Love Forevermore

by Madeline Baker

  Mike watched impatiently as the chief scout dismounted and checked the ground. If only one of the older warriors would agree to scout for him, he mused ruefully. These young Apaches were good, but they lacked the finely honed tracking skills that seemed to come as second nature to the older warriors.

  Mike was about to give up hope that the scout would find the trail when the Apache gave a little cry of triumph. Mounting his horse, he turned toward the hills.

  Mike felt his nerves grow taut as he realized that they were heading straight toward Shad Zuniga's lodge. He shook his head, not wanting to believe the thought forming in his mind. It couldn't be true.

  When they reached the lodge, they found it burned to the ground. The chief scout pointed out that while they had followed a clear set of single tracks up the hill to the lodge, two sets of tracks led away.

  Despair tore at Mike's heart. Always he had harbored a secret fear that Loralee would go to Zuniga, and now it had happened.

  Thanking the Indians for their help, he sent them back to the reservation.

  Mike sat there for a long time. Too numb to think, he stared off into the distance, his heart filled with pain. After a while, anger washed through him. little bitch, he thought, the hell with her. Let her run off with that damn savage and have her bastard in the hills like a damn squaw! He had given her his name, offered her his love, saved her reputation from ruin, and this was how she repaid him, by running off with that damn Apache buck!

  Then despair came again, smothering his anger. How would he live without her? She had become the most important thing in his life.

  And then a new thought occurred to him. Maybe she hadn't gone with Zuniga willingly. Maybe the bastard had kidnapped her.

  The thought died as soon as it crossed his mind. Loralee had gone to Zuniga's lodge of her own free will. The tracks proved that. She had gone to him, and left with him, so anxious to be with her Indian lover that she hadn't even taken the time to pack.

  Muttering an oath, Mike Schofield wheeled his horse around and rode back to the fort.

  16

  "Where are you taking me?" Loralee demanded. It was dark, and they had been traveling for over eight hours. Her back ached, her thighs felt raw, and she was weary, so weary.

  "The mountains," Zuniga replied curtly. They were taking the long way there, backtracking now and then in case they were being followed.

  "Mountains? What mountains?"

  "To the south."

  Loralee was not familiar with the country once they left the reservation. She knew that Tucson lay somewhere to the south, and she thought she might try to find her way there if she could escape from Zuniga. If she could get to Tucson, she could send a wire to Mike, and he would come and take her home.

  She shivered as a chill wind blew across the prairie. Were they going to ride forever without stopping? Her eyelids were heavy, and her eyes gritty with the need for sleep.

  The moon was fading when Zuniga called a halt. Too tired to care where they were, Loralee slid off her horse. Her legs refused to support her and she sank to the ground, falling asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

  When she woke, it was the gray hour just before dawn. Zuniga slept beside her, and she glanced around. They were in a shallow draw. Their horses were hobbled a few yards away, heads hanging, noses almost touching the ground. She thought briefly of trying to slip out from under the blanket and running for her horse, but even as the idea formed in her mind, Zuniga was moving. He came instantly awake, his eyes meeting hers. He grinned wryly, and Loralee wondered if it was possible for him to read her mind.

  "Fix breakfast," he ordered curtly, and rose smoothly to his feet.

  Sullen-faced, Loralee rummaged through his warbag for the coffee pot. There was only a little bacon and one biscuit apiece for breakfast, but Loralee ate without complaining. Her whole body ached from spending the night on the ground.

  Too soon, they were riding again, crossing a wild, unsettled stretch of ground. Loralee saw squirrels and porcupines, prairie dogs and gophers. An eagle soared on the air currents. Once she saw a rattlesnake coiled in the shade of a rock. In the distance, she saw several vultures fighting over the carcass of some dead animal.

  Zuniga rode without speaking, and she wondered what he was thinking, why he was so eager to have her child. He did not seem like the type of man who yearned to be a father. He did not seem to care for her any longer. What did he intend to do with the child?

