Using his teeth and his right hand, he tore a strip of material from his tattered shirt and wrapped it around the grisly wound in his left arm. The other wounds would have to wait. He needed help, and he needed it now, before he passed out.
The stallion snorted and shook its head as Zuniga approached, its eyes rolling white as it scented blood. Zuniga spoke to the horse, his voice raspy with pain. If the animal bolted now, he was done for. But the stallion stood its ground, nostrils flaring, eyes wild as Zuniga pulled himself onto the animal's back.
The ride to Loralee's lodge was sheer hell. Each step the horse took created new waves of pain, pain that danced up and down the length of Zuniga's arm, pain that dulled his thoughts, until he forgot everything but the need to see Loralee just one more time, to hear her voice, see her smile.
It was near dusk when Loralee returned from her evening walk. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Zuniga sitting astride his stallion in front of her lodge. At last, he had come to see her!
Almost immediately, she knew something was wrong. Zuniga's hearing was as keen as that of a wild animal, but he did not turn at the sound of her footsteps. It was then she noticed that he was not sitting proudly erect as usual, but was slumped over the dun's neck.
She ran the last few feet, then gasped aloud. There was blood everywhereon Zuniga, on the stallion, on the ground. She uttered a hoarse cry of alarm when she saw the long scratches along the side of Zuniga's neck, the blood leaking from the gash in his side. How could a man lose so much blood and live? His face was gray and pinched, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm as she felt for a pulse in his right wrist. Dear God, what if he was dead? How would she ever get out of these mountains alone? How could she live without him?
She mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving when she felt a pulse.
''Zuniga. Zuniga!"
She shouted his name again. He had to wake up. There was no way she could lift him from his horse and carry him inside the lodge.
His eyelids flickered open and he stared at her, his eyes dark and filled with pain, but aware of who she was.
"Get down," Loralee said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "I'll help you."
He nodded slightly, his face going fishbelly white as he slid awkwardly to the ground, his right hand tangled in the stallion's mane for support.
"Put your arm around my shoulders," Loralee directed. She grimaced as he sagged against her. Lord, he was heavy. In seconds, the side of her dress was wet with his blood.
Step by slow step, they made their way into the lodge. Zuniga collapsed inside the doorway, grunting as he jarred his wounded side.
For a moment, Loralee could only stare at the blood on her hands, overcome by the magnitude of his wounds. She felt tears burn her eyes, and she willed them away. There was no time for tears. Not now. There was work to be done.
She was very busy for the next few minutes. She washed her hands, lit the fire, set a kettle of water over the flames, and searched for the first aid supplies Zuniga had brought from Bisbee. She spread a blanket near the fire, rolled Zuniga onto it, and removed his tattered shirt and blood-soaked trousers.
She gasped when she got a good look at the long gash in his side, and vomited the contents of her stomach when she removed the crude bandage from his shoulder and saw the chunk of flesh that had nearly been torn from his upper arm.
When her stomach settled, she rose to her feet. Moving like a sleepwalker, she found a bottle of whiskey Zuniga had bought for medicinal purposes. Uncorking the bottle, she poured herself a generous amount and downed it in a single swallow. She had never tasted strong spirits before and she gasped, choking, as the fiery liquid burned a path to her stomach.
With a grimace of distaste, she refilled the glass for Zuniga, who had regained consciousness. How did men drink such stuff? she mused, holding the glass for Shad. She knew that many men drank to excess, to the shame of their families, but she could not imagine anyone drinking for pleasure. The whiskey was bitter and vile.
Zuniga did not seem to find it distasteful. He emptied the glass and held it out for more. He drained the glass a second time, his eyes holding hers. I need your help, his eyes seemed to say, but I cannot ask for it.
Loralee let out a long breath, and then she got to work. Closing her mind to the fact that she was causing him pain, she began to wash his wounds. Don't think that he might have been killed, she told herself. Don't think that his wounds might become infected, that he still might die. Don't think.
