Love Forevermore

by Madeline Baker

  "Mike, stop."

  "I've been a fool," Mike said bitterly. "But no more. You're my wife, and when that baby is born, I intend to make you my wife in every sense of the word."

  Loralee shook her head, too stunned to speak. She should have expected something like this, she thought dully Mike was a man, after all. She had been a fool to think she could live with him and not fulfill her obligation as a wife. He wasn't a saint, and he loved her. It was only natural that he want to hold her and kiss her and make love to her. Truth be told, she was surprised he had held out this long. Oh, but he had promised! What was she going to do?

  "Get dressed," Mike said curtly. "I have to be back at the fort tomorrow night."

  Loralee stared, unseeing, at the road ahead. Her thoughts were bleak, close to despair. Shad was in jail, would be a prisoner for months, perhaps years. And Mike was sitting beside her, a grim expression on his face. How quickly her life had turned upside down.

  They had gone shopping the day before and Loralee was respectably attired in a blue traveling suit and matching bonnet. White kid shoes covered her feet, white gloves protected her hands, a lacy parasol blocked the sun. She looked every inch a lady. No one, seeing her now, would suspect that she had spent the past few months living in a brush-covered wickiup.

  Mike had been most generous, and a small valise held several other dresses, all cut to allow for her expanded girth. She had not really been in the mood to shop, but Mike had insisted she buy whatever caught her fancy. She was an officer's wife now, and it was important to look the part.

  Despite her lack of enthusiasm over returning to the fort, Loralee had been pleased by the prospect of new clothes. It had been so long since she had worn anything but a man's shirt and calico skirts. The new traveling suit complemented her hair and eyes, but she took little joy in her reflection. What difference did it make how she looked if Shad couldn't see her?

  Shad. They had passed the jail on their way out of town, and her heart had ached at the thought of Zuniga locked away behind iron bars. She had gazed longingly at the jail. He was inside, separated from her by little more than six feet of dusty ground. She was tempted to leap from the buggy and fly across the street and up the three short stairs to the jail . . . sorely tempted, and only Mike's hand on her arm stopped her.

  Now, sitting beside Mike, the town far behind, her thoughts were full of Zuniga. He was in jail, and it was all her fault.

  21

  Zuniga stopped his endless pacing to stare at the heavy oak door that separated the cellblock from the jail office. There was a small square window in the door that offered a tiny glimpse of blue sky. The handcuffs on his wrists rattled infuriatingly as he took hold of the bars of his cell. Impotent anger at being imprisoned gnawed at his vitals, and he gripped the bars until his knuckles were white. He had to get out of here, and soon, before he went crazy. Day after day, hour after hour, he paced the narrow cell, his frustration building until he thought he would scream with the need to be free. The air in the cellblock was stale, the view never changed: four gray walls and iron bars. He yearned for the sight of trees and hills, for the warmth of the sun on his face.

  He thought constantly of Loralee. No doubt she was back at the fort with Schofield now. The thought of her being with another man was worse torture than being in jail. She had said Schofield had not touched her, but how much longer would that last? The man was flesh and blood, not a plaster saint. No man could be with Loralee day and night, day after day, without wanting her. Loralee and Schofield. The thought drove him wild.

  But there was nothing he could do about it. He had been subjected to a brief trial, found guilty, and sentenced to six months at hard labor as soon as his ribs healed.

  Six months in chains. He would surely go mad. He had never realized how much he loved the wild life, the mountains and hills that he had wandered as a boy, the freedom he had enjoyed. The sameness of each day in jail, the lack of activity or exercise, the physical restrictions placed on him by handcuffs and iron bars were wearing on his nerves. He was jumpy, irritable, eager for a fight.

  And then there was the food. The marshal, a man filled with prejudice against Mexicans and Indians, served him the same menu every day: runny eggs and half-cooked bacon for breakfast, thin soup and brown bread for lunch, and beans and tortillas for dinner. Zuniga skipped breakfast, ate the bread for lunch, and wolfed down dinner, which was the only decent meal of the day.

