Forbidden Fires

by Madeline Baker

  His constant presence was unsettling, compelling, invigorating, and he was unfailingly polite. He never made a pass at her, never said anything remotely suggestive, and yet the tension between them was unmistakable. Each time he passed close to her, she felt her insides quiver in the most disturbing way. She waited for him to try and kiss her again so she could rebuff him with a scathing remark, but he never presented her with the opportunity. Perversely, that made her angrier, more anxious.

  Each evening he bid her a polite good night as she went to her room, and the sound of his voice and the promise in his eyes followed her down the hall like a shadow, infiltrating her thoughts as she prepared for bed, invading her dreams so that she often woke feeling warm and restless.

  Wanting to get away by herself, she saddled one of the horses and rode away from the house early one Sunday morning. It was a beautiful day, warm and clear, and Caitlyn felt a sense of well-being as the mare trotted along. Occasionally, they passed a few head of cattle and once she saw a skunk nosing around a berry bush.

  When she reached the pool at the far end of the valley, Caitlyn reined the mare to a stop and dismounted. After tethering the horse where it could nibble on the lush summer grass, she sat down near the edge of the pool to pull off her boots and stockings and let her bare feet dangle in the cool water.

  It was a lovely spot. The pool was blue-green and clear, surrounded by trees and flowering shrubs.

  Heaving a sigh, she fell back on the grass. Overhead, the leaves of the trees shaded her face like a lacy green umbrella, and she closed her eyes, letting the peaceful quiet soothe her.

  She had been there only a few minutes when the sound of a splash brought her upright. Thoughts of wild Indians filled her mind and she hurriedly glanced around, fearful of what she might find.

  But it was only Rafe, swimming in the water, his arms cutting through the water with long, clean, powerful strokes. He hadn’t seen her yet, and she watched him with mingled feelings of pleasure and irritation. She had ridden away from the house to avoid him, yet she was not sorry he was there. Her insides fluttered with anticipation at his nearness and she was suddenly impatient for him to notice her.

  As though sensing her gaze, Rafe turned his head toward her. She saw the recognition in his eyes as he changed direction and began swimming easily for the shore until he was only a few feet away.

  Caitlyn watched him stand up in the waist-high water, her gaze drawn to his chest where rivulets of water coursed down his taut bronze flesh. The light sprinkling of curly black chest hair narrowed to a thin line before it disappeared from her sight beneath the water.

  Shocked at the direction of her gaze and the images forming in her mind, she glanced up to find Rafe smiling at her.

  “What are you doing here?” Caitlyn snapped, furious at the way her heart lurched and her pulse raced whenever he was near.

  “Swimming,” he retorted. “Do you mind?”

  Caitlyn made a very unladylike sound of disgust. “Of course not. Why should I mind? It’s just that you seem to be following me.”

  “Really?” Rafe planted his fists on his hips as he flashed her a roguish grin. “I thought you were following me.”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  He shrugged, and she thought what an engaging picture he made standing there in the blue-green water with the bright azure sky behind him. She wished fleetingly that she were an artist so that she might capture his likeness on canvas, for she was certain she had never seen anything more beautiful, or more arrestingly male, in her life.

  “You might as well come out and dry off,” Caitlyn invited ungraciously.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not wearing anything but water.”

  Caitlyn’s face turned five shades of red as her imagination went suddenly wild.

  “My clothes are across the way,” Rafe remarked, amused by her stricken look. “If I go get dressed, will you still be here when I get back?”

  “Of course,” Caitlyn said. In truth, she wanted very much to flee, but she couldn’t let Rafe think she was afraid of him.

  He threw her a smile that seemed to say he didn’t believe her before he turned and dove into the water. She watched him cross the pool, admiring the smooth natural way he moved through the water, the way the sunlight glinted in his thick black hair. She quickly lowered her head when he reached the other side and then, unable to help herself, she lifted her gaze in time to see him step onto the shore. His legs were long and straight, his buttocks small and firm, his back long and smooth, his shoulders broad and muscular.