Zuniga winced each time Loralee's hands touched him, but he never uttered a sound. Sweat poured down his face and neck, his hands were clenched into tight fists, but he remained silent as the hills.
Once, he closed his eyes and in his mind's eye he saw Nachi standing before him, tall and young and proud, as he had been in the old days.
"An Apache warrior laughs in the face of pain," the image declared in a voice like thunder. "Fear is unknown to a true warrior of the People. Death is but an adventure into another world."
The image faded as Loralee poured whiskey over his wounds to disinfect them. The pain was excruciating. To scream would have been a relief, yet he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. A warrior laughed at pain.
Loralee was not so strong, and she wept openly over the pain she knew he must be going through. But she steeled herself. The wounds were clean now, disinfected with the whiskey. The gash in his side proved to be long but not as deep as she feared. The bleeding had stopped, and she had bound it with a length of linen. Likely, it would require no further attention. The scratches in his neck, back, and legs had been similarly treated. But the wound in his arm . . . she was uncertain how to proceed. Should she cut off that dangling hunk of flesh, or try to sew it back in place? Both ideas made her stomach heave.
In the end, she decided to sew it simply because she could not bear to cut a piece of living flesh from Zuniga's body.
Her hands were trembling so violently that it took several tries before she could thread the needle. What was she doing? She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't even a particularly talented seamstress. How could she sew living flesh?
She glanced at Zuniga. He was watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. Biting down on her lower lip, she began to sew the torn flesh. Was she doing the right thing? Were her stitches small enough? Tight enough? Would the thread hold the skin together?
Why hadn't Zuniga spoken to her? Why hadn't she spoken to him?
Zuniga watched Loralee's face as she began to sew the ragged edges of skin together. Perspiration dotted her brow, and her brown eyes were filled with anxiety as she took one neat stitch after another. Somehow the pain was not so bad when he looked at her. Perhaps she did care a little. Certainly she wouldn't look so worried if she didn't care, or would she? Perhaps it wasn't affection for him at all, but concern over her own future. She would not survive long in the mountains without him.
Loralee breathed a long sigh of relief when the task was done. Zuniga's eyes were closed. Was he sleeping? Unconscious? Gently she wiped the blood from his arm, covered him with a blanket, and mopped the sweat from his face. Then, thoroughly exhausted, she stretched out beside him and fell quickly asleep.
A low moan penetrated Loralee's dream, rousing her to instant wakefulness. The sound came again, a cry filled with pain. Sitting up, she turned toward Zuniga. She did not need to touch his forehead to know that he was burning with fever. His skin was flushed and he tossed restlessly from side to side.
Rising, Loralee poured some water into a bowl and began to sponge his face and chest with the cool water. Again and again she dampened the cloth, washing him down, praying he would not die.
Chills followed the fever, and she wrapped him in blankets, and when that didn't warm him enough, she put more wood on the fire. He mumbled in his sleep, his voice sometimes loud and angry, sometimes soft, entreating. She listened, hoping to catch a few words, but when he spoke, it was in garbled Apache and she could make no sense of his ramblings.
/>
The fever came again and he thrashed about, tossing the blankets aside as old ghosts came to haunt him. He was a child again, young and confused, hurt by his father's irrational cruelty. He wanted to love his father, but he was afraid of him. He learned early not to cry, to stay out of his father's way when he was drunk on the white man's firewater. He watched, helpless, when his father abused his mother, vowing in his heart that one day, when he was older, he would avenge the pain his mother suffered at his father's hands.
His mother. She was a beautiful woman with hair like black silk and eyes as trusting and guileless as those of a child. Everyone in the stronghold loved and pitied her, but no one dared interfere between Nakai and Nadina.
Years passed. His mother grew thin and withdrawn. Nachi grew older, sadder. But Shad grew stronger, and as he matured, his hatred for the man who was his father grew stronger until that fateful night when he took his father's life with his bare hands. . . .
He cried out as his father's skeletal image rose up before him, eyes burning with hellfire, teeth bared in a death's-head grin, long bony fingers reaching out to grab him.
