by Carol Finch
“Is this the Apache version of a wrestling match?” she asked as she rolled up her shirtsleeves.
“Yep, think you can handle an armload of wiggling little warriors, Irish?” John asked, his eyes glinting with challenging amusement.
He looked so adorable with his raven hair standing on end, his faded shirt twisted, his nose bent sideways because Flora had latched onto his face and was tugging at his earlobe.
“Let me at ’em!” Tara dashed forward to tickle the spot above Calvin’s knee that never failed to send him into fits of giggles.
Laughing uproariously, they wallowed around like pigs in the mud. Then Samuel and Derek held Tara down—and refused to let her up.
“Tickle her, John,” Samuel insisted. “She’s got ticklish spots on her ribs.”
Smiling devilishly, eyes glinting with amusement, John hunkered down beside her. “Ticklish, are you, Irish?”
When he ran his fingertips along her ribs, Tara wriggled desperately. All three boys joined in to torment her until she was squawking helplessly. “You win,” she gasped. “I give up!” Good sports that they were, John and the boys backed off so Tara could catch her breath. “How many more Apache games have you scheduled for the day?” she tweeted.
“One or two,” John said as he offered a hand to hoist her to her feet.
“What are we gonna do next?” the children chorused, hopping up and down with barely contained excitement.
“Bow and arrow target practice,” he announced. “Every respectable Indian brave should be able to use a bow. Samuel, go find a piece of sandstone to use as chalk. We’ll draw a bull’s-eye…on Irish’s derriere.”
“Hey!” she protested. “I’ve landed in a cactus patch often enough to know that won’t be a bit of fun.”
He grinned, silver-blue eyes twinkling. “Okay then, we’ll draw a target on the barn if you don’t want to be our human pincushion. Derek, take the other children to cut some more willow branches. I’ll find some twine.”
The children shot off like bullets to gather the needed equipment.
“Thank you, John,” she murmured as she dusted off her backside.
John reached over to pluck a blade of grass from her tangled hair. “Thanks for what? Not poking your fanny full of arrows?”
“That, too, but most of all for entertaining the children. You gave me time to map out the new pasture fence.”
“You can show me where you want it so the kids and I can put up the fence after we finish our latest project.”
Tara glanced at his injured ribs, then his thigh. “Are you sure you’re up to all these extra tasks? I don’t want you to reopen a wound, especially after I went to so much effort stitching you back together.” She hesitated a beat, wondering if she should tell John about the outlaw gang that she’d heard mentioned in town. Not now, she decided. John looked totally relaxed and content. She didn’t want to spoil the day for him or the children.
“Something wrong, Irish?” he murmured as he smoothed away her pensive frown.
“Just thinking. While you’re fashioning bows and arrows, I’ll go whip up some cookies. Then I’ll be ready for my instruction on bows.”
“Sounds good. As weapons go, bows are exceptionally effective. They don’t make a lot of racket when you’re trying to even the odds in battle. The kids think all these activities are fun and games, but there may come a time when they’ll need to ward off trouble with a few wrestling holds, a big stick or a bow. I won’t always be around—”
Tara pressed her fingertips to his lips to silence him. “I’m not looking too far into the future, and I’m not wasting more time wondering what life is going to be like without you around. I’m sure I’ll find out all too soon, and so will the children. Teach us what you think we need to know to protect ourselves and I’ll be forever indebted to you.”
He nodded. His lips moved sensuously beneath her fingertips. Tara looked into his eyes and felt the intensity of his gaze. She wondered if what had begun as a careless, incidental gesture had the same effect on him as it had on her. She thought she sensed the same forbidden longing in his expression that she knew must surely be reflected in hers. If that were true, why hadn’t he sought her out on all those lonely nights she’d spent alone? Couldn’t he tell she was starving for another taste of him?
