But it was too late for second thoughts, Trey mused. Too late to turn back now.
Amanda rode up alongside him. “How much farther?”
“We should be there tomorrow morning.”
She groaned softly. “I guess that means spending another night on the ground.”
“Get used to it, sweetheart. There aren’t any beds like you’re used to where we’re going.”
“I didn’t think there were. But you do have tipis or something, don’t you? We can at least sleep inside.”
“Sure.” Apache lodges were warm in winter and cool in summer. He’d never had any trouble sleeping on a bed of soft furs, and looked forward to it now.
His grandfather would be surprised to be see him, he thought, and then again, maybe not. They were in Apache territory now. Walker on the Wind might have already received word that his grandson and a white woman were on their way. If he was even still alive…
Trey pushed the thought aside, refusing to consider the possibility that his grandfather might have passed on. Walker on the Wind had always been as strong as the Chiricahua Mountains, reliable as the sunrise.
His gaze roamed the countryside; it was a harsh land with a beauty all its own. The Whites saw only desolation and barrenness in the desert, but the Apache knew every stream, every river, every waterhole, every mile of sand and cactus. He had not been here in five years, yet the very air seemed to welcome him home.
Even Relámpago seemed to know where they were headed. The stallion’s pace quickened and he tugged against the reins, eager to run. Finally, tired of holding him in, Trey gave the stallion its head and the horse broke into a gallop.
Trey glanced over his shoulder to make sure Amanda was with him, and then he lost himself in the sheer pleasure of racing across the desert.
Amanda grinned as the gelding gave chase. She loved her Jag, loved driving fast along an open stretch of highway, but there was nothing quite as exhilarating as a wild gallop across open ground, nothing to compare with feeling the power of the horse beneath her, or the wind’s fingers flying through her hair. Caught up in the sheer joy of the ride, she laughed out loud as the gelding jumped across a dry stream bed.
How had she gone so long without riding? How could she have forgotten how much she had once loved it, how much fun it could be?
She urged the gelding on in a vain attempt to catch Trey and Relámpago. Trey rode with an ease she supposed was inborn, rode as though he were a part of the horse. Man and horse made a beautiful sight as they raced across the desert—the man leaning low over the stallion’s neck, his long black hair whipped by the wind; the horse moving like some mystical creature, its hooves hardly seeming to touch the earth, its mane and tail flying like battle flags.
Trey let the stallion run until it slowed of its own accord. Reining the stud to a halt, he turned the horse and waited for Amanda to catch up. She rode well, her body moving in rhythm with the gelding’s, her hands light upon the reins, her skin glowing. The late afternoon sunlight cast golden shadows in the wealth of her auburn hair. He knew a sudden urge to run his fingers through her hair, to feel her body writhing beneath his, to bury himself in her warmth.
“That was wonderful!” she exclaimed as she reined her horse to a stop beside his. Leaning forward, she patted the gelding’s neck exuberantly.
He had never seen anything more desirable in his life, Trey thought, than Amanda the way she looked just then, with her hair falling about her shoulders in wild disarray and her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“It is beautiful out here, in a wild, rugged sort of way,” she said breathlessly. “I used to wonder why the Indians loved it so much, why they fought for it so hard, but now…” She shook her head. “I guess I understand, at least a little.”
“It’s home,” Trey said. “That’s why they fight for it, why they love it.”
Amanda nodded. “Of course,” she said wistfully. “Home.”
He heard the longing in her voice, the yearning to return to her own home, her own time, and knew it was the one thing he would deny her, even if he’d had the means to give it to her.
They rode until dusk, then made camp near a shallow waterhole. In what had become routine, Trey looked after the horses and Amanda spread their blankets; when that was done, she gathered what fuel she could find for a fire while Trey went hunting.
Taking the box of matches from the saddlebags, she lit the fire, her apprehension growing as it grew darker and darker and he didn’t return. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of. After all, there was nothing in the desert but sand and lizards. And rattlesnakes. But snakes didn’t like the cold, did they? Wouldn’t they all be holed up somewhere for the night?
Without her watch, she had no way of knowing how long Trey had been gone, but it seemed like well over an hour. He wasn’t usually gone so long. No doubt he would be back soon. Feeling suddenly fidgety, she went to stand beside Relámpago.
“He’ll be right back,” she told the horse, even though she knew she was really trying to reassure herself.
The stallion shook his head, as if in disagreement.
“You’ll see.” No doubt he was just having more trouble than usual finding a rabbit. Of course, that was it.
She glanced into the distance, but, beyond the light cast by the fire, there was nothing to see.
She stood there, stroking the stallion’s neck, growing more and more afraid that something had happened to Trey. He could have fallen, she thought, broken an arm or a leg or something. He might have gotten lost, though she found that hard to believe. That was her thing, she thought, grimacing. She had no sense of direction at all, but Trey seemed to find his way around the desert with no trouble at all.
How long had he been gone? An hour? Two?
Something was definitely wrong. She knew it, could feel it in her bones. She should go after him, she thought. Or maybe not… After several minutes of indecision, she saddled the stallion, mounted, and headed in the direction Trey had gone. She had better find him, she thought ruefully, because she would probably never find her way back to camp on her own.
