Love Forevermore

by Madeline Baker

  Changing Woman never grew old. When she got to be a certain age, she walked toward the east, and after a time she saw herself in the distance walking toward her. When the two came together, only one remained, the younger one. Then she was like a young girl all over again. One of the blessings of the Sunrise Ceremony provided a young girl with longevity and the capability to remain forever young.

  "It's fascinating, isn't it, Mike?" Loralee asked, touched by the beauty of the ceremony, and by the poise and serenity of the young Apache woman.

  "Yeah, I guess so, if you believe all that nonsense."

  "It isn't nonsense," Loralee argued. "I don't think their beliefs are any more peculiar than some of ours, not when you understand them."

  Mike laughed shortly. "How can you possibly begin to understand all that superstitious hocus-pocus? Mountain spirits, indeed! It's all a lot of hogwash."

  "Well, I think it's lovely," Loralee said stubbornly.

  "Okay, okay," Mike said goodnaturedly. "It's lovely. Let's go. I've got to be back at the post by ten."

  Zuniga stood in the shadows, watching the ceremony. He rarely participated in any of the reservation events, preferring to stay out of sight of the soldiers and the reservation police.

  He was about to head for home when he saw Loralee walking with Mike Schofield. They were laughing softly, their heads close together, their hands entwined.

  Zuniga felt his anger begin to grow as they went on their way, oblivious to his presence. He did not like the way Loralee smiled into the white man's face, or the possessive way the white man put his arm around her shoulders.

  Silent as a stalking puma, Zuniga followed the couple, his hand straying to the knife sheathed on his belt. It would be so easy to drive the narrow blade into the white man's back. So easy, but it would only cause trouble for his people if the man's body should be found. And his people had trouble enough.

  He paused, silent as the night, as Mike handed Loralee into the buggy and took a place beside her. Lifting the reins, Mike clucked to the horse and they drove away.

  Zuniga stood in the darkness, undecided, and then he began to run, his moccasined feet making no sound as he ran after the buggy.

  He came to a halt as Mike drew rein at Loralee's house, and watched through narrowed eyes as the white man lifted Loralee to the ground and walked with her to the front door. They stood close together, then Mike bent his bead and kissed Loralee. Jealousy, more painful than the cut of a knife, more deadly than the poison of a rattler, surged through Zuniga's veins as Loralee's arms went around the white man's neck. They kissed for a long time before Mike let Loralee go.

  "Good night, Mike," Loralee murmured, her voice soft and dreamy. "Thanks for taking me to the ceremony. I enjoyed it."

  "Any time, honey. See you tomorrow?"

  Loralee nodded, lifting her face for one last kiss.

  She was humming softly when she opened the door and stepped into the parlor. Lighting the lamp on the table beside the sofa, she dropped her shawl across the back of the couch. Her hand flew to her throat when she saw Zuniga standing in front of the fireplace.

  "You!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

  "Did you go to the reservation tonight to make light of our ways?" His voice was angry and accusing. He had intended to apologize to her for violating her virginity. He had thought he might offer to marry her. But that had been before he saw her in the white man's arms, before he saw her kiss Mike Schofield with such fervor. "Did you?"

  "Of course not."

  "I heard you laughing and making jokes."

  "We weren't laughing at your people, Shad."

  "Weren't you?"

  "You know how much I like and respect your people," Loralee argued quietly. "I would not make fun of their religion, and you know it."

  He did know it, but he could not admit it now, could not think clearly with Loralee standing so close. She was wearing a new dress. It was light blue in color with a pattern of tiny dark blue flowers and green leaves. The neck was square, the sleeves were short and puffy, edged with lace. The skirt flared over her hips. Her hair was pulled away from her face with a dark blue grosgrain ribbon. She looked very young, and very beautiful. He remembered the night they had shared at Shadow Lake and his heart began to pound. He had thought of her for weeks, missing her, wanting her, dreaming of her lying in his arms, her body pressed against his, her lips whispering his name as he possessed her.

  And then he remembered the way Mike Schofield had held Loralee, the possessive look in the white man's eyes as he kissed her, and anger exploded through Zuniga, crushing his tender feelings with a jealousy so intense, so violent, it was like a physical pain in his heart.

