by Carol Finch
“I’d rather learn Apache tricks,” Derek groused
“There’ll be more tomorrow,” John promised. “In the meantime, I’m going to take some measurements to build Irish and the girls some shelves to store their belongings and some additional kitchen cabinets.”
“That’s not necess—” Tara tried to object.
“I want to do it,” John interrupted. “I’ll use the lumber left over from the pasture gates for shelving. It won’t be fancy, but it will be practical.”
Tara trailed along behind the pied piper and his bewitched children, knowing without the slightest doubt that not having John around was going to put a damper on everyone’s spirits. Blast it, he wasn’t even gone and she missed him already.
He wasn’t coming.
Tara stared out her bedroom window, willing John to materialize from the darkness. He meant to keep the vow he’d made that afternoon, she realized. He didn’t want to risk being discovered in her room—as she’d nearly been discovered naked with him in the hayloft.
She muttered in exasperation, then squirmed in her bed—her empty, lonely bed. John was trying to protect her from consequences that might arise after he left. He wanted her, she knew that, but he was denying himself, and her, pleasures so potent and overpowering that the mere thought of the passion that blazed between them left her body aching with need. He was being honorable and conscientious, and she wanted to curse him for it.
Sighing deeply, she flounced onto her back and stared at the ceiling. When his handsome face materialized above her in her mind, she squeezed her eyes shut and muttered another unladylike curse. She wouldn’t go to him. She’d initiated their first—and obviously only—tryst. She had to accept the limitations he’d set for himself. She had to remember that his priorities had been handed down to him by a nation crying out for help. Was she so selfish and possessive that she’d ask the man she loved to turn his back on his people when his sense of honor and devotion were part of the reason she loved him? No, she couldn’t live with herself if she did that.
Tara tried to relax, to sleep. She knew from experience that greater hurts existed in this world than loving a man she couldn’t have forever. But that didn’t make wanting him, and not having him, any easier to bear.
She wasn’t coming.
John told himself that he was relieved, but that was empty consolation. His male body had been in a permanent state of arousal since he’d lain down in the straw. He’d just have to endure the ache, damn it.
He hadn’t fully realized—until he’d given the children that speech this afternoon about responsibility and consequences—that he hadn’t practiced what he preached. He’d been guilty of seeking physical release when the urge struck. The experienced women from his past had means of protecting themselves, emotionally and physically. But Tara didn’t, and there was a marked difference between scratching an itch and making wild, heart-shattering love with her.
Last night shouldn’t have happened. It couldn’t happen again. John repeated that mantra for what must’ve been a solid hour—for all the good it did, which was no good at all. He still ached for her touch, the erotic taste of her, the tantalizing feel of her supple body shimmering around him, caressing him in the most satisfying, sensual ways imaginable.
Groaning in discomfort, John rolled to his side and stared out the loft window. He couldn’t go to her, not even to sleep beside her, to hold her, absorb her scent or to revisit the first true feelings of contentment he’d ever known. He simply couldn’t trust himself, because she was his weakness. John didn’t think he had too many, but Tara definitely topped the list.
No, he had to keep his distance, use the children as a buffer. In a few days he’d be gone, back to his solitary life of constant watchfulness, continuous danger. When he built up enough resistance to withstand seeing Tara again—without touching her, possessing her—he’d return.
He’d give himself six months, he decided. That would be something to look forward to. Six months wasn’t so long, was it? No, he guessed not. Not if you were one of those gigantic turtles he’d heard about that lived on some faraway island and survived for a couple of hundred years. But for a man who was very much afraid he was on the verge of falling in love—and didn’t dare admit it to himself because he knew he couldn’t act upon his feelings because of prior obligations—six months was an eternity.