The gelding snorted and pulled against its tether as she rode away on Relámpago.
In no time at all, the faint glow of the campfire was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.
“Trey?” She called his name softly, some inner voice warning her not to shout.
She reined Relámpago to a halt, having no idea which way Trey might have gone from here. She was about to call Trey’s name again when the stallion tugged on the reins.
“Easy, boy.” A shiver went down Amanda’s spine as she peered into the darkness. “Do you see something out there?” she whispered. “Do you know where Trey is?”
The stallion pawed the earth, then tugged on the reins again.
“All right,” she said, giving the stallion his head. “But I hope you know where you’re going.”
* * * * *
The hulking, red-bearded man backhanded Trey with a huge hairy paw. The force of the blow spun him to the ground, almost knocking the wind out of him. Furious anger surged through him and he tugged against the ropes that held him, his concern for his own life paling when he thought of Amanda back at their camp, waiting for him.
He stifled a groan when the blunt toe of the second miner’s boot exploded against his ribs.
“Where’s your camp, half-breed?” Redbeard demanded, kicking him again. “Where’s your horse and outfit?”
Trey glared at the man. He’d die before he told them a damn thing, but there was always a chance they might be trail wise enough to backtrack him to Amanda. His mind refused to contemplate what would happen then. Alone and unarmed, she’d be helpless
“That’s enough for now," the second man said, going to the fire. “Meat’s about ready.”
“I could shore eat,” Redbeard said. He gave Trey a halfhearted kick. “We’ll finish with you later.”
With his cheek ground into the dust, Trey watched the oth
er man turn a slab of venison over the fire. His venison. The deer he had killed so Amanda could eat.
He had let her down. Of all the times to be careless in the desert… He ground his teeth in frustration, as Redbeard joined his partner at the fire. The aroma of cooking meat was maddening. He had been so intent on stalking the little Coues whitetail at the desert waterhole that he had failed to see the dull blur of two hunters seated below the skyline of that little ridge, rifles ready for whatever came down to water.
Trey had made the shot cleanly. The hunters had waited until he had both hands in the buck’s body cavity, cleaning it, before singing out for him to grab some sky. They had him in the open, both of his hands too slick with blood and gore to reach for his gun. Both men had rifles. On top of everything else, one of the men had recognized him. They’d only been thinking about stealing his horse and rig until then.
Of all the rotten luck, his had to be the worst. Nothing but desert for miles around, and he had to run into a two-bit drifter who memorized wanted posters.
Damn. What a predicament. He tugged on the ropes that bound his wrists again, wincing as the movement cut off his circulation.
To add insult to injury, the two men were hunkered over a small campfire, enjoying his venison, rubbing their greasy hands on their pants.
There was a shift in the wind as what had been a gentle breeze began to gust. Surprisingly, the campfire guttered and went out. The two men who had captured him scrambled to their feet, glancing at each other uneasily as a low keening rode the coattails of the wind.
“Look!”
Trey turned his head, his gaze following the direction of Redbeard’s finger.
A gray mist swirled up out of the ground, and a horse appeared out of the mist, its long white mane and tail flowing like fingers of cold lightning, its snowy coat shimmering in the moon light.
The horse paused near Trey. Rose up on its hind legs, forelegs pawing the air.
“Damn,” whispered the other man. “Look at that.”
Trey watched as the stallion dropped to all fours, then reared again. Moonlight glinted off its flashing hooves. Dropping to all fours again, the stallion paced back and forth between Trey and the men.
“What the hell?” Redbeard exclaimed.
“It’s a ghost horse!” his partner said, an unmistakable quiver in his voice.
Trey sensed movement in the darkness behind him and tensed, then caught a whiff of a familiar fragrance, dimmed by days on the trail. Amanda.
“Hold still,” she whispered urgently.
He felt her hands fumbling with the rope that bound his wrists. Moments later, he was free.
Relámpago reared again and as the stallion came down, Trey grabbed a handful of its mane and swung onto the stallion’s back, ignoring the jolt of pain in his ribs and the tingling in his arms.
One of the men swore, then shouted, “Shoot him!” as Trey wheeled the stallion around and bent low, scooping Amanda up in front of him, all in one motion. He slammed his heels into Relámpago’s flanks, and the big horse launched into a dead run, the flat whip crack of futile rifle fire fading behind them.
Trey didn’t rein the stallion to a halt until they were back at camp.
Her gelding whinnied softly as they rode up.
Trey eased Amanda to the ground, then slid off the stallion’s back. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
He sat down carefully, one arm wrapped around his midsection. “How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t. Relámpago did. When we got close to where you were, he stopped and refused to move again until I got off. Then he went to you, and I followed him. It was so…so spooky, the way the wind came up, and their fire went out.” She shivered at the memory. “And that mist…if I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Are you sure you’re all right?” She held his bloody hands up to the moonlight. He winced.
“That's not mine,” he said. “It’s from the deer I was cleaning when they got the drop on me. They kicked me around some.” He didn’t tell her why. “I’m more aggravated than anything. Damn, I must be losing my edge, to let a pair of no-account drifters catch me flatfooted like that. Not only do they have our supper, but they’ve got my gun and my knife, too.” He swore softly.
