Tame the Wildest Heart

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Somehow, he had lowered her onto the earth and was half atop her. He raised his head, and his long hair swung forward to brush her cheek. His eyes glittered. “Is this sufficient a demonstration of a happily wedded couple for our watchdog?”

  Mattie heard the thickness in his rich baritone voice. It was clotted with passion as thick as Irish cream. “I don’t think so,” she murmured against his mouth. His mustache tickled her. “I think further demonstration is necessary.”

  He actually laughed. Here they were, facing imminent death unless she could produce a miracle on the order of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and spontaneous laughter was rumbling up from his deep chest.

  She reached up and touched the side of his jaw, then his gold loop earring. “That’s what I like about ye, Gordon. Your dark side is all there for anyone and everyone to see. There is no unknown, so nothing to be afraid of encountering. Your light side, however, is a marvelous mystery, a delightful discovery, that takes me by surprise.”

  “So, my dear, will this satisfy the old woman?”

  He began unraveling her hair and spreading its heavy mass in a fan about her face. Perhaps he did not see the old woman slip away. Perhaps he did. Nothing really mattered now but this timeless moment.

  With slow fingers, he removed her blouse and jacket, her skirt and moccasins. Next, he did something that took her breath away. He lowered his head and kissed her blighted feet, then bestowed light, tender kisses on each of her toes.

  She did not try to cover her nakedness. It was her offering to him, all she had to offer. No wealth, no talents or gifts, no great beauty. Only herself, just as she was, imperfections enwrapping her spirit.

  No words were needed, so mystical was the moment. Shedding his own clothing, he moved up over her . . . and into her. She felt alight, shining. More than she was. More than she had ever judged herself to be.

  As he moved with her . . . becoming one with her, and she with him . . . she experienced the exhilarating sense of knowing she and he were creating something finer than either of them apart.

  Then she surrendered to star bursts and sunflowers unfurling and snowflakes whirling and kaleidoscopic colors exploding, and she wanted to weep that he could not know this truth—that by uniting in loving they were transformed into something wondrous. She did weep.

  He raised his head and stared down at her with furrowed brows. “What is this?”

  “The fire pit’s smoke. It stings the eye.”

  His finger wiped the tear from the outer corner of her eye. “What happened to my woman of grit?”

  She was transformed from base metal into pure gold. If only for one soaring moment.”

  “I see. Or maybe I don’t.” He rolled to his side and propped his head on one fist. She averted her eyes from his enticing nudity. “I sometimes think women have the gift of insight, Mattie. Of seeing beyond reality.”

  “But men have the gift of making reality.”

  “And you don’t? Look at what your resilience and ability have accomplished.”

  The embers’ glow highlighted the mountains and valleys of his muscled body. She snuggled within the crook of his arm. “That resilience and ability better get us out of Nantez’s camp alive.”

  “Will he hurt her? Diana?”

  That he could think of another woman after making love to her enraged her. And affected her deeply. He was a man of great passion and compassion. “No, I don’t think so. Normally, when he drinks, he gets too drunk to be as cruel as he is capable of being.”

  He draped his arm across her waist and stared absently at the fire.

  She stretched and yawned. “I’m tired. So are you. You will need your rest for tomorrow.”

  “What if I don’t win?”

  She cuddled up closer to him, savoring the warmth of his flesh, the crisp hair matting his chest, the hardness of his body. “Ye will. Your need to win is greater than Martine’s.”

  It was but a platitude. Should Martine lose, he faced not only loss of face but loss of life. Nantez would see to it. “Go to sleep, me love. We’re still alive. That is enough.”

  It is enough that I sleep in your arms, she added to herself. If only for tonight.

  * * *

  The next morning, Mattie awakened early to find Esqueda sitting at the feet of her and Gordon. The old woman twisted cords of beautifully decorated strands between her fingers.

  “What is she doing?” Gordon asked, raising himself up on one elbow beside Mattie.

  “Shhh.” She lowered her voice. “Esqueda is a dreamer of dreams.”

