by Nan Ryan
But after a hundred and fifty, Maggie stopped short and blinked, her heart starting to hammer again. She saw the distinct outline of a man directly ahead, but he was not alone. Someone was with him. All she could think of was that Shanaco had been caught. One of the laundresses had seen him slipping past their quarters and had alerted a trooper. Dear Lord, he would be thrown in prison again!
Maggie hurried forward.
And had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from shouting with joy when she recognized Old Coyote standing in the darkness beside Shanaco. Shanaco wrapped an arm around Maggie’s waist and guided her farther away from the fort. Coyote fell into step beside them. All remained silent.
But when they were a safe distance away from Suds Row, Shanaco said softly, “Maggie, we owe Chief Coyote a great debt of gratitude. When I got here he already had the horses saddled and ready for us. My black, a roan mare for you and a sturdy packhorse to carry our gear.”
Maggie was amazed. To Old Coyote, she said, “You got up in the middle of the night and—”
“No, not get up. Never go to sleep,” said Old Coyote, smiling. “Mounts tethered to log fence. See?” He pointed to the corral just ahead.
“I sure do,” she said as the three of them walked on out to the corral. The black nickered, eager to be gone. Shanaco snapped his fingers and the stallion fell silent. He untied the roan mare’s reins, drew them up over its head and wound them around the saddle horn.
“We better go,” he said to Maggie.
“Yes.” But she didn’t move.
Shanaco turned to Old Coyote, clasped the old man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Our sincere thanks, Chief Coyote. We couldn’t have done this without you.”
“No such thing,” protested a modest but pleased Old Coyote.
“It’s true,” Maggie praised. “You’ve bravely risked your life to help and that help has been invaluable. We will never forget what you’ve done for us.”
“I happy to help, happy somebody need me,” he said with heartbreaking honesty.
Maggie felt a lump forming in her throat. She stepped forward, put her arms around Old Coyote’s neck and hugged him. “We have to go now, Chief.”
“Wish I was going, too,” the old man said, and when Maggie pulled back, she saw bright tears shining in his eyes. She started to speak, but before she could say a word, Old Coyote had turned and slowly walked away.
“Shanaco, he…” she began.
“I know, sweetheart.” Shanaco put his hands to Maggie’s waist and lifted her up on the roan mare. He tied the packhorse’s long leather reins to the black’s rear-rigging saddle ring and swung up onto the stallion’s back. Turning, he looked at Maggie and said, “It’s not too late.”
“Not too late?”
“To change your mind about going with me.”
“Well, it’s darned sure too late for you to change your mind. You’ve promised to make an honest woman of me and I’m holding you to it!”
Shanaco laughed softly and they cantered away with Pistol darting out ahead. At the edge of the clearing, Maggie turned in the saddle and looked back. She caught a glimpse of Old Coyote making his slow way home to his tepee. She lifted her hand and waved, but he never saw her.
Maggie exhaled slowly.
“Remember this, Maggie” came Shanaco’s low voice, and she turned to look at him. “Thanks to you, the old Kiowa chief’s enjoyed himself more in the last couple of days than he has in years.”
They rode at a fast gallop for the first few miles, skirting the southern edge of the Wichita Mountains, heading due west. When Shanaco was confident they had made a safe escape, he drew rein and Maggie pulled up on the roan.
Shanaco dismounted, dropping the black’s reins to the ground. He stepped up to Maggie, laid a hand on her thigh and said, “We’ll slow the pace now that we’re away from the fort. If we take it easy, do you think you can ride until dawn?”
“My dear, I’m no hothouse flower,” she quickly pointed out. “I can ride as fast and as far as you can.”
Shanaco laughed and affectionately squeezed her knee. Then it was Maggie’s turn to laugh.
She watched Shanaco walk over to the panting Pistol, pat the wolfhound’s head and ask, “How about you, boy? You want to ride for a while?”
