Desert Sunrise

by Raine Cantrell

  “We weren’t scared,” Pris announced, slipping her hand into Delaney’s.

  “Seeing a hummer is going to bring us good luck, right, Del?” Joey asked.

  “Well, more like good news, scout,” Delaney answered, ruffling his hair. With a light touch Joey’s fingers followed the length of his extended arm, and he moved to stand beside him. “But,” Delaney continued in a soft, firm voice, “you two gave your sister a fright running off without telling anyone.”

  “Joey said we couldn’t get lost. You taught him how to find his way.”

  Hunkering down so that their faces were close, Delaney smoothed back the tangle of Pris’s hair. “Little one, I taught Joey and he learns well, but you don’t worry folks that care about you. Ever.” Standing, trying to keep a stern look on his face, Delaney took each child’s hand into one of his. Mumblings of being sorry came from both of them.

  From behind him Faith leaned close to whisper in his ear. “You constantly find a way to surprise me with your patience.”

  With a narrow-eyed gaze he glanced over his shoulder at her. He told himself he didn’t want the closeness the soft warmth in her eyes invited. The only thing he did want was that smooth-moving body.

  “Yeah, duchess,” he answered gruffly, “I’m a right patient man.”

  Later that night Delaney stood alone in a quiet thicket of mesquite. The moonlight played over the shadowed black rocks, gilded them and the clumps of cactus.

  There should have been peace for him; the sight of the desert stretching out forever usually soothed him.

  But not tonight.

  Delaney lifted the bottle of cheap whiskey and broke one of his own hard-and-fast rules: no drinking on the trail. He took a long, throat-clenching gulp. It was cheap, raw, and warm, filling his mouth before he swallowed. And he thought about finding himself a woman that was the same, but that wasn’t going to cure what ailed him. The bottle wouldn’t do it for him, either, he knew that, but it didn’t stop him from taking another drink.

  He was in a mood for trouble, and he knew it would come looking for him if he went into town. Just as he knew what would happen if he stayed near camp tonight.

  His free hand rose to the skystone hanging in the open vee of his shirt. With his thumb and index finger he rubbed it over and over, thinking about the satin softness of Faith’s mouth.

  “Snakes in purgatory!” he muttered, corking the bottle. What the hell was he going to do about the duchess? He set the bottle down and rolled himself a smoke, cupping his hands around the lit match and quickly blowing it out.

  “I’m friendly, Del.”

  “Jassy?” He spun and pinned the wizened old miner in place behind him. “You should know better than to sneak up on a man.”

  “Henry told me you were out here somewhere. Can’t see all that good in the dark.”

  “Thought you were gonna stay in Prescott a while.”

  “Got lucky an’ got a stake.” Wrinkling his nose, the old man stepped closer. “That whiskey?”

  Lifting the bottle, Delaney handed it over and relit his cigarette. He smoked, watching as Jassy helped himself to a few swallows, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and made a satisfied sound.

  “Man can’t walk worth two hoots in hell on one leg, Del.”

  “Help yourself to another. You come to find me for a bit of social time?”

  “Tolly tole me what happened with Chelli. Figured you’d be interested to know that he rode outa town like his hoss was on fire.”

  “Where’s he heading?”

  “Him?” Jassy answered, taking another drink. “Figure he’d find hisself a cumuripa.”

  “And where’s this rathole for Chelli?”

  “Maybe south along the Gila. Don’t know for sure. Met up with Silver Shumway afore I left, an’ he was tellin’ me that Chelli an’ some renegades passed some woman over the prairie in Two Guns.”

  Delaney shot him a quick look but knew Jassy wouldn’t lie to him. If he said Chelli and some renegades raped a woman, that is exactly what they did. Delaney dug into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills, then peeled off a few.

  “You add this to your stake, an’ if you find more than iron filings, save some for me.”

  “Ain’t a need, Del. You’re always square with a man.” Jassy wasn’t given a choice; Delaney tucked the rolled bills into his shirt pocket. “I’m onto somethin’ real good this time. If it ain’t the real thing, may God knock my head off with sour apples. I made me a promise that I’m gwine find me a mother lode as shore as punkins ain’t cauliflowers.”