  A curious longing took hold of her as he moved out of sight behind a tree, and she had a sharp recollection of his kiss in the dining room only a few days earlier. What was happening to her?

  A short time later he reappeared, mounted on the gray mustang. He rode the way he swam, she mused, easily and naturally, as though he had been doing it all his life. He was dressed in tight denim pants, a dark blue cotton shirt, and a black hat and she thought she had never seen anything more wonderful than Rafe Gallegher cantering toward her on the high-stepping mare.

  Smiling, he reined his horse to a halt and swung agilely to the ground. “Still here, I see.

  “I said I would be, didn’t I?”

  Rafe nodded. He was drawn to her in spite of all his intentions not to get involved with another woman. She was like a prickly pear, he thought, ripe for the taking but surrounded by thorns. With a sigh, he dropped down on the grass beside her, then stretched out on the ground, his hands clasped behind his head.

  Caitlyn remained seated, her hands in her lap, her whole body tense at his nearness. No other man had ever affected her so, especially a man she knew so little about. She thought of what she did know, his name, the fact that he had lived with Indians, and nothing more.

  “Who are you, Rafe Gallegher?” she asked. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Who are you, really?”

  “You know my name. What else do you need to know?”

  “Where’s your family? Are they still living?”

  “My mother’s dead. She died soon after I was born. My father is living with the Lakota. I have an Indian stepmother, and a five-year-old sister named Yellow Flower.”

  “Are you…have you…do you have a woman?”

  Summer Wind’s image flitted across his mind—her hair as black as onyx, her eyes so dark and beautiful, her sweet, lying lips. “No.”

  “You never told me why you left the Indians.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a pretty day,” Rafe observed, changing the subject.

  Caitlyn frowned at him, but she could see by the look on his face that he wasn’t going to tell her why he’d left the Sioux.

  Rafe sat up, stretching, and Caitlyn watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders. She clearly remembered those arms around her, waltzing her across the dance floor, holding her tight as he kissed her.

  “Where did you learn to dance so well?” she asked, breaking the silence between them.

  Rafe smirked wryly. “A madam in a whore-house back in New Orleans taught me,” he answered, hoping such a shocking reply would make her keep her questions to herself.

  “A madam?” Caitlyn croaked.

  Rafe nodded. “Her name was Corinne, and she had the reddest hair I’ve ever seen.” He chuckled. “She was a feisty woman, maybe sixty years old, and she’d been a madam for almost forty years.”

  “What else did she teach you?” Caitlyn asked, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified by what she’d said.

  One of Rafe’s brows shot upward, and then he leaned toward Caitlyn, his dark eyes probing the depths of her soul. “Do you really want to know?”

  Caitlyn shook her head vigorously. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for her horse and swung into the saddle. Lifting the reins, she pounded her heels against her horse’s flanks and headed home.

  Ra
fe’s amused laughter followed her like the memory of a bad dream.

  She saw the flames as soon as she topped the first rise. The barn was burning and she saw Paulie and Scott running in and out of the big double doors in an effort to rescue the livestock trapped inside. At least two dozen Indians were riding through the yard, their main goal the mustangs penned in the two corrals on the east side of the house. She quietly cursed the fact that the rest of the Circle C cowhands were out in the hills, checking the cattle.

  Fear held her rooted to the spot for several minutes and when she finally summoned the nerve to ride closer, Rafe’s voice stopped her.

  “Stay here,” he ordered tersely, withdrawing the Henry rifle from the boot of his saddle. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  She would have protested, but he already gone, riding hard for the house. The Indians had unlatched the corral gates now and the mustangs thundered through the gates, headed for the promise of freedom. The Indians followed the horses out of the yard, and the silence that followed in their wake seemed deafening.

