Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  “No.”

  “You should eat.”

  Jenny shook her head, wishing he’d just go away and leave her alone.

  With a sigh, he gathered the packages he’d dropped on the floor and tossed them on the bed. “I thought you might like to get dressed,” he remarked flatly. “Go ahead, open them. They’re all for you.”

  Jenny gazed at the paper-wrapped parcels. It was in her mind to refuse them, to tell him the only thing she wanted, the only thing she needed, was her son.

  “Jenny, there was nothing else I could do.”

  “Wasn’t there?”

  “He threatened to kill you if I didn’t give him the baby. I couldn’t take that chance.”

  “Why not?” Tears washed down her cheeks. “Oh why didn’t I stay with him?” She buried her face in her hands as the tears came faster.

  “Jenny.” Her cries tore at Fallon’s heart. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew her into his arms.

  She stiffened at his touch, hating him for what he’d done, hating herself.

  “Jenny…”

  His voice was filled with tenderness and concern, his touch so gentle she felt herself relaxing in his arms. She needed to be held, needed it now more than ever in her life. She was lost and alone.

  “Jenny, maybe it’s for the best.”

  “No.”

  “He’ll be well taken care of, Jenny. Kayitah will see to that. You know how the Apache are. They love children, and they don’t care if they’re Indian or Mexican or even white. Try to put your own feelings aside and think about what’s best for your son. He’d never be accepted by your people.”

  “I’d have made it up to him. No one will ever love him as much as I do.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Oh Ryder, it hurts so much.”

  “I know,” he said quietly, and for a moment he was back in the rancheria again, saying a last goodbye to Nahdaste and his stillborn daughter, certain that his life was over. “Time will dull the pain, Jenny. And you’ll have other children.”

  “No.”

  “Sure you will, honey. You’re young, and—”

  “No,” she said again, more vehemently.

  “Jenny—”

  “No!”

  She screamed the word and rose to her feet, railing at the cruel hand of fate that had taken her child from her, the only child she would ever have.

  Hank couldn’t father a child. When she had married him, it hadn’t seemed important. She had never been one to fall to pieces at the sight of a baby. But now…now she knew what it was like to carry a new life beneath her heart, to hold that child in her arms. Certainly no other love was as strong, as enduring or as satisfying as that of a mother for her child.

  Her first child. Her only child…

  “Jenny…” Ryder reached for her, aching to hold her, wishing he could draw the pain from her heart, erase the sorrow from her eyes.

  “Leave me alone!” Overwhelmed by grief, she pushed him away, pummeling his chest with her fists, wanting to hurt him, needing to hurt him.

  He didn’t try to avoid her fists, only stood there until the strength went out of her arms and she collapsed on the bed, weeping softly.

  “All right, Jenny,” he said heavily, “have it your own way. But you can’t stay in this room forever. And you’ve got to eat. I’m going over to the restaurant to get you some dinner.”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, she watched Ryder leave the room, then gazed at the packages piled at the foot of the bed. Listlessly, she reached for the nearest one and opened it to find a blue cotton nightgown trimmed in fine white lace. A second package held a green dress that exactly matched the color of her eyes. There was a white shirtwaist, a tan riding skirt, a pair of shoes and two pairs of stockings, a bar of lavender-scented soap, a pair of handsome black boots, a hairbrush and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

  They were all there, all the things she had mentioned that day by the river, all the things she had said she missed the most. All that was missing was the milk and apple pie.

  She glanced up as the door swung open and Ryder entered the room carrying a covered tray.

  Wordlessly, he placed the tray on her lap and lifted the cover, revealing a plate piled high with roast beef and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy. There was half a deep-dish apple pie, and a tall glass of cold milk.

  Jenny stared up at Fallon, the wall of ice around her heart melting a little in light of his thoughtfulness even as she told herself again that she could never, never forgive him for what he’d done.