Obviously not. Astute though he was in certain matters, he couldn’t tell when a woman was falling hopelessly in love with him. Either that or she’d lost her appeal for him. Oh certainly, he claimed he liked her fine and dandy, but she doubted she was woman enough to hold his interest very long. No, he probably preferred experienced females who knew how to please a man. Tara suspected her untutored kisses and caresses were shamefully lacking. It was only basic lust and close proximity that stirred him on occasion—where she was concerned, at least.
“Irish, go bake the cookies,” he ordered gruffly.
Tara snatched her hand from his lips, appalled that she’d been tracing them with her fingertips while lost in erotic thought. He, she assumed, was tired of her pawing at him the way Flora usually did.
“Right, the cookies. Coming right up, Mr. Wolfe.” She wheeled around like a soldier on parade and marched toward the cabin.
John watched her go, tormented by a mixture of forbidden pleasure and gnawing frustration. Her caressing touch drove him to aroused distraction. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be held accountable for what he might do while they were alone. Grabbing Tara to his hardening body and kissing her breathless, while children darted around—and might return any second—wasn’t a wise notion.
Flora had already hounded him about having that talk about the birds and bees he’d postponed twice. He’d rather not put on an exhibition this afternoon. Damn it to hell, wanting Tara had become as natural as breathing, but he’d vowed not to complicate this situation.
Someday a fine, upstanding man would catch Tara’s eye. He’d be kind, decent and deserving of her love. Someone who could love her completely and devote his life to her and the children. John wasn’t that man. Each time he let himself consider what it’d be like to love Tara, he could hear Gray Eagle’s voice whispering, reminding him that he was the Apache’s only hope of survival in a world dominated and controlled by the white population.
It was up to John to protect the Apache from corrupt Indian agents who stole from the tribe for personal gain. He had to change the views of heartless military leaders and law officers who still believed in Indian annihilation—even though the federal government had done the math and decided it was cheaper to let the Apache live on unfit reservation land that no white man wanted rather than outfit, equip and pay a regiment of solders to slaughter them on battlefields.
And Raven, damn his hide, was consorting with the worst vermin in the country. The price on his head increased by the week. Yet John remained in Paradise Valley, neglecting his obligations in the outside world, enjoying his convalescence. Selfishly, he wanted to ignore the nagging voice of conscience, but it was never silent and demanded to be heard.
Just a couple more weeks to regain his strength and stamina and to absorb and savor the purity and innocence that had gone missing from his life. Two more weeks—was that asking so much?
“We found the sticks, Zohn Whoof!” Flora shouted as she sprinted toward him. “What do we do next, hmm?”
John cast aside his troubled thoughts and flashed Flora, Maureen and Calvin a smile. Maybe he couldn’t enjoy the arousing pleasure he sensed awaited him in Tara’s arms, but he’d teach these children how to survive in the world outside their secluded canyon. When he finished their training they’d be competent survivalists, one and all. If all Tara had was a brigade of children to defend and protect their paradise, then they’d know how to give themselves a fighting chance when trouble arose—and it would eventually.
John knew from experience that trouble always did.
Tara ignored the feelings of rejection and inadequacy that hounded her when John shooed her off to bake cookies. She
paid close attention to his instructions while he showed her and the children the technique of handling a bow. Although the weapons he’d hastily constructed were crude, he promised to make higher quality ones during future sessions.
It amused Tara that the children hung on his every word and followed his instructions implicitly. They tried exceptionally hard to earn his praise and gain his notice. He seemed aware of that and nodded his approval when they performed tasks correctly. The girls received hugs when they hit the target, and the boys were rewarded with pats on the back. John did not, however, touch Tara in any way. He merely voiced his praise from a noticeable distance. She was pretty sure he was subtly reminding her that he didn’t want to get close to her again.
To Tara’s amazement, the children were the ones who called a halt to the instruction John had begun on handling a bowie knife. Samuel, self-appointed spokesman of the brood, announced they had chores to tend. The children scattered like a covey of quail without complaint, leaving John and Tara alone.
