River Song

by Sharon Ihle

  "And your mother?" he ventured softly

  "White." She bit off the word, daring him to make something of it.

  Cole knew better than to challenge her. Interbreeding was a touchy subject, especially if the white involved was female. Even though he wasn't sure where he stood on the issue, he wasn't surprised at the slight wave of disgust rippling through his innards when she explained her ancestry.

  Her appetite and thirst sated, Sunny wrapped the remaining supplies and worked on giving him a smile. "Thank you very much for sharing your food with me."

  "Anytime, Sunflower." Cole replaced his hat and hopped off his makeshift stool. "It really isn't safe for you to travel alone. Why don't you ride back to my ranch with me? It's about three days from here and very near Fort McDowell, where some of your people might live. You can rest and clean up at the ranch before you decide what you want to do."

  Perfect. She would have her chance tonight as he slept. This time, her grin was genuine as she said, "I appreciate your offer very much. Let me help you load up."

  Together, they gathered Cole's saddle and supplies, then Sunny stood quietly and waited for him to saddle the buckskin stallion, Sage. She glanced down at the ground, trying to appear disinterested, and studied the animal's tracks. Her blood ran cold when she found a set of clear prints. They matched the ones at the farm. If she'd needed any further proof this man had been in her home, this was it.

  As Cole tightened the cinch around Sage's belly, he noticed her intense gaze and the strange, glazed look in her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

  "What?" Sunny snapped her head up, caught again. Stumbling over her tongue, she explained, "It's your horse's tracks. They are very unusual."

  "Oh? In what way?"

  She pointed at one print in the soft sand. "The front shoe makes a small dent in the earth at the toe, but here," she directed her finger to the print directly in front of her, "on the back shoe, there is no dent. The hoofprint is smooth and longer than the one in front."

  "Oh, that," he laughed as he secured the saddlebags and rifle. "Those back shoes are our blacksmith's idea. The ranch horses are used primarily for herding and roping cattle and they have to do a lot of sliding. The smooth surface makes it easier on the horse and the rider." He picked up the stallion's hind leg and pointed to the extension. "The extra length protects the back of his hoof and helps prevent injuries."

  "Oh." She shrugged, uninterested in his explanation, burning inside with the discovery of the extra proof of his guilt.

  Cole swung onto his saddle and looked down at her. "Are you on foot, or do you still have your pony?"

  "He's down at the foot of the arroyo."

  "I'll take you there." Extending his hand, Cole directed her to slip her boot into the stirrup, then he swooped her onto the stallion's wide rump behind him. "Hang onto me. The trail here is a little steep." Then he lifted the reins and coaxed the animal in an affectionate tone, "Head on out, Sage."

  Sunny had no intention of touching the man until she could do it with the tapered end of Patrick's hunting knife. She clung to the edge of the leather saddle, her chin set defiantly, and rode that way until the horse slipped in the loose rocks and nearly lost his footing.

  This immediately sent her arms flying around Cole's trim waist, and her head slamming against his broad shoulders. She remained pressed against him until they were back on level ground, her nostrils forced to breathe his unique man-odor—a mixture of mesquite smoke from the camp-fire, a hint of rich tobacco, and a curious musky aroma that made her feel strangely warm inside.

  Sunny lifted her head and accidentally brushed her lips against the long blond curls at the back of his neck. Some primitive Quechan instinct urged her to take her revenge now, to drive her teeth into his neck and claw at his eyes. Surprise would be on her side. But his strength still gave him an advantage she couldn't afford to ignore. And, she suspected, there would be only one chance with this man.

  Frustrated by these sudden feelings, impatient to have her revenge over and done with, Sunny leapt from Sage's strong back while he was still moving at an easy trot. She ran on ahead, deftly sidestepping mounds of barrel cactus and leaping over numerous underground dwellings.

  Startled, the curious rancher spurred his mount on and caught up with her at the same time she reached Paddy. "Are you trying to break your neck or something? All you had to do was say stop."

  Her breathing rapid, as much with anger as from the short dash, Sunny avoided his gaze. "I was worried about my pony. He's been alone a long time."