  Her son was gone and she had nothing else to live for.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A week slipped by, and then two. Fallon spent his days with Jenny, talking to her, reading to her from the pages of the Broken Fork Gazette, trying to get her to take an interest in life again, but she responded to him in monosyllables or ignored him completely. It pained him to see the haunted look in her eyes and know he had put it there, but he’d had no other choice.

  Rest and lots of good food quickly restored her health, though she remained pale and listless.

  Nights, after she fell asleep, he could be found sitting on the hotel veranda, staring into the darkness, or sitting at one of the gaming tables at the Silver Saddle Saloon.

  But now it was afternoon and he was sitting in Jenny’s room, wishing he could think of a way to put the light back in her eyes.

  “Did I ever tell you about my mother?” he asked, hoping to turn her thoughts away from her son.

  Jenny shook her head, her attitude one of complete disinterest.

  “Her name was Dorinda Lee Fallon and she was a hell of a woman. She came from a wealthy Boston family. You know the type, very proper, very high-class. Her mother was a prominent socialite, her father was a pillar of the community. Dorinda was sixteen when her mother died. After a short period of mourning, her father, Douglas Fallon, closed down a thriving medical practice, sold everything he owned and headed west, dragging his daughter by the hand. Seemed he’d always had a secret longing to see what lay across the Mississippi.

  “Somehow he managed to get himself appointed the post surgeon at one of the forts near the Cheyenne hunting grounds. I’ve forgotten which one.

  “Anyway, Dorinda took to the West like a duck takes to water. Much to her father’s horror, she discarded all her Boston training. She burned her corset and gave all her fancy silk dresses away and refused to wear anything but pants and a shirt. Caused quite a scandal, I guess.”

  Ryder slid a glance at Jenny, pleased to see that she was hanging on every word.

  “My father was scouting for the Army back in those days. I remember my mother saying she was completely captivated by him the first time he rode into the fort. She said she tried every way she could think of to get his attention, but he didn’t seem to have any interest in a white woman.”

  Fallon grinned. “Of course, my mother didn’t take kindly to being ignored. She was a bit of a spoiled brat, I’m afraid, and the next time my father rode into the fort, she accidentally tripped and fell in front of his horse.”

  “Accidentally?” Jenny asked, curious in spite of herself.

  “That’s what she always claimed. Anyway, my father jumped down to see if she was hurt. After that, it was just a matter of time. I remember my father telling me he’d fought the Ute and the Pawnee, but there was no way to fight the look in my mother’s eyes.”

  “Didn’t she ever miss her own people?”

  “I don’t know. She never mentioned them much. Her father disowned her for running off with a savage. Years later, he sent her a message by way of another Indian scout, begging for her forgiveness and asking her to come and see him at the fort, but she refused to go. He died soon after that. I never heard her mention his name again.”

  “Was your mother happy, living with the Indians?”

  Fallon nodded. “I think my folks were two of the happiest people I ever saw.”

  Jenny found it hard to believe that
anyone could be happy living with Indians. The women did all the work except the hunting. They raised the children until the girls married and the boys were old enough to go with the men. The women did all the packing when the village moved. They set up the lodge in the new location, cooked the meals, carried the water and the wood. It was a life she hoped never to live again.

  “The doc says you can get up today,” Fallon remarked. “I thought maybe you’d like to go out to dinner.”

  It was in her mind to refuse, but when she saw the hopeful look in Fallon’s eyes, she nodded. He’d been so patient with her, so kind, surely it wouldn’t hurt to have dinner with him.

  “I’ll pick you up about six. You get some rest now, hear?”

  At loose ends, Fallon wandered aimlessly through the town, thinking about his mother, remembering how happy she’d always been. Summer or winter, in good times or bad, she had never been without a smile, a word of hope, the sure conviction that things would get better. She had embraced the Cheyenne way of life with all her heart, learning the language, accepting the Cheyenne beliefs as her own. He had been six years old before he discovered she was a white woman. Even now, he could remember how surprised he had been to learn she was not one of the People by blood. But it didn’t matter. In her heart and soul, she had been Cheyenne.

