Loralee blushed, feeling foolish. Why had she bolted away from him like that? All he had done was shake her hand.
She was out of breath when she reached home. Her hand still tingled where he had held it, and she wondered what she had gotten herself into. What would Mike say when he learned she was going to tutor Shad Zuniga at the schoolhouse, at night, alone? What had ever possessed her to agree to such an outrageous arrangement?
She was uncharacteristically clumsy as she prepared her dinner that night, unable to hold onto anything. She dropped a glass, a fork, a frying pan. Staring out the kitchen window, Staring at nothing in particular, she thought of Zuniga, and almost burned her dinner.
Later, her meal only half finished, she cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, swept the kitchen floor, fed the cat, undressed for bed.
Sliding between the cool linen sheets, she closed her eyes, only to have Shad Zuniga's swarthy image burst into her mind. Long black hair, eyes as dark and deep as the corridors of hell, skin the color of old copper. His shoulders were broad, the muscles in his arms large and well-defined, hinting at great strength. His legs were long, powerful from years of running and horseback riding. He was unlike the other Apache men she had met. They were beaten, defeated, devoid of hope. But Zuniga was not beaten. He was still a warrior, still filled with the pride and arrogance that had once been characteristic of all Apache men.
Zuniga. Just thinking of him made her feel warm and tingly all over. It was most disturbing, and yet strangely pleasurable.
"Zuniga."
She fell asleep with his name on her lips, and in her dreams she was wooed and won by a dark-skinned man who had hair as black as a raven's wing and eyes as black as ebony.
2
Mike was furious when he found out what she had done.
"Are you crazy?" he demanded angrily. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from Zuniga? Didn't I tell you he was trouble? My God, Loralee, didn't you listen to a word I said?"
Loralee stood with her arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping impatiently, her eyes flashing as she waited for Sergeant Michael Schofield to run out of steam. Who did he think he was, anyway, carrying on as if he were her father or something? She was a grown woman, quite capable of looking out for herself. Hadn't she been taking care of herself since her parents were killed in a carriage accident when she was thirteen?
She had earned her own way, waiting on tables, sweeping floors, washing windows, ironing clothes, tending other people's children, doing anything she could to earn a living. She had slept in drab rented rooms and eaten in grubby little diners to save money. She had learned early in life to defend herself, to ward off the unwanted advances that came her way because she was young and attractive and alone. She didn't need any self-righteous Army man telling her how to behave. She knew how to behave. She had gone to school and studied day and night, learning to read and write and cipher. She had watched the wealthy ladies in town, copying the way they walked and talked until it became second nature for her to move slowly and gracefully, to speak in a well-modulated voice, to comport herself as a lady should. When she turned seventeen, she had acquired a position as governess to a rich Philadelphia family with two small children. She had made friends with other young women who had to work for a living, and she had carved out a nice life for herself.
In her spare time, she had earned her teaching certificate and when she heard about the opening at the Apache reservation, she had jumped at the opportunity to teach, seeing it as a way to fulfill a lifelong dream. And now Sergeant Michael Schofield was ranting and raving at her as if she had done something criminal. Didn't he understand how important teaching was to her? Why couldn't he see that she had done the only thing possible under the circumstances?
"I just don't want you to get hurt, Loralee," Mike finished sincerely. He sighed heavily, knowing Loralee was annoyed by his outburst. He hadn't meant to yell at her, or hurt her, but he had to make her understand how foolish she had been to approach Zuniga alone. The man was a renegade, a savage.
"Are you through now?" Loralee asked coolly.
"I'm sorry," Mike said contritely. "I didn't mean to shout. It's bad enough, you living out here all alone, but when you deliberately go looking for trouble . . . dammit, Loralee, I worry about you."
"I appreciate your concern, Mike, really I do, but it's quite unnecessary. Mr. Zuniga was very helpful."
"I'll bet," Mike muttered sarcastically. "Well, you can't meet him at the school alone and that's all there is to it. I'll come out and keep an eye on things tonight, and then you'll have to make some other arrangement."