  Laughing, Delaney pinched off the end of his smoke and squatted down to dig a small hole to bury it. He shared a drink with Jassy, thanked him, and walked back to camp.

  He had warned Chelli what would happen to him if he sniffed his back trail. But the thought of Chelli touching Faith chilled him. He reached up for his skystone, felt its warmth, and let the cold rage subside. If the duchess wasn’t for the likes of him, she sure as the hell-broth he drank wasn’t for a loose-legged gully-raker like Chelli.

  Faith stirred and turned over onto her back when she heard Keith come back to camp and crawl under his wagon to sleep. She dozed each night until she knew that Delaney was close by, keeping watch. Soothed by the thought that nothing could happen to any of them with him on guard, she fell into a dreamless sleep. The nightmares had stopped … was a half-formed thought.

  Three nights later they were bedded down at the base of the White Tank Mountains. Delaney had been edgy all day. Faith sensed it, but when she asked, he shrugged off her question.

  She was not sure what made her wake that night. It had been some time since Keith had come back. She listened but heard nothing to account for a feeling that something was wrong. Fear that Delaney could be hurt forced her up and out of the wagon.

  Shivering in the night’s chill, she listened once again. There was a tense silence in the air, and all was still. She started around the wagon when a hand clamped over her mouth.

  Her response to the warmth and hard press of a man’s body crowding her against the wagon wheel told Faith it was Delaney who held her before her mind realized it.

  Her sleep-clouded mind instantly cleared. Something was wrong. She made no move to struggle. It would have been foolish when she felt the tension that gripped his powerful body. He eased his hold on her mouth so that she could breathe.

  Shivers raced down her spine when he slid his hand up her arm, across the shoulder to cup her neck for a second before he drew her hair aside. Her stomach turned over and her legs trembled to feel his warm lips against her ear. Even then she barely heard the words he mouthed.

  “Company’s here.”

  All she could do was nod to show she understood that someone who shouldn’t be there was prowling around the camp.

  “Stay.”

  His command. Hers to obey. Before she drew another breath, he was gone without a sound.

  Faith worried that her pristine nightgown acted as a beacon in the wan moonlight. She strained to hear where Delaney was moving, but all that came back to her was a brooding sense of quiet, an unease that made the animals restless for no apparent reason. There was a reason, she reminded herself. Delaney had given her the cause.

  Someone was out there.

  Reaching into the wagon, she pulled her quilt from the floor between the beds where Pris and Joey slept on, unaware. She glanced over at the wagon where her father slept, and below where Keith made his bed, but they weren’t awake. After wrapping the quilt around her, she leaned the loaded rifle by her side and waited.

  Delaney waited, too. He was concealed within a small thicket and knew there was a lone man out there. A man on foot who had learned the same waiting patience he had from the Indians, or was himself an Indian. There was no doubt to his conclusions. A white man got restless after long minutes had passed without sounds of pursuit. So Delaney remained still, listening to the night, as he had
since he had been startled into awareness by the ancient sense of danger.

  Overhead a nighthawk dived and veered off before attacking its prey. Delaney’s head came up like a wolf’s, and his nostrils flared, scenting dried blood, and with it a pungent herb. His unseen enemy was wounded and close to him. Shifting his stance, he had no worry of making a sound. The rawhide soles of his moccasins that he wore for night prowls allowed him to feel the smallest pebble. To dislodge a stone or twig could alert his enemy to his position.

  Drawing his knife, he scanned the candle-shaped yuccas, the rock outcrops, every low-growing bush that could offer a hiding place to a man. Every breath he inhaled helped him to pin down the position from where the man scent came to him.

  He couldn’t help recall the nights when he was allowed to stay on the reservation with Taza, who with other boys taught him their hunting skills. He didn’t know what made him think he would need all of those skills now, but instinct sounded an alarm he had to heed.