  Zuniga drew to a halt late in the afternoon. Wordlessly he lifted her from her horse, and before she quite realized what he meant to do, he had tied her to a young oak tree. When she opened her mouth to protest, he jammed his headband into her mouth, then tied a kerchief around her mouth to keep the gag in place.

  She watched through frightened eyes as he tethered her mare to another tree, then swung onto the back of the dun and rode away.

  Days of doubt and worry erupted in a flood of tears, rolling down her cheeks and neck, making her eyes itch and her throat ache. Where had he gone? Was he coming back?

  Hours passed. She fretted over an itch she could not scratch. Her arms and legs grew weary, and her mouth was dryer than the Sonora desert in summer. Inwardly she cursed the day she had met Shad Zuniga. He had brought her nothing but misery, she lamented, nothing but pain and heartache . . . and hours of passion. She closed her eyes, remembering how eagerly she had surrendered to his touch, how she had thrilled to the taste of his lips, the press of his flesh against her own, the masculine scent of him that had aroused her primal senses. She had loved him with all her heart, she thought sadly. And she still loved him. That was the worst part, because he didn't seem to have any feeling left for her at all.

  Zuniga rode quietly through the hills, headed for a ranch house located a few miles to the north. They needed food, and money too, if he could find some.

  He rode warily, eyes and ears alert for any sign of man or beast, his thoughts on Loralee. He desired her with every fiber of his being, but he had hardened his heart against her. She had lied to him about the baby. Obviously, she did not love him. Probably she was ashamed to be carrying an Apache child. Why else would she have lied to him? Why else would she have married the white man? If she had cared for him, she would have come to him and told him about the baby. He would have married her in the white man's way if that had been her desire.

  Now it was too late. He could not live with a woman who was ashamed of him, ashamed of his heritage. But he meant to have the child. His child. A faint smile softened the harsh lines of his face as he thought of the child.

  It was near dusk when he reached the outskirts of the ranch. Dismounting, he tethered the stallion to a low-hanging tree limb, then padded toward the house. Taking a place behind a clump of mesquite, he hunkered down on his heels to wait.

  He sat there for an hour, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the house. He remembered the long hours he had spent with Nachi, learning to become a warrior. Being a novice warrior was no easy task, and not one to be taken lightly. A boy had to participate in four expeditions against the enemy. He had to be reliable and obedient. He had to be brave and truthful. He must not eat too much between raids lest he become a glutton. There were many restrictions placed on a boy on his first four raids. He was not to speak to any warrior except to answer a question. He was to speak respectfully to all men and not talk obscenely in front of women. He was to show courage and endure all hardships without complaint. It was up to the novice to fetch wood and water and do all the heavy work around the camp. He rose early in the morning and lit the cookfires, cared for the horses, did the cooking, stood guard duty. Novice warriors could work, but they could not fight.

  There were ceremonial words that were used during a boy's first four raids, replacing ordinary forms of speech. After the fourth trip out with the warriors, a novice was permitted to enter the ranks of the men as long as none of the warriors objected.

  Zuniga smiled into the darkness. It had been good to become a warrior. N
o longer did he have to stay home with the women and children. He was free to do as he pleased, to express his own ideas in council. He could smoke, he could marry, he could participate in war dances.

  So much to learn, Zuniga mused, and so little time to practice all he had been taught. It seemed like such a short time that he was able to practice the skills he had learned, and then his people had been defeated, and there was little need anymore in knowing how to track or fight. A man did not need to be proficient in the skills necessary to be a warrior to live on a reservation. The men no longer had a reason to live, and so they drank too much, losing themselves in the white man's whiskey. They had no hope, no desire to live, no desire for anything but the whiskey that made them forget what they had become.

  Zuniga rose smoothly to his feet as the lights went out inside the ranch house. Noiselessly he padded across the barren ground, using every bit of cover he could find.

  Again, he waited, listening. After thirty minutes, he jimmied open a window and climbed inside the house. Slowly, carefully, he moved through the place until he came to the kitchen.

