Desert Angel

by Pamela K Forrest

  Not ready to concede defeat, he forced her to change her direction to his own. Nipping at her heels and the scruff of her neck, the old one guided her for several miles.

  At a water hole, she stopped and dropped to the ground. Night was coming on, it was the best time to hunt, but she made no effort to rise. He knew he couldn’t leave her to hunt on his own, or she would be gone when he returned. Given no other choice, he lay beside her.

  But he found that his rest wasn’t as contented as it should be. His belly rumbled with hunger, and his ears hurt from her sorrowful cry. He hoped that she would soon accept him and become the mate he so badly needed.

  It became the pattern of the next few days. Each morning he would try to mount her, only to be fiercely rejected. She only moved when he forced her, never hunted for food, and cried long into the night.

  Her fur soon lost the vibrant glow of good health. Her tail curled between her legs, and her ears lay flat against her head. She was going with him, but she was allowing herself to wither away.

  Finally he accepted that he could keep her, but could never have her as the mate he desired. He would have to let her go or watch her slowly die.

  He couldn’t just walk away. He had to assure himself that she was safe. The morning light barely broke the darkness from the sky, when he began retracing the path they had already taken.

  She followed slowly behind him, her look wary, as if she expected some trick. As the day drew on, she began to realize that he was returning her to her home. Yipping with a joy so absolute it hurt his heart, the old one watched as she hurried on ahead.

  Traveling all that day and night, it was early the next morning when they were back at their meeting place. Feeling older than his years, he watched as she sniffed the ground, renewing her own scent in place of the faded odors.

  He knew the moment she discovered a different scent than her own. Watching her, he saw her stiffen momentarily and then raise her head. With a howl more beautiful than any he had ever heard in his many years, she jumped into a run.

  Curious, and not quite ready to relinquish his hold, he followed her. Within a short time his curiosity was satisfied, in a way he wished, he could deny.

  On a hill waited a young male, not much older than her, his black fur gleaming with youth and health. At his feet were several pups, gamboling about in the morning dew, their fat little bodies a combination of her golden fur and his ebony pelt.

  The old one turned away from the happiness that was nearly more than he could endure. A soft, sweet call drifted down to him, and in spite of himself he stopped and turned around.

  She took several steps in his direction, puppies rolling playfully at her feet. Once more she howled softly, while at her side her mate stood proudly.

  The old one turned back toward his own territory, his steps self-confident; his pride was restored. It was done, but her final cry had told him that he would have been her choice, if he had found her sooner.

  The cry of the wolf still echoing in his ears, Light knew that further sleep was impossible. He rose, checked on his horse, and then lowered himself to the ground beside March, and watched her sleep. She was curled protectively around the baby, her arm a barrier against harm. Her golden hair was spread over her shoulder, and into the sand at her back.

  He struggled against the vision that had haunted his sleep. He would have to take her back. There was no choice. The old one had sent him to protect her from the white man who had meant to harm her, but he hadn’t intended for Light to take her as his own.

  He knew that she would never adapt to the lifestyle of his people. Her spirit would forever mourn the mate she had been forced to leave. She would become a bitter, cruel woman; far from the gentle, giving woman she was now.

  He had nothing to give her, not a home or family or even a people. He was running from the white man’s law, his actions branding him as a renegade in the white man’s eyes. Life on the run was not what he wanted for himself and this woman.

  Briefly, Light let himself think of a time when life had been good, when food was plentiful and his people were content. It would never be again as it once was, and he would forever mourn the loss.

  As he would forever sorrow for what might have been with this woman, if things had been different.

  Taking the knife from its sheath on his thigh, Light separated a clump of her hair and easily sheared it off. Wrapping the golden strands around his hand, he waited for her to wake.

  March shifted, the hard ground penetrating through layers of sleep, until she was forced to open her eyes. Light sat cross-legged beside her, his dark eyes unfathomable. She focused on the knife in one of his hands and the strand of her hair in the other. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her.

  “Take me home, Light.” Her voice was husky with sleep, her eyes deep pools of silver.

  Without acknowledging that he had heard her, Light rose gracefully to his feet, returning the knife to its resting place on his hip. Watching him walk away, March sighed and sat up. Jamie squirmed and stretched and rolled to his back. Grabbing his feet, he looked up at March and smiled a toothless grin of pleasure at finding her so close.

  Muttering meaningless nonsense to him, she changed him with his last clean towel. She had washed his dirty ones last night in the shallow creek, but hated the thought of putting them on him. The water was so low that there was no way she could get all of the sand out of them, and she knew that it would soon irritate his sensitive skin.

  Light did not reappear until after she had nursed Jamie and had taken care of her own morning necessities. Hunger gnawed at her backbone, needlessly reminding her of her limited food the day before, and bringing back memories of a time when hunger had been a way of life.