Pistol barked his enthusiasm and, wagging his tail, followed Shanaco to the packhorse. Shanaco rearranged the huge bundle on the horse’s back, making room for a canine passenger. He lifted Pistol up onto the mount’s back, loosely tied the dog in place against the bundle and said, “Doze while you can, my friend, we’ve got a long way to go.” Pistol barked and tried to lick Shanaco’s face. Shanaco ducked back out of the way. “You’re welcome.”
And so their week-long journey had begun.
A week of hardships.
Long, arduous hours in the saddle and cold, un-appetizing meals and washing in ice-crusted streams and hurrying to take cover from rain and windstorms.
A week of happiness.
Long, lazy nights in sheltering caves with freshly caught trout sizzling over campfires and bathing together in those hard-to-find hot springs bubbling up out of the rocks.
Shanaco knew the land like the back of his hand. He had roamed every mile of it from the time he was a boy. He knew the minute they left the Oklahoma Territory and rode onto the high plains of north Texas. He told Maggie that this great tableland was the Llano Estacado or Staked Plains.
While the wind came hard and chilling from the north, they skirted that huge, deep chasm in the earth, the Palo Duro Canyon. Pulling up on the reins and cautioning her to do the same, Shanaco pointed out the awesome abyss to Maggie.
He told her that he had been born in the Palo Duro. The canyon pleased the Comanche; it had made the ideal homeland. Palo Duro Canyon provided good water, wood and a safe haven from the high plains’ brutal winters.
“And,” he added, “it was a hiding place that could not be easily seen from afar.”
Awed by the vast chasm before them, Maggie asked, “Did all Comanches live in the canyon?”
“No. Most of the People moved farther south. But not the Kwahadi. They had found a home in the canyon and considered it their own personal domain. My family is buried here.”
“Oh, Shanaco. Can we ride down into Palo Duro?”
“Not this trip. It takes a great deal of time to get down to the canyon floor and you never know when a snowstorm might sweep across these plains and trap us inside. But we’ll come back some summer, ride down into the canyon and camp out along the Red River.”
“I’d like that,” she said, and smiled at him.
On they rode.
Just when Maggie thought they would never get out of the forbidding Texas Panhandle, Shanaco told her they had crossed into New Mexico. It was a bright sunny day and so warm Maggie shed her cape. She laughed when Shanaco stripped off his sheepskin jacket and buckskin shirt, leaving his chest bare save for the scarlet bandanna knotted loosely at his throat.
By the next day the weather had changed dramatically. Frigid air swept down from southern Colorado, sending the temperature plunging. It was back on with their heavy wraps and still they were shivering from the cold.
And when, a couple of days later they began their slow ascent up into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of New Mexico, snow had begun to fall.
A full week after leaving Fort Sill they reached a low mesa on the outskirts above the city of Santa Fe, the lights of New Mexico’s finest jewel glittering in the gathering dusk.
Snowflakes clinging to his shoulders and eyelashes, Shanaco turned in the saddle and said, “There she is, Maggie. Santa Fe. If you can ride for one more hour, tonight you will soak in a tub of hot, sudsy water, dine on steak and champagne and sleep in a soft feather bed.”
Thirty-Eight
Two tired travelers stood at the registration desk of Santa Fe’s La Fonda hotel. The clerk behind the marble counter recognized Shanaco, despite the week’s growth of black beard and casual attire.<
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“Welcome to La Fonda, sir,” said the hotel employee, far too discreet to mention, in front of the woman who was apparently the latest in a long line of Shanaco’s female companions, the warrior’s frequent stays at the plaza-fronting establishment.
“Thank you,” said a smiling Shanaco. “We need a suite for a few days. Make it a corner suite on the top floor overlooking the plaza. There are three horses outside. Please send someone out to see that they are stabled and fed. Also, we have a canine friend with us.” Shanaco pointed to the silver wolfhound standing obediently still at Maggie’s side and pulled out some bills. He slid the bills across the counter. “The dog needs to be fed and housed here in the hotel. I’m sure you have facilities for pets. If not, he can stay in the suite with us.”
“We have a nice, large, well-heated hall in the basement with spacious pens and comfortable berths for our guests’ household pets,” said the clerk.