  While she bent to release the animal's hobbles, Cole grinned at her discomfort. Even with her doeskin coloring, the deep flush staining her cheeks was as easily seen as the shallow rise and fall of her full breasts in the shirt he'd rendered button-less. She'd covered herself as well as possible, but couldn't quite hide the inviting swells or the soft moist valley between them, begging to be explored.

  Cole looked back at her flushed cheeks and wondered if she felt the same way he did. Had his touch affected her as much as her small delicate hands had affected him? Those hands, and her moist warm breath against the thin material of his shirt, had almost been enough to turn him weak and helpless. And when she pressed her lips to the back of his neck, he'd damn near fallen out of the saddle. There was no denying the attraction he felt—and no denying that it touched and angered him as well.

  Frowning now, he watched Sunny mount astride her pony, then he laughed. Cole imagined the faces of his sister and her women friends if asked to perform such a task. White women only rode sidesaddle—no real lady would ever spread her legs over the back of a horse. Cole found himself wondering what harm these ladies thought would befall them if they rode a horse the way God had intended. Regarding his new charge as she rode up beside him, he noted that she seemed comfortable enough, maybe even more so than he.

  With Cole in the lead, they rode off together through endless dry gullies, through parched dry creek beds and surprising areas of green and water. Although he was a tough and wiry Mustang, Paddy's short legs and relatively soft life in Yuma made it impossible for him to keep up with Cole's superior purebred. The pace slowed, giving the couple a chance to admire the yearly spring bloom of the devil's coach whip, a long, spiny-limbed plant with fiery torch-like blossoms—and the time to think about the evening's activities.

  Sunflower's thoughts were consumed with murder—a terrifying act she'd never witnessed, much less performed. But it had to be done. There was no one else to make this man pay for her mother's life, her honor. As nightfall began, she knew they would make camp soon and the time would be upon her. Could she do it? He seemed such a nice man, had treated her respectfully and with a gentleness she'd seen in few whites. How could one so kind have performed such a savage act on her mother?

  Looking for a perfect spot to bed down for the night, Cole kept a sharp lookout for just the right combination of sloping hills and creosote bushes to guard them from the sudden sand storms prevalent during the spring. As he studied the terrain, his thoughts centered on the dreadful way he'd treated Sunflower during her first night in his camp and the resulting guilt he felt. No matter that she was dressed as a boy. He could have investigated a little further, especially after he'd felt the soft flesh beneath him as he bound her wrists. Cole grimaced when he remembered how he'd driven her delicate features into the sand, the way he'd crushed her glorious breasts against the rocky earth. He swore under his breath. Tonight, he would make it up to her somehow.

  When Cole found a suitable campsite, he went off to hunt for a couple of cottontails for dinner, leaving Sunny to prepare the fire and water their horses at a nearby spring. After they'd eaten and the sky had turned as black as Sunny's hair, Cole tossed more mesquite branches on the fire and invited her to join him.

  "Thank you," she managed through clenched teeth, "but I did not rest well last night. I am very tired."

  Cole got to his feet and tossed his cigarette into the fire. "Sure you are. I should have
known that."

  He walked over near the base of the small mountain and spread his bedroll in the softest patch of ground he could find. "Sleep here. I'll set up near the fire."

  "But I can't take your bed. I will sleep on the ground."

  Cole gripped her shoulders and pulled her close. "Not for all the silver in Tombstone. After the night I put you through, you ought to demand I build you a rope bed."

  His kindness confused her, but she knew if she stood here and argued with him any longer, she would weaken and later find herself too weak to use her father's knife. Sunny looked into his eyes for one last time, ready to accept his offer and be on her way, but his gaze left the words scrambled in her mouth. He was staring at her, through her, in a way no one ever had. It made her feel warm and liquid, like a barrel of her mother's homemade mescal—and just as fiery and potent.

  Cole's golden head inched towards hers. With sudden certainty, Sunflower knew he meant to kiss her. Dear God, why wouldn't her feet move? And why was she so intrigued by the thought of his inviting mouth brushing against hers?

  He was a whisker away from her trembling lips when, mercifully, an image of her mother's battered body gave her the courage to jerk away.

