Priscilla thought of Will, of his rejection, of his reasons. “I wish I were like her in other ways.”
“The Great Spirit would not have given you this hair, niña, if He had not also given you wisdom and courage. Come, it is time to bathe yourself; we must attend council tonight and support this son you saved from the white man’s death.”
“Joa—?” Priscilla closed her lips over the name. “Why does your son need our support?”
Nalin was busy laying out clothing and readying Priscilla’s bath. “In the morning you will go to the river with the other women,” Nalin was saying. “Today there is not time. Bathe and dress while I get you some food.”
Before Nalin left the wickiup, Priscilla called to her. “The man who was with us, where is he?”
“Your young man is well cared for. He, too, had a hand in saving my son’s life. He will be shown our gratitude.”
Across the camp Will wasn’t sure whether he was being killed with kindness or parboiled for dinner. Certainly he hadn’t expected to find himself undressed, sitting on heated rocks in a sweat lodge full of naked Apache men. Nevertheless, here he was, and the steam that sizzled from the red-hot rocks—and the ceremonial chanting—actually succeeded in relaxing him.
From time to time one of the naked men ladled water over the stones. First one, then another of the men chanted in a language that to Will’s uninitiated ears sounded like a mixture of grunts, groans, and heavy breathing. He was furnished with a clay jar filled with something that tasted like weak beer.
No one spoke to him, so he had no idea what was going on. And although Priscilla had said the men spoke Spanish, he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask any questions.
Before he was shepherded to the sweat lodge, a squaw had brought him clean clothing—heavy duck britches which he could have bought in Santa Fé, a calico shirt, and a strip of red cloth; he assumed he was expected to tie it around his head. His first real surprise had come upon arriving at this lodge, where his companion—it helped not to think of the man as a guard—instructed him by sign to strip and sit.
So, here he sat, lulled by the steam, the liquor, and the chanting into a welcome state of semiconsciousness. He judged a couple of hours passed, before he was instructed—again by sign—to follow the naked men down to the river, where they plunged their weakened bodies into the frigid water that ran off snow from higher altitudes. He would never have believed a man could survive such barbaric treatment.
He wasn’t, after all, an outdoorsman. He’d been raised in the city. But at this moment, Philadelphia seemed as far away as the moon on a cloudy night. He recalled telling Priscilla that Santa Fé seemed like a foreign country. Well Victorio’s ranchería was definitely on another planet. Everything was foreign, well, almost. Fortunately he recognized the men’s bodies as being similar to his own. Lord help him, if they hadn’t been. If he could be thankful for anything, he supposed it would be that in stripping before this group of naked men, he was assured that, different planet or not, he was in the company of similarly built beings. For what that was worth.
And Priscilla was here somewhere. He hadn’t seen her since arriving, but he’d had a lot of time to think about her. He wondered while dressing whether the other men had sat on those steaming rocks and fantasized about being with their women.
Their women. That thought was more of a jolt than his plunge into the icy mountain stream. Living proof that he hadn’t been successful in his bid to exorcise Priscilla from his brain. All he’d done was hurt her, confuse her. He hadn’t even made her angry for very long.
He doubted she could stay angry very long, not with that open, teasing temperament of hers. Oh, she could act snippy all right, snippy as any society woman he’d ever known, but like everything else Priscilla did, she put her own brand on it. And for some reason, which he knew could hold formidable consequences for both of them, he found even her snippiness enchanting.
By the time he dressed and followed the men toward a bonfire that glowed in the center of the village, Will’s stomach was growling. He hadn’t eaten in so long he decided it wouldn’t be too difficult to put out of mind the unsavory tales he’d heard concerning the Apache diet—as long as he didn’t look too closely at the dogs or ponies, which were reputed to be among their favorite entrées.