Shanaco looked at Maggie. She nodded but said, “We can take him out for walks anytime?”
“Certainly, miss,” said the clerk.
“We need a hot bath drawn immediately,” Shanaco continued.
The clerk snapped his fingers at a uniformed maid who was busy polishing furniture in the opulent lobby. “Run a hot bath in suite 418,” he said, and the woman hurried away.
“In an hour, we’ll dine in our suite. We’d like thick steaks with all the trimmings and your finest bottle of champagne. Make that two bottles.” Shanaco turned to Maggie. “You like chocolate cake, sweetheart?”
“It’s my favorite,” she said.
Shanaco turned back to the hotel clerk. “Chocolate cake with plenty of icing.” He scratched his whiskered chin. “And fresh-cut flowers sent up to the suite in an hour. Delivered along with our meal.”
“The florist next door is closed, but…”
Shanaco slid more bills across the counter. “See if the proprietor will open up.”
“I’m sure he will,” said the hotel employee, nodding.
“A final favor,” said Shanaco, signing the registration book and handing the pen back across the desk. “In the morning, could you see that the justice of the peace is alerted. Tell him we’d like him to perform a short wedding ceremony in his office at straight up noon.”
“I may never get out of this tub,” Maggie said with a sigh.
“I’m staying as long as you stay,” Shanaco said. In the big white bathroom lit only by a tall white candle in a silver candelabra, the lovers luxuriated in a tub of hot, sudsy water. Shanaco reclined against the tub’s tall back, his head resting on the padded headrest. Maggie sat between his legs, her head on his shoulder.
On the floor beside the tub were their hastily discarded clothes. Beneath the clothes, a large downy bath mat covered most of the white marble floor. Two matching white robes were draped over a stool in the corner of the room. In shelves at the foot of the tub, several fluffy white bath towels were neatly stacked.
Directly across from the tub a silver-framed, free-standing mirror reflected the room, the tub and the two people in it. Overhead in this top-floor suite, a glass-paned skylight, stretching the length of the long tub, brought the outside in. Snowflakes fluttered down to hit the warm panes and melt. Silvery moonlight shone through the streaked glass.
“Have you ever been this happy in your life?” Maggie asked.
“Not even half this happy, sweetheart,” Shanaco said and then he leaned down and kissed her slippery shoulder. He raised his head and, his eyes clouding slightly, added, “I hope you’ll still be happy up at the ranch.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked, running her hands over the wet, muscular forearms wrapped securely around her.
“Maggie, you’ll have no one but me,” he said. “You’ll miss your friends and your students.”
Maggie loosened Shanaco’s arms, sat up and half turned to face him. “I won’t deny that I’ll miss my students, but not nearly as much as I would miss you if I’d stayed behind at the fort. I love you, Shanaco. More than you’ll ever know. I’ll be happy wherever you are, darling.”
Shanaco lifted a hand, tangled his fingers in her hair. “I hope so. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you happy.” He leaned down, brushed a quick kiss to her mouth.
He reached for a clean washcloth and a bar of soap and held them up. Maggie nodded her consent. Then she sighed and squirmed as Shanaco gave her a thorough bath. When not one single spot on her body had been neglected and she was tingling from head to toe, Maggie said breathlessly, “Now it’s my turn.” And she reached for another clean washcloth.
Her eyes aglow, she dipped the cloth into the water, lathered it on the bar of soap, turned about, got up onto her knees between Shanaco’s legs and began washing his broad chest and long arms. In a playful mood, she sank down onto her heels, moved back away from him and ordered, “Lean up toward me and scoot down this way, please.”
Shanaco did as he was told. Maggie giggled and, catching him off guard, stood up in the tub and, holding onto his shoulder, stepped around behind him. There she sank back down into the water, her knees apart and resting on either side of him.
And she began scrubbing his back. Shanaco groaned his approval and closed his eyes. But when Maggie finished with his broad shoulders and deeply clefted back, she slyly slipped her arms under his and around his waist. She then lowered the soapy wash-cloth to his groin.
“Well, what have we here?” she teased when he instantly stirred to her touch.