  It had been several months since she had felt real hunger, the kind that made all other problems trivial, when even inedible things were seriously considered as a possible source of nourishment. She remembered the time her mother had boiled the leather from a pair of boots, trying desperately to make a broth. Their meal that night had been little more than tasteless, funny-colored, hot water.

  Since becoming Jim’s housekeeper, she had not had one day of hunger. Food, even things that were considered luxuries, was in abundance. Nor had she spent a moment worrying about her safety, or fearing each time a voice was raised in anger that she would be the target.

  She had so quickly come to expect three meals a day, a warm bed at night, and the absence of fear. Her thoughts turned to her mother and the little ones, and the sad knowledge that hunger was still very much a part of their lives.

  March watched as a tiny bug climbed a mountain of sand only to reach the other side, and find another mountain waiting in its path. With a determination to conquer the sand, the bug began its laborious journey upward.

  Raising her gaze toward the approaching man, March knew she would use the same kind of determination to return home.

  “Take me home?” she asked again.

  “Eat.” Light held out another of the biscuits, now hardened with age.

  “I won’t be a good wife. I’ll try to escape any time I can.”

  “You shouldn’t give warning.”

  “I’ll remember that.” March nodded wisely as she chewed on the bread. Had she bothered to look, she would have seen a teasing gleam in Light’s dark eyes.

  “I can’t cook over a fire,” she lied.

  “You can learn.”

  “I won’t sleep on the hard ground night after night.”

  “You can stand up.”

  “I won’t wear moccasins.”

  “When your shoes are worn through, you can go with your feet bare.”

  “I won’t get on that horse.”

  “It is a long walk, but that is your choice.” Frustrated because he responded so mildly, March jumped to her feet and gathered the towels that had been spread out to dry. Folding one of the squares into a triangle, she wrapped it over her head for some protection from the sun. Using another, she
made a sling for Jamie to rest against her chest.

  “I’m leaving,” she stated firmly.

  “Which direction will you go, Giving Woman?”

  “That way.” March waved her hand in the general direction they had traveled the day before.

  “Take care you do not find yourself in the land of the Mexicans. They are not friendly.” Pointing in a more northerly direction she stated, “That way!”

  “Your hair will make a fine trophy for a young warrior to show, when he knows no one will tell of him owning it.”

  Turning, she took several steps away from him. The desert stretched endlessly in front of her. The giant saguaros and smaller cacti waited to catch her clothing and tear her skin.

  She had sworn to get back home, but also to protect Jamie from harm. She knew that walking into the desert without food or water would not protect the child. It was sure death, waiting to strike in a variety of different ways.

  Until he came to a halt beside her, she had been unaware that Light had mounted his horse. Reluctantly, she grasped the hand he held down to her, and was pulled onto the animal. He waited until she was securely seated with Jamie in his sling between them, then moved out at a slow walk.

  March felt the tears slide down her cheeks with each step the horse took. Of course, Light hadn’t argued with her earlier, he knew that she had no choice and just waited for her to arrive at the same conclusion. Why waste words arguing, when it wasn’t necessary?

  Light heard her soft sobs and knew he had made the right decision. Already her spirit was bleeding, if he had forced her to stay with him, it would have fled to a happier place, leaving only the shell of the woman behind.

  But he wasn’t ready to tell her of his decision. Like the old one, he would cherish this stolen time with her, knowing that it would end far too soon.

  Jim and Breed had been on the trail at the first sign of light. At dark the evening before,

  Breed had found the trail, and now they could travel at a much quicker pace. Knowing that they needed to get as many miles behind them as they could before the sun heated the day and made travel hard on both horses and men, they rode at a fast pace.

  Jim hoped that having March and Jamie with him had slowed the Indian down. Breed knew that it wouldn’t matter to the renegade. He would travel at his own pace, giving little concern for his captives.

  At mid-morning Breed’s attention was captured by movement in the distance. He watched as it slowly moved closer to them, before he pointed it out to Jim.

  “Someone’s coming.” He pointed toward the horizon.

  Jim stared at the tiny figure, but it was too faraway for him to be positive of an identification. At this distance it could be anything.

  Light saw the two men approaching, and knew his time was up. He wanted to change his direction and make a run for it, but the memory of the old one surfaced, guiding him forward.

  After several long, agonizing minutes, Jim realized that it was a mounted man approaching. He reached for his rifle when he was finally able to identify the Indian they had been searching for.

  Breed reached over and stayed Jim’s hand. “She is behind him,” he said quietly, pointing out the long tendrils of golden hair blowing from behind the Indian. “If you shoot, you take a chance on hitting her.”