"No. I told him it would be just the two of us. He won't come if anyone else is here. And the children won't come to school unless he does."
"I won't have it, Loralee. It isn't safe for you to be out here alone with him. Not only that, what about your reputation? What will people say when they learn you're meeting him here at night, without a chaperone?''
"I am not 'meeting' him," Loralee retorted, exasperated by the whole conversation. "I'm a teacher and he's a student. There's nothing more to it than that."
Mike grimaced with defeat. Loralee Warfield was a beautiful woman, soft and sweet and feminine on the outside, and as stubborn as an Army mule on the inside. He had only known her for a few weeks, but he had lost every argument they'd ever had. Once she made up her mind to do something, nothing on God's green earth could change it.
Mike glanced up at the hills where Shad Zuniga lived. He had met the man only a few times, and he heartily disliked him. There was a wild quality in Zuniga that set Mike's teeth on edge and made him uneasy.
"Would you like to go out for dinner Friday night?" Mike asked. He'd lost the battle and there was no point in dwelling on it.
Loralee smiled prettily. "I'd love to, Mike. I have a new dress, and I've just been dying for an excuse to wear it."
"Good. I'll pick you up at eight."
"Fine. See you then."
Loralee spent the rest of the afternoon tidying up her house. It didn't take long to clean the three small rooms, but she swept and dusted meticulously, then applied beeswax to the few pieces of furniture, rubbing the wood until it fairly glowed.
It really was a charming little house, sturdily built of wood and adobe. Two people would have been crowded, but it was just right for one. She had repainted the whole house soon after she moved in, choosing white for the parlor, a sunny yellow for the kitchen, a soft powder blue for the bedroom. A sofa covered in a green print and a leather armchair took up most of the floor space in the parlor, a mahogany clock ticked cheerfully on the mantel above the stone fireplace, a small cactus grew in a clay pot on the windowsill. The bedroom was crowded with a single bed, a night table, a four-drawer dresser, and a commode. A colorful rag rug covered the floor. The kitchen was the largest room in the house. It made her feel very domestic as she slipped an apron over her head and started dinner. There was a small stove against the wall, a round oak table and two matching chairs, a cupboard over the counter, a dry sink. Yellow gingham curtains fluttered at the open window. She had made the curtains and the matching tablecloth herself.
Sitting at the table, she felt herself growing more and more nervous as the time approached when she was to meet Shad Zuniga. She had told Mike she could take care of herself, that there was nothing to worry about; but now, as the sun slowly dipped behind the mountains in the west, she began to feel apprehensive. She was about to go to the schoolhouse to meet a strange man, an Indian man, alone.
Too nervous to finish her meal, she put the scraps in a pan and set it outside the back door for the big calico cat who came to visit her each night at dusk. She had tried to coax the cat into the house on several occasions, but the animal was too wild, too distrustful of people, to enter the cozy kitchen. Loralee smiled faintly as she saw the cat peeking around the corner of the house, but she was too distracted to try and win the animal's trust tonight.
She washed and dried her few dishe
s, put them away in the cupboard. Going into her bedroom, she stood before the mirror, contemplating her appearance. Her hair was swept away from her face and pinned in a neat roll at the nape of her neck. She didn't care for the style. It was too severe, too unflattering, but she wore it because it was neat and cool, and because it made her look older than she was, more mature. Her face seemed pale, her brown eyes very dark. Her dress was a deep blue cotton, unadorned with lace or frills. The neck was square, the sleeves were long and loose, the skirt full.
Loralee frowned at her reflection. She looked like an old maid with her hair skimmed back and her figure concealed by the unattractive dress. She wondered if she should change into something more becoming, and then laughed self-consciously. She wasn't going to the schoolhouse to flirt with the man, only to teach him to read and write.
Draping a soft white shawl around her shoulders, Loralee left the house and walked the short distance to the school. It was a large, rectangular-shaped building made of wood and painted a rusty red. A flagpole stood outside the door. She hoisted the flag to the top of the pole each morning and took it down each night. One side of the building had been cleared of brush and was meant to be used as a playground.