“Keep that up, my wicked enchantress, and you’ll find out.”
Provocatively rubbing her breasts against his back, Maggie murmured, “That is my intent.”
She withdrew her arms from around him, dropped the cloth and stood up behind Shanaco. She filled her hands with his loose raven hair, urged his head back against her supportive thighs and looked down at him. “Is there time to make love before our dinner arrives?”
“We’ll make the time,” he said. He lifted his head, got to his feet and turned to face her, “But I figured you’d want me to shave first.”
Maggie smiled, ran a hand over his beard-stubbled jaw and said, “Perhaps you’re right. Why don’t you kiss me and I’ll make up my mind.”
Shanaco put his hands on her hips, drew her to him, bent his head and kissed her. At once his mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue thrusting, his heavy beard pleasantly ticklish to her cheeks. Water sluicing down their bodies, arms around each other, they stood there knee-deep in the water kissing, growing more and more aroused.
When at last Shanaco’s lips lifted from hers, they looked at each other and knew they couldn’t wait.
Still, Shanaco asked, “So what’s the verdict? Think you can tolerate my beard?”
“Try me,” she said, her eyes flashing fire. “And then I’ll decide.”
Shanaco stepped out of the tub, turned and plucked her from the water. He kicked their soiled clothes out of the way, and grabbing a couple of the large white towels from the shelf, he hurriedly spread them atop the soft fleecy bath mat, directly in front of the free-standing mirror. Maggie nodded and sank down onto her knees atop the towels. Shanaco, standing above, cupped her upturned face in his hands, bent and kissed her.
“I want,” he said against her mouth, “to love you tonight in every way a man can love a woman.”
“I want that, too,” she whispered.
“Do you, sweetheart?”
Before she could reply, Shanaco stepped around to kneel behind her, his knees inside hers. He put his hands to Maggie’s bare shoulders and gently drew her back against him. He gazed at her in the mirror, then pressed his face into her flaming hair. She sighed, reached back and laid nervous hands on his hard thighs.
She said, “Love me, Shanaco. Love me any way you want and you’ll find that I want it, too.”
Then her eyes closed when Shanaco’s hand, wet and warm, slid down over her bare belly to the triangle of damp red curls between her legs. For a long moment, he did nothing more
than cup her possessively, pressing her back onto the throbbing erection stirring against her bottom.
Maggie waited, tensed. Then drew a shallow breath when his long, lean fingers gently combed through the wet, blazing curls and he began caressing her with just the right touch, in just the way he knew she liked.
Shanaco had, the first time they’d made love, quickly found the key that had unlocked all her carefully leashed passions. And now, as he tenderly touched and caressed that incredibly sensitive spot, he found her already swollen and wet with desire.
“Move your knees just a little farther apart, sweetheart,” he said, and she did.
Together they knelt there in the warm, candle-lit room before the mirror, their bodies wet and slippery, their breaths shallow and quick, their naked reflections adding to their excitement. Maggie sighed with pleasure when Shanaco lowered his head and pressed kisses to the curve of her neck and shoulder. He murmured endearments in English and Comanche and she felt the blood singe through her veins.
Through lowered lashes she continued to gaze steadily into the mirror—she thrilled to the sight of her lover’s skillful hand spreading fire from where he touched her to every part of her body. Her fingertips tingled and her toes curled and her nipples tightened and her belly contracted and her thighs twitched.
She felt her slick flesh throb against his circling middle finger and knew at that moment she wanted to do everything they’d ever done and all the things they had never done.
“Shanaco, Shanaco,” she breathed, her dreamy gaze locking with his in the mirror.
“Maggie, my own, my sweet love,” he murmured, and gently urged her over onto all fours.
Unquestioning, Maggie placed her spread palms on the floor and moved her knees wider apart. Knowing instinctively what he intended, she found it to be the most natural thing in the world. An exciting new way to love and be loved by him.
His heart now hammering in his chest, Shanaco placed a gentle hand on the curve of Maggie’s hip, wrapped wet fingers around himself and slid the smooth, hot tip of his swollen member into her.