  "You spend a lot of time with Schofield." He hurled the words at her.

  "Yes." Loralee was suddenly confused. One minute he was accusing her of belittling the beliefs of his people, and the next he was questioning her relationship with Mike. What did he really want?

  "Why?"

  "Why?" She felt herself growing angry. What right did Shad Zuniga have to come to her house in the middle of the night and cross-examine her? He had not seen her in weeks, and now he came here as if he had every right to badger her with questions that were none of his business.

  "I'll tell you why I spend so much time with Mike," Loralee said with sugary sweetness. "He's a very nice man, a gentleman, if you will. I enjoy being with him, and I intend to marry him. Does that answer all your questions, Mr. Zuniga?"

  Loralee's gaze lingered on Shad's face as she waited for him to say something. For weeks she had professed to hate him, but she knew now that it wasn't true, had never been true. She longed to tell him that she loved him, loved him and was pregnant with his child.

  She might have swallowed her pride and said the words if Zuniga had not been looking at her as if he hated her.

  She felt the tears start and she closed her eyes, not wanting him to see her cry. If only he would take her in his arms. If only he would say he cared, she would pour out her heart and tell him everything.

  But still he did not speak, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that she was alone in the house.

  Zuniga ran through the quiet night, his powerful legs carrying him effortlessly over the miles. Like all Apache males, he had been trained from childhood to run mile after mile without food or water. In the old days, it was not uncommon for a warrior to outrun a horse.

  He ran through the night with no destination in mind. It felt good, to have the wind in his face, to feel the earth beneath his feet, to fill his lungs with the cool desert air. He ran steadily, and his feet pounded out the words that echoed and re-echoed in his mind: She's going to marry the white man, she's going to marry the white man, she's going to marry . . . The image of Loralee standing in Schofield's arms was burned into his brain. She was going to marry the white man . . .

  He ran until his legs felt like rubber and his lungs were on fire, but he could not outrun his anger, or his jealousy.

  The holidays came, and Loralee experienced a twinge of homesickness as she thought of the Christmases she had known in the East, of the good times she had shared with her family. Christmas had been a special time of love and giving, of pies and cookies and treats for everyone, a time of secrets and sharing. After her parents died, Christmas had lost some of its glow. Usually, she had spent Christmas with the servants in whatever house she was working for at the time. This year she would share it with Mike. The thought did not cheer her as it should have.

  The week before Christmas, Loralee made a batch of gingerbread men for her Indian students. The younger children were charmed by the gingerbread men, oohing and aahing with pleasure as they bit into the spicy cookies. One young girl refused to eat her cookie man, declaring that the little brown figure looked like an Apache boy. The older boys pretended indifference, but they, too, were pleased with the unusual treat. Even Short Bear took one.

  The Indians didn't celebrate Christmas, but Loralee co
uld not resist telling them the story of Mary and Joseph and the infant Jesus. She told them of the shepherds and the Wise Men, and of the wicked king, Herod, who ordered all the babies killed.

  ''Just like Chivington," muttered Short Bear.

  Loralee frowned. John Chivington had been a Methodist minister from Ohio. He was an imposing man, six and a half feet tall, weighing 250 pounds. He started life as a peaceful man, and was a presiding elder of the Rocky Mountain Methodist District. He had organized a Sunday school and did some circuit preaching through mining towns. When Colorado raised a cavalry troop during the Civil War, Chivington had been offered a chaplain's commission, but he had refused, demanding a fighting commission rather than a "praying" one. In November 1864, Colonel John Chivington and the Third Colorado Volunteers rode through a small village of peaceful Cheyenne, callously butchering five hundred Indian men, women, and children. Chivington and his men rode into Denver with more than one hundred scalps.

  "Yes," Loralee said slowly. "Just like Chivington. Throughout history there have been men who gloried in bloodshed. But let's not talk of that now," she said, eager to change the subject. "Let's open our reading books to page forty, shall we?"

  Christmas was a peaceful day. Mike took Loralee to church in the morning, and then they went back to Loralee's house for a big breakfast of ham and eggs and fried potatoes with biscuits and gravy.