  Rafe turned his horse toward the barn, intending to help Paulie and Scott put out the fire, when he saw Carmichael lying near the front porch. He knew, even before he dismounted, that the owner of the Circle C was dead.

  Caitlyn raced for home as soon as she saw the Indians riding away from the ranch. The loss of the herd seemed inconsequential when compared to the loss of the barn, the feed, and stock. She reined her mount to a dirt-scattering halt near the front of the house, and jumped from the saddle.

  “Pa!” she called. “Pa, where are you?”

  Seeing Rafe near the porch, she hurried toward him. “Rafe, have you seen my…”

  The words died in her throat as Rafe stood up and turned to face her. She read everything she needed to know in his eyes. “No,” she said, shaking her head as Rafe walked toward her. “No.”

  “I’m sorry, Caitlyn.”

  “No.” She eluded his comforting hand and darted past him, her eyes growing wide when she saw the arrow lodged high in her father’s back. “No!”

  The last word was a sob, a heart-wrenching cry of denial.

  “Caitlyn.” Rafe placed his hand on her shoulder, knowing there was nothing he could say to comfort her.

  “Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, jerking away from his hand. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”

  Rafe recoiled from the hatred blazing in the depths of her deep green eyes.

  “Indian!” She spat the word at him. “Your people killed my brothers and now my father. I hate you!” She shook her head, her eyes filled with loathing. And then, with tears streaming down her face, she dropped to her knees beside her father and drew his body into her lap. “Oh, Pa,” she sobbed. “Oh Pa.”

  Rafe watched her, his hands balled into tight fists. Her shoulders shook with the force of her tears and the sound of her cries tore at his heart. Pivoting on his heel, he walked toward the barn where Scott and Paulie were valiantly trying to put out the flames.

  “Might as well let it burn,” Rafe remarked. “It’s past saving.” He jerked a thumb in

  Caitlyn’s direction. “She needs you, Paulie. I’ll look after things here.”

  “He’s dead?” Paulie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “So’s Luther.” Paulie murmured as grief washed over his features. Luther had been like a father to Paulie, the only father he had ever known. With a heavy sigh, Paulie went to comfort Brenden Carmichael’s daughter.

  Caitlyn sat alone in the parlor, staring out the front window into the darkness beyond. The night was cold and black, like the room in which she sat, like the ache in her heart. Her father was dead. Luther was dead. Everyone she had ever loved was dead, and she was alone, so alone.

  The tears came again and she was helpless to stay them. She had been sitting in the parlor for hours, just staring out the window. The barn had been destroyed, the milk cow and both draft horses had burned to death. All the mustangs had been stolen, including Rafe’s gray mare. Luckily, Red, a couple of saddle horses, and Rafe’s black mare had been saved.

  Caitlyn laughed hollowly. What kind of luck was that, she mused bitterly, when horses were spared and people died? She would gladly have slaughtered every animal left on the place to have her father and Luther alive.

  Earlier, Scott, Paulie, and Rusty had loaded the blanket-draped bodies of her father and Luther into a wagon and taken them to Reitman’s Funeral Parlor. Tomorrow, she would have to go into town and make arrangements for the funerals.

  Tears burned her eyes and she pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane. “Oh, Pa,” she sighed.

  The cowhands had been stunned when they returned to the house that evening. They had offered their condolences, the words sticking in their throats, each of them thinking that Hicks and Carmichael might still be alive if more of the Circle C riders had been on hand to help fight the Indians.

  Feeling the mantle of responsibility on her shoulders, Caitlyn had assured them that no one was to blame. They had been out doing their job. The burden of guilt lay on the heathen savages who had killed her father and Luther, killed them wantonly and in cold blood. Indians! She hated them all.

  She had sent Rafe Gallegher packing earlier, and now she wondered if she had done the right thing. He had been an asset to the ranch, her father had liked and trusted him. But she could not bear the sight of him. He was an Indian, a constant reminder of how her brothers and father had died.

