The cave, and Joshua, lay far behind us when Heecha began to whimper. Wordlessly, Shadow reined up in the lee of a high yellow bluff. His handsome face was shut against me as he helped me dismount, and I could not help smiling as I anticipated how surprised he was going to be when I told him the baby in my arms was his.
Just then Heecha let out a long, hungry wail, and I crooned, “Don’t cry, little one. See? Your father is here, and everything is all right at last.”
Shadow’s dark eyes searched mine and then, ever so slowly, he reached out and took Heecha from my arms.
It took but one look to see that Heecha carried the proud blood of the Cheyenne nation in his veins, and I murmured, “Is he not beautiful, my husband?” and then laughed aloud at the look of wondrous joy and astonishment that swept over Shadow’s face.
Moved beyond words, Shadow nodded as he examined the baby from head to foot. “A son,” he murmured at last. “My heart soars like the hawk.”
He kissed me then, long and hard, and I sighed with contentment. At last, I was back where I belonged. I nursed Heecha beneath Shadow’s loving gaze, and at that moment, I would have asked for nothing more.
Later that night, camped alongside a shallow stream, Shadow told me everything that had happened since we parted. He told me of Joshua’s treachery, of Clyde Stewart and Barney McCall and the awful months he had spent with Hansen’s Traveling Tent Show. It filled me with bitter sorrow to think of the pain and humiliation he had endured, to think of him being exhibited before mocking crowds. How his pride must have suffered! I wept unashamedly when I saw the ugly scars that cross-crossed his broad back and shoulders; I murmured a silent prayer when he told me of the white woman who had taken him in. I did not begrudge her the hours she had spent with my man. But for her, Shadow might have died, and I would never have seen his beloved face again.
Lying content in the circle of his arms, with our son sleeping peacefully between us, I asked Shadow where we were going.
“I do not know,” he answered. “There is no place left where an Indian can be free.”
“We could go back to Bear Valley,” I ventured.
And suddenly I was homesick. Oh, to go home, I thought. To see the plains and swim in the river again. To ride the trails I had ridden as a child. To see Rabbit’s Head Rock and walk in the woods.
“We could rebuild the house,” I went on eagerly. “It would be a good place to raise our son.”
“We can try, if you like,” Shadow agreed, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice.
Home. How good the word sounded in my ears. There would be painful memories there, but in time, they would fade, and we would replace the sad times with happy ones as we watched our children grow.
Excited by the prospect, I sat up, hugging my knees to my chest. In my mind’s eye, I saw a small two bedroom cabin, and me in the kitchen baking bread. I had a sudden mental image of Shadow behind a plow, and I began to laugh. Might as well try to change the spots on a leopard as try to make a farmer out of a warrior, I thought, and laughed the harder as I remembered how I had once tried to imagine Shadow in a suit and tie, strolling down a lamplit street in New York City.
“What is so funny?” Shadow asked, baffled by my laughter.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Forget about Bear Valley. It would never work. Listen, Shadow, what about Mexico? I hear Geronimo is on the warpath again.”
“No. It would be too hard on you and the little one,” he answered dully, but I saw a gleam of excitement flicker deep in his eyes.
“But better than the reservation,” I countered stubbornly. “And that’s all that’s left to us now.”
Shadow made a sound of disgust low in his throat that eloquently summed up his feelings about living on the reservation.
“Mexico,” I mused pensively. “Perhaps Calf Running is there.”
“Perhaps.”
“I should like to see Calf Running again.”
“Mexico, then,” Shadow agreed.
I had a glimpse of the future then—of running and hiding, of being always on the move. Shadow was right. It would not be easy, especially now that we had Heecha. But it would be better than life on the reservation and depending on greedy Indian agents for food and clothing.
We made love the whole night long, eagerly getting reacquainted with each other. What bliss to be in Shadow’s arms again and hear his voice huskily murmur my name. The touch of his mouth on mine and the way his hands caressed my willing flesh—all combined to carry me into a wondrous world where nothing else existed but the man rising over me.
How I loved to look at him! I held him close, drinking in the scent of his flesh, relishing the touch of his sweat-sheened skin beneath my hands. My fingers kneaded the powerful muscles in his arms and back and gloried in their strength.
I looked into my past, and it seemed he had always been there. Friend, lover, companion, a tower of strength to lean on. He was a part of my life, deeply woven into the fabric of my past and my future.
Ecstasy followed ecstasy as the passion between us burned brighter and hotter than the sun at noonday. Higher and higher we climbed, until we reached that glorious moment when two became one.
Never had our love seemed so sweet as it did that night under the stars, and I knew I could face anything the world had to offer so long as I had Shadow at my side.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fall 1878-Spring 1879
In the morning, we packed our few belongings and began the journey to Mexico. We rode close together, our legs almost touching. Shadow frequently reached out to stroke my arm, as if he couldn’t quite believe I was really there. I felt the same. We had been apart for so long, I was afraid I would wake up to find him gone.
Despite our joy at being together again, we traveled warily across the desert, fearful of running into one of the patrols from the fort. I knew if Shadow were caught, he would be hanged, and the thought weighed heavily on my mind, for I could not bear to lose him again.
