by Carol Finch
The children sprinted off while John settled Tara in bed. He was bound and determined to cleanse her wound and discard her bloodstained shirt before the children returned. They didn’t need to see Tara at her absolute worst.
Working swiftly, he rinsed the wound, then breathed a grateful sigh when he realized his bullet wasn’t lodged near her heart, but had exited through the meaty flesh of her shoulder. Knowing that was the case, he couldn’t figure out why she was still unconscious. She should’ve roused at least briefly by now.
John brushed his hand over the side of her head, then examined the back of her skull. “Well, hell,” he muttered. There were two swollen bumps at the base of her neck. He couldn’t be certain, but he suspected Raven had knocked her unconscious so she wouldn’t cause him trouble during the cross-country trek. The blows to her head, compounded with her painful wound, likely prevented her from regaining consciousness. It was probably a blessing, John decided. He knew firsthand how painful a serious wound could be. Remaining unconscious for a few hours definitely had its advantages.
It was a tremendous load off his conscience to know Tara would survive, though it would take time for her to recover her strength and the use of her left arm. Unfortunately, she’d forever bear a scar—a grim reminder that she’d entered his hellish world of cruelty and violence and hadn’t walked away unscathed. By his own hand he’d marked her for life.
Damn it to hell!
When the children returned a half hour later, John left them to sit with Tara while he brewed and mixed the ingredients for the poultice. He wasted no time in applying the healing herbs, then gave instructions to the children, requesting that they change the bandages and replace the poultice every four hours.
Leaving the children in charge, John ambled outside, then glanced around the peaceful canyon. Although this felt like home and the children felt like family, he couldn’t remain here for long. Not after what had happened to them all. Especially to Tara, he mused as he raked a shaky hand through his tousled hair. He wasn’t sure he could face her when she roused. They both knew that the bullet that brought her down had come from his pistol. God, from his pistol!
Frustrated energy put him in motion and kept him there. John worked with fiendish haste to finish the job the children had begun of cleaning up the homestead. He wanted the ransacked ranch to look exactly as it had before disaster and tragedy struck. This, after all, was Tara’s paradise. This was that special place set apart from the evil and corruption found in the outside world. This was where comfort, reassurance, peace, security and close family ties reigned supreme.
Or at least they had until John contaminated paradise with the wrath of hell.
He was doing a dandy job of wallowing in misery and regret—until he saw Maureen dash off the porch and race past the triple sandstone spires that divided the valley. He set aside the saw he’d been using to repair the corral the desperadoes had practically ripped to pieces in their haste to steal the horses and herd them from the canyon.
He wasn’t sure he was in the right frame of mind to track Maureen down and offer comfort, but the girl was definitely battling unseen demons. John couldn’t leave this ranch until he’d done his best to console and reassure her.
He found Maureen at the nearest spring, crying her eyes out. She was coiled up in a tight ball in the grass. Tears rolled unchecked down her flushed cheeks. The moment he knelt beside her she recoiled, refusing his gentle touch, staring at him as if he were her enemy.
“No!” she shrieked.
Well, thank God she could speak, he thought in relief. It was the first word he’d heard out of her all day.
“You know I’d never hurt you,” he murmured soothingly, wishing he could say the same thing to Tara and know she’d believe that. He’d never, ever, forget how it felt to be the cause of her pain. “What happened, Maureen?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question, just stared right through him as if he wasn’t there. He waited for what seemed an eternity, wondering if she trusted him enough to share her torment with him. Finally, the dam of buried emotion burst forth like an erupting geyser.
“They killed Mama like that awful man tried to kill Tara!”
Her high-pitched screech made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Tell me what happened, Maureen,” he whispered compassionately.
“Mama and I were running through the rain during a thunderstorm to get home. A gang of men suddenly appeared from the darkened alley. They dragged Mama from my arms. She fought them just like Tara fought and—” Her breath hitched on a shuddering sob. “They…m-murdered her and I didn’t call for help, d-didn’t try to s-stop them. I couldn’t s-speak or move at all. And when that wicked Apache took Tara away with him, I saw them on the ledge above me, but I couldn’t shout to the other children. I didn’t help her when she needed me most! Now she’s going to die, too!”
When Maureen flung herself into his arms, John nearly toppled over from the impact. The girl wailed hysterically. Her entire body shook, as if she were releasing pent-up emotions that had been tormenting her for years. A child’s nightmare had been reborn, recreated, revisited, and it held her in its merciless clutches.
John hugged her tightly, letting her have her much-needed cry. Maureen was spilling enough tears for both of them, so he ought to feel better, shouldn’t he?
Yeah, maybe in about a thousand years.
“It seems to me your mother loved you so dearly that she purposely distracted attention away from you so you’d be safe from harm,” he murmured soothingly. “Now that you’re older, you probably realize that Tara did the same thing when the raiders attacked the ranch. You know Tara loves you, that she’d do anything humanly possible to protect and defend you and the other children. Just as your mother was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, so was Tara. She’d willingly put herself in harm’s way to spare you. She wouldn’t have wanted you to confront Raven when he made his getaway,” he insisted. “And Tara isn’t going to die, Maureen. Her wound isn’t fatal, but she’ll need you and the other children to tend her while she recovers.”