“What happened?” Amanda asked, dropping down beside him.
“Those two drifters were set up on a waterhole waiting for meat. I walked right into them.”
“What do we do now?”
“We ride,” he said grimly. “There’s going to be plenty of moon to see by, and I don't want them catching up to us. We’ll bed down after we put some ground between them and us.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“No time to worry about that. Saddle up.”
She nodded. They’d be helpless to defend themselves, now that the miners had Trey’s weapons. She knew he was blaming himself for being caught off guard, but it could have happened to anyone.
They rode for several hours, until her head was swimming with fatigue. The stallion moved tirelessly, his white coat seeming to shimmer with an other-worldly light.
When Trey finally called a halt in a dense stand of mesquite, he allowed her to remove his shirt and examine his rib cage. He shrugged off her concern about his swollen lip and the bruise on his jaw. But he flinched when she probed his ribs.
“We need to wrap ‘em up tight,” he said. “So I can keep moving. But…”
“I know. I’ve seen plenty of Westerns.” she said with a grin. Going to her saddlebags, she pulled out her petticoat. “Instant bandages,” she said, and ripped off the bottom ruffle.
He nodded. “Smart.” He winced as she wrapped the strip of sturdy cotton around his middle. “That’s it, good and tight. Can you unsaddle the horses and make up the bed? I hate to ask it…”
She placed her fingers against his swollen lip. “Shh, don’t worry. I'll take care of it.”
She unsaddled the horses and turned Relámpago loose. Dragging the heavy saddles into place and spreading the blankets took the last iota of her strength. She made Trey as comfortable as she could, then stretched out beside him.
Lying there, with her head pillowed on a saddle, she stared at Relámpago through heavy-lidded eyes. Maybe the stallion really was a ghost horse. And if that was so, then maybe he was the best protection they could have. It was her last thought before sleep claimed her.
* * * * *
She woke to a ravenous hunger. A drink from the canteen and a piece of the store-bought jerky helped a little, but not much. She looked over at Trey. He was still asleep. Not a good sign, since he usually woke before she did.
Rising, she glanced around as she stretched the kinks from her back and neck. They were sitting ducks out here, and even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw two riders in the distance.
“Trey?” She shook his arm gently. “Trey, wake up.”
He jackknifed into a sitting position, swore as pain lanced through him.
He wrapped one arm around his middle, his breath coming in painful gasps. “What is it?”
She pointed toward the west. “Riders. Come on,” she urged, offering him her hand. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
He climbed heavily to his feet. Amanda had the gelding saddled and was smoothing the blanket over Relámpago’s back when she noticed Trey staring hard at the oncoming riders.
“Trey…?”
“It’s okay,” he said, smiling.
“How can you be sure it’s not those two men?” Amanda asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“I’ve got eyes is how,” he said.
“Are you sure? “
His smile widened. “I’m sure. “
Seeing his expression, Amanda frowned. “What are you smiling at? It might be…”
“It might be anyone, up to and including Langley—but it ain’t. Help is on the way.”
“Help?” Turning, she stared at the two men riding toward them. They were close enough
now for her to make out details.
Two men dressed in breechclouts and knee-high moccasins; men with feathers in their hair, and paint on their faces.
Indians.
She took a step backward, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. They had dark copper-colored skin, ink black hair, and deep-set dark eyes. Barrel-chested, they were powerfully built, with well-muscled arms and legs. One wore an amulet suspended from a slender strip of rawhide around his neck. Both were armed with bows and arrows and leading saddled horses. And both were carrying rifles.
Draped across the withers of the lead rider’s horse were the hindquarters of a deer, its hooves visible below a bloody hide. The second rider wore a familiar gunbelt cinched around his lean waist.
They came to a stop a few feet in front of Trey, their expressions impassive but not hostile.
Amanda stood rooted to the spot, listening as the three men spoke in a language she didn’t understand. One of the Indians gestured at her, and there was a rapid exchange, with both of the Indians glancing at her from time to time.
The second rider slipped gracefully from his mount, unbuckled the gunbelt and handed it to Trey, who buckled it in place, then nodded his thanks.
“I take it they’re friends of yours?” she said.
“Yeah. This one here is Elk Runner. He says I never could stay out of trouble long, and it’s a good thing I’ve got a medicine horse and a white woman to look after me. That’s his cousin, Two Horses.”
“They…they were there?”
“Not last night. They cut our sign early this morning.”
He didn’t have to tell her they’d also found the two white men, as well. The fact that they had Trey’s gunbelt and two horses carrying brands proved that. She didn’t ask what had happened to the men.
“Looks like our luck has changed,” Trey said with a wry grin.
Chapter Nineteen
The young detective from the Sheriff’s Office stood in front of Rob’s desk. He was dressed like a prosperous cattleman in a Western cut suit and polished black cowboy boots. Like many Arizonans, he wore a bolo tie, this one secured by a turquoise stone set in silver. He twisted the brim of his white Stetson in his big hands. “We're plumb out of leads, Rob.”
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