But, arriving in the central clearing, Will was disappointed to find—not supper waiting around the bonfire, but—a council of sorts in progress. A number of older men, elders he supposed, were seated in a circle around a fire, whose flames had died down to smoldering coals. Briefly he wondered whether these people hadn’t sweated enough of the devil out of themselves in the sweat lodge. Then he saw Victorio.
The chief sat on a bright red trader’s blanket, obviously the place of honor. Led around the outside of the circle, Will took a seat at the designated spot, directly across the fire from the war chief.
Although in the growing darkness he was unable to see faces beyond the second row of men, he could make out figures of women and children grouped in a larger circle around the perimeter.
Then Joaquín entered the circle, and the gathering fell quiet. Will’s head cleared suddenly. Fear had a way of doing that, he thought. Accompanied by vedettes, one to each side, Joaquín walked in straight-backed solemnity, stopping two or three feet in front of Victorio. Every man in the circle trained his eyes on the war chief.
At first Will thought they intended to honor Joaquín, but their continued silence alarmed him. A tribunal? My God, had he saved his client from the Haskels only to have him tried by a harsher court? One which operated by laws he didn’t know and in a language he could neither speak nor understand?
Will recalled Joaquín scoffing at the suggestion that he be tried by a jury of his peers in Santa Fé. Well, it looked like that was exactly what was happening in this remote corner of the world. And here he, Joaquín’s appointed lawyer, sat powerless.
They speak Spanish, Priscilla had claimed. Well, they weren’t speaking it now. Turning to the man at his side, Will tried, asking in Spanish, “¿Qué pasa?”
The man shook his head. Sign language, Will decided, for a refusal to communicate with white eyes.
He glanced around the gathering, searching for he knew not what—other than courage, which he felt mighty short of at the moment. Finally, he realized he had no recourse. With more trepidation than he could recall ever feeling before—did they draw and quarter a man for approaching the chief at such a time?—Will rose and made his way toward Victorio. Just in time he remembered not to call the chief’s name.
“If this is to be a trial,” he said in Spanish, “I am his lawyer.”
“Lawyer?”
“I speak for him—”
“I know the duties of a lawyer, white eyes. But your court has no jurisdiction here. This man’s crime must be judged by our laws.”
“Crime? What is his crime?”
“He stole the horses.”
Will’s eyes widened. “No. Ask him. The horses belong to…uh, to no one. They were unbranded.”
Victorio’s lips looked chiseled from the stone of the mountain. “You did not listen. Your laws and ours are different. You do not recognize our laws. We do not recognize yours. Branded or unbranded, it is of no matter to us.”
“A brand means they belong to someone. These horses were unbranded. He couldn’t steal them, because they belonged to no one.”
“Who told you that?”
Will swallowed and began again. “The horses were unbranded—”
“Listen with your head. Brands have no meaning to us. The horses belong to the cihéne—The People—and to our friend at Spanish Creek.”
“To Charlie?”
Victorio nodded in stoic confirmation. “He does not own them in the sense that white eyes own property,” the chief explained. “That is not the way of The People. We gave him the right to use the horses.”
“How—?”
“The man before us is one of you and one of us,” Vict
orio cut in, obviously finished with the discussion. “He stole from The People. He stole from our friend. We cannot allow either. Take your seat and speak no more.”
Dejected, Will turned to Joaquín, who glared his displeasure. Will lifted his eyes heavenward, thinking—or trying to. When he lowered his head, it was to look directly at Priscilla, although he didn’t recognize her at first.
She had come to stand beyond Victorio, at the edge of the clearing. Without breaking eye contact, she moved toward Will, slowly, gracefully, as if she were gliding through the late-afternoon haze and the dreamlike trance this place had cast over him.
He tried to keep his attention on Joaquín, but his brain was filled with Priscilla. His first conscious thought was that he couldn’t call her Jake anymore. Not in that getup. Her golden hair hung loose. Interspersed with streamers of beads and tiny silver bells, it fanned about her shoulders and blew gently in the breeze.