  Sunny managed to snap off a quick, "Good night. Thanks for the bed," then spun around and lowered herself to the blanket. Rolling on her side, Sunny offered her back to the rancher, and waited for the sounds of his boots fading as he crossed the camp to his own bed.

  But it didn't happen. She could feel his hot green eyes boring into her back. Did he mean to attack her? Had his kindness been a trap, a way to catch her off guard? It would be impossible for her to reach her knife with him standing behind her. She was nearly defenseless. Sunny lay still, coiled like a cougar, ready to spring. This rancher may try to kill her, but he would not have an easy time of it.

  Just when she thought her muscles would burst from tension, she heard his low sigh, retreating footsteps, and a heavy groan as he stretched out on Sage's blanket for the night. Then she waited. Every sense on alert, Sunny breathed deep. The fresh desert air mingled with the comforting aroma of mesquite wood smoldering in the dying fire and the biting odor of a nearby creosote bush. She listened to the plaintive call of the quail, to the mournful song of a lone coyote, and finally to the light snoring of her prey.

  Normally a light sleeper, Cole had dropped into a deep slumber almost as soon as his head touched the blanket. His dreams swirled around him like strands of long ebony hair, the shadows punctured only by an occasional flash of twinkling blue eyes. For a long time, he was unaware that the woman crept around him, preparing for her attack.

  When his excellent instincts finally warned him something was amiss, Cole automatically reached for the Colt .44 lying near his head.

  The holster was empty.

  Fully awake now, some sixth sense telling him to move, and move fast, he rolled over on his side.

  But it was too late. He felt the fire of the knife as its tip burned into his flesh.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A vivid nightmare woke him with a start.

  Sean Callahan jerked to a sitting position and wiped the sweat from his brow. He shook his head as if to clear the terrible dream from his mind, but the images returned, clearer and more prophetic than before.

  He gasped for a breath of fresh air, but the atmosphere in the steamboat's hold was suffocating. Sean turned to the bulky figure lying beside him on the wooden planks and tapped the man's burly shoulder.

  "Pop," he whispered. "Come on, wake up."

  Patrick Callahan grumbled and groaned, his mind hazy from too much mescal the night before.

  "Wake up, Pop. I have to talk to you," Sean pleaded.

  With great effort, Patrick rolled over on his back and lifted one eyelid just enough to make out his son's form in the darkness. "Ohhh," he groaned, " 'tis the breath of a Gila monster I find in me mouth this morning."

  "I'll not be arguing that." Grimacing, Sean got to his feet. "Come up on deck with me for some air."

  He helped his swaying father off the floor and gave him a few minutes to get his bearings. Then the pair crept by the other passengers who couldn't afford private staterooms, and past the assortment of chickens, wagons, cordwood, and various animals entombed in the hold. After climbing out the hatch, Sean led his father to the rear of the stern-wheeler and leaned against the rail.

  " 'Tis still nightfall, son," Patrick barked. "Why are ye waking me at this ungodly hour?"

  "It's closer to dawn than you think, Pop. I brought you out here to tell you to explain . . ." But he couldn't finish the sentence, knew if he didn't choose his words correctly, his father would dismiss the dream as so much blarney and then amble off to the hold.

  "I'm a listenin', son. Get on with it."

  Sean stared down at the churning wheel, comparing the big paddle's struggle against the upstream current to Patrick Callahan's stubborn mind, and let out a long breath.

  Finally, he looked over to his father and said, "I had a vision."

  Patrick cocked a bushy brow and squinted an ice-blue eye in his son's direction. "This is why you shortened me rest and robbed me brain o' the time needed to ease the throbbing?"

  "Sorry, Pop, but it was so clear, so real, I had to tell you now." He lowered his head and voice before adding, "We have to go back home."

  "Turn back? Blarney," Patrick bellowed. "Anddooble blarney," he tossed in as he rapped his fist against the wood railing.

  Sean had expected that reaction, and in spite of the terrifying vision, he had to grin. Placing a gentle hand on his father's shoulder, the young man explained the mayhem and horrors the dream had shown him. By the time he finished his story, the sun had crept over the foothills along the Colorado River and splintered the dark night with fingers of gold.

