River Song

by Sharon Ihle

  Moonstar would have burned the house as well. He supposed he should be grateful Sunny was either unaware of that custom or hadn't been able to destroy her desecrated home. All Patrick had left of the woman he'd loved so long and so well was a few beads and shells from her marriage necklace. Had it been torn from her throat during the attack? In shock, he fingered a single blue seashell, the center and most precious part of the necklace.

  "Oh, Pop," Sean moaned after he read Sunny's note again. "What are we going to do?"

  But the older man continued to stare at the floor, his heart and spirit broken.

  Resting a comforting hand on his father's trembling shoulder, Sean considered the information in Sunny's letter. Devoid of detail, the note informed them only that Moonstar and Mike had been murdered by two white men riding shod horses towards the direction of Yuma. Sunny was in pursuit and would send a wire once the killers were identified. And then what? Had she seen the men commit their deed, could she bear witness against them in a court of law?

  He thought of his younger sister—innocent, beautiful, and alone in this untamed land. He thought of the outlaws— ducking, hiding, ambushing many an unwary traveler in their attempts to survive unpunished. Then he thought of the few bands of renegade Indians, especially of Geronimo's last escape to freedom and the havoc he was causing settlers and army alike. Sean's heart grew cold.

  "Pop," he said, fighting the tremors in his voice. "Our grieving must come later. Sunny's in danger."

  With a heavy sob, Patrick took a great lungful of air and pointed to the corner of the cabin. "A cup of yer mum's poteen, son."

  "We'll be needing clear heads, Pop."

  "A cup of poteen," Patrick shouted in a hoarse voice.

  Pressing his full Quechan lips into a thin line, Sean gave his father a short nod and did as he was ordered.

  After the last trickle of mescal burned its way down Patrick's throat, he shuddered and got to his feet. "Now 'tis a clear head I'm havin'. Now I'll be thinkin' what to do."

  With great deliberation, Patrick walked through his home, his keen eyes searching for clues, for anything disturbed or out of place. His gaze came to rest on the blank spot above the hearth of the fireplace he'd built with his own hands.

  "Yer grandfather's war club is missing. Do ye think yer sister's planning to take revenge herself?"

  Although that was exactly what Sean thought, he shook his head. "Probably took it for protection, Pop. That and a couple of knives, if I know Sunny."

  "If she had our rifles and pistols as well, she wouldn't have protection enoughm," Patrick boomed. "'Tis a fool's errand the lass has taken on. Saddle up the mules. We'll be looking for her trail before sundown."

  "Pop, I've another idea."

  "Time's a wastin', son o' mine."

  "Please, Pop," Sean pleaded. "Listen to what I have to say. There's no need for both of us to go after Sunny."

  Patrick swallowed his protest and regarded the young man with a skeptical eye. "What's yer plan, then?"

  "I think you should go into town and tell Lieutenant Wallace at Fort Yuma what's happened. Maybe the army will help us find Sunny and the murderers."

  Raising a bushy brow, Patrick grumbled, "And what if the men were some of his own troops, boy?"

  Shrugging, Patrick guessed, "If they were army, it'd be all the reason more for Lieutenant Wallace to help out. I'll go after Sunny myself."

  "No, no, lad. She's my girl, I'll be findin' her."

  "Pop," Sean said. "Think about it. I can make better time than you. I move faster, quicker, and make a lot less noise. If Sunny's in trouble, my chances of helping her are much better."

  Muttering to himself, the troubled Irishman paced the dusty wood floor of his home. "I kin help ye on the trail, son. I know I kin."

  "You'll be more help here. What if Sunny sends a wire? Who'll be here to read it?"

  With a sigh of frustration, of resignation, Patrick slowly nodded. "Aye, yer right, lad. Let's get ye packed up."

  Silently, their thoughts and prayers centered on their terrible loss, father and son gathered food supplies, a rifle and two pistols for Sean's journey. After loading everything on the back of the strongest mule, the younger man, his eyes a hard, murky hazel, swung into the saddle.

  "Don't worry about me or Sunny, Pop. We're Callahans— we're tough." Giving his father a tight grin, he added, "I'll send a wire as soon as I have any leads."