  She closed her eyes and the memory of her brothers’ deaths rose in her mind. How clearly she remembered that day! The Indians had come with the dawn, riding out of the east, with a blood-red sun at their backs and an ungodly shriek on their lips. They had struck quickly, lethally, stealing horses and cattle and killing six men. Arlo had been one of the first casualties; Morgan had been killed a short time later.

  She recalled the sense of sadness and shock that had settled over the wagon train as six graves were dug, and six blanket-wrapped bodies were laid to rest in the bowels of the earth. A quick prayer had been said, and then they had moved on, fearful the Indians might return, but the rest of their journey had been uneventful. They had been bound for Oregon, but her father had fallen in love with the plains and they had settled there and life had been good. The Indians had never bothered them before. Yet now her father was dead.

  Utterly weary, she drew the blanket around her shoulders and made her way to bed, only to lie awake for hours, wondering how she could go on. She could not hope to run the ranch alone but what else could she do? She couldn’t sell it. Her father had loved this place, and so did she. Somehow, she would manage. Her father had never been a quitter, and neither was she.

  Tomorrow, she would make Paulie the new foreman and have the men begin rebuilding the barn. Scott would have to take a couple of the hands and go into the hills and bring the cattle closer to home. Somehow, she would have to find a way to pay off the bank loan and she would have to go into town and arrange for her father’s and Luther’s funerals.

  Reitman’s Funeral Parlor was a small square building located at the far end of town. Caitlyn stood in the dreary office alone, her hands worrying a fold in her skirt as she tried not to think about what lay beyond the faded blue curtain.

  Homer Reitman, a tall, somber man with dark gray hair and watery blue eyes, entered the office a few minutes later. Caitlyn could not help shivering as he invited her to take a seat. Somehow, she managed to choose caskets for her father and Luther, but it didn’t seem real. None of it seemed real.

  Leaving the funeral parlor, she went to speak to the Reverend Tobias Wilson about the funeral services. The minister was a kind and sympathetic man, sincere in his condolences, but she was relieved when the arrangements had been made and she could leave the small whitewashed church and step out into the sunlight again.

  She knew Mr. Reitman and the Reverend Wilson were being kind when they offered their sympathy, but the kind words, the gentle hugs, were almost more than she could
bear. Her emotions were raw, close to the surface, and she was constantly fighting the urge to cry, to rail at fate, to close her eyes and hope that it was all a bad dream, a horrible nightmare that would end if she could only wake up.

  Her head lowered to hide the tears that threatened to fall, she made her way down the boardwalk. She had not gone far when she bumped into someone. Looking up, she began to apologize.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Carmichael,” Abner Wylie drawled, interrupting her in midsentence. “What brings you to town on this lovely day?”

  She was in no mood to trade words with Abner Wylie. “Business,” she said curtly. “Good day.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Abner admonished, taking hold of her arm. “I heard about your old man. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced pointedly at his hand on her arm, but he didn’t release her.

  “What are you going to do now?” Abner asked solicitously.

  “About what?”

  “The ranch. Your old man’s gone, and so’s Luther. Who’s gonna ramrod the place for you?”

  “Paulie.”

  “Paulie!” He laughed, genuinely amused. “Paulie’s a good man with animals, but he can’t ride herd on the men. They’ll walk all over him.”

  “I think he’ll do fine and I’ll be there.”

  “You? No self-respectin’ cowboy is gonna work for a woman.”

  “There are several ranches in West Texas that are run by women,” Caitlyn retorted. “And run quite well, too!”

  “That’s true,” Abner agreed, “but those women aren’t young and easy on the eye. They’re women who grew up on ranches, married ranchers, and then took over after their husbands passed on. They aren’t city girls who came west because their pa had itchy feet.”

  Caitlyn jerked her arm from Abner’s grasp. “Good day, Mr. Wylie.”