  “A what?”

  “She claims that occasionally a higher power works through her to tell her of future events. The Medicine Cords are considered sacred. Like a charm or amulet.”

  “Ask her if I shall win today.”

  She did. Esqueda took from a buckskin bag around her neck a palmful of powder. It was hoddentin, ground from the tule. She sprinkled her cords with the sacred powder, then mumbled a string of incantations that ended with the simple declaration, “The spirits do not say.”

  “Well?” Gordon asked.

  “Esqueda says that the spirits do not say about the outcome of the match.” Improvising, she added, “Esqueda says that ye must paint with your heart and not your eyes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How does she know that I paint?”

  Mattie shrugged. “Answers just come to her at the right time. At the right time, ye will know what she means.”

  “I suppose you do?”

  “Aye. I listen for the answer.”

  “How is that?”

  “When the need is so great that it silences the thunder of the outside world.” But she doubted he would understand what she was trying to tell him.

  When the appointed hour for the wrestling match arrived, she and Gordon were the last to join the crowd. From the yelling and laughter, it might have been a holiday. The Apaches were as boisterous as any ringside spectators.

  The men were dressed in their white muslin kilts, loose shirts, and scarlet head bands. The women sported their finest jewelry of shells and beads and silver. Children peeked from behind their parents to watch the contest between the two men, red and white.

  Gordon was shirtless and barefooted. With his long dark hair, he might have passed for one of the Netdahe, if it were not for the earring.

  His opponent, Martine, wore only a breechcloth. He looked a good five years or so younger than Gordon, maybe twenty-five or thirty years of age.

  Nantez gave the signal for the match to start. The two approached each other from opposite sides of the clearing made by the spectators. What Mattie knew of the sport was quite simple: each wrestler tried to out-maneuver his opponent in an effort to seize him and toss him to the ground.

  The two circled each other warily. Martine was the first to make a move. He grabbed Gordon’s ankle with one hand and used his body to drive him backward. A wild cheer went up.

  Fear pinched her lungs. More than Diana’s freedom was at risk. Mattie cursed her giving heart. She had been a fool to offer up her own son. Why did she think she always had to solve every problem?

  Gordon was a big lad. He could handle his own problems. Except part of his problem was not only Diana but their own lives as well.

  At the moment, Gordon wasn’t doing so well. He stumbled, then managed to grip Martine’s thigh. With the leverage, he pressed the Apache warrior back. Both still standing, they held each other in a tie-up of the head and shoulders.

  The day was hot, and sweat sheened the two men. Muscles bulged and strained. Dust flurried.

  Yet neither gained control. The Apaches watched in breathless silence. Many of them had wagered on the match.

  Mattie scanned the crowd for Diana. Apparently, Nantez was keeping the woman under lock and key.

  Martine grabbed Gordon’s knee and forced him into a sitting position. All Martine had to do now was press Gordon’s shoulders against the ground and the match would be over. Encouraging shouts went up f
or Martine.

  Mattie realized that her fingertips were making indentations in her palms. Come on, Gordon!

  Then Gordon made a sudden move. He flung himself backward. His body rotated quicker than the eye, it seemed. In a flash, he was on top of his opponent. His powerful arms forced Martine’s shoulders back inch by inch.

  The Indian struggled to escape. His eyes protruded. He gritted his teeth. Sweat poured from his pores. His hand dug into the dirt—and he threw it into Gordon’s eyes.

  Disapproval rumbled on the lips of the spectators. It was definitely an illegal move.

  Blinded, Gordon released his hold. Martine took advantage of the moment. He rolled to a crouching stance and grabbed a fifteen-foot lance from a nearby warrior. He jabbed at Gordon.

  Gordon jumped back out of range of the lethal lance tip, which was a blade from a cavalry saber.

  Martine thrust the blade again. This time, Gordon didn’t move as quickly, and the blade ripped a gash along his left lower rib.

  “Gordon!” From beneath her skirt, Mattie withdrew the knife from its sheath.