  After breakfast, they exchanged gifts. Mike gave Loralee a lovely gold heart on a dainty gold chain.

  "Oh," Loralee breathed as she lifted the heart out of its velvet-lined box. "It's beautiful, Mike, but it must have cost half a month's pay."

  Mike grinned. "Not half a lieutenant's month's pay," he said.

  "Oh, Mike! You've been promoted!"

  "Yes, the colonel gave me a Christmas promotion."

  Mike fastened the chain around Loralee's slender neck. "It's to remind you that my heart will always be yours," Mike murmured, brushing the back of her neck with a kiss.

  Loralee's eyes filled with tears. She longed to say she felt the same, that her heart was his, but she could not lie to him. He deserved better than that. For a moment, she closed her eyes and Shad Zuniga's swarthy countenance danced before her, a mocking grin on his handsome face.

  Shaking his image from her mind, Loralee handed Mike a gaily wrapped package. "Merry Christmas, Mike."

  Mike whistled softly, appreciatively, as he opened the small square box and withdrew an intricately carved silver pocketwatch.

  "It was my father's," Loralee said. "I hope you like it. I noticed you don't have a watch."

  "It's a great gift, honey," Mike said, kissing her cheek. "Are you sure you want to give it away?"

  "Yes." Loralee smiled. "Besides, I'm not really giving it away. After all, it will still be in the family once we're married."

  Mike smiled. "That's true!" he exclaimed, catching Loralee in his arms and hugging her close. "I'll make you happy, Lorie, I promise."

  "I know you will," she replied. She placed her arms around Mike's neck, closing her eyes as he kissed her cheeks and forehead and nose, slowly working his way to her mouth. She returned his kiss fervently, wanting to love him, wanting to respond to his touch with the same desire she had felt for Shad Zuniga. But no matter how she tried, she could not feel anything remotely like passion, only a pleasant sensation kindled with warm affection.

  Later that afternoon they went to dinner at Colonel Freeman's house. Stella Freeman set a lavish table, complete with sparkling crystal, gleaming silverware, and flickering candles. The colonel's striker served an elaborate dinner that had been prepared by the Army cook who proved that, with the proper ingredients and the right incentive, he could create a culinary delight to rival that of a French chef.

  After dinner, there was sherry for the ladies, brandy and cigars for the gentlemen.

  "I hear you're soon to be a bride," Stella Freeman remarked when the ladies were alone."

  "Yes," Loralee replied, forcing a smile. "Mike has kindly asked me to marry him, and I have accepted."

  "It's rather sudden, isn't it, my dear?" Stella Freeman asked. "You've only known each other a short time."

  "That's true, but Mike doesn't want to wait."

  "I see. Have you set the date yet?"

  "No. We're still waiting for the paperwork to come through."

  Stella Freeman made a gesture of despair. "That could take months, my dear," she lamented. "You know how slowly the Army moves."

  "Yes." Loralee sighed. If the paperwork didn't arrive soon, everyone on the reservation would know why they were getting married in such a hurry.

  For a while, the ladies discussed weddings they had been invited to, the current styles, wedding dresses and veils, and the rising prices at the general store.

  Loralee only half listened to what was being said. She felt Stella Freeman eying her speculatively several times, and she was glad when the gentlemen finished their cigars and came back inside.

  It was late when Mike took Loralee home. He lingered at her front door. It was hard to be close to her and not touch her, hard to believe that a girl as sweet and as gently reared as Loralee could be in love with a damned Indian. Still, soon she would be his wife. He would woo her tenderly, patiently, tell her daily that he adored her, until he had won her love for himself It was her wedding day. Loralee stood before the mirror, carefully studying her reflection. She looked like a bride, she mused, but she did not feel like one. Brides were happy, excited, laughing creatures with eyes that sparkled and skin that glowed. There were dark shadows under her eyes caused by many sleepless nights; her heart was heavy, her expression resigned. How could she marry Mike when she was three months pregnant with Shad Zuniga's child? How could she not?