  He had spent just over four weeks in the jail cell when he was hustled out of the building and into the back of a slat-sided wagon. Shackles were placed on his feet, and the cuffs on his hands were secured to an iron ring in the side of the wagon. He took a deep breath as the wagon lurched forward. At last, he was outside again.

  As the miles rolled by, he realized they were heading for the reservation. How Schofield would laugh, Zuniga mused bitterly, to see him in chains.

  When they arrived at the reservation, Zuniga was locked in the stockade with a dozen other Indians who were being punished for a wide variety of crimes. The other prisoners were sullen-faced, querulous, and dirty. They eyed Zuniga warily until they recognized him, and then they laughed ruefully. So, the one remaining rebel had been caught at last.

  Zuniga spent a sleepless night; at first light, he was rousted from the stockade and taken to the stables to muck out the stalls.

  Anger was a tight fist in his gut as he shoveled horse manure into a wheel barrow. He had been working about twenty minutes when Mike Schofield entered the barn. Zuniga had just stepped out of one of the stalls and the two men glared at each other as they came face to face.

  Zuniga was keenly aware of the chains on his hands and feet, of the sweat dripping down his face and back, of the manure clinging to his moccasins. Humiliation washed over him, but he held his head high, his expression remaining impassive.

  Mike grinned broadly. So, Zuniga had been sent home to serve his time. He wouldn't be so arrogant after this. The boys and young men wouldn't look on him with such high regard after they'd seen him in chains.

  Schofield glanced at the private who had been ordered to keep an eye on Zuniga. "Parker, you're dismissed. I'll keep an eye on the redskin."

  "Yessir," Parker replied. Executing a salute, the private left the barn, glad to be relieved from such a boring detail.

  "Get to work, injun," Mike ordered curtly.

  Rage boiled up inside Zuniga. For a moment, he thought of refusing. Instead, he shrugged and stepped into the next stall. It was foolish to provoke the enemy when he had the upper hand. It would have been easy to smash Schofield in the face with the shovel and make a run for it, but there was no place to go. The gates were closed, his hands and feet were shackled, and he had no weapon. In addition, there were soldiers everywhere.

  It took two hours to clean the stalls, and when that was done, Schofield ordered Zuniga to curry his horse. Tight-lipped, Shad did as he was bid.

  Schofield found a dozen other chores for Zuniga to do before returning him to the stockade.

  Mike was in good spirits when he got home that night. It had been immensely satisfying, ordering Zuniga about, knowing how humiliating it was for the Apache to obey. Yes, he mused, the next six months were going to be interesting indeed.

  The following day just after dawn, the Indian prisoners were herded outside the fort and put to work clearing the dry brush from the hills behind the back wall of the fort. It was hard, dusty work. The Apaches cursed under their breath. It was bad enough to be in chains, but to do woman's work was humiliation of the worst kind.

  Zuniga was halfheartedly hacking down a fire-ravaged tree when he heard a snicker behind him. Turning, he saw Mike Schofield grinning impudently at him from the back of a raw-boned bay gelding.

  Zuniga's hands tightened on the ax handle. It was humiliating, having your enemy see you in chains laboring under the hot sun, while he laughed in your face.

  With lazy grace, Schofield lifted the crop in his hand and brought it down across Zuni
ga's chest. ''Get to work, redskin," he said with a sneer. "I won't put up with any malingering while I'm on duty."

  Anger flashed in Zuniga's eyes as he hefted the ax. it would be so easy to bury the heavy blade in Schofield's chest. So easy.

  As if reading his mind, Schofield moved his hand to the gun bolstered on his side, his fingers curling around the smooth walnut butt. "Go ahead," he challenged. "I'd love an excuse to cut you down."

  Zuniga's mouth turned down in a wry grin. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "I am not ready to die. Not until I have seen my son."

  "You'll never see him," Schofield vowed. His hand closed over the butt of his gun. "I'll kill you first."

  "Perhaps." It was on the tip of Zuniga's tongue to ask about Loralee. Was she well? Was she happy? But he knew that Schofield would not tell him, and he could not humble himself enough to beg for an answer.