  He glanced in her direction and caught the knife she tossed him. Now the odds were even for the two men again.

  Gordon dodged beneath the next swipe of Mar tine’s lance and jammed the knife just below the warrior’s right collarbone. Martine tottered but stood. Blood smeared his chest.

  Then it was over. Gordon tackled the Indian, knocking him to the ground. He slung his torso across Martine’s chest and pinned him to the ground, holding the knife against his throat.

  Quiet reigned over the crowd. From their stunned expressions, Mattie could tell what they were thinking. No Apache could possibly lose a wrestling match to a white man . . . and yet, just that had happened. Worse, an Apache had cheated, broken the rules.

  She released her pent-up breath from her dry lips.

  Gordon staggered to his feet, wiped the sweat from his brow, then approached a grim Nantez. She didn’t envy Martine. “Diana? Where is she?”

  Nantez’s gaze went past him to Mattie. “Tell him the woman can leave tomorrow morning.”

  She repeated the message in English to Gordon.

  “I want to see her now.” He was adamant. “I want to assure myself she is all right.”

  “It would be better to wait,” Mattie said, “and not force the issue now. To make Nantez lose face, any more than you already have, would be unwise.”

  If only there was a potion to break the spell of beguilement, Mattie thought. Hers with him. His with Diana.

  Or mayhap a potion to induce the spell.

  “Can you arrange for me to see her later today?” Gordon asked.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  They ate a midday prepared by Esqueda, then went to see Ramos in his wickiup. “We wish to visit with Nantez’s captive later today,” she told the shaman. “Is this possible?”

  His rheumy eyes studied the coals glimmering in the fire pit, as if they could give him an answer. At last, he answered, “This can be arranged.” His gaze flickered from her to Gordon and back again. “I wonder if this is what you really want?”

  Ye bloody well know ’tis not, don’t ye, old man? Mattie thought. Aloud, she said, “It is what must be.” He nodded, his shaggy white hair dragging across his bony shoulders. “The woman will be here in the cool of the evening.”

  He owed her this much. They both knew that. “Thank you, Ramos.”

  Gordon followed her from the wickiup and back through the camp. Burros, dogs, and a chicken darted from their path. As she expected, all eyes watched them. Gordon was the new champion.

  Children playing “toss the rock” cast curious glances at her and Gordon. Women in long cotton skirts peered from beneath lowered lids but continued with their work—grinding corn, tanning leather, carrying water.

  “We’re going to bathe,” she told him.

  “Are you crazy, Mattie?” he demanded. “Bathing at a time like this?”

  “There is nothing else we can do. Besides, ye could use one after the match.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “I smell that bad, eh?”

  She strode on through the short buffalo grass and down the steep slopes of a scrub jungle. “In addition, ’tis an opportunity to gather herbs.”

  “Gather herbs? You are crazy!”

  “I don’t trust Nantez, Gordon. He is not a man of his word. We can only hope he will let Diana go tomorrow morning because he doesn’t want others to know that he has gone back on his word.”

  The creek she remembered emptied into the river that fed the waterfall downstream. The air was languid and fragrant, with mango and papaya trees and flowers like the crimson bougainvillea that plaited the forest undergrowth.

  Wiry trees grew from in between immense slabs of limestone that sloped toward the creek. Its deep but clear water burbled along rapidly, scrubbing smooth those stones that might have been threatened by lichen.

  With disregard for prying eyes, Mattie undressed for her lover’s eyes on the bed of alluvial debris left by the battering river. In that pristine amphitheater, she waded naked into the icy cold, meandering current until the water washed her hips and the bottom inch of her unbound hair.

  Despite all that had passed between them, she felt as shy as any maiden. She crossed her arms over her upper torso and turned back to Gordon.

  Arrested by the sight of her, he had shucked only his shirt and boots. He regarded her with bemusement that soon turned to something else.

  She saw desire and longing there, felt it caress her flesh; but she also saw great fear and knew that they were both more alive than they had ever been. She smiled, blushing furiously.