Chapter Twelve
John was up at dawn—might as well have been, considering his inability to sleep. He attacked his carpentry projects with fiendish haste because he wanted the shelving nailed together and put in place by noon. He planned to take the older boys with him to a nearby canyon where he knew a herd of mustangs came to breed during the fall season. As a warrior, he’d captured several mares from the herd, despite that coal-black devil stallion that kept a protective watch over his harem.
Training and selling extra horses would bring this family good money during the winter months. John could rest easier knowing Tara and the children wouldn’t go hungry like the Apache. He also knew he’d wasted his time showing Tara the hidden treasure beneath the Altar of the Gods.
She wouldn’t touch it.
Although the other children were disappointed at not being allowed to join the expedition, John promised an after-supper excursion to pacify them. It was difficult knowing the others felt left out, but what was infinitely worse was meeting Tara’s searching gaze across the table, across the room. He was acutely aware that she would’ve welcomed him with open arms at midnight. His body was still objecting to his denial each time he came within five feet of its obsession. John would be thankful to have that Irish elf out from underfoot for a few hours. With any luck, he’d only think about her every hour or so.
“Where are we going?” Samuel asked as they ascended the winding trail to the south canyon rim.
“Diablo Canyon.”
Derek and Samuel glanced uneasily at each other, then at John.
“Doesn’t Diablo mean devil?” Derek asked warily.
“Yes, but it’s not what you think,” he replied as he reined his piebald stallion southeastward. He patted Pie affectionately on the neck. It had been a while since the two of them had ridden off together. “The Apache named the canyon because of the disposition of the stallion that lords over the mustangs. If we’re fortunate, that old devil has long since passed on and his successor won’t be so protective of his herd.”
While they rode abreast, John explained his plan to bottle up the horses in a narrow gully where they could be lassoed and staked out with ropes. When the threesome reached the rugged, rock-strewn chasm, John found the familiar Indian trail that led to the grassy pasture below. He fished his field glasses from his saddlebag to scan the area, spotting the herd grazing at a distance. He motioned for the boys to follow him around the cap rock so they could remain downwind.
Sure enough, that stallion was grazing with the herd. Damn the rotten luck, thought John as he circled the ravine. That cantankerous old devil wasn’t going to make it easy for John and the boys to capture the mustangs.
Raven held up the spyglass and scanned the depths of the canyon from his lookout point. He focused on the site where he’d encountered White Wolf, or rather John Wolfe, as he was known after he’d slithered off like a coward to rejoin his people. Raven’s glittering black eyes zeroed in, searching the area for any signs of life in the Canyon of the Sun.
So White Wolf was dead, he presumed. There was no sign of that piebald stallion Gray Eagle had given him. That prize stallion should’ve been his, Raven mused, gnashing his teeth against the bitter memories that assailed him. White Wolf had been the favored son, and he wasn’t even blood Apache! But now White Wolf was gone for good, at long last.
When Raven noticed the large mound of rocks that lay to the north, his presumption that White Wolf had died from gunshot wounds was confirmed. Someone had buried his carcass so animals wouldn’t make a feast of him. Personally, Raven didn’t care what became of White Wolf’s remains
. He’d been standing in White Wolf’s shadow for years, listening to Gray Eagle’s high praise, watching his blood brother assume a position of authority among the tribe—a position that should’ve been Raven’s. But White Wolf had always been taller, stronger, swifter of foot and exceptionally cunning and wise.
Not cunning enough to survive his confrontation with Raven. In the end, White Wolf had come to think like a white man, taking for granted that Raven would submit to captivity. Raven would never return to the hated reservation, never be penned up like a stray dog, eating half rations, watching soldiers cheat and steal while he could do nothing about it.
Anger and resentment roiled inside him as he circled the perimeter of the canyon to reaffirm his belief, beyond question, that White Wolf had died from the gunshot wounds. With him out of the way, Raven’s freedom was secure. He could loot and raid and take out his frustration on the foolish whites that invaded the Apacheria. No white man was competent enough to stop him. The whites were fools, every last one of them!