  “Will he give her up?”

  “He is bringing her back,” Breed stated. Breed slowed his horse, forcing Jim to do the same thing. Frustration ate at Jim’s self-control but he allowed Breed to set the pace. His foreman had been raised among Indians and was a better judge of how to handle the situation.

  Light stopped his horse long before reaching the two men. He turned to the woman behind him and longed to stroke her golden hair and caress her silky skin.

  “Get down,” he said firmly.

  March looked around, but saw nothing but the desert. “Why?”

  “You ask too many questions, Giving Woman. I think I should have called you Nosey Woman.” About to question his decision, March heard the sound of approaching horses. Leaning around Light, her eyes widened when she identified Jim and Breed.

  “Jim?” she whispered, suddenly impatient to get off of the horse. “Oh, God, Jim!”

  She didn’t remember grabbing Light’s arm or sliding from the horse, but when her feet touched the ground, March flew toward Jim. Her cry of delight echoed back to the man who had followed his vision.

  Jim threw his leg over the horse, slid from the saddle, and gathered her into his arms. Taking care not to crush the baby, he held her to him and felt his heart beat raggedly in his chest.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, not quite ready to release her.

  “I am now.” March buried her face against his shirt and relished the security of his arms. “I was so afraid, but I knew you’d come. I knew you wouldn’t let anyone take your son.”

  Jim rubbed his cheek against her silky hair. With her safe in his arms, he could admit it to himself, if not to anyone else. He hadn’t come for his son. He had known that the baby was safe with her.

  With her head against his heart, her arms around his waist, Jim knew she was exactly where he wanted her to be.

  He had gone to hell and back, and he had found heaven in the arms of an angel.

  He had come for her.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Go home, little missy,” Woods commanded. “You’ve been here all evenin‘, and that youn’en is needin’ his mama.”

  March looked across the room where Jamie was being entertained, while entertaining a bunch of cow punchers who were more accustomed to handling newborn cattle than newborn humans. Being passed from hand to hand didn’t seem to bother the child. He tried his new powers of conversation, cooing repeatedly and capturing the hearts of his father’s employees.

  Tough men who daily met the dangerous challenges of handling wild horses and cattle melted at the toothless smile and wide blue eyes of the boy. Only once had a raucous commotion drifted over to March and Hank. That had happened when Jamie had firmly wrapped his tiny fingers around a well-maintained, handlebar mustache. The owner of the mustache, being duly proud of the whiskers that had taken him years to grow and to train into the long swirl of hair, was torn between saving his pride and joy and possibly hurting the child by pulling his hand free.

  March had saved the day by gently unwinding Jamie’s grasping fingers without the loss of a single hair. As soon as the cowhand was free, she expected him to hand Jamie over to the next man waiting his turn to hold the baby. But she discovered that it was such a rare treat for the men to hold an infant, that none was willing to forgo the pleasure. She hid a grin as she watched the man continue to hold Jamie, while keeping a careful grasp on the tiny exploring hands.

  March knew that she was out of place in the bunkhouse. When the men returned from the range, it was their place to relax and unwind. They had been extremely polite when they had arrived and had discovered a woman invading their domain, but no one had complained. They understood that she was there because of her concern for Hank, and each of them harbored the hope that if they were ever in the same position as the old man, that someone would care for them that way.

  “Go on to the house, missy,” Woods repeated. “This ain’t no place for a lady.”

  Hank moaned softly, wrenching at her heart. It was because of her that the old man lay here fighting death.

  “He’ll be all right,” Woods reassured her when he saw her distress. “He’s too mean to die. God don’t want him messin‘ up heaven, and the devil is scared of him.”

  “Don’t even joke about something like that.” She wrung out a rag and placed it over Hank’s hot brow. Beneath the flush caused by the fever, his skin was pasty white.

  “We’ll watch over him, little lady.” Woods lightly touched her hand. “He’s one of us, we won’t let him go without puttin‘ up a good fight.”

  The tone of Jamie’s gurgles changed abruptly, and March knew he would soon demand a feeding; his good mood
was rapidly running out.

  “Promise you’ll come for me, if he needs me?”

  Her pleading eyes were so filled with pain, that the old man would have promised her anything to wipe away some of her worry.

  “He ain’t gonna need you. All he needs is a good night’s sleep.” He patted her hand awkwardly. “And so do you. You’re plumb tuckered. You take that boy home and put him to bed. And if you sleep good, you can come back tomorrow and check on ole Hank. You’ll see I’m right. He’ll be as prickly as a cactus come tomorrow.”

  Reluctantly, March stood from the chair Woods had placed beside the bed for her, and went to claim Jamie. The men were as reluctant to give up the baby as she was to leave, and her