hungry for my savage lover.ʺ

  Her nails dug into his shoulders as she rode him, feeling his body buck and begin to move in rhythm with hers. She muffled her cries of pleasure against his throat, then lost them in his mouth as their lips joined in voracious kisses.

  Feeling the crest coming far too soon, Santiago struggled to bring their swift mating dance under control. His hands gentled her hips into a more languorous pace, changing the passion that had burned like a prairie fire into a single soft, glowing flame.

  ʺThis is what I imagined . . . I dreamed of . . . all those nights, sleeping across the hall from you . . . these past weeks,ʺ he whispered between nibbling kisses.

  ʺWeʹll never sleep apart again . . . ah,ʺ she murmured into his mouth. The feeling of oneness, of being a part of him, losing her soul as well as her body in his, grew. And slowly, as the tide rises and swells, so did hot, relentless passion grow. ʺNow . . . now, please.ʺ

  Elise was not certain what language she spoke or even if she said the words aloud, but Santiago answered her, thrusting into her fast and hard, then faster yet until everything else, the light, the room, the whole world went away, leaving only the two of them, giving and receiving that ultimate gift.

  When he felt her spin out of control into the vortex of release, he lost himself in the same starry universe, spilling his seed deep within her for what seemed a blindingly bright and dark eternity.

  They lay utterly spent, Elise collapsed on his chest, his arms cradling her. They recovered their breath gradually, yet lay silent for moments suspended in time.

  Finally Santiago felt the wetness of her tears on his chest and reached up to touch her cheeks with the pads of his hands, drying the silvery trails.

  ʺI have never been so happy,ʺ she whispered.

  His chest rumbled with relieved laughter. ʺAnd here I was afraid I had done you some grievous injury.ʺ

  She raised her head and looked at his face. ʺSurely you could tell how I felthow I urged you on?ʺ

  ʺYou did seem to encourage me to greater savagery,ʺ he said, now with a teasing voice.

  ʺMake no mistake, Santiago Quinn, I am the White Apacheʹs woman and it will take all of his savagery to satisfy me on the long journey back to Santa Fe. Our friends and family await us there. What do you say? Will you be my guide once again?ʺ

  He laughed and rolled them over until she lay cradled beneath him. Looking down at her beautiful, flushed face, he promised, ʺI will guide you to the stars and beyond.ʺ

  The Guadeloupe Mountains, September 1807

  She Who Dreams sat by the fire, staring unseeing into the flames. Her eyesight had been failing over the past two years. The arrival of each winter made her bones ache more. Soon it would be time to rejoin her husband, White Crane. She was eager to see his gently smiling face and those of Slim Reed and their other children.

  ʺSoon,ʺ she crooned low into the crackling fire. But first there were matters which required her attention in this world. Desert Flower opened the flap of the lodge, sending in a gust of cold air as she awkwardly entered.

  ʺYou are late in arriving. It must be your great belly that slows your footstep,ʺ

  the old woman said with a hint of teasing in her voice.

  Looking down at her rounded belly, Desert Flower smiled. ʺHe grows big and I grow slow.ʺ She shrugged at the natural relationship between her enlarged size and speed as she carefully squatted on the pile of pelts beside She Who Dreams.

  ʺYou know this is a man‐child then?ʺ She Who Dreamsʹ voice was level.

  ʺYou have not said, but I have a feeling it is. A boy would please Spybuck,ʺ the young woman answered.

  She Who Dreams snorted. ʺI have had no vision, and neither have you. Such personal matters are withheld from us. You merely wish it to be so. Perhaps it will be a daughter, to carry on our medicine. Would that be so bad?ʺ Her nearly sightless eyes seemed to study Desert Flower.

  ʺNo. It would not. In fact, I would like that.ʺ

  ʺSo would your husband, and I need no spirit dream to tell me so.ʺ

  ʺI did not come here to speak of my husband or our child,ʺ Desert Flower said.

  ʺWhat then?ʺ the old woman asked patiently.

  A shy smile bowed Desert Flowerʹs l
ips. ʺThe Red Eagle returns with his wife and daughter. You know this. You only wait for me to say how I feel about it.ʺ

  ʺAnd what do you say?ʺ She Who Dreamsʹ face was wreathed with a smile now.

  ʺThat my heart overflows with joy for my foster brother. He has found happiness even as I have. I did a terrible thing to his American woman. I defied the will of the Spirits, and now I must try to make amends to Elise. I only pray she will forgive me.ʺ

  The old womanʹs face was serene and untroubled. ʺShe will forgive you.ʺ

  ʺThat will please my foster mother and Night Wind,ʺ Desert Flower replied.