  Fallon grinned. Dorinda Fallon hadn’t been more than five feet two inches tall, but she had been a formidable woman just the same. Fallon had adored her, but then, they all had.

  His father, Nahkohe, had treated her with unfailing respect, seeking her advice, listening to her counsel. The love that Nahkohe and Dorinda had shared had lasted a lifetime, growing ever stronger. Nahkohe had nursed Dorinda through snakebite and fever, comforted her when she lost a child. Dorinda had spent three days at Nahkohe’s side when he was wounded in battle, feeding him, loving him, forbidding him to die.

  And they had loved their son, totally and completely. Fallon had found that kind of unswerving devotion with Nahdaste too. He’d never thought to find love again after Nahdaste died. Indeed, he had never looked for it, certain he would never find it again.

  And then he’d met Jenny Braedon and discovered that it was possible to love again…

  Fallon swore softly, cursing the fact that Jenny was married to another man. He remembered the sweet fire of her kisses that day by the river. He hadn’t meant to kiss her, hadn’t meant to hold her so close, but she had melted like butter in his arms, her warmth too seductive to resist. He had caressed her in ways he had no right to do, but, like a drowning man clinging to a tiny piece of life, he had kissed her, and kissed her, unable to let her go. Not wanting to let her go.

  And now he was going to have to let her go again. He wondered briefly what she would say if he told her he had decided not to take her back to her precious husband, that he was going to find a place where they could settle down, just the two of them. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do such a thing. He’d promised to take her home, and he would.

  He swore softly as a sharp stab of jealousy knifed through him. Hank Braedon must be a hell of a man, Ryder thought, for Jenny to be so in love with him, so eager to see him again. She’d spent four years with Kayitah, holding on to her husband’s memory, letting it see her through the bad times, the lonely times. She deserved some happiness, and if taking her back to her husband would make her happy, then he’d do it, and gladly. But damn, he was going to miss her.

  He was heading back toward the hotel when he heard a small whimper of pain.

  Turning down the alley that ran behind Brewster’s Saloon, he saw two figures struggling in the dirt.

  The man was big, broad through the shoulders, with arms the size of young trees.

  The woman was a half-breed. Fallon’s gaze swept over her, noting that the beadwork on her moccasins and the star pattern on the collar of her gingham dress were Cheyenne.

  “Let her go.”

  The man grunted and looked up. “Who the hell are you?”

  Ryder shook his head. “Nobody.”

  “Then get the hell out of here.”

  “Not until you let her go.”

  “Listen, ’breed, mind your own business.”

  Fallon glanced down at the girl. She was young, fifteen or so, and badly frightened. He thought of Nahdaste, of the child that had died with her, and a knot of cold rage wrapped around his heart. Had Nahdaste’s daughter lived, would she have been subjected to this same kind of abuse? Would this man, with his greasy hair and his filthy hands, have thought he could paw her so disrespectfully just because she was a half-breed?

  It sickened him to think of what might have happened to this girl if he hadn’t come along when he did.

  “I’m making this my business,” Ryder said, his voice harsh with barely suppressed anger. “Let her go.”

  The man stood up, dragging the girl with him. “She’s just a whore,” he said. “I bought her fair and square, and what I do with her is none of your concern.”

  “That’s a lie!” the girl cried.

  “Shut up!” the man roared. He wrenched her arm behind her back, giving a cruel twist that made her cry out in pain.

  Fallon spoke to the girl in Cheyenne, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Do you belong to this man?”

  She shook her head, obviously afraid to speak again.

  “Do you want to stay with him?”

  She shook her head again, more vigorously this time.

  Fallon rested one hand on his gun butt, outwardly calm. Inwardly, he was spoiling for a fight.

  “I’m gonna ask you nice, just one more time. Let her go.”