  "Get to work," Schofield demanded, and turned away.

  Zuniga stared after the lieutenant for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he attacked the tree, unleashing all his pent-up fury as he destroyed what had once been a living thing, wishing all the while that it was Mike Schofield falling beneath the blade.

  Loralee smiled stiffly at the ladies standing outside the sutler's store. She knew they talked about her constantly, gossiping about her unexplained absence, and the fact that she had been married only five and a half months and appeared to be due any day.

  The ladies smiled and nodded, but their smiles did not reach their eyes, and as soon as she passed by, she could hear them whispering. Damn them, she thought angrily. Damn them all! They were strangers to her, wives who had come West to be with their husbands while she had been away. She did not know their names, but they knew hers. Indeed, they knew hers. She was certain they had nothing good to say, nothing at all.

  She fought back the tears threatening to fall. She had never been so miserable in her life. Mike was a stranger. Whatever affection he had once had for her seemed to have withered and died when they reached the fort. He treated her well enough, but his eyes were guarded when he looked at her, and his attitude was one of contempt. And yet he still desired her. She could see it in his eyes sometimes, when she caught him staring at her.

  When she got home, she put the few items she had purchased in the cupboard, then wandered through the house. Mike had forbidden her to leave the fort, but she needed to get away, to be in the open for a while.

  Thirty minutes later she was driving out of the fort in a light buggy. The private who had harnessed the horse for her had been reluctant to do so, but he lacked the guts to argue with Lieutenant Schofield's wife.

  Loralee sighed as the fort faded into the distance behind her. It felt good to be alone, away from walls and prying eyes and whispering tongues, away from Mike. He professed to love her, but she knew he would never forgive her for running away with Zuniga and liking it.

  She drove for an hour, enjoying the open country, the clear sky, the cacti that were in bloom. She thought of her child soon to be born, but refused to think about Shad. It was too painful to think of him, too painful to picture him languishing away in prison, locked behind cold iron bars.

  As she approached the fort again, she saw the road gang laboring on the side of the hill, hacking away the dry brush. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the prisoners. They were all Indians. Most were doing time on the road gang for being drunk and disorderly, or for stealing. It was hot, dusty work, and as she drew nearer, she could see that the men were sweating profusely. Forcing the Indians to work on the road gang on the reservation was supposed to deter the other Indians from breaking the law, but she doubted it was effective. Certainly there was never a lack of men on the road gang.

  She was about to rein the horse around and head for the front gate when she saw him. His shirt was off and his muscles bunched and relaxed with each swing of the scythe in his hands. A strip of red cloth kept the sweat from his eyes. Tears burned her eyes when she saw the shackles on his hands and feet.

  For a moment, she could only stare at Zuniga, her eyes feasting on the sight of him even as she wondered how long he had been back on the reservation. Mike had never said a word. She gazed at Zuniga longingly, wishing she had the nerve to go to him. Almost, she reined the horse closer. And then she heard Mike's voice, cruel and taunting as he mocked Zuniga, belittling him because he was in chains.

  Loralee cringed as she heard her husband make several derogatory remarks about Shad's honor, about how there was no pride in shackles or iron bars.

  Loralee watched Zuniga's face. He seemed not to hear the relentless barbs, but she knew each taunt cut deep. How could Mike be so cruel?

  She could not bear to watch any more. With a muffled cry, she started to turn the horse back the way she had come. At that moment she heard Mike remark that no doubt Shad's son would be proud to learn his father had once labored on a road gang with a bunch of two-bit thieves and drunkards.

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  With a wordless cry, Zuniga lunged forward, the scythe held in his hands like a club.

  Loralee watched in horror as Shad struck Mike across the side of the head with the scythe's solid wood handle. Mike fell to the ground, blood oozing from his left temple. The other guard sprinted toward Mike. Drawing his service revolver as he ran, he fired a shot in Zuniga's direction, and missed. As the trooper took aim for a second shot, Zuniga grabbed Mike's sidearm from the holster and fired at the soldier bearing down on him. The bullet hit the man full in the chest, killing him instantly.