“I wouldn’t mind a private lesson,” she requested, staring into the distance, hesitant to meet his gaze and see rejection in his eyes.
“If you wish, Irish,” he said with exaggerated politeness.
In an impersonal voice, John walked her through the proper method of handling the knife, showed her the technique of flicking her wrist to ensure trajectory and accuracy of aim. Tara missed the target wide to the right on her first three attempts. John reluctantly stepped behind her to move her arm through the proper motions.
Tara could feel his breath stirring against her neck, and she shivered uncontrollably. Determined to ignore her feminine needs, she focused absolute attention on his instruction. But it was impossible not to become distracted while he was standing as close as her own shadow, impossible not to breathe him in and wish for another of those mind-boggling kisses.
“That’s enough practice for today,” he said, abruptly retreating. “You can practice on your own tomorrow when I take the children on another excursion.”
Deflated, Tara nodded. She ambled over to retrieve the knife, which had barely pricked the perimeter of the target. By the time she pivoted to face John she managed to muster up a smile that belied her feelings of rejection. Blast and be damned, she’d thought she’d overcome those feelings of being unwanted and unaccepted. Unfortunately, John’s standoffishness resurrected those wounded emotions that had tormented her since childhood.
“Irish…” He sighed, then raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, I’m trying not to…”
His voice fizzled out when Samuel and Derek exited the barn. Or rather, they trudged from the barn, as if their energy had been zapped. That was highly unusual, Tara mused. The boys had more energy than they knew what to do with. Then, just as suddenly, Flora and Calvin appeared, the lambs trailing behind them. Both children drooped noticeably at the shoulders, and Calvin’s limp was more pronounced. They heaved audible sighs in unison as they herded the sheep into the pen. Maureen dragged herself from the house, then half collapsed on the porch bench.
John raised a dark brow and glanced at Tara. She shrugged, then frowned at the children. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Derek said as he clomped up the front steps. “Must’ve worn ourselves out—” he yawned “—during that hoop-and-pole game and the wrestling match.”
“Yeah,” Samuel chimed in. “I’m really—” he gave a huge yawn and a muffled moan “—beat tonight. Think I’ll turn in early.”
Tara gaped at him. “Without supper? You usually eat like a horse. I’ve never known you to skip a meal, even when you’re ill.”
Samuel yawned and stretched out his arms, then let them droop limply at his sides. “I’m not hungry because I stuffed myself at dinner.”
“We all did,” Maureen said in a voice that implied she was so exhausted she could barely muster the energy to speak. “But I did fix you and John a picnic supper.”
“That’s a grand idea,” Derek murmured as he lounged negligently against the door. “Maybe the two of you should have a picnic in the canyon so you won’t disturb us when we head off to bed.” He glanced at John. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Uh…no, of course not.”
“Thanks,” Calvin murmured, following Derek into the house.
Bewildered, Tara watched the children trudge, single file, into the cabin. Then it dawned on her what was going on and she frowned suspiciously. She had the unmistakable feeling the children, who’d become exceptionally attached to John in just a few short weeks, had decided to do some matchmaking so they could keep him. Those little scamps! When had they become so devious?
Flora reappeared in the doorway, holding the picnic basket. “Here, Zohn Whoof. G’night.”
“Well,” John said, swallowing a smile, “I guess if no one else around here is hungry we’ll have an evening picnic by ourselves. I, for one, am starving.”
Tara knew he was playing along for the five match-makers’ benefit. So as not to disappoint them, she manufactured a smile and gestured for him to lead the way. “I’m famished myself. After supper I’ll show you where I’d like to build the new pasture fence.”
She thought she heard a collective groan of disappointment as she walked away from the door where the children had gathered to eavesdrop. Discussing fence post locations, she presumed, wasn’t what the children hoped would be on the agenda after their picnic supper. No doubt, they intended Tara and John to occupy their time with hugging and kissing.