The sun was hot, the land dry and arid, unfriendly as we made our way across the sandy wasteland. For miles, there was little more than sun and sky and spiny cactus. Water was scarce and though our rations often ran short, we never had to do without, for Shadow knew every tank and waterhole.
Heecha was a good little traveler. He slept most of the time, lulled to sleep by the rocking motion of my horse.
Shadow often watched me nurse the baby, and I could feel his love for us and see it in his eyes.
Moving ever southward, I had the feeling that we were the last two people on earth, for we never saw another soul, red or white. In fact, the only living thing we saw was a wild pig. When I expressed a desire for pork, Shadow put his spotted stallion after the grizzled sow, and the chase was on.
I watched, laughing with delight, as the harried pig cut back and forth across the desert, trying to elude the man on horseback. But no matter how fast the sow ran, or how adroitly she zigzagged back and forth, the spotted stallion stayed close on her heels.
Shadow cut loose with the Cheyenne war cry as he drew an arrow from the quiver slung across his back. It did my heart good to see him having fun for a change. Looking back, I could not recall too many times when he had been carefree and happy. It seemed he had always been weighed down with responsibility—first for his people, then for me. Later, he had our little band of renegades to worry about. And now he had a baby to think of.
At length, when both horse and sow were getting winded, Shadow put the arrow to his bow and killed the pig.
He was grinning with triumph when he reined his stallion to a halt. Dismounting, he landed lightly on his feet beside me.
“I have done my work,” he said, handing me his knife. “Now you must do yours.”
“Yes, master,” I said with mock submissiveness. “Anything you say, master.”
“Be still, woman,” he said, his voice as mockingly grave as mine had been docile. “Or I shall be forced to show you
just how masterful I can be.”
“Spare me, milord,” I said, pressing myself against him. “I will do anything to avoid your anger.”
“Anything?” Shadow posed wickedly.
“Anything but skin that carcass. Do it for me, please.”
He laughed at that. Taking the knife from my hand, he butchered the pig while I nursed the baby and changed his clout. Soon, the sweet scent of roasting pork filled the air, and my mouth watered as I sliced the succulent meat and served it.
Day by day, we made our way toward Mexico. My original attitude about joining Geronimo changed from enthusiasm to trepidation as the miles passed by.
Geronimo was a name to strike terror into the heart of any white man or woman. Born in 1829, he was a Bedonkohe Apache. Originally, he was called Goyanthlay, meaning One Who Yawns. As a young warrior, he married and lived in peace, but when his family was murdered by Mexican troops some twelve years later, he turned into a man of vengeance. It was the Mexicans who gave him the name Geronimo. In the 1860’s, he married a Chiricahua woman and lived with her people, according to Apache custom. When Cochise decided to walk the path of peace, Geronimo left the Chiricahuas and continued to ride the war path, raiding Mexico and Arizona.
Perhaps we were being foolish to ride into his war camp deep in the heart of Mexico. Perhaps he had never heard of Two Hawks Flying. The Cheyenne and Apache had never been allies. There was a good chance we would be shot on sight.
I held Heecha closer. What had I gotten us into?
It was a cool fall day when we crossed the shallow Rio Grande and entered Mexico. I was suddenly tense all over, and I noticed Shadow rode even more warily than usual, his sharp eyes and ears attuned for anything that might mean trouble.
We made no fire that night. I slept fitfully. Shadow did not sleep at all.
We had been south of the border three days when Geronimo found us. One minute we were alone in the desert, the next we were surrounded by twenty Apache warriors armed and painted for battle.
I searched their faces, seeking for a trace of welcome or a familiar face. I found neither.
Geronimo was a stocky warrior, with a flat Indian face, a wide mouth, a high forehead, and unfriendly eyes.
“What are you doing here, Cheyenne?” he asked in a deep voice.
“I have come to fight with Geronimo and his warriors.”
Geronimo looked skeptical. “Does your woman fight also?”
“She has ridden with me into battle in the past,” Shadow boasted proudly. “If need be, she will ride with me again.”
What might have passed for a smile flitted briefly across the old warrior’s face. “And the little one?”
“He will learn.”
“Calf Running has told me often of Two Hawks Flying and his warrior woman. Come, our camp is not far from here.”
The Apache rancheria was located in a canyon that had only one narrow entrance. I saw immediately that it would be a good place to hold against invaders, for a handful of warriors, strategically placed atop the rocky canyon walls, could easily discourage anyone who sought to enter.
Only a handful of Geronimo’s people were here; the rest of the warriors and most of the women were in the mountain stronghold farther south.
The women in camp were all young and strong. They eyed me curiously as I stepped from my horse. One of them stared hard at Shadow, her expression indicating she found him desirable.
Lifting my chin, I laid my hand possessively on Shadow’s arm. My gesture clearly said, “He is mine.” The Apache woman understood. With a friendly grin, she shrugged and turned away.
Our reunion with Calf Running brought tears to my eyes. His left arm hung useless at his side, shattered by a bullet during a run-in with Mexican soldiers.