“She’ll need y-you, t-too,” Maureen stammered brokenly.
John brushed his hand over the girl’s strawberry-blond head, and then gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You are Tara’s family. You’re all she needs. I have to ride to San Carlos. What I have to do there cannot wait. I wish I didn’t have to go at all, but it’s my obligation.”
“When are you leaving?” Maureen queried softly.
“In a few days, as soon as I’m sure Irish is doing better.”
“You’ll come back.” It wasn’t a question, he noted.
“Yes,” he assured her. He still wasn’t certain he could face Tara again, not after what he’d done, not after the pain and horror he’d caused her. But for the children’s sake, he’d return to help make life easier for them.
Maureen placed her hand trustingly in his, and John swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. When the girl stood up and turned toward the ranch, John walked with her, holding her protectively at his side, offering comfort and support. Well, maybe he’d done one thing right in his life. He’d helped this sweet, tormented girl face and conquer her demons. But it was Tara who had provided the loving reassurance that gave Maureen the faith and strength to overcome her tormented past.
Ah, Irish, he whispered silently to the image floating in his mind. You’ve accomplished amazing feats through your love and dedication. How I wish I could’ve accomplished as much!
Chapter Eighteen
Tara lifted heavy-lidded eyes to see five anxious faces hovering above her. She tried to smile reassuringly, but excruciating pain caused the expression to wobble on her lips. Now she knew exactly how John had felt when he’d been laid up in bed, battling to recover his strength.
The thought of John sent a vague memory sweeping through her. She wasn’t sure if she’d been dreaming, but she vaguely recalled him whispering to her in the darkness, shelter
ing her in his arms and providing warmth to combat her chills.
Tara tried to swallow past the unpleasant taste in her mouth and then found herself niggled by a fuzzy recollection of being force-fed something that left her drifting in a surreal world for hours on end. Peyote buttons…
“I thought you’d never wake up.” Flora sidled closer to Tara. “Are you hungry? Zohn Whoof said to feed you broth and water every time you woke up, just like we fed him.”
Tara nodded agreeably. She was famished, come to think of it. “How long have I been asleep?” Was that her voice? It sounded as if it had rusted.
Calvin inched closer. “Four days. John said not to worry about it, ’cause you’re extremely fatigued and rest is the very best thing for you.”
“He should know,” she murmured. “It hasn’t been that long since he was the one who was bedridden….” She frowned. “Where’s John?”
“He left,” Maureen replied. “He helped us put the farm in order, then he rode to San Carlos.”
Tara inwardly winced. She didn’t envy John that journey, for she knew its grim purpose. Although she’d remained conscious only a few minutes after she’d been shot that fateful day, she’d managed to catch the gist of the final conversation between John and Raven. She knew Raven’s death weighed heavily on John’s soul. He’d gone to Gray Eagle, bearing the worst of all possible news—that the blood of his adopted brother stained his hands.
Though Flora spoon-fed broth to her, Tara’s strength eluded her. Keeping her eyes open demanded more energy than she could muster. She fell asleep, serenaded by the children’s voices assuring her that they’d keep the ranch running efficiently while she recovered. She’d have told them that she didn’t doubt their capability for a second, but she was too weary to speak.
John entered the wickiup to find the old man sitting cross-legged on his buffalo quilt. Gray Eagle looked every day of his sixty-two years. Braided hair once as black and shiny as a crow’s wing had turned a tarnished gray. Deep creases that testified to years of turmoil and hard living lined the old chief’s face. His dark, soulful eyes lacked their usual sparkle and his thin-bladed shoulders drooped noticeably.
“Did you find Raven?” Gray Eagle asked in the Apache tongue. Not one for small talk, he cut right to the heart of the matter.
John sank down across from the aging chief. “I found him twice. The first time I tried to be lenient with him, but he shot me and left me for dead in the Canyon of the Sun. I caught up with Raven after he and his gang of desperadoes raided a farm, captured a woman and five orphans, stole their livestock and ransacked their home.”
Gray Eagle dropped his head, his expression bleak. His gnarled hands clenched into fists. “So he refused to come back with you.”
“Refused twice,” John said grimly. “He wouldn’t listen to reason.”
Very slowly, Gray Eagle lifted his head to stare John squarely in the eye. John knew the wise old chief understood what hadn’t been said. He silently thanked Gray Eagle for making this torturous conversation a little easier. But then, it wasn’t the Apache way to speak of a warrior’s moment of death. Gray Eagle knew he’d lost one son at another son’s hands.
It was a long, anguishing moment before the old chief spoke. “He could not accept you into his heart as easily as I could. Since childhood, he measured himself against you and found himself lacking in strength, character and cunning. I hoped one day he would see that you were not a threat, that constantly finding fault with you did not make him the mightier warrior.”
“Yet in the end, I failed you…and him,” John whispered, tormented. “I left here, vowing to make life more tolerable for the Apache at the reservation. I promised to bring my brother back to you, but I’ve failed in both endeavors.”
