Forbidden Fires

by Madeline Baker

  Stalking Wolf felt his breath catch in his throat as a wealth of honey-gold hair fell in luxurious waves about her face and shoulders. After having spent six years with the Lakota, it was a rare treat to see a woman with hair that was not as black as midnight, or as straight as a string. But, more than that, she was beautiful. Her golden hair emphasized her peaches-and-cream complexion and accentuated her eyes, which were as deep and green as a high mountain stream beneath a warm summer sun. He noticed that her nose was small and straight, that her brows were slightly arched, and that her lashes were incredibly long and dark. Her mouth was full and pink and perfect.

  Caitlyn flushed self-consciously under the Indian’s scrutiny, but she was all business as she tended to him. She was accustomed to treating any number of injuries that occurred on the ranch; only in dire emergencies did they summon the doctor from town. When she had washed the blood from his face, she placed a cold cloth over his black eye, wondering if she had done the right thing when she insisted her father spare the Indian’s life. Maybe he had stolen Red, and the black mare, too. Maybe he’d murder them all in their beds, and scalp them as well.

  Lost in thought, her hands were less than gentle as she probed his ribs.

  “Damn!” The oath exploded from Stalking Wolf’s lips as the girl’s slim fingers pressed against his side.

  “I’m sorry,” Caitlyn said quickly.

  “Look, I don’t want to be here, and I’m sure you’d all be happier if I just rode on.”

  “Not until Pa decides what to do with you. Maybe he’ll turn you over to the sheriff,” Caitlyn said in a voice that left no room for argument.

  As gently as possible, she examined his side again, ascertaining that at least one rib was broken, perhaps two. His entire right side was bruised and discolored, and she silently cursed Abner. The man seemed to take great pleasure in inflicting pain.

  After carefully washing the Indian’s mid-section, Caitlyn bound it with several layers of cloth to stabilize the break. He would be in considerable pain for several weeks, but broken ribs eventually mended on their own and until they did, he would have to move carefully.

  “Are you hungry?” Caitlyn asked.

  Stalking Wolf shook his head.

  “Thirsty? There’s coffee warming on the stove.”

  “Got any whiskey?”

  Caitlyn’s right eyebrow lifted. “I thought Indians and whiskey didn’t mix.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m half Irish, and I’d like a drink.”

  “Irish!” Caitlyn exclaimed. “You’re joking.”

  Stalking Wolf shook his head. “My father came here from Ireland thirty years ago.”

  “Well, you look more Indian than Irish to me.” Caitlyn spoke the words over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen. Standing on tiptoe, she opened the cupboard and reached for a bottle of sourmash that her father kept on hand for medicinal purposes. Taking a glass from the bottom shelf, she poured a quarter of an inch of liquid into it and carried it to the Indian.

  He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, and tossed it off in a single swallow. It was the cheapest kind of whiskey, likely homemade, but it quickly spread a warm glow throughout his body, easing the pain in his side.

  “Thanks.” He handed her the empty glass, his fingers lightly brushing against hers.

  The heat from his touch spread from her fingertips to her arm, making her heart lurch queerly. Startled by the sensation, she took a step backward, wondering if he had felt it, too.

  “My name’s Caitlyn,” she said, flustered and hoping to cover it with casual conversation.

  Stalking Wolf nodded. It was a pretty name, and it suited her. “I’m…” He started to introduce himself as Stalking Wolf, and then thought better of it. “Gallegher,” he said, trying out the name he had not used in over six years. “Raiford Gallegher. But I answer to Rafe.”

  “Irish, indeed,” Caitlyn murmured.

  He nodded again, suddenly overcome with weariness as the beating, the long ride, and the shot of whiskey taken on an empty stomach began to take their toll.

  “You’re tired,” Caitlyn observed. “I guess Pa won’t mind if I put you in the spare room.”

  “Thanks.” He stood up, swaying, and Caitlyn stepped forward and placed her arm around his waist to steady him, then helped him down the narrow hall that led to the bedrooms. His thigh brushed against hers and she felt a quick flutter in the pit of her stomach. What was the matter with her? She’d been around men her whole life and none of them had ever affected her so strangely.