  Delaney slipped from the thicket, his body braced for the attack that came from behind. A half-pivot helped him to avoid the downward thrust of a knife. Delaney jammed his elbow back, satisfied to hear a grunt and the rush of expelled air that followed. His hand fisted over the knife handle, and he spun to land a solid right to his assailant’s jaw. The man went down in a crumbled heap.

  He stood stock still for a moment. It was over too fast. Blood rushed through his warrior-honed body. For minutes he stood, scanning and listening, making sure that his senses had not failed him and that there was only this lone man.

  A groan drew his attention. He hunkered down, still holding his knife, and using his free hand turned the man over. Wetness, warmth, and something sticky from whatever was on the man’s shoulder now clung to his hand. Thought of the man’s wound made Delaney careless. He leaned closer and found a blade at his throat.

  “Shit! Better watch real careful with that. You’re liable to cut someone.”

  “Del-a-ney?”

  The hoarse whisper raked over Delaney’s nerve ends. Even with the blade at his throat he swallowed.

  “Seanilzay?”

  “Come far. Find you.”

  “Why? What happened to you?” Delaney demanded.

  Lowering the knife Seanilzay tried to sit up, but he was weak from loss of blood, the distance he had traveled, and the brief scuffle with Delaney. His fingers clenched like talons on his friend’s arm. “Brave to speak with … blade at throat.”

  “As you are to attack a man so wounded. Talk will wait.” Sliding his arm beneath Seanilzay’s shoulders, Delaney raised him to sit. “Let me help you to stand. Camp is close.”

  “The pindahs—”

  “The whites do not matter. I make my own camp.”

  “Ah,” Seanilzay whispered, “the woman.”

  To save Seanilzay’s pride, Delaney offered no more than his support. He could feel his friend’s weakness and knew Seanilzay had used up his reserves of strength.

  In his concern for him Delaney had forgotten about Faith. When he came abreast of the wagon, she rushed toward him, stopping short when she saw the Indian.

  “He’s in no condition to scalp you, duchess. So save your scream.”

  “I can see that myself. And I wasn’t going to scream.” Drawing the quilt tighter, she glanced at the dark eyes of the Apache that watched her with unblinking steadiness. “What can I do to help?” she asked, directing her gaze to Delaney and catching him by surprise.

  He wanted to refuse her offer, but Seanilzay’s sagging weight forced him to answer. “If you’ve got a blanket to spare from your wagon, set it near where we made the fire. My bedroll’s—”

  “He’s hurt and we shouldn’t waste time talking, Delaney.” She didn’t stop to think but whipped off the quilt covering her and ran to smooth it out. Quickly, without waiting for Delaney to ask, she built up a fire, then left them to get water to heat.

  “Rest easy,” Delaney murmured to Seanilzay, using his knife to cut away the Indian’s shirt.

  “See to my leg. There is little feeling.” Even these few words exhausted him, and Seanilzay closed his eyes.

  Faith lit the lantern hanging on the side of the wagon. She murmured to Pris as she took a folded sheet from the top of the trunk. Hurrying back to the fire, she asked Delaney for his knife to tear the linen into strips.

  “You don’t need to help me.”

  “A man’s wounded, Carmichael. I want to help, if you will let me.”

  He spared a quick glance at her. With the flames rising behind her, Faith’s body was all shadows. But she moved and revealed clearly defined curves beneath the pale cloth of her nightgown.

  “You might try covering up first,” he muttered. Setting his knife down, he rose and towered over her. “Move. When you’re done, stay with him.”

  For a startled moment their gazes clashed. Faith was embarrassed by her lack of modesty.

  Seanilzay opened his eyes as she spun around. “You speak with a … rough tongue to the woman. Do not … forget…”

  “I don’t forget. But if you’ve got strength to talk, use it for something worth telling. Like naming who did this to you?”

  “Still the young eagle who demands.”

  “You’re as wily as the fox and as bloodthirsty as a weasel, Seanilzay. How many cornered you?”

  “One,” he whispered in a shame-filled voice, fighting to draw breath. “Only one pindah.”