“Do not be sad, Hannah,” he said. “An arm is a small price to pay for freedom.”
The next few days were busy ones. The women helped me erect a wickiup, and I was grateful for their help, for I did not relish the thought of living in the open, as did some of the warriors. Nor did I have any desire to nurse my son in public. I knew many Indian women had no compunction about such things, but I felt shy among strangers.
In a week, it seemed as if we had been living with the Apaches all our lives. The women were friendly, and they all fussed over Heecha, who was the only child in camp.
We spent many evenings with Calf Running and his woman, catching up on the past. Calf Running told us how, in 1877, Geronimo and his followers had been arrested by United States authorities and confined to the San Carlos reservation, a place so awful it had been nicknamed Hell’s Forty Acres. They had tried to farm the land, but the Apaches were warriors not farmers, and they had run away and were even now being hunted by the American military and the Mexican rurales.
We spent two months with the Apache. Shadow joined them in many raids on both sides of the border, and once again I knew the awful gut-wrenching fear every woman knows when her man is at war.
One day they raided a Mexican rancho, and that night they returned with a treasure of clothing and blankets, sugar, coffee, salt, clay jars of milk, and a half-dozen mules and horses.
It was a rare treat to have coffee generously laced with sugar and milk, and yet I felt guilty as I drank it, for I knew people had been killed in the raid.
My days were busy ones. Shadow killed a large buck, and I worked hard at tanning the hide to make new clothes for the three of us.
Heecha was growing every day, it seemed, and I loved him beyond words. He was a happy, healthy baby, and I thanked God daily that I had been blessed with such a son.
Late that fall, our peaceful existence was shattered when a troop of Mexican soldiers found our hideaway. There was a brief skirmish in which four Mexicans and seven Apaches were killed, then the Mexicans drew back out of rifle range. They did not attack again. They did not try to enter the canyon. They simply took a position and held it, so that the warriors could not leave the canyon.
As the days passed, food grew scarce. A week earlier, the balance of Geronimo’s people had come to the valley from the mountains, so that there were now many more mouths to feed. In a month, most of our food was gone.
Shadow did without, insisting that I eat what little we had. And I did not argue, because I had Heecha to think of. It was touching, when some of the women brought me the last of their food.
“For the little one,” they said.
With the coming of winter, conditions went from bad to worse. All the mules and horses had been killed, save a handful of war horses. I had wept when Sunny was killed, but I could not insist she remain alive when people were starving. It seemed odd to spare some of the horses, but I knew they would be needed if we got a chance to make a run for it. If that time came, the young men and women would try to escape. The old and infirm would stay behind.
And then, when it seemed we would perish, the soldiers mysteriously withdrew.
Hunting and raiding were never good in the winter, and with that in mind, Geronimo and his people decided to return to the reservation until spring. It was a tactic many of the Indians practiced—raid and fight in the spring and summer, return to the reservation for food and blankets in the winter.
Naturally, Shadow refused to go. Calf Running and Flower Woman also decided to stay behind.
“I will fight no more,” Shadow said as he watched the Apaches ride out of the canyon. “Life is too sweet to risk in a war that can never be won. There is a small valley four days’ ride from here. There is water, and grass for the horses. There is game and fish. I think five people could live there in peace for a long time. What say you?”
Calf Running and Flower Woman agreed, and Shadow glanced at me.
“Do you think there will be room enough in the valley for six?” I asked.
For a moment, Shadow looked puzzled. Then his eyes darted from my face to my stomach and back again.
I nodded slowly, wondering if he would be pleased with the news that I was pregnant.
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“Six will not be too many,” he said happily, and lifting me up, he twirled me round and round until we were all laughing.
The little valley was beautiful. There were trees for shade, a winding blue river filled with fat fish, berry bushes, and tall grass that was now brown but would be green again in the spring.
As we set up our wickiup, I felt as if I were home at last. The valley, uninhabited for years, seemed to welcome us. Winter that year was short and mild. We had food enough and plenty of water, and setting up housekeeping was, for once, more of a pleasure than a chore. Flower Woman and I became good friends, and when she announced that she, too, was pregnant, life seemed perfect.
Spring came overnight. Flowers bloomed, the grass turned a brilliant green, and the trees sprouted leaves. Sometimes, in the evening, we saw a doe at the river, a spotted fawn at her side.
The days passed in sweet contentment. The past, so full of trouble and heartache, seemed far behind us now. And the nights…ah, they were glorious, for Shadow was ever beside me, his dark eyes ablaze with love and desire.
Tonight was no different, and as he whispered my name, I was flooded with a sense of peace and happiness. I went eagerly into his open arms. His mouth was warm on mine as he drew me close, igniting the fire that smoldered always between us, welding our bodies together.
I closed my eyes as he drew me close, and the past and the future were forgotten in the breathless wonder of now and the timeless magic of our love.
About the Author
Madeline Baker started writing simply for the fun of it. Now she is the award-winning author of more than thirty historical romances and one of the most popular writers of Native American romance. She lives in California, where she was born and raised.
Madeline welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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