Her shoulders. He took in her costume, then, a beaded doeskin shift that draped sensuously over her curves, made the more sensuous by the slow steady way she walked toward him, as though she were a little unsure of herself, a little self-conscious. The dress was soft, the color of fresh cream, and he could practically smell it, taste it, feel it against his skin. He clenched his fists at the thought of it, the softness—of the shift, of Priscilla.
His mind raced back to the day they met. To the feel of her when he’d caught her around the waist, steadying her when the stagecoach lurched forward, knocking her off balance.
He grinned. She’d never admit it, of course, that she’d been thrown off balance. Priscilla was like that. Cocksure of herself.
Or she had been. His eyes returned to hers. He saw them swimming in shimmering liquid—tears. He felt tears well in his own eyes, hot and burning.
She had been sure of herself. Until he came along and turned her perfect world upside down. And she didn’t even know why. But soon she would.
Too soon.
As if she’d been drawn to his side by their mutual needs she reached him, stopped, standing tall and proud. She held him, tethered, though separated by several inches of charged air. Then she reached out and put a hand on his arm, although it felt more like a band of steel straight from the fire.
“We can’t interfere, Will.” She spoke in English.
He tore his gaze from hers. Looked at Joaquín. At Victorio.
“Come with me,” Priscilla urged.
Glancing down, he stared at her hand on his arm, thinking stupidly that her fingernails were clean. Funny, the way unimportant details like that interfered with the important things. With who she was. Who she really was. A woman who could touch his arm and pull his heart right out of his body.
“Come, Will. I want to show you something.”
With her hand holding his, she led him through the circle of silent Apaches. Halfway up the hill, his brain began to clear. He turned, looked back at the gathering. “Joaquín,” he said, trying to speak around the driest throat he’d ever had.
“He’ll be all right.”
“They think he stole Charlie’s horses.”
“He’ll be all right. They’ll just punish him a little, that’s all.”
Later it was funny. Hilarious. That he could turn his back and walk away from a client, leaving him surrounded by wild Indians who were going to punish him a little.
Later it was funny. But at the moment, he was lost in the essence and the promise and the overwhelming sense of unreality that had been creeping up on him ever since they arrived at this camp.
Overwhelming, yes. Yet invigorating. This ranchería was another world, another planet. In another world anything was possible.
His damp hand slipped inside hers. She tightened her grip and led him with purposeful strides toward a wickiup at the far edge of the camp.
“This is Nalin’s home,” she explained.
He glanced down the hill, toward the ceremony that was out of sight now.
“Joaquín will be all right,” Priscilla assured him. “They’re grateful to us for saving him.”
“What will they do?”
She shrugged.
“I’m his lawyer.”
“Not here.”
“This is a New Mexico Territory, a United States—”
“No. We left New Mexico two days ago. Besides, this is Victorio’s territory. Joaquín will be all right. Their laws are fair. Pa says—”
“Charlie.” Reality returned in small increments at the name. “Will he follow me everywhere?”
Priscilla laughed. “Pa is a hero to these people.”
She’d dropped his hand when they entered the wickiup, and he now rammed one balled fist into the other, struggling for balance, sanity, something.
“Pa—”
“Leave it alone, Priscilla. Everyone in the world doesn’t have to like Charlie…or even approve of him.”
“What a terrible thing to say!” She moved away. He followed, stopping in the center of the wickiup. “I know what’s bothering you,” she said, “but I had no choice.”
She skimmed her hands down her shift. He clenched his own, lest they reach out and grab her.
“It was Nalin’s doing,” she was saying. “Look around. This is what I wanted to show you. Nalin says these drawings are of my parents.” Her hands went to her hair. She sifted fingers through its length, setting the little bells to jingling. Will’s nerves joined in, as if in concert. “They believe blond hair is sacred, a gift from the Great Spirit. I couldn’t refuse to wear the dress, even though I knew you’d be angry.”
She wasn’t making sense now. “Angry?”