The three white men and the Mexican who rode with Raven depended on his intelligence and cunning. They relied on him to scout and plan upcoming robberies. The fools were short on patience and self-discipline. If not for his influence they’d ride helter-skelter from one robbery to the next. It was always Raven who cautioned them to hide out for a week at a time before scouting the next area of attack. Without his knowledge and forethought, the lawmen scouring the territory would’ve overtaken the bandidos a year ago. But Raven knew how and where to hide, when to raid. He was never predictable.
The stupid whites he’d aligned himself with thought the reason he insisted they disguise themselves as Indians was to conceal their identity. But that wasn’t the reason at all. It was to assure the white government that not all Apache would meekly surrender and live on the reservation. Raven was using the ignorant outlaws to make his point.
He smiled arrogantly, recalling how easy it was to manipulate the outlaw gang. They were slaves to their greed, eager to prey on horses, cattle and white captives. Women and children were easy targets, and the white man’s government could be counted on to pay a ransom for their return. In addition, the Mexicans paid handsomely for white slaves, because they still harbored resentment over losing territory to the horde of greedy whites that claimed land from Texas to California.
Satisfied that White Wolf—the only man Raven didn’t want on his trail—was no longer a threat, he rose to his feet to retrace his steps to his horse. Raven stopped dead when he caught sight of movement in the center of the canyon. Reflexively, he dropped to the ground, then retrieved his spyglass. He focused on the monolithic stone spires that formed the Altar of the Gods, then he shifted his attention to the south. A sinister smile quirked his lips when a woman and three children came into view. He appraised the crippled boy child, the two girls and then the woman, whose mane of hair caught fire and burned in the sunlight.
Raven scrambled to his feet, then scurried along the cap rock in a half crouch, darting from boulder to boulder to prevent detection. A clever Apache never attacked until he had counted his enemies’ numbers and knew their exact locations. Glancing southeast, he spotted the pasture where three horses grazed. More booty to tempt the greedy desperadoes.
A few minutes later Raven spotted the cabin tucked in a copse of cottonwoods and the barn built against the north wall of the canyon. Sheep milled in a nearby corral and chickens pecked at the grass. But there wasn’t a man in sight to protect the woman and children.
Sitting back on his haunches, Raven smiled in sinister satisfaction. Raiding this ranch would serve him well. He could steal livestock, capture the woman and children as slaves or hold them for ransom. More importantly, he’d reclaim the Canyon of the Sun as sacred Apache ground.
He knew the ruffians that rode with him would approve of the booty, and the raid would be easily accomplished. As soon as the four bandits recovered from their drunken spree, Raven would break camp and descend into the Canyon of the Sun. Once again this Apache haunt would be wiped clean of white invaders. And once again the white-eyes would know where Raven had been, but they’d be unable to predict where he’d strike next.
He slithered off, making his way back to his paint pony. Very soon this canyon would be vacated, preserved and returned to the Apache and their gods—as it should be, would be, forever.
Tara paced the grass, then reversed direction to pace some more. It had been hours since John and the boys had ridden off to hunt mustangs. Had something happened? Where the blazes were they?
These past few hours were a vivid reminder of what her life would be like when John left. She felt lost and restless when he wasn’t somewhere on the premises. This was definitely a foretaste of what she could expect in the weeks to come, and she didn’t like it one blasted bit!
Sweet mercy, how had she gotten so attached to him so quickly? It just wasn’t fair, she mused sourly. But then, no one promised life would be fair. She and the children were living proof of that.
Tara caught her breath when she spotted the piebald stallion and rider on the canyon rim. Immeasurable pleasure and relief replaced the lonely, empty feelings plaguing her moments before. Captivated, she watched horse and rider move with the grace of a centaur as they descended into the valley, leading a string of horses. Derek and Samuel brought up the rear, assuring her that they had returned uninjured.