  She ran her hand along the smooth satin of her skirt Her dress was lovely. The bodice was fitted, the neck modest, the sleeves long, the skirt full enough to hide her expanding girth. She had not wanted to wear white, but Mike had insisted. Now, surveying her image in the looking glass, she felt like a fraud. She didn't deserve to wear white. White stood for purity, modesty, chastity. By rights, she should be wearing black, she mused bitterly, or maybe scarlet.

  Mike had wanted to be married in the post chapel, but she had adamantly refused, and Stella Freeman had graciously offered her home for the ceremony.

  With a little sigh of resignation, Loralee picked up the long white veil and pinned it in place.

  A short time later, there was a knock at the door and the colonel's wife stepped into the room. She was clad in a dress of light blue silk, a single strand of pearls at her throat.

  "We're ready, dear," the older woman said.

  "Thank you."

  "Smile, my dear," Stella Freeman chided. "This is supposed to be a happy occasion."

  "I'm just a little nervous, I guess. I've never been a bride before."

  "Well, you look lovely, just lovely. Hurry now. Everyone is waiting."

  Loralee nodded. With a last glance in the mirror, she left the room. Mike was waiting for her in the Freemans' spacious parlor, standing beside the post chaplain. Mike looked quite handsome in his dress uniform, his hair carefully combed, his boots and brass shined to perfection. He gave her a wink and a smile as she walked toward him.

  Loralee saw Sally Stockman standing near the front, a happy smile on her face. Sally nodded at her, as if to say everything would be all right.

  Loralee tried to return Sally's smile, but failed. This was her wedding day. She should be happy, elated. Instead, she felt like crying. In minutes, she would be Mrs. Michael Schofield. Somehow it didn't seem real.

  Like a sleepwalker, she stood beside Mike, her hand in his as she repeated the brief vows that made her his wife. His kiss was tender, filled with hope and promise.

  The rest of the day passed in a haze. There were numerous toasts to the bride and groom. There was a barbecue in the Freemans' backyard. There were good wishes and presents. Somehow Loralee managed to say and do all the right things, but it was as
if she were watching it all through someone else's eyes.

  And then, too soon, she was alone with Mike. And she knew she had made a terrible mistake.

  12

  Zuniga stared at the glass in his hand for a long moment before he tossed off the contents and poured another drink. He had been sitting in the back of the saloon for over an hour, methodically working his way through a bottle of bonded bourbon in an effort to forget that Loralee had married Lieutenant Michael Schofield the week before.

  He had seen her as she left the Freemans' house on the day of the wedding, her face flushed with happiness, Schofield beaming at her side. She had been a vision of loveliness in a gown of white satin. The knowledge that she belonged to another man slammed into him like a fist, making him feel sick to his stomach.

  Torn by anger and jealousy, he had vowed to forget her, but it was useless. He spent hours prowling the hills. He cut more wood than they would ever need, working until he was exhausted so that he could sleep at night, but even in sleep she came to haunt him.

  And now, lastly, he had turned to whiskey, hoping to drown her memory in a haze of alcohol. But even that failed him, the bourbon having no more effect than water.

  Occasionally he wandered through the reservation, studying the girls who were of marriageable age. Perhaps he would take a wife. One woman was the same as another, after all, but none of the women he saw appealed to him. Some were beautiful, some were sensuous, more than a few would willingly share his lodge, with or without marriage, but none of them had hair like gold silk or skin like fine cream.

  "Hello, Indian," purred a husky female voice at his elbow. "Long time no see."

  Zuniga nodded. "Kelly."

  "Mind if I sit down?"

  "Do whatever you want."

  "What is it?" Kelly asked, laying her hand over his forearm. "You look like hell."

  He nodded morosely. "I feel like hell."

  "Can I help?"

  Zuniga looked at her for the first time.

  She wasn't a bad-looking woman, he thought absently. Her figure was firm and round and he had spent many a lonely night in her bed. Looking at her now, he wondered how he had ever touched her, then he swore under his breath. Loralee had spoiled him for all other women, he thought irritably. Damn her! He clenched his fist and banged it on the table, causing the whiskey in his glass to slosh over the rim and onto the green baize table top.