“That I’ve dressed like a woman. That I—”
“Hus…sh.” The word hissed out on ragged breath.
“What?”
He could tell he’d startled her. He held her gaze until he felt like he was drowning in her. The room began to spin. He felt steam rise, and thought of the sweat lodge. Another world. A strange, yet somehow wonderful world. Another world, where anything was possible. Anything.
Except resistance.
“Lordy, Priscilla, I…” He inhaled deep drafts of heady, sweet-smelling air, trying to clear his senses. But her eyes held his, curious, waiting. Lordy, he was waiting, too. Had been for so long now. He expelled his breath in one great puff.
“I’m dog-tired of fightin’ you, Miss Priss.” He watched her eyes widen by degrees, those startling blue eyes. He loved how they sparkled when she laughed. But he hadn’t given her much to laugh about lately.
He recalled wondering whether they burned blue fire when she made love. And at that moment he knew, if he burned in the eternal fires of hell for it, he could resist her no longer. He lifted his arms. “Come here.”
He watched her come, tentatively. The bells in her hair and on her dress tinkled when she moved across the room, softly, like summer wind singing through oak leaves. Although part of him cried to rush to meet her, he resisted. He stood still, arms outstretched, savoring every sensation, storing it away, like a squirrel stores nuts, for nourishment in the long and desolate life ahead.
Then she was in his arms. Suddenly life returned to his limbs. He crushed her to him, buried his face in her hair. How long he’d waited to see it down, to feel it. He nuzzled his face in her hair, against her neck.
Then they were kissing. Their lips merged, sealed as by fire, forming a channel for their breath, their tongues. As on a river of dreams, life passed back and forth from one to the other, giving and taking, soft and wet, and hot, so very hot.
Then, for no discernible reason, as though life had become too perfect, reality intruded. Charlie McCain, that son of a bitch! He’d taken Will’s father, now he was destined to take the one and only love of his life. With hands that were rougher than he intended, Will drew their faces apart. He stared deeply into her eyes, searching, questioning. His heart beat with heavy, anguished throbs. His breath came in short gasps. He watched worry cloud the passion in her eyes.
“You have to understand something.” Their lips touched lightly when he spoke. He couldn’t move any further away; it was as if to do so would tear the life out of him. “This is all we’ll have. This time. When we return to the ranch, this…us…it’ll all be over.”
“Oh, no, Will.”
He nodded.
“I’ll change. I will, I promise. I’ll become a lady. I’ll wear ribbons and bonnets and gowns and…”
He stared aghast, wondering why she was carrying on about clothing at time like this.
“…even a corset.”
His hands left her face. He skimmed her body, though to do so set him on fire. He’d heard about Indian tribes where a man was required to walk on live coals to prove his manhood. Well, he would pass that test with flying colors. Anyone who could stand this close to Priscilla and not melt wouldn’t blink an eye at live coals.
A corset? He kissed her again, wet and deep. He was drowning and he never wanted to come up for air. But he did. He stroked her breasts, feeling her nipples thrust against his palms. A corset?
“Don’t you dare,” he mumbled into her mouth. Once more he claimed her lips and felt himself consumed by desire.
She pulled back, her eyes questioning. “But you want me to be—”
“I want you just the way you are, cowboy.”
“But—”
“Wanting you and having you are two different things. You have to understand. This…” He pulled her closer, molded her curves to his pleading body. “This is all we have.”
“No, Will. I can persuade my parents—”
“Damnation, Priscilla. For once, just shut up and listen. This is ALL. Either we proceed on those terms, or we don’t—”
She stopped him with her lips. A forceful kiss that defied him to deny their passion one moment longer. He’d been right about the dress, it was soft, soft and sensuous, and from the feel of her when he swept his hands from her shoulders to her buttocks, it was all she wore.
The very thought called forth a demand for speed from his long-denied body, which he quickly rejected with the dismal truth that this would certainly be their one and only time together.
Reluctant Enemies Page 19