As she neared the building, Loralee wondered if children would ever play tag or kickball in the yard, or if the sound of children reading aloud would ever sound from within the walls of the school.
She paused a moment, enjoying the quiet of the night and the way the setting sun turned the sky to flame. It was her favorite part of the day, watching the sun set, watching the way the sky turned colors. No two sunsets were ever the same, but each one was breathtakingly beautiful.
Squaring her shoulders, she climbed the three steps to the door, determined to teach Shad Zuniga to read, determined to make him like it so that he would encourage the Indian children to come to school.
She knew he was there even before she stepped inside the room, felt her heart catch as she saw him standing at the far window, looking out. Slowly, he turned to face her, and Loralee marveled anew at how very handsome he was. He was dressed as before, in stained buckskin pants and a sleeveless vest, and she wondered if those were the only clothes he owned. He was bigger than she remembered, taller, broader, and his presence seemed to dwarf the room. She felt her cheeks flame as his eyes moved slowly over her face and figure.
"You're early," Loralee said brightly. "Let's get started, shall we? Why don't you sit there?" She gestured at the first desk in the front row. It was larger than the others, having been designed for an older child. "I'll get your book and we'll begin."
She was talking much too fast, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Dropping her shawl over the back of her chair, she pulled a beginning McGuffey's Reader from the shelf and offered it to Zuniga. McGuffey's Readers were a five-book series written in the 1830s and 40s by a professor named William Homer McGuffey. They contained short stories, verses, pronunciation and spelling lessons and were used in nearly every school in the country.
Zuniga took the book hesitantly, as if it were a snake with venomous fangs, or some kind of deadly poison.
"We'll start with the alphabet," Loralee said. She went to the chalkboard and began to print the letters on the board, saying each one aloud as she wrote it in bold strokes.
As the lesson progressed, she grew less nervous. She loved teaching, and Shad Zuniga was an apt pupil. He quickly caught on to the rudiments of reading, quickly memorized the alphabet so that he could recite it from memory. The lesson, meant to last an hour, stretched into two.
As the minutes passed, Loralee forgot that Shad Zuniga was an Indian, a warrior. She forgot that they were alone. It was so good to be teaching at last, to feel she was accomplishing a part of what she had set out to do. Zuniga had a keen mind and he quickly grasped whatever concept she was working on.
Zuniga listened intently as Loralee printed his name on the chalkboard, pronouncing each syllable. Her voice was soft, easy to listen to. His eyes lingered on her breasts as her hand guided the chalk. Her movements were graceful, feminine.
She was flushed with pleasure and a sense of fulfillment when the lesson ended. It had gone well, and she was pleased that she had finally been able to use the skills she had been taught.
"You've done very well," she said, smiling. "You'll be reading and writing in no time at all."
Zuniga said nothing as he closed the book and handed it to her. Already he could see the value of a written language. The Apache history was drawn on hides, or handed down verbally from one generation to the next. If his people could write, they could make a permanent record of their battles and beliefs, their customs and traditions, the names of their leaders. He knew that much of their heritage was being lost as the old ways died out. Secretly he had always had a grudging admiration for the white man's knowledge, for his ability to make guns and ammunition.
"Will you send the children tomorrow?" Loralee asked.
"I cannot send them," Zuniga said, rising. "I will tell the elders of the tribe that I think it would be a good thing for our people to learn the white man's letters, but it will be up to them to decide."
Loralee stared at Zuniga. She had taken it for granted that once he came to school, the children would come, too. Now he was talking about getting the approval of the elders. What if the elders didn't approve?
"But I thought"
"I will tell the children what I am learning," Zuniga assured her with a hint of a smile. "I am sure most of them will want to come."
"Thank you, Mr. Zuniga. I appreciate your help."
"I will see you tomorrow night."
"Yes."