  The man stared at Fallon through narrowed eyes, taking in his easy stance, the way his hand seemed to caress the butt of the Colt holstered low on his thigh.

  “Now listen, mister,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “she ain’t nothing but a little Injun whore. If you want a piece of her when I’m done…” He shrugged. “Hell, I’ll let you spend an hour with her for a couple of dollars.”

  “You’ve got ten seconds to turn her loose,” Fallon warned. “One…”

  “Go to hell,” the man exclaimed.

  Shoving the girl forward, he dropped to one knee, drew a derringer from inside his shirt and fired.

  The girl screamed. Dropping to her knees, she folded her arms over her head and screamed again.

  Ryder swore as he felt the heat of the bullet whiz past his cheek. With the speed of long practice, he drew his Colt and fired, the echo of the gunshot reverberating off the walls.

  The slug caught the man in the chest and slammed him backward, and the girl screamed again.

  Ryder pulled the girl to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, tears streaming down her face.

  Removing his kerchief, Fallon thrust it into her hands.

  The man was dead. Fallon didn’t have to look at him twice to see that.

  By now, a crowd had gathered at the end of the alley. Fallon paid them no mind as he led the girl toward the street. “Where do you live?”

  “With my folks. Above the newspaper office. My father is the editor.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cynthia McDonald.”

  “Come on, Cynthia, I’ll take you home.”

  Slipping his arm around her shoulder, Ryder led her through the crowd, ignoring the excited questions that rose all around him.

  “Thank you for what you did,” Cynthia said softly. “My father warned me not to cut through the alley behind the saloon, but I didn’t listen.”

  “You won’t do it again,” Ryder remarked.

  “No,” she said, smiling shyly. “I won’t.”

  He left her outside the newspaper office, declining her offer to come in and meet her parents.

  A red-faced deputy flagged him down as he was making his way back to the hotel. “You’re under arrest,” the lawman said.

  “Arrest? For what?”

  The deputy, a young man with brown hair and a smatteri
ng of freckles, tried to look tough and failed miserably.

  “You killed a man. That’s a crime in this town.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  The deputy swallowed hard. “I still have to take you in.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  A red flush crept up the lawman’s neck. “But—”

  “Is the sheriff in his office?” Fallon asked.

  “No, he’s out of town. Won’t be back until later tonight.”

  “Listen, kid, I’m staying at the hotel. If the sheriff wants to see me when he gets back, that’s where I’ll be.”

  The deputy didn’t like it, not one bit, but he’d only been a lawman for a couple of months and he was too young and insecure to try to take on a man who wore a gun like it was part of him.

  “Well, I…ah, don’t leave town.”

  “I’ll be here,” Ryder said.

  The hotel clerk, Jason Orley, had his nose buried in a newspaper when Fallon entered the lobby. Orley sent a furtive glance at the half-breed, tugged nervously at his cravat as the tall man passed the desk on his way to the stairway.

  News of what had happened in the alley was spreading through the town like wildfire. Some folks thought he ought to be strung up for what he’d done; others, who knew the dead man’s unsavory reputation, thought the gunman deserved a medal.

  Jenny was sitting on the edge of the bed when Fallon entered the room.

  “You’re late,” she remarked.

  Fallon nodded curtly. “Are you ready?”

  She stared at him a moment, wondering what was wrong. His voice was hard and flat, and there was an odd expression in his eyes, but she was too wrapped up in her own misery to wonder about it for long.

  “Jenny?”

  “I’m ready.”

  She stood up, and Fallon felt his heart slam against his ribs as he got a good look at her. The green gown he had bought her outlined every delicious curve. The bodice emphasized the fullness of her breasts, the sash circled a waist he could have spanned with his two hands. Her golden hair, freshly washed and brushed to a high sheen, gleamed like spun gold in the lamplight.

  She was so beautiful it made him ache inside. “Jenny…”