"No!" The word erupted from his throat like a primal scream of terror.
He bolted upright, eyes staring straight ahead at something only he could see.
Cautiously Loralee laid her hand on his shoulder and eased him back down on the blankets.
"It's all right," she murmured soothingly. "It's all right. Go to sleep."
He reached out for her blindly, his hand finding hers and clinging to it as if he would never let go.
Her voice penetrated the awful nightmares that swirled around him, keeping the demons at bay. His father's image evaporated like morning mist and he drew a deep breath, content to remain in the quiet darkness that hovered around him.
The voice came again, soothing and kind. He tried to open his eyes, to see her face, but as he struggled through the layers of darkness, the pain hit him again, and he retreated into the friendly peace of oblivion.
Loralee talked to him for over an hour, her voice soft and low. Once, she heard him mutter Nachi's name, saw tears glisten in his eyes as he stared, unseeing, at the dark patch of sky visible through the smoke hole.
The fever raged all that day. Loralee spent hours bathing him with cool water. Patiently she spooned broth into him, knowing he had to take some liquid to replace the blood he had lost and the fluids he was sweating away.
Evening found him sleeping peacefully at last. Loralee stood up, one hand pressed against her aching back. She needed a bath, she thought wearily, and a few minutes alone. She had not left Zuniga's side for more than three or four minutes in the last two days.
With a sigh, she stepped outside and walked slowly toward the stream. The water was cold and she washed quickly, then stepped onto the bank and toweled herself dry. How quiet the night was! Trees and shrubs were silhouetted against the darkness. She saw an owl take to the sky on wings as quiet as a sigh and she shivered with apprehension, then laughed self-consciously. She was getting as superstitious as the Indians.
Dressing, she walked back to the lodge and ducked inside. Zuniga was awake, his dark eyes clear, his face pale. She felt a surge of hope as she laid her hand across his brow. It was cool. The fever had broken at last.
Loralee cast about for something to say. Why couldn't she say what was in her heart? Why couldn't she tell him how worried she had been that he might die, that she was glad he was going to be all right? That she loved him.
"Are you hungry?"
Zuniga nodded weakly. He was hungry, but not for food. His eyes followed her every move as she put a pot of soup on the fire. His pride suffered when she insisted on feeding him. He was a warrior, not a child. It was galling, having to depend on a woman to care for his every need. He was being foolish, and he knew it, though he would not admit it, just as he would not admit that he was far too weak to lift the spoon.
Loralee seemed to understand how he felt. She spooned the good-tasting broth into him, never meeting his eyes, trying, in her way, not to make him feel helpless.
The broth warmed Zuniga through and through, making him feel better, stronger. Eating made him drowsy, and he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.
The next few days were like a dream for Zuniga. Loralee was an excellent nursefeeding him, helping him relieve himself, bathing him. They rarely spoke. As Zuniga's strength returned, Loralee left him more and more to himself. She often went for long walks, her mind in turmoil. What was she going to do?
Once, while Zuniga was napping, she climbed onto his horse and started down the mountain. Zuniga was well enough to care for himself now. She could be far away before he awoke. She doubted that he was strong enough to come after her. She would find her way to Bisbee and wire Mike to come after her. She would have the baby and make the best of her marriage. Perhaps, in time, she would grow to love Mike as he deserved.
She was at the entrance to the stronghold when she reined the stallion around and started back to her lodge. She couldn't go. She couldn't leave Zuniga here alone. He needed her. But, more than that, she needed him. No matter that he didn't love her. No matter that he intended to take her child from her. She loved him with all her heart, and if these few months were all she had to spend with him, then so be it. She would stay until he sent her away.
19
Zuniga swam easily in the cool water, his strokes strong and even. It was a beautiful day in late April, and he had ridden to this place to be alone with his thoughts.