They stood facing each other, neither moving or speaking, for several moments. Loralee felt mesmerized by his gaze, felt her heart begin to pound wildly in her breast. He was so near, so very near. A queer little trembling filled her belly as he continued to gaze into her eyes. She had a mad impulsive urge to reach out and lay her hand on his chest, to feel the beat of his heart against her hand. She noticed how long his lashes were, thick and sooty. His lower lip was full, sensual, and she longed to explore it. Almost, she reached out to touch it with her finger. But, of course, she didn't. Instead, she pulled her gaze from his and clenched her hands at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. He was a stranger, an Indian. Likely, he would laugh with amusement if he knew what she was thinking. Still, she could not help remembering the many days when he had sat up on the hill, watching her, could not forget the invisible current that had flowed between them. It had been real, not merely her imagination. She could feel it even now. Could he?
Zuniga sucked in a deep breath, all his senses absorbing the sight and scent of her. She was so near. He yearned to reach out and unpin her hair, to run his fingers through the heavy silken mass. He felt his manhood begin to throb with desire as his eyes moved to her pretty pink mouth. What would it be like to taste her, to touch her, to possess her? He knew instinctively that she had never known a man. What would it be like to initiate her into the shared pleasures between a man and a woman? He suspected she would be warm and willing, eager to learn. But only for the right man. He longed to be that man to wipe the innocence from her eyes and see them flame with desire.
His eyes traveled from her face to her figure. The dark blue dress was plain and unflattering. Was that why she had worn it, to hide the smooth flesh and lush curves he knew must surely lie beneath? He had watched her for too long not to know that her figure was round and ripe, had spent too many nights dreaming of what must lie beneath the many layers of clothing white women wore to be put off by an ugly dress. She might try to disguise her shape, but she could not hide it entirely. Her neck was slender, her hands small and dainty, her ankles trim.
The silence hung between them like an invisible wall. Almost, Zuniga reached out to draw her close. Almost, he bent down to claim her lips. But the time was not right, the place was not right. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room into the night.
; The next morning Zuniga swung onto the bare back of the dun stallion and rode west toward the mountains. The day was cool and clear, with a hint of fall in the air. The stallion stepped lively, its eyes showing white as a gust of wind sent a tumbleweed skittering across the trail. Head high, tail swishing, the dun pranced, eager to run.
With a grin, Zuniga gave the stallion its head and the big stud broke into a lope, flying over the sandy ground as if it had wings. Zuniga squinted against the wind, relishing the chill air whipping through his hair and the surging power of the animal beneath him.
Sometime later, he drew the stallion to a halt at the tree line. Dismounting, he slipped a bow and a quiver of arrows from his shoulder. Placing them against a tree trunk, he gave the stud an affectionate slap on the neck; then, squatting on his heels, he rolled a cigarette.
He stared into the distance. In the old days, the tribe would have been hunting now, looking for enough game to sustain them through the winter. The women would have been repairing lodge covers, fashioning winter moccasins and robes. . . .
In the old days, he would have come to a place like this to seek a vision from the Great Spirit. Naked save for clout and moccasins, without food or water, he would have prayed to Usen for a sign to guide him through life and into battle. Nachi's vision had been of a great white eagle who had promised him strength in battle and long life.
Zuniga grinned faintly. Once, when he was eleven or twelve, he had gone high into the Dragoon Mountains. There, for three days and three nights, he had fasted and prayed, imploring the gods for a sign. Morning and evening, he had offered tobacco and hoddentin to the four directions, entreating Usen for a vision to guide him through life. On the evening of the third day, with his belly crying for food and his mouth dry as dust, a vision had come to him, as clear and real as anything he had ever seen. He had never told anyone of his vision, not even Nachi.
Closing his eyes, he saw it all again: his people going down in defeat to the superior strength of the white man. He had seen friends and relatives die in battle, or waste away from the white man's sicknesses, but he and Nachi had survived. Then, as the vision drew to a close, he caught a glimpse of himself surrounded by thick iron bars. That part of his vision had also come true, he mused ruefully, for now, living on the reservation, he often felt as though he were imprisoned, walled in by invisible bars heavier than steel, more binding than iron.
Love Forevermore Page 3