  Rafe’s pulse quickened at her touch and he cursed under his breath. He had been aware of the almost instantaneous attraction between them, but he was determined that nothing would come of it. She was a woman, a pretty, desirable woman, and he had vowed never to trust a woman again.

  Caitlyn opened the last door on the left, revealing a small whitewashed room furnished with a big brass bed and a three-drawer oak dresser. A colorful rag rug brightened the stark decor.

  “Why don’t you get some rest?” Caitlyn suggested.

  Rafe nodded. “Thanks again.”

  “I’ll bring your dinner in so you won’t have to get up,” Caitlyn offered, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Rafe grimaced as he sank down on the bed, his hand straying to his side as he silently cursed the man who had kicked him while he was down. He’d make Abner Wylie pay for that kick, he vowed as he carefully lowered himself to the bed. Yes, indeed, he’d make the bastard pay…

  Caitlyn was frowning when she went into the kitchen to help the ranch house cook, Consuelo, prepare lunch. Life was so unfair, she mused as she sliced a loaf of freshly baked bread. For the first time in her life she had met a man who excited her, who was tall, dark, and sinfully handsome, a man she felt drawn to, and he was an Indian.

  It just wasn’t fair, she thought glumly, but then, no one had ever said life was fair.

  Chapter Four

  Caitlyn bent over the washtub, scrubbing one of her father’s heavy cotton work shirts. The day was warm, and perspiration dotted her forehead and slid down between her breasts. Straightening, she rinsed the shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket at her feet.

  Pausing for a moment, she pressed a hand to her back and glanced toward the side of the house where the Indian sat cross-legged in the shade of a tall tree. She smiled self-consciously when she saw that he was watching her.

  Rafe had been at the ranch for over a week now. His broken rib pained him a great deal, she knew, but he never complained. He spent most of his time confined to the spare room, though he spent a part of each day with the big black mare, grooming the thoroughbred’s coat until it glistened like wet ebony.

  Caitlyn had caught her father in the barn several times covetously gazing at the beautiful animal, but Caitlyn could hardly blame him. The black was exquisite, her conformation near perfect, her bloodlines, though unknown, obviously of the highest caliber. With wide, intelligent eyes, long legs, a deep chest, and a long muscular neck, she would be a perfect mate for Red.

  Caitlyn bent over the tub again, all too aware of Rafe’s eyes studying her every move. They had not spoken much to each other so she knew nothing about him other than that he was a half-breed—what a vile term, she thought absently—and that he was quite the most fascinating man she had ever met.

  As to the men’s feelings about Rafe, there was no doubt.

  Luther had accepted the Indian’s presence without a qualm, but then, Luther was probably the kindest, most tolerant man Caitlyn had ever known. Tall and wiry, with dark gray hair and twinkling blue eyes, Caitlyn thought he must be at least sixty, though he might have been older or younger. It was hard to tell with men who had spent their whole life in the sun. Luther’s skin was the color and texture of aged saddle leather, but he moved with the speed and agility of a young man.

  Abner despised Rafe simply because he was half Indian. Abner had no use for Indians, Mexicans, or Negroes, or for most anyone else, for that mat
ter. He refused to speak to Rafe except when absolutely necessary.

  Paulie Norton came and went as always, a man apart from everyone else. He was a strange one, Paulie was, preferring the company of animals to people. He had never been to school; he was slow of speech and economical of movement. But he could perform miracles. He was only eighteen or nineteen, but he possessed a power to heal that was nothing short of remarkable. Caitlyn had seen him stitch cuts that healed without a scar, set broken bones, cure fevers, and lance boils. Mostly, he used his curative powers on the stock; once she had seen him nurse one of the saddle horses through a bad case of sand colic. Paulie was not a handsome young man. His hair was light brown and lanky, his eyes were set close together, his nose as long and thin, but he had a warm smile and a friendly nature, and he accepted Gallegher without reservation.