  "Aye, and may the seven saints of Ireland protect ye both," Patrick whispered as his only living son, and perhaps his only child, rode off. Then he saddled up the older mule, Flossie, and headed south for Fort Yuma.

  Just after bypassing Yuma and changing his course to a more easterly direction, Sean lost the faint trail left by Sunny's pony, his tiny hooves swallowed up by the many riders using the same path running parallel to the Gila River. He thought briefly of turning back, of riding southwest to the Gila/Colorado River junction where the Quechan leader, Pasquel lived. The greatkwoxot might help him decide in which direction to travel, may even have given the same advice to Sunny. Had she sought help from him before her journey took her east?

  Sean pressed his fingers into his temples, praying for a sign leading him to his sister's route. The scant trail he'd followed from the farm was at least a week old. Time was not on his side.

  Without a look back, Sean dug his boot heels into the mule's belly and headed east, allowing instinct and his Quechan blood to guide him. He rode hard through the night, stopping only when the mule, Whiskey, refused to move any farther. During those times he walked, encouraging the animal to follow by an occasional jerk on the reins, and he thought back to his childhood. Of his mother and younger brother. Of Sunny.

  In the entire Callahan family, he and his younger sister were the most alike, felt their Indian heritage the strongest. And because of this, he would have the best chance of finding her, by thinking the way she did, the way of Moonstar.

  With a heavy heart, his mind turned to Mike, two years his junior, his opposite in every way. With the exception of his coal-black hair and eyes, the younger Callahan brother was as Irish as their father, as boisterous and full of pranks. Had his death been merciful and quick, a surprise, or had he been killed defending their mother?

  Sean suppressed a shudder, felt a growing lump of anger in his throat as the first rays of dawn led him and Whiskey to the banks of the Gila River. He splashed cool water over his dark head, allowing the mule to drink to his content, then began to fill the canteens. He was tying the water pouches to his saddle when a flash of yellow off to the side caught his eye.

  Sean crept over to the tall cottonwood tree, his gaze darting in every direction before he plucked the piece of material from the branches.

  "Sunny," he exclaimed when he recognized the cloth as a length of her favorite calico. Surely she hadn't ridden off alone in her best dress and bonnet.

  "No," he muttered under his breath, "she wouldn't."

  More likely, he surmised, she'd be wearing Mike's clothes the way she did when their father wasn't around. Dressed, as Patrick might say, like a refugee from a potato famine. Calico strips would be her way of marking her trail, of leading him to her mother's killers.

  For the first time since he'd had the vision Sean chuckled, confident in his sister and their mission. Then he mounted Whiskey and veered to the northeast, allowing the Gila River to guide his path towards Maricopa Wells and Phoenix.

  Driven by his purpose, Sean rode for the next two days aided only by his instincts and two more strips of calico. At dusk on the third day, he came upon a suitable wash in which to make camp and rest the tiring mule. He led Whiskey to a small spring for water, then spotted a familiar piece of yellow calico at the base of a mesquite bush.

  Grinning, he bent over to pick it up, but froze instead, his hand in midair. For the first time since he'd left Yuma County, he saw the welcome sight of Paddy's tiny hoof- prints in the sand. Walking up the arroyo, Sean followed the trail until another set of pri
nts materialized. These were much bigger, the impressions clearly made by horseshoes.

  His gaze moving up the wash, Sean noted how both sets of prints mingled and overlapped. His sister was no longer alone. Balling his hands into tight fists, squeezing until his brown knuckles blanched, Sean wondered about the indignities Sunny might be suffering at the hands of her captor and how long she would be able to endure the agony.

  She was close, he sensed. Close enough to risk the life of his tired mule? He glanced back at Whiskey then back up the arroyo. His sister, though wily in the Quechan manner, was pure, ignorant of men and their ways.

  His mind made up, Sean stalked back to his mule and mounted him. Soon, his gaze would rest on Sunflower—his rifle sight on the bastard who held her hostage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  She'd had several chances to finish what she had set out to do. Yet when Sunny hovered over the killer, poised and ready to strike, she found she wasn't ready to become a killer herself. Not until she was absolutely certain this man had been involved in the attack on her mother.