  ʺIt will also please Spybuck.ʺ She Who Dreams knew how much her young protege adored her Muskogee husband and wished to make him happy.

  ʺYes. He feared never again to see his best friend, and perhaps he has feared as well that I might still be just a bit in love with the Red Eagle. At last the idea will be put to rest. My husband will know that I love only him.ʺ

  ʺYour words have made me glad. Go now and start the preparations for a great feast of welcome.ʺ

  As their party drew near the Lipan stronghold, Elise thought to herself, No wonder theyʹve survived in spite of the Spanish and the Comanche. The ride through twisting mountain trails was a good deal less harrowing this time, with Santiago and his family riding by her side. She looked at her husband and his brother, two educated, civilized men, now dressed in buckskin leggins and beaded headbands.

  ʺThey look like Apaches, do they not?ʺ Orlena said to her sister‐in‐law. ʺEven my brother, with his red hair, looks as forbiddingly savage as the Night Wind.ʺ

  Elise nodded. ʺYou read my very thoughts.ʺ

  ʺDo not be nervous about returning to the Lipan as Red Eagleʹs woman.ʺ

  ʺIt is not the Lipan who worry me, but Desert Flower,ʺ Elise confessed.

  Remembering how long Ana had adored Santiago and the way she had deceived Elise, Orlena herself had a twinge of misgiving, but she replied, ʺAna is happily wed herself now. I am certain she will welcome you as a sister.ʺ Orlena watched the pensive expression on Eliseʹs face, then heard voices calling to them as they approached. ʺLook, they come even now.ʺ

  A noisy, joyous crowd of men, women, and children enveloped them as they rode into the village. Santiago proudly took his daughter from Elise, and Joaquin held Aurelia while the women dismounted. The elder Quinn children quickly ran off, laughing and talking with their friends. Hoarse Bark and Spybuck greeted Night Wind and Orlena. Then as everyone watched, Spybuck and Santiago embraced.

  ʺThis past year has brought many good things, but having you return to us is a special blessing. I feared we would never see you again,ʺ Spybuck said to Santiago.

  ʺThis is my home, and my wife wishes to share it with me,ʺ Santiago replied as Elise and Spybuck hugged each other fondly. Then Desert Flower stepped from the crowd, and Santiagoʹs face split in a broad grin. ʺI see this year has brought you many good things.ʺ He inspected Anaʹs belly as she walked up and stood before him. Then he hugged her affectionately.

  ʺWelcome home, Red Eagle, my brother,ʺ she said with joy. She turned to Elise and extended her hand, palm open. ʺI have done you and my brother a grave wrong, for which I beg forgiveness. Please, may we begin again? I am truly happy that you have come home with your husband.ʺ

  The sincerity in her luminous black eyes was obvious to Elise. A great weight lifted from her as she embraced Desert Flower. ʺWe are all a family now,ʺ she said simply. ʺThere is nothing to forgive.ʺ ʺA family greatly in need of my services, else She Who Dreams would not have sent for me,ʺ a deep bass voice interrupted. Elise looked up at a giant of a man with shaggy gray hair, wearing the simple brown robes of a Franciscan friar. His beard was untrimmed and his face creased like old leather, wind blasted and sun darkened by decades spent in the Southwest.

  ʺElise, may I introduce the first teacher brave enough to turn my brother and me to our school books,ʺ Santiago said, hugging the Franciscan.

  ʺYou are Fray Bartolomé,ʺ Elise replied as the old man beamed down on her.

  ʺThat I am.ʺ He turned his attention to little Orlena, who quickly seized one of his large, calloused fingers in her tiny hands. ʺAnd this is the reason for my summons. Your daughter has not yet been baptized, has she?ʺ

  ʺHow did you know?ʺ Elise asked with a smile.

  ʺHow did I know to ride these hundreds of miles through desert and mountain because you were returning to New Mexico? That old woman is the Lordʹs own instrumentor the devilʹs. I have never been certain which,ʺ he said with a rich chuckle.

  She Who Dreams smiled. ʺThe spirits use me. We shall one day see if Desert Flower has the power to summon you.ʺ

  He looked from the ancient medicine woman to Ana and rolled his eyes heavenward as if asking for deliverance. ʺI fear I am in deep waters. And, speaking of water, let us prepare for that baptism.ʺ He looked to the two medicine women for approval.

  She Who Dreams nodded to Desert Flower. When she in turn nodded, the whole assembly broke into hearty laughter.

  There was great feasting in the stronghold of the Lipan that night.

  AUTHORʹS NOTE

  A Spanish‐Irish renegade raised among the Apache meets a mysterious French-American spy. That was the premise for our tale of espionage and high adventure during the intrigue‐filled era of the Louisiana Purchase. I have often remarked that history is more bizarre than any writerʹs imaginings, and nowhere is this better illustrated than during the Wilkinson Conspiracy at the opening of the nineteenth century. Historical research gave me a larger‐than‐life hero, Thomas Jefferson, and a splendid villain, General James Wilkinson.