Chapter Nine
“Where, I’d like to know, did those kids learn to be so manipulative?” Tara muttered as she hiked alongside John. “I hope you realize I had nothing to do with this scheme.”
“I realize,” John replied, chuckling.
He understood their matchmaking plot and he was flattered the kids cared enough to want him to remain a part of the family. He figured the children were trying to nurture his interest in Tara. Well, that wasn’t necessary. He was definitely interested and attracted. That wasn’t the problem, and he supposed he needed to explain his situation to them without going into the details of his true identity.
“So where do you want to have this picnic?” Tara asked.
John gestured toward the triple spires of stone that were an ageless Apache landmark. The natural monument was surrounded by a copse of cottonwood and willow trees well watered by a meandering stream that spilled from one of the springs at a higher elevation.
“We spent many days at the Altar of the Gods during our coming and going to raid in Mexico,” he informed Tara. “We gave thanks for sparing warriors’ lives and we offered sacrifices to the Great Spirit.”
“Live sacrifices?” Tara questioned dubiously.
John chuckled at her disapproving expression. “No, Irish, spoils of war we obtained from the Mexicans. They were the first to encroach upon the Apacheria. They overran our land in search of their Seven Cities of Gold. There’s a treasure trove in the small winding cave at the base of the middle rock spire.”
Tara’s perfectly arched brows shot up like exclamation marks. “There is? I never noticed it.”
“You’d have to know where to look to find it,” he said, taking the lead through the trees.
Tara followed closely on his heels as he picked his way along the stream, then sidestepped up the sandstone slope. “I still don’t see any evidence of a cave.”
“You won’t until you’re practically on top of it,” John assured her. He weaved in and out of the underbrush until he spied the bushy cedar tree that concealed the entrance. “Here,” he announced.
Tara frowned curiously. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because there may come a time when you need to use the Apache treasure to provide for the children.”
Tara’s mouth dropped open, and then she jerked upright and tilted her chin up a notch. “I can take care of the children by myself. I’m not going to rob from the Apache cache, especially not wh
en these supposed treasures could be used to ease the Apache’s plight on the reservation.”
John admired her independence—in an exasperated kind of way—but she was being more proud than sensible. “There are hidden caves, filled with pouches of gold and silver, scattered all over this territory. Stolen rings and necklaces from Spanish haciendas are stashed among the treasures, as well. None of them will do the Apache nation any good now. If white men discover the existence of these hidden caches they’ll be crawling all over the territory, demanding that more Apache land be handed over. Already the chiefs have been forced to sign over a twelve-mile strip of land on the reservation because veins of silver and copper were discovered by miners who were prospecting illegally.”
“Why, that’s outright robbery!” Tara squawked in outrage.
He smiled ruefully. “It’s the white man’s way. For decades they’ve herded Indian tribes onto worthless land and have taken the fertile, valuable property for themselves. To the Indian cultures land was never meant to be owned. It’s considered a gift from the Great Spirit, to be used, protected and replenished, to share with all other living things. You could own horses and other possessions, but never the land. To the Apache, it would make as much sense to claim to own the air we breathe, the rivers that flow into the seas. Indians have an entirely different perception of life than whites, who determine who they are by how much property, how much gold and silver and how many palatial homes they own.”
Tara frowned thoughtfully. “It must’ve been difficult for you to return to white society after being raised Apache. What you were taught to believe in, to honor and respect, wasn’t necessarily so in white culture.”
John chuckled as he eased between the bushy cedar and the sandstone wall. “Definitely a shock, Irish,” he admitted. “Although Gray Eagle made certain I never lost the ability to speak English, I had to adjust to the way Indians think, then revert back to the way whites think. But because stealth and cunning in the wilderness, the absolute oneness with nature, was so much a part of Apache training, I have the advantage when it comes to tracking white outlaws. What is legendary skill to the whites is nothing but daily routine to the Apache.”