  His jaws tightened. In his expression was the pure admiration of a human being for something that was beautiful, the appreciation of something that was a divine work of human art.

  “Come on in, love. I’ve something to show ye.” So shy she felt, she didn’t look at him once while she spoke.

  “As sweaty and hot and dusty as I am, the Sixth Cavalry itself couldn’t keep me from coming in.”

  She tried not to watch as he unbuttoned his pants and dropped them, but she could not help herself.

  With the shedding of his pants, the hard, clean lines of his body were revealed in the shimmering, mist-dusted sunlight. He was fashioned by nature into a bronzed sculpture that rivaled Cellini’s Perseus in grace, elegance, and sensuality.

  She forced herself to turn away and wade in deeper. Behind her, she heard him groan. “Oh God, but this feels wonderful.”

  She smiled to herself. “I know something even more wonderful.”

  At that, he followed her with a much more ambitious tramp.

  Forests and cliffs soared to the sky. Fifty yards around the river’s bend, she reached the rock-walled chute leading to a pool of the clearest water before rolling down its gorge between cliff and timbered crag. She turned back to him. “Follow me, knave!”

  She eased into a sitting position near the chute. The torrent of shallow water caught her and propelled her down the smooth rock slide and around a curve. Her laughter echoed between the limestone walls. When she hit the pool, a wave of water washed over her. She gave a shout of joy.

  No sooner did she stand in the knee-deep water than the rushing water behind her pushed Gordon against her. They both tumbled, struggled to find their footing, then fell onto their backsides and laughed with the exuberance of children.

  The moment passed and their laughter ebbed. Still, neither of them moved. Water sloshed around them. “You know I want you, don’t you, Mattie? Again.”

  “And again and again, me love.” She stood up and held out her arms. Water ran down off her flesh, as is she were a tropical fountain brought to life. She felt sublimely graceful, quintessentially female.

  He gazed up at her through water-spiked lashes. Purpose was etched in his mouth and passion burned in his gaze.

  She placed her hand on his wet shoulders. “I am yours, Gordon. But ye must choose
it to be so time and again until ye realize that it could truly be no other way.”

  On his knees, he pressed his face against her soft triangle. His tongue stroked inside her in fiery, mute adulation. His hands stretched upward to claim her small breasts. In frenzy, his fingers rubbed her swollen aureoles and nipples.

  Her knees sagged. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Paroxysms shook her slender body. She heard herself from a distance, offering up a string of Gaelic litanies.

  At last, he rose, grabbed her wet body against his own, and took her mouth in a wild, fevered, unrestrainable kiss. Her heavy female aroma enveloped her. After a moment, she didn’t notice that. She was so disoriented with the desire raging in her.

  Sunlight poured over them like honey as they made love. Later, they washed each other. Their hands lingered, touching with a wonder that bespoke this was all new for each of them. His fingers combed through her wild hair, then tangled in her tresses to draw her face to his in a quenching kiss.

  Her fingers traced the powerful line of his foot and marveled at its delicate webbing of vein and muscle and bone. Her hands explored his body to feel it tighten with his need of her. She learned the power of her femininity—and of her passion.

  Reluctantly, they waded ashore to dress. They did not speak. To do so, to describe what they were feeling right then, limited the feeling of immensity, of infinity, of mystery.

  Yet she wondered if he would heed her words about choosing to love. It was something one had to decide to do every day. She made herself face the fact that he might never realize the truth of her words, at least not in this lifetime.

  When they reached camp, the sight of Kiko O’Neil in Nantez’s doorway demolished all bliss—and all hope.

  § CHAPTER FIFTEEN §

  Kiko O’Neil was dressed in blue trousers and a brown canvas jacket. He grinned as he held back the animal-skin flap from the doorway. “Come on inside. Nantez and I have been awaiting your arrival.”

  Mattie strode on past him but did not miss the wrathful glance he shot at Gordon, who followed her into the wickiup. Nantez was sitting on the wickiup’s far side, with an ugly smile on his face.