  For a moment, Zuniga stood staring down at Mike Schofield. The man was still breathing. A cruel smile twisted Shad's lips as he raised the gun and thumbed back the hammer. He had killed one man already. What harm was there in killing two? They could only hang him once.

  "Shad, don't!"

  His head jerked up at the sound of her voice and he whirled around to see Loralee driving toward him.

  "Don't!" she cried again, drawing the buggy to a halt beside him. "Please, don't."

  With a curt nod, Zuniga shoved the pistol into the waistband of his pants, then dug the keys out of Mike's pocket before vaulting into the buggy beside Loralee. Taking the reins from her hands, he urged the horse up into the hills behind the fort.

  The other prisoners stood staring after Zuniga and the woman, too stunned by the sudden violence to move. Then, realizing there was no one left to stop them, the Apaches melted into the scrub brush.

  Loralee clutched the side of the buggy as it jolted over the rough, unbroken ground. There was no trail, and the wheels bounced over rocks and cactus, rocking wildly from side to side.

  Once, glancing over her shoulder, she saw Mike lying on the ground far below. Was he dead? The other man had been killed instantly. She wondered if the shooting would be considered self-defense.

  She looked at Shad. His face was taut, his mouth set in a grim line as he urged the horse to go faster.

  "Shad, where are we going?"

  "I do not know," he replied. He lashed the horse mercilessly. It would not take long for Schofield to regain consciousness and summon help. For a moment, he regretted not killing the man, and then he shrugged. It made no difference. He had drawn the blood of his enemy and that was coup enough. For now.

  He slid a glance at Loralee. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and frightened, but he knew the fear she felt was for him and not for herself. She was a fine and brave woman, he reflected, worthy to be the mother of an Apache. She would have made him a fine wife in the old days, a fine wife, indeed.

  He reined the horse to a stop at a place not far from the spot where Nachi's lodge had once stood. Dismounting, he released the horse from the traces and cut the reins to a manageable length.

  "What are you doing?" Loralee asked in a small voice.

  "I am leaving you here," Zuniga replied. Lifting her from the buggy, he took her in his arms and held her tight. "We cannot get away in this rig. It is too slow. And you cannot ride."

  "Don'
t leave me."

  "I will be back for you after the baby is born," he promised, stroking her hair. "Watch for me."

  "I will."

  Lowering his head, Zuniga kissed her long and hard. She felt good in his arms. So good. "Damn," he muttered. "I do not want to go."

  "I don't want you to go," LoraIee said. She reached up to caress his cheek. "I love you."

  "I love you." He muttered an oath as he unlocked the shackles from his hands and feet and tossed the irons away. "I must go."

  "I know."

  "Damn." He caught her in his arms and kissed her again, his mouth hard and insistent.

  With regret, he let her go, only to stand there looking at her. How could he leave her?

  "Go, hurry," Loralee said. "I'll be all right. I'll wait for you, no matter how long it takes."

  One more quick kiss, and he was gone.

  She did not try to contain her tears but let them fall freely, hoping they would ease the ache in her heart. He was gone from her again, but at least he was free.

  22

  Zuniga rode hard, climbing higher into the hills. He breathed deeply, drawing the clean fresh air into his lungs. Free at last. His hands and feet felt lighter than air now that they were freed of the shackles that had hampered his movements and galled his soul. He regretted that he had been unable to kill Schofield, but it was just as well. Loralee needed a man to take care of her, and she would be safe at the fort. Schofield would not turn her out. And when the baby was born, he would return and take Loralee and the child away with him. His plans went that far and no farther. He was a hunted man now, a fugitive. He had no money, no home, nothing to offer Loralee but a life of heartache and misery. And his child . . . what could he offer his son? Nothing.

  He swore softly. He had made a mess of the whole thing. He should have served his time. At least then he would not be a wanted man. Now the Army would pursue him relentlessly for killing one of their men.