Gray Eagle sighed audibly. “We have prayed to the Great Spirit to deliver us from bondage, but our enemy’s numbers are too great, their weapons too powerful. We have been stripped of our land and our pride.”
“I have tried every way I know how—”
Gray Eagle lifted his hand, demanding silence. “We have become hobbled horses and we must accept what cannot be changed. The Anglos have abolished our tribal government, outlawed our ceremonial dances and forced us to adopt the white man’s ways. But the Anglos cannot steal the memories of our past, our history or our traditions. The life of the Apache has never been an easy one, but at least we had our freedom to hunt as we wanted, to visit our sacred lands and to pray to our gods.”
“I will never stop fighting for the rights and dignity of the Apache,” John promised resolutely.
“I know this, my son, but I have not been fair to you. I have had much time to think on this. I sent you on an impossible mission and gave you the difficult task of bringing your brother back to me. For five years you have become the circling eagle that watches over us. For me, you sacrificed your own chance to find peace and happiness in the Anglos’ culture. You did all I asked of you. But now I release you from your vow. I ask no more of you, for the sun has set on the Apache nation.”
“Gray Eagle—”
“You are an honorable warrior,” he interrupted. “Together we fought our last fight, but our battle is over. Find your place, John Wolfe.”
His place? The only place that felt like home was Paradise Valley. Yet John could admire it only from a distance, savor it in bittersweet memories—because he’d failed Tara. He’d very nearly cost her her life.
He’d been mistaken in thinking that he’d find the courage to face her again. But seeing her lying motionless in bed—brought down by his bullet, from his weapon—was a torment too difficult to bear. Sweet mercy! He couldn’t forgive himself for that—ever!
He’d sneaked into Tara’s room each night to hold her protectively in his arms, giving her peyote buttons to counter the pain. But always before dawn he’d left her bed, for fear she’d open her eyes and realize she’d been held and comforted by the very man who’d shot her. The grim fact was that he’d failed Tara as miserably as he’d failed the Apache.
“Your heart, too, is heavy,” Gray Eagle said perceptively. “What else troubles you, my son?”
“A woman,” he said on an anguished breath that felt as if it had been ripped from his chest.
Gray Eagle nodded sagely. A wry smile pursed his lips. “Ah, this woman with the five orphans. She has your heart.”
John gaped at him, astonished, speechless.
“You are very good at masking your feelings, John Wolfe. You had to be when you became white again—at my bidding. But I saw the expression on your face and heard the change in your voice when you mentioned the woman and children. They mean a great deal to you. Since that is so, it is time for you to take your place in that world.”
John couldn’t bring himself to go into detail about the reasons he was tormented, the reason he’d never be able to make a place for himself in Paradise Valley. If Gray Eagle rested easier thinking John could find peace and enjoy a bright future, then so be it.
“Go now, my son, and may the Great Spirit go with you.” Gray Eagle clasped John’s hand firmly. “And perhaps one day you will return here so I can meet my grandchildren. It is good and right that the children pass down to each generation the stories of how we came to be, that they remember our traditions. For if the stories die out, then it is as if our nation never was.”
John sincerely wished he could walk away from the reservation knowing the dawn of a new day would bring a better life for the Apache. Despite Gray Eagle’s bleak acceptance of captivity, John could not, would not, turn his back on his clan. He’d always be the Apache’s spokesman, fighting for their dignity, calling attention to white corruption and injustice on the reservation. He was an Apache at heart and he knew that giving up hope was the worst kind of defeat for the Indian nation.
Tara strolled onto the front porch to survey the ranch. The sight of her beloved home had always brought an indescribable sense of peace and security. Now there was something vital missing—John Wol
fe. It had been a month since she’d seen him looming like a dark, avenging angel on the outcropping of rock, facing his most difficult battle against Raven—confronting the most difficult choice life could hurl at him.
The children had seen John several times since then, had spoken to him, because he’d taken time from his duties as marshal to check on them. But never once had John ventured close enough to the cabin for Tara to see him.
She knew why he was standoffish, because now she fully understood what motivated and drove the man who held her heart in his hands. All she had to do was close her eyes and she could recall that fateful dawn when Raven had shoved her into the path of John’s bullet. She’d seen the look of horror and regret that registered on his face. She knew he held himself personally responsible for her injury and her brutal ordeal with Raven.
Tara wasn’t the least bit surprised that John held himself accountable. After all, the man took obligation and responsibility quite seriously. She glanced at the corral he’d repaired, a case in point. The five original mustangs—stolen by the desperadoes—had been returned. Plus five more mustangs had been penned up and were undergoing training.
Tara remembered the day the children had rushed excitedly to her bedside to report the arrival of their new horses. According to the children, each horse had been broken to halter, bridle and saddle. John had left instructions for them to ride the horses regularly. Naturally, the children obeyed; they thought John hung the moon and every last star in the heavens.
“Tara, yoo-hoo!”
Tara shifted her attention from the mustangs to Maureen, who appeared from a thicket of trees. The girl was toting a package and smiling delightedly. Tara frowned curiously when Maureen bounded up the steps to present her with it. Immediately, the other children stopped what they were doing and came running.
“Where did this come from?” Tara questioned, bemused.