  He found an empty burlap bag on the counter and began to fill it with nonperishable food from the pantry: canned goods, coffee, sugar, salt, onions, potatoes, carrots, a sack of flour. He took a frying pan, several boxes of matches, a package of cigarettes, a handful of cookies he found in a jar, three loaves of freshly baked bread. Moving through the house, he picked up two blankets, a poncho for Loralee, a heavy buckskin jacket for himself. He found a wad of greenbacks inside a tin box.

  In the barn, he took a lantern and a sack of oats. Pleased with his booty, he returned to his horse, the burlap bag slung over his shoulder.

  Fear settled on Loralee as darkness covered the land. Zuniga had been gone for several hours now, and with the passing of each moment, a new fear flooded her mind. He had been hurt. He had been killed. He had decided he didn't want the baby after all and he was never coming back.

  A coyote yapped in the distance, and Loralee shivered with apprehension. Soon the predators would be running across the prairie in search of food. There were all manner of wild beasts in the areawolves and coyotes, black bears and wild hogs.

  Her fear intensified as the moon climbed in the sky, goading her into a fresh attempt to escape the bonds that held her, and she began to pull against the rope. The rough hemp cut into her tender flesh, but she ignored the pain and the blood trickling down her hands. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes.

  Her struggles ceased as the cry of a wolf sounded a few yards to her right. Fool, she lamented. Writhing against the ropes had drawn blood. And the blood scent had drawn the wolf.

  Her heart began to pound wildly as she heard the wolf move through the underbrush, and then it was only a few feet away, its eyes shining in the darkness. It was a big wolf, black in color, with hungry yellow eyes and sharp yellow fangs.

  Loralee pressed back against the tree, shaking her head in terror as she sent a silent prayer to heaven. ''Oh, God, please help me. Please, please, help me."

  The wolf lifted its head, nostrils testing the air. The scent of fresh blood was strong, but the human scent was stronger. Undecided, the wolf whined low in its throat as it stared at Loralee, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.

  Mesmerized, Loralee stared at the animal, too frightened by its nearness to hear the muffled sound of hoofbeats coming toward her. There were no reliable accounts of a wolf ever attacking a man, she told herself, but there was always a first time. Perhaps this wolf didn't know that its species didn't attack people. Perhaps it was too hungry to care. Perhaps she was mistaken, and wolves attacked and ate everything they encountered.

  She couldn't take her eyes off the animal. Was it going to attack? Time lost all meaning as she waited for the beast to pounce on her and rend her flesh.

  She jumped as the sound of a gunshot rent the stillness of the night, sending the wolf scurrying into the darkness. Fear melted into overwhelming relief when she saw Zuniga walking toward her.

  Without a word, he removed the gag from her mouth and the rope from her wrists. He frowned when he saw the blood oozing down her arms, and the pain and fear mirrored in her eyes.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her to where his horse was tethered. There was a blanket spread beneath a tree and he motioned for her to sit down.

  Too weary to ask questions, Loralee did as bidden.

  Zuniga's face was grim as he took a pot of bear grease from his war bag. Kneeling at Loralee's side, he stared at the blood on her arms, as bright and red as the guilt in his heart. He had not meant to cause her harm. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but it had been necessary to tie her up. He could not trust her to stay until he returned, could not take a chance of her running back to Schofield. '

  Thoughts of Schofield ignited Zuniga's anger, and his hands were rough as he began to smear the grease over the abrasions in Loralee's wrists. She winced at his touch, and Zuniga swore under his breath as his conscience stabbed him again. The lacerations were not deep, but he knew they were painful, knew it was his fault she was hurting.

  When he finished, he picked up the burlap bag and dropped it at Loralee's feet. "Fix dinner," he said tersely.

  Heaving a sigh, Loralee rummaged around inside the bag, and in a short time, dinner was cooking.