Since his fight with the puma, he had been living in Loralee's lodge. They ate together, took walks together, talked of inconsequential things like the weather and the flowers that ware blooming on hillsides. She asked questions about his people, eager to learn more, to know more of the Apache ways and beliefs. She no longer asked for her freedom, nor did she ever mention the child growing in her womb. She cooked his meals, washed his clothes, kept the lodge tidy. Her hair was always clean and shining, like newly minted gold, and she always managed to look fragile and feminine, even in the too-large man's shirt she wore to cover her burgeoning belly. She smiled at him often, her eyes warm and gentle. She never complained, never argued. Indeed, she was the epitome of womanhoodwarm, soft, feminine, agreeable, modest.
The nights were the worst part of the time they spent together. Lying alone in his bed across the fire from hers, his body burned with a fierce hunger. He yearned to bury himself in her sweetness, to confess how desperately he loved her, to beg her to forsake her marriage to the white man and be his woman. But his pride held him mute. He could not humble himself enough to beg for her love. She had chosen the white man to be her husband, and because Loralee cared about him, Zuniga decided he would let the white man live.
Leaving the stream, he shook the water from his hair and body and slipped into his buckskins. Taking up his rifle, he began to walk back to the lodge. The dun stallion trailed at his heels. It was quiet in the mountains, Zuniga mused, peaceful. He felt at home here ,in the ancient land of his people. It was here he had been born. Here that the great Cochise had lived and died. Here that he had learned the ways of a warrior.
He took his time returning to Loralee's lodge. For all that he and Loralee lived together amicably, there was an underlying tension between them. It was something they did not speak of, just as they did not discuss Mike Schofield, or the baby.
Loralee was standing at the edge of the stream when he reached the lodge. Her hair shimmered like liquid gold in the light of the setting sun. A wave of heat surged through his loins and he moved toward her, wanting her. A voice in the back of his mind warned him to stay away. She belonged to another man, and any complications between them now would only make things more difficult later. But he could not turn away from her any more than he could keep the sun from setting.
Loralee turned as Zuniga padded up behind her, felt her heart leap with joy at the sight of him. He was so very handsome. His eyes were dark, intense, under straight black brows. Her eyes
were drawn to his mouth. Would he kiss her? Could she make him kiss her just once? If only he would take her in his arms. If only she could find the words to tell him how much she loved him, how much she needed him. Couldn't he sense her need, see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice?
''Lovely evening, isn't it?" Loralee remarked, her heart pounding in her ears.
Zuniga nodded. He had never been a coward. Why couldn't he find the courage to admit how he felt?
"Dinner will be ready soon."
He nodded again. She was close. So close. His eyes locked on hers, and Loralee nodded assent at the question she read in his steady gaze.
Time seemed to stop as Zuniga reached for her, and then she was in his arms, her lips tasting his, her nostrils filling with the rugged manly scent that was his alone. Her body strained against his, glorying in the strength of his arms and legs. Happiness. welled up from the core of her being and flooded her eyes with tears as she surrendered to his touch. His hands roamed over her, kneading her back and shoulders, cupping her buttocks as his tongue plundered the sweet honey of her mouth. Carefully, he lowered her to the ground.
"Loralee." His voice was low and filled with desire. "I do not want to hurt you."
Her hands drew him closer, fearful he would slip away. "It's all right," she murmured. "Please, Shad."
Slowly he undressed her, his hands gentle, caring. Loralee blushed as his eyes moved over her body. She felt fat and ungainly, like a pregnant heifer. Would he be repulsed by what he saw? But no, his eyes smiled at her even as his hands, so big and brown, covered her swollen belly.
"You are beautiful, Loralee," he murmured. "More beautiful than ever."
"Oh, Shad," she whispered fervently, and melted into his arms, happier than she had ever been before.
She waited impatiently as he removed his own clothes, then stretched out beside her.
"Loralee." He breathed her name as he began to make sweet love to her, his caresses soft and tender, as though she were made of the most fragile porcelain and might shatter beneath his fingertips. She was breathless with desire when he entered her, filling her, making her complete.
Love Forevermore Page 19