As the single-file procession approached, Tara noticed the mustangs had been lashed together with rope, head to rump, in a clever fashion that made it impossible for them to rear up or kick. Tara shook her head in amazement. Was there nothing this remarkable man didn’t know how to do? Except maybe love her with the depth of affection she felt for him.
Young Flora appeared at Tara’s side as the procession halted near the barn. “How’d you know how to round up those horses?” she asked John.
Before he could reply, Samuel and Derek grinned and said in unison, “Old Apache trick.”
Flora’s delicate features puckered in a frown as she peered up at John. “Those Apaches sure do know lots of tricks, don’t they?”
“Sure do, sugar,” John replied as he swung effortlessly from the saddle. “Your brothers did a fine job of restraining the mustangs for their march home.”
Samuel and Derek beamed proudly. It occurred to Tara that, as much as the boys wanted to think of themselves as men, they wouldn’t have made much progress without John’s instruction and guidance. He’d taught them more about ranching and survival in three weeks than she could’ve taught them in ten years, for she relied on trial and error herself.
“Wait till you hear how we bottled up the horses and lassoed the ones we picked out,” Samuel said excitedly.
“And man, I wish you could’ve seen that old dragon stallion rearing up and screaming at us,” Derek added.
While Maureen and Flora gathered around to hear the details, John led the horses into the corral without unlashing them. Tara figured he intended to give the spooked animals time to adjust to their confined space before freeing them. Considering their lack of domestication, Tara wasn’t in favor of turning them loose for fear they’d tear up the new fences.
“Where’s Calvin?” John questioned, glancing hither and yon.
Tara scanned the area. “He was here a minute ago.” Her attention shifted to the other children, and then returned to the space Calvin had vacated suddenly. Her concerned gaze flew to John. She could tell by his solemn expression that he was thinking the same thing she was. Calvin felt left out because he hadn’t been allowed to join the hunt, and he didn’t feel a part of their triumphant return.
“I’ll find him,” John said as he wheeled and walked away.
John’s instinct proved correct. In less than five minutes he located Calvin perched on a boulder beside the nearest spring. He was chucking pebbles into the water that rippled over the stone streambed.
“Cal?”
The dejected boy glanced up momentarily, then focused his attention
on pitching rocks. John squatted down to sip the cool water. “Thanks for keeping watch over Tara and your sisters while I was gone.”
Calvin shrugged carelessly. “I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Providing protection sometimes requires no more than keeping your eyes peeled for trouble, but it’s still necessary and important.”
Calvin snorted. “Didn’t see a snake or tarantula or nothin’. I’m just a cripple—”
“Whoa, hold it right there, young man,” John interrupted in a stern voice. “You are not a cripple and no one around here considers you as such, especially not me. The problem is that you’re seven years old, which isn’t a disgrace. All of us were seven at one time in our lives, you know.”
“Yeah, but when you were seven years old you could probably run like the wind and had the strength to do all sorts of things I can’t do.”
John propped himself against the boulder where Calvin sat. He crossed his arms and feet in front of him and said very deliberately, “When I was seven years old I was taking beatings from my drunken father. He never gave me the time of day unless he wanted me to fetch whiskey or felt the need to pound me, for no particular reason except that he was a bully.”
Calvin’s hazel eyes bulged and his jaw scraped his chest. John nodded in confirmation. “The son of a gun broke my left arm when I was five, and it took a while to regain good use of it. I spent years being forced to work like a man three times my size, making repairs on our farm, while dear old daddy got liquored up at night and slept half the day away.”
“Did your mama have anything to say about it?” Calvin asked.
“My mama didn’t hang around very long, Son. According to my pa, she decided to take off to find a better life when I was three or four years old. She didn’t think she’d have much of a chance if she dragged me along behind her. Of course, that was my pa’s version of the story. But since my mama never bothered to write or visit, I guess his version is the only one I’ll ever hear, especially since my pa decided to take up prospecting and we wandered the frontier.”