  At first she'd been convinced his injured leg and the hoofprints were enough to convict him. But what if he'd only sprained his ankle? What if many other horses were shod in the same manner as his? Why did she suddenly want him to live so badly?

  It was the way he looked at her, the strange fluttering she felt in her lower abdomen when she thought he meant to kiss her. Why hadn't she felt that way before, back when the son of her tribal shaman had helped himself to a taste of her lips? How could just the mere thought of kissing this evil stranger magnify those sensations tenfold? What did those feelings mean?

  Sunflower had no problem staying awake as she struggled to ignore her wandering mind and confused body. By the time she heard his light snores, her resolve dangled by a thin thread, and she knew she wasn't quite ready. She would have to search for more proof of his guilt before she could carry out any kind of revenge.

  Sunny's ability to move through the night like a cat served her well until Cole wakened and ruined everything. Just when she was about ready to prod him from sleep to ask a few straightforward questions—with the tip of her knife resting against the skin of his throat, of course—he surprised her.

  Sunny tried to draw back, but Patrick Callahan's hunting knife moved on its own, slashing her victim as he rolled away.

  "Are you loco?" he spat as he tried to stem the flow of blood from his upper arm.

  "I am Sunflower."

  "Well, Sunflower, would you mind telling me what the hell is the matter with you?" Cole demanded as he tightened the tourniquet he'd fashioned from the tail of his shirt.

  "I will ask the questions now, dog," she said with an authority she didn't feel.

  "The hell you will," Cole snapped. He leaned forward, struggling to get to his feet, but the click of the Colt's hammer froze him to the spot. Swallowing hard, he spoke in an even tone. "Put my gun down, Sunflower. It's loaded."

  "I hoped it was. Now sit down you miserable dog before I part your hair."

  What the hell had he done to deserve this treatment? Angered, assuming she was playing some kind of game, he began to move forward again.

  "I said put that gun down and stop fooling around before you accidentally shoot someone."

  "And I said, sit down."

  A bullet shot past his head and ricocheted off a rock in the distance.

  "All right." Cole raised his hands, wondering if the girl had gone loony, and muttered, "Just take it easy, Sunflower." Cole sat back on his haunches and peered at her through the hazy firelight. "Would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing and why?"

  "I am asking the questions—remember?" She took a backward step and squatted near the fire. "First, I want you to remove your trousers."

  "What?"

  "Take off your breeches, you idiot. Can you understand the King's English?"

  Uncertain which unnerved him the most, the immodest order or the change in her dialect, Cole slowly began to unbutton his jeans. The crazy girl leaned toward the fire, stirring it with a curved hunting knife, while his gun dangled from her left hand.

  Cole studied her as he eased his jeans down over his slim hips, then realized she'd eaten with her right hand. Dear God, he thought with horror, she'd shot at him with her left hand? It's a wonder she hadn't blown his head off! What in heaven's name did she want from him?

  His pants circling the tops of his boots, Cole twisted his mouth into a smirk. "All right, they're down. Now what, young lady? Do you intend to have your way with me?"

  Incensed, Sunny advanced a few steps but stopped short of his reach. "Enough of your questions, dog. Take off your boots and slide your pants all the way down." She pointed the .44 at his head.

  "All right, all right." Grumbling, Cole followed her orders. His eyes narrow and thoughtful, he looked up at her, gave her a wicked grin, and said, "Anything else you'd like me to take off?"

  "No." Waving the pistol toward the fire, Sunny took a few steps back. "Slide over to there and stick out your right leg."

  "You plan to roast me like a jack rabbit?" he asked, surprised.

  "Maybe later," she threatened. "For now, I just want to have a look at you."

  Cole inched closer to the flames until his leg was illuminated. His mind galloping at full speed as he thought of ways to disarm her, he was careful to keep one eye on Sunflower as she crept closer for a better view.

  His heel propped on a stone from the fire ring, Cole's long muscular leg glistened with coils of blond down. But where was the mark of her mother's revenge?