  The American federal union was incredibly fragile in Jeffersonʹs day, and the line between filibuster and treason was a thin and ill‐defined one. The Sage of Monticello was beset by threats from within and without during his tenure in office. Land‐hungry Westerners allied with General Wilkinson attempted to claim the Louisiana Territoryʹs vast riches. The British Royal Navy vied with Napoleonʹs armies off our Gulf coast. Invasion by either of these powers was not a completely unlikely possibility, and open war with Imperial Spain loomed as a very real threat. These menaces from abroad greatly imperiled Jeffersonʹs fledgling republic. That our third president succeeded in holding the nation together attests to his skill as a politician who knew how to manipulate the manipulators.

  Our story ends with the fate of the historical villain left to history, whose verdict on his life was far kinder than he deserved. General James Wilkinson was drawn into the treason trial of Jeffersonʹs former Vice President, Aaron Burr, another filibuster allied with Wilkinson. Because of evidence regarding his Spanish connections, the general was placed on trial himself by a military tribunal composed of his fellow officers. Unsurprisingly, they found him not guilty. Hard evidence about his being Agent 13 was well documented in a vast collection of correspondence between him and various officials of the Spanish government.

  However, these papers were not discovered by historians until a few decades ago. During the War of 1812, his military career ended in disgrace. He retired into obscurity and died penniless and alone, an opium addict in Mexico City.

  The fate of Zebulon Pike might be of interest to readers as well. He drops from sight in my story because he was such a miserable navigator that his party became hopelessly lost in the Colorado Rockies during the winter of 1807. He failed to reach Santa Fe until he was rescued from starvation by the very Spanish army to whom he had been sent to create an international incident. By the time his rag‐tag force was captured, his mentor, General Wilkinson, had already changed sides and called off his plans for a war with Spain. Pike was bitterly disappointed because his illegally authorized mission received none of the commendations that Lewis and Clarkʹs brilliantly planned and executed expedition had been given. Pike was killed during the War of 1812.

  Thomas Jefferson achieved his dream of peaceful westward expansion and preserved the federal union. He even outlived W
ilkinson, Pike, and his old rival, Aaron Burr. I have taken literary license in creating patriots such as Elise and Samuel who provided ʹʹfield assistanceʺ in the deadly game of power politics. As to Eliseʹs prediction that she and Santiago would end their lives as citizens of the United States, in 1846 a conquering American Army rode into Santa Fe. By the treaty of Guadeloupe Hidalgo, which ended the Mexican War, all of Spainʹs possessions from Texas to California fell into American hands. The Quinn grandchildren probably called it ʺManifest Destiny.ʺ We would like to think Elise and Santiago lived to see it.

  I relied on a wide variety of resources to weave the complex tapestry of intrigues and counter‐intrigues in the plot. For a complete overview of the international political scene, This Affair of Louisiana by Alexander De Conde is superb, particularly with regard to the expansionism inherent in the American ideology and Thomas Jeffersonʹs role in shaping it. The Burr Conspiracy by Thomas Perkins Abernathy painstakingly pieces together the whole incredibly confusing puzzle surrounding General Wilkinsonʹs turncoat tactics. Standard biographies of the historical principals that I found illuminating include Albert Jay Nockʹs Jefferson, J. R. Jacobsʹ Tarnished Warrior on James Wilkinson, and John Upton Terrellʹs Zebulon Pike.

  For background on rough‐and‐tumble 1806 St. Louis, I used John T. Scharfʹs History of St. Louis. To capture the ambiance of exotic New Orleans, I reread Harnett Kaneʹs Queen New Orleans and Herbert Asburyʹs The French Quarter.

  The Santa Fe Trail was loosely referred to as the northern leg of the Royal Road.

  El Camino Real was closed to all but licensed Spanish traders, and no goods from French or American sources were permitted to be sold in New Spain. But Spanish law enforcement being what it was, renegades and rascals such as Santiago Quinnʹs motley band traveled it illegally, often at great peril to their lives. For an overview of this hardy breed, Time‐Lifeʹs Old West Series, The Trailblazers, with text by Bil Gilbert, is excellent. Diaries and books about the hardships of Santa Fe travel abound. Standard works about latter‐day Santa Fe trade which I relied upon include Josiah Greggʹs Commerce of the Prairie, Susan Magoffinʹs Down the Santa Fe Trail and into Mexico, Kate Greggʹs Road to Santa Fe, and R. S. Duffusʹs Santa Fe Trail.