  Only one white man. Knowing Seanilzay, Delaney figured the attacker had taken the Apache by surprise. He knelt beside him, gently probing both wounds. “Bullets out?” Seanilzay moved his hand. Delaney lowered his head to sniff, hoping there was no foul odor to indicate suppuration. “It is good that you used pitch to draw the swelling. I won’t ask how far you’ve walked.” Delaney knew that as a young man, Seanilzay could cover sixty or seventy miles in a day. But he was no longer young.

  “Fort.”

  Delaney looked at him. “Whipple? Verde?” Seanilzay rolled his head from side to side. “McDowell?” Delaney was rewarded with a rapid blinking of the Apache’s eyelids. Questions burned now, but he merely nodded.

  Faith stepped back into the circle cast by the fire. She wore a faded calico gown, but her hair was loose and she held it aside as she tested the heat of the water. Picking up Delaney’s knife, she sat on the other side of Seanilzay and, without a word, sliced into the linen.

  Delaney rose and walked to where he had spread his bedroll. From his saddlebag he withdrew a small parfleche, the hide soft and supple to his hand. The strong thread that held it together was sinew, cut from the loin of the first deer he had slain. He opened it carefully so as not to spill his precious store of healing herbs and roots.

  “No, Pa! No!”

  In a reflex as natural as breathing, Delaney’s gun was in his hand. Tucking the rawhide ties of the parfleche in his belt, he came up behind Becket and Keith but remained in the shadows. A cold rage settled in his gut when he saw that they were both holding their rifles on Seanilzay. Faith was kneeling beside him, facing her father.

  “Get away from that filthy savage,” Becket ordered.

  “He’s hurt, Pa. And you wouldn’t be clean if you were wounded and had walked to find help.”

  “Move, Faith. Now.”

  “No. You can’t hurt him. He’s Delaney’s friend.”

  “He’s a stinking Apache, girl. Can’t you see his dress? And those moccasins? Tolly said theirs had toes curled. You think I’m gonna give him the chance to rape you and slit our throats?” Becket’s voice shook with fury. “Keith,” he ordered, motioning with his rifle, “get her away from him.”

  Keith was about to obey and step to the side when he spotted Delaney, standing behind his father, his gun in hand.

  “Pa,” he warned, “look behind you.”

  Faith saw the burning heat of Delaney’s gaze and raised her hand as if to plead with him, but she said nothing as her father turned
around.

  Becket eyed the gun, then looked at Delaney’s face. “I don’t care what—”

  “Shut up, Becket. You’re wrong, though. The Apache would never rape her. Her skin’s too sickly and white. She could take all their luck if they touched her. Now, if your daughter was Apache, still a maid, he would be the one killed for daring to touch her. And if you weren’t a blind bigot, you would see that he’s in no shape to slit anyone’s throat. Now, you got a choice, Becket. Lower that rifle or use it.”

  Faith bit back her cry. Delaney’s face was cast by shadows as he stepped closer to the fire. But the lack of emotion in his eyes, in his voice, brought home to her that he meant what he said.

  “Carmichael,” Robert finally answered, “you’re no better than this savage.”

  “Remember that, Becket.” Delaney grinned, but there was no shared humor, no softening in his features. “Kill an Apache’s friend, an’ he’ll follow you through hell to avenge it.”

  This time Faith could not hold back a soft cry. It was not for what Delaney threatened, but her catching sight for the first time of the knee-high moccasins he wore. They were the same as the Apache’s. The rumors and whispers she had heard about him came rushing back to her. She knew they were all true. It wasn’t only his own admission now, but his stance, the dangerous cold fire filling his eyes, and the warning screaming inside her that he would kill her father if he didn’t lower that rifle.

  There was no time to think, only to act. Coming to her feet, careful to keep her body between her father and the wounded man, Faith spoke.

  “There’s a man in need of help, lying here and losing blood. The water’s boiling. I’ve torn linen for bandages, but I’ve never treated a gunshot wound.”

  Delaney, never taking his eyes from Becket’s face, tossed the parfleche toward her. “Hang on to that. Well, Becket, you heard your daughter. I’m a patient man, but you’re prodding my limit along about now. Set down the rifle or use it, Becket.”

  Chapter 9