  Leaning closer, she peered at a peculiar mark near the thick part of his calf. Unlike the slash of a knife, the healing wound was nearly round, and had the shape of two quarter moons fitted together. The wound resembled a small bite. Had she followed the wrong man?

  Cole sensed her confusion, guessed she was faltering in whatever plans she had for him. With lightening quickness, he leapt to his feet and lunged for his gun. Her responses sluggish, he was able to duck his head as the slow-moving knife arched towards it, then he reached up and gripped her right wrist.

  The two circled for several seconds as if dancing to some primitive ritual, their arms high over head, Cole's hands clamped firmly around her wrists. Then Sunny's boot caught the back of a large stone and the two dropped to the ground.

  Like a large tumble weed, they rolled over and over in the sand and rocks, startling a pair of roadrunners. The birds skimmed across the sand, half-running, half-flying at the disturbance, and caught Sunny's attention for a split second.

  Cole took that moment to shout, "Dammit, hold still."

  Sunny answered him by raising her head up hard under his chin.

  "Dammit," he screamed just as they bumped the base of the cliff where Cole's bedroll was spread.

  "Let go of me," Sunny demanded, fighting like a wounded lion. Knowing he would kill her if he got the chance, she pounded his back with one small fist and strained to bring the barrel of the pistol to his head with her other hand, but she was no match for the hardened rancher.

  "What in hell is wrong with you?"

  This time, she answered him by poking at his eye with her free hand.

  Ducking her, Cole's strong fingers circled the delicate wrist holding his gun. Then he hooked his boot around her leg, flipped her over onto her back and straddled her.

  "Hold still," he rasped, out of breath.

  But Sunny renewed her attempts to break free, still convinced he was trying to kill her. She squirmed beneath the prison of muscular legs and heaving chest, and sputtered a long string of Irish curses between breaths. Patrick's knife had been knocked from her hand during their tumble, leaving the Colt as her only defense. She struggled, trying to find a way to free the gun and use it to gain her freedom—or end his.

  Sunflower's vain attempts to escape inflamed Cole as her soft full breasts pressed against his chest and her hips writhed between his legs. A fire grew in his loins, even though he understo
od the pleasurable distraction might cost him his life. His mind rapidly losing sight of the warnings, Cole lowered his head and repeated the request, but this time the words were soft and low.

  "Hold still, Sunflower. I'm not going to hurt you."

  Wary, but confused by his sudden gentleness, Sunny tested her rapidly tiring body for a quick burst of energy with which to fight him off. Then it occurred to her that she might not need her strength. The rancher had a new look in his eye, a gentler hold on her than before. Was he thinking of using her, of sating his lusts in her copper body, then discarding her?

  If so, she would allow his disgusting advances.

  She would encourage them. Then, when some sixth sense told her he was beyond control, she would point the gun at his head and demand her freedom.

  Sunny stopped her struggles and willed her body to relax.

  Enveloped by a cloud of silky black hair, consumed by its sweet, earthy fragrance, Cole kept a firm grip on her wrists, not realizing the girl had given up the fight. His head dropped lower, and his mouth brushed the velvet skin at the base of her throat. Her pulse hammered against his lips. She was so soft, so sweet and clean, yet wild as the country surrounding them.

  Cole lifted his head and stared into her eyes. Then he noticed the compliant limbs, the inviting expression looking up at him in the moon-bathed night.

  "Have you changed your mind?" he whispered. "Is this all you wanted from me?"

  Not waiting for her answer, Cole teased her upper lip with a gentle sweep of his mustache, hoping to draw some kind of response from her. The gesture only served to inflame him further. Suddenly eager for her taste, he took her up on her invitation and claimed her mouth with his.

  Keeping her purpose in mind, Sunny squeezed her eyes and mind shut to what was happening, and accepted his kiss. Her first sensation was one of surprise. Instead of the stabbing broom-like prickles she expected from the growth of hair on his upper lip, the feeling was akin to a caress from a length of the finest fox pelt. Her mouth wrapped in this wonderful silky fur, Sunny allowed instinct to guide her, and matched his kiss with the same heat and intensity. But when his tongue slipped between her lips, when the tip sought passage between her clenched teeth, she stiffened. What did he mean to do to her?