  They ate in silence. Loralee longed to tell Shad she loved him, longed to wipe the anger from his face, to see his eyes light with love and desire. But she could not form the words. He had treated her abominably, frightened her half to death. Had he said even one word to indicate he was sorry, she would have flown into his arms. But he remained aloof, untouchable. His face was expressionless, his eyes unfathomable.

  Loralee sighed heavily. How had the love they once shared turned so quickly to hatred?

  Several days passed, each one taking Loralee farther from Mike, farther from civilization. They were fast approaching the mountains, and Loralee was becoming resigned to the fact that she was going to spend the next five months living with Shad Zuniga whether she liked it or not. Once, the thought of going away with him would have filled her with happiness. Once, she would have been glad to spend her whole life with him. But not now, not when he had become a stranger to her. She dreaded the days ahead, dreaded the thought of living in the mountains away from everything that had become familiar to her. Worst of all was the thought of having her baby alone in the mountains with no woman to encourage her, and no doctor available to help her if something went wrong. She was not afraid to have the child, not really. Childbirth was a perfectly normal, natural process, but she could not help being concerned about what they would do if something went wrong. Complications could happen, and as knowledgeable as Zuniga seemed about most things, he was not a doctor.

  But far more troubling than having her baby alone was the thought that Zuniga meant to take the child from her. How could she bear to be parted from her first-born child? Zuniga's child. How could she make him change his mind?

  She was thinking of that now as she washed and dried the dinner dishes. Zuniga remained cool and aloof, rarely speaking to her except to order her about as though she were his personal slave. His arrogance, his smug self-assurance, nettled her. She longed to strike out at him, to hurt him as she had been hurt, but she was at a loss as to how to go about it. He was impervious to her insults, seemingly oblivious to her tears. If only she had a weapon! For a moment she fantasized that she had a gun and that Zuniga was her prisoner. How she would like to order him about. Oh, but she would make him crawl, and enjoy every minute.

  Loralee laughed silently, mirthlessly. Even if she had a gun, Zuniga would still be in control. He would know she lacked the courage to use it, and that knowledge would make the gun useless in her hands.

  She slid a glance in his direction. He was hunkered down across the fire from her. The flames cast dancing shadows across the hard planes of his face, making him look wild and primitive and beautiful. If only she could tell him what was
in her heart. If only he would listen.

  She was pouring herself a cup of lukewarm coffee when four men dressed in denim pants, dark shirts, and heavy jackets rode into camp. Zuniga rose smoothly to his feet, his hand curling around the butt of the gun shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

  A smile of welcome crossed Loralee's face as she glimpsed the badge pinned to the shirt of the man in the lead. They were Arizona Rangers, and she felt a flicker of hope ignite within her breast. Perhaps her salvation was at hand.

  Zuniga studied the four men. The Arizona Rangers had been organized in 1901 by Governor Nathan Murphy, mainly to take action against smugglers and rustlers. The newspapers loved the Rangers, Zuniga recalled scornfully. Loralee had let him read several newspapers from various Arizona towns while she was tutoring him. The pages had been filled with the heroic exploits of the Rangers, describing in glowing terms their bravery, loyalty and ability to get the job done.

  "Smelled your coffee, ma'am," the leader of the riders remarked, touching his hat brim respectfully. "Could you spare a little for four thirsty men?"

  "Of course," Loralee answered, ignoring the warning look that Zuniga slanted in her direction. "Please, step down and join us."

  The four lawmen dismounted. Pulling tin cups from their saddlebags, they hunkered down around the fire. Loralee filled their coffee cups, smiling and chatting amiably as the men introduced themselves.

  The leader was Captain Colin Webster. His men, all in their early thirties, were Sergeant Jody Powell, Private Seth Parker, and Private Tom Davidson.

  "Where are you folks headed?" Webster asked. He spoke to Loralee, but his eyes were on Zuniga. What the hell was a white woman doing way out here with an Indian?

  "We're headed for New Mexico," Zuniga answered. The lie rolled easily off his tongue. There was no shame in lying to the enemy. "My wife has family there."