  Staring down into the turbulent waters, Patrick shook his head in disbelief. It couldn't be true. Or could it? Had Sean inherited this prized gift from Moonstar's forbearers? Although Patrick understood many of his wife's beliefs and customs, accepted them as he accepted her, he'd always been uncomfortable with her search for spiritual power— and the fact that she looked for it in their children. The acquisition of this power had always been far more important to Moonstar than new dresses, fancy buggies, or her husband's endless search for gold.

  Patrick shuddered as he continued to ponder Sean's words. The only thing he knew for certain about attaining these visions was that they only occurred during sleep. The Quechan could not induce a vision through drugs, fasting, torture, or ritual as some tribes prescribed. This power always took form through a dream. The nightmare could very well be true.

  Regarding his son, the troubled Irishman spoke in hushed tones. "Ye haven't been nipping on yer mum's poteen, have ye?"

  Shaking his dark head, Sean said, "No, Pop. I wish I could blame it on mescal, but I can't. It just happened."

  With a short nod, Patrick studied the young man's expression. Whether this vision was real or just a bad nightmare, one thing was clear. Sean believed it was real. Could Patrick afford not to?

  With Sean, anything was possible. Of the three Callahan children, this one had always been the one most at odds with his mixed heritage. Even his physical characteristics couldn't seem to decide if he was Irish or Indian. Sean's hair, cut short at the neck, appeared as black as Sunny's on first glance. But in the sunlight or upon closer inspection, amber strands glistened with Irish pride.

  And those eyes, Patrick thought with a sigh, Sean's eyes told the real story. Clear and shining one moment, they battled from within, turning a murky hazel color when he was angered, to a surprising deep river-blue when pleased.

  Even his body showed a distinct division. At six feet, the young man was four inches taller than Patrick, yet of average height for a Quechan male. But in place of the lean, slender silhouette of a Yuman Indian, he'd inherited his father's muscular arms, powerful shoulders, and thick chest.

  Patrick returned his gaze to the river, to the frothy
wake kicked up by the rotating wheel. He had no choice. If there was any chance at all that the lad's dream had indeed been a vision, he would have to put off his own dream of finding gold. Again.

  "So ye really b'lieve yer mum and Sunny and Mike are in danger?" Patrick said quietly.

  "Yes, I do," Sean replied, but he didn't mention the vision had also told him one or two of them were already beyond danger.

  Patrick moved his gaze to the southeast and settled his sky-blue eyes on the strange configuration known as Castle Dome. This giant rock formation, hundreds of feet square and shaped like a great castle, could be seen for many miles in several directions. To Patrick, its base represented a one-day journey to his home.

  "How long a ride do ye think it to be from Ehrenberg to Castle Dome, lad?"

  With a shrug, Sean guessed, "Around two days or so."

  "Then we won't be waitin' around for another steamboat. We're due to dock in Ehrenberg this morning. The minute they lower the stageplank, we'll get on the mules and head home."

  With an anxious glance to the south of Castle Dome, Patrick quietly added, "Faith, and I hope we'll not be too late."

  But they were. Seven days late.

  "Oh, me darlin', me second son," Patrick cried as he buried his greying head in his palms. Resting his trembling elbows on the dining table as an anguished sob nearly tore him in half, he glanced around his once-happy home.

  Patrick could almost hear Moonstar's shy giggles, Mike's deep voice as he teased her, and Sunny with her unmerciful good humor. Sunny, he suddenly thought, worry tempering his grief. Where was his mischievous little Leprechaun? How had she managed this terrible ordeal alone?

  When he and Sean had ridden into the farmyard an hour ago, the first thing Patrick spotted was the remnants of the funeral pyre. Obviously, Sunny had dug a small pit, dragged Mike's rope and wood bed out to the yard, and positioned it above the hole. Then she'd surrounded the bed with the family's entire store of firewood, and arranged the bodies of her loved ones and their belongings above their final resting place. After the fire burned out and the ashes had fallen into the pit, Sunny had covered the grave with earth and ridden off.