  Caitlyn’s own reactions to Rafe however were mixed. She had vowed to hate all Indians until the day she died because they had been responsible for her brothers’ deaths. Fearing them and praying for their destruction, she had rejoiced when she heard that John Chivington had massacred a Cheyenne village at Sand Creek. The Indians had been at peace under a white flag, but the thought stirred no compassion within her breast. Her family had been at peace, too, wanting only to cross the plains to start a new life, when the Indians attacked. Was it any wonder she had vowed to hate them? And yet, to her chagrin, she was having a great deal of difficulty maintaining that hatred where Rafe Gallagher was concerned. She was physically attracted to him and, though she hated to admit it, intrigued by him as well. Who was he, really? Half Irish, indeed! And yet, it was obvious now that he was not a full-blooded Indian. He spoke English too well, he was familiar with American customs and traditions, and his table manners were passable if not impeccable.

  If only he weren’t so devilishly handsome. If only her blood didn’t heat each time his eyes met hers. If only she could stop wondering what it would be like to stand in the circle of his arms, to feel his mouth on hers.

  He’s Indian, she told herself, repeating again and again, Indian. Indian. Indian! But even that talisman failed her. In any other man, the suspicion that he was part Indian would have been enough to repulse her, but Rafe’s mixed blood only served to make him more fascinating.

  He was watching her now. She could feel his eyes on her back, as tangible as though he had touched her. It brought a quick flush to her cheeks, and sent a warm tingling sensation skittering down her spine.

  “Indian,” she muttered. She had the uneasy feeling that Rafe knew she was attracted to him; worst of all, she felt he was amused by it.

  Heaving a sigh, she dropped the last of the wet wash into the basket, stretched, and then picked up the basket and carried it to the clothesline, glad that it was around the corner of the house and out of Rafe Gallegher’s line of vision.

  Brenden studied the black mare with a practiced eye and found no fault in her. He was addicted to fine horseflesh, he admitted, just as some men were hopelessly addicted to whiskey. After his wife Elizabeth’s death, he was determined to fulfill a lifelong dream to breed thoroughbred horses. To that end, he had sold his business, packed up Caitlyn and her brothers, and headed west. But bad luck had plagued them from the beginning. The weather had been unseasonably hot, and then it had rained for weeks. They had been attacked by Indians twice, his sons killed in the second attack. Caitlyn had been his strength then, comforting him, giving him a reason to go on. He had pushed steadily onward, drowning his grief in hard work. They had found a good piece of land, built a snug house, planted their crops, bought several hundred head of cattle to sustain them until they could turn a profit on the horses he hoped to raise. And then, when it seemed all was going well, disaster struck. His best brood mare had been attacked by a mountain lion. She had aborted her foal; two days later, she died of her injuries. A week later, his second brood mare disappeared, apparently stolen by Indians.

  All these things darted through Brenden’s mind as he admired the big black mare. He had sent a wire to the marshal in San Antonio the day after they found the Indian. The reply had come only the day before, informing him that the Double D Ranch had been burned to the ground the year before and the owners killed.

  Brenden let out a long sigh. He had more than enough work to keep him busy. The bank loan was due in a year and a half and there was no money to pay it. He had a damned half-breed prisoner in his house, and a headstrong daughter, yet here he stood, admiring a horse. But what a horse. After his own mares had been lost, he had spent several months visiting the nearby ranches, looking for a couple of horses as good as those he had lost, but his search had been in vain. Most of his neighbors rode mustangs caught off the range, a few rode top quality quarter horses, and one rode a fine Arabian mare. But no one had a thoroughbred of the caliber he wanted, and he had almost decided he would have to make the long trip back East to find one when the Indian appeared with the big black mare. She was perfect, and he was determined to own her at any cost.

  It was with that in mind that he went in search of the half-breed. It galled him to think he would have to do business with a man he had come close to hanging, a man he still thought of as a thief, but there was no help for it. And the sooner he got it over with, the better.

  Rafe felt a sense of unease as he watched Brenden Carmichael striding purposefully toward him. He wondered if the man had finally made up his mind about what to do with him. He was fully aware of the fact that he was little more than a prisoner in this place.

  He looked up, shading his eyes against the sun, as Carmichael came to a halt a few feet from where he sat. Caitlyn’s father was a striking figure, his hair as white as wool, his eyes the same vibrant shade of green as his daughter’s. He was not tall, but he was solid and well built.

  “Mornin’,” Carmichael said gruffly.

  “Mornin’.”

  Carmichael cleared his throat. “I’ve decided to let you go. But I want that black mare. I’ll give you two hundred dollars for her.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Black Wind’s not for sale.”

  “Three hundred.”

  Again, Rafe shook his head.

  “Five hundred and my buckskin gelding.”

  “She’s not for sale,” Rafe repeated. “Not at any price.”

  “Everything has a price!” Carmichael snapped. “I’ll give you eight hundred and not a penny more.”

  Caitlyn frowned as she came up behind her father. Eight hundred dollars for one horse? Had her father lost his mind?

  Brenden glared at Gallegher. Damn stubborn redskin. What did he want?

  “Why won’t you sell Black Wind, Mr. Gallegher?” Caitlyn asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.

  “I like her.”

  “Eight hundred dollars is a generous offer,” Caitlyn remarked.

  “Probably more than she’s worth,” Rafe replied. “But she’s still not for sale.”

  “Dammit, that mare might be in foal by my stud!” Carmichael exclaimed.

  “He came looking for us,” Rafe said with a wry grin. “We didn’t come to you.”

  “That’s your story. I could still turn you over to the sheriff…” Brenden’s face was livid. Before he could say another word, Caitlyn placed her hand on his arm.

  “Pa, perhaps we can work something out.”

  “Like what?”

  Caitlyn looked at Rafe. He was still sitting in the shade, his face a blank, while her father looked about ready to burst.

  “Well?” Brenden said impatiently.

  “Perhaps we could buy the foal,” Caitlyn suggested.

  “I want the mare and the foal,” Brenden said, practically shouting.

  “Well, you can’t have the mare,” Caitlyn replied calmly.

  “I should have let Wylie string him up,” Brenden muttered under his breath, and then he fixed Rafe Gallegher with a hard stare. “Well, how about it? Will you sell me the foal?”

  “It’ll be eleven months before Black Wind drops that foal, if
she’s in foal. And another six months or so until it’s weaned. What am I supposed to do until then?”

  “You can stay here until the foal’s born,” Brenden said.

  “As a prisoner?”

  “No, we’ll forget about all that,” Carmichael replied. He was calmer, more rational, now that he was about to get at least a part of what he wanted. And he’d make certain the mare conceived. He’d breed her to Red until she settled, no matter how long it took. “I’ll pay you a decent wage, and give you two hundred dollars for the foal.”

  “What if Black Wind aborts, or the foal’s born dead?”

  “That’s a chance you’ll have to take. In the meantime, you’ll have a job and three meals a day. What do you say?”

  The offer was more than fair, Rafe allowed. If he accepted Carmichael’s terms, he would have a place to live, a chance to save some money for a place of his own. He studied Carmichael’s face, wondering if he could trust the man, and then he glanced at Caitlyn. He had vowed never to love again, but he didn’t intend to live like a eunuch, either. Caitlyn Carmichael was the prettiest thing he had ever seen, and it occurred to him that spending the next eighteen months or so on her father’s ranch might not be so bad after all.

  He rose slowly to his feet and stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

  Rafe had been on the ranch ten days when the seven cowhands who had been out on the range returned to the Circle C. To a man, they were appalled to learn that the boss had hired a half-breed in their absence.

  Luther assured them that the situation was only temporary, and that Gallegher would be gone as soon as the black mare foaled and the foal was weaned. Luther was the ranch foreman, and Caitlyn knew it was only because the men admired and respected Luther that they agreed to stay on, but they grumbled about working alongside a half-breed just the same.

  It took several weeks for Rafe’s ribs to heal. In that time, he did little more than rest in the shade. He was unfailingly polite to Caitlyn and her father, though he spoke little unless spoken to.

  Mealtimes were filled with tension. Seated at the far end of the table opposite her father, Caitlyn was ever aware of the animosity that stretched like an invisible wire between Rafe and Abner. It was evident that Rafe had not forgotten Abner’s eagerness to string him up, nor had he forgotten Abner’s derogatory remarks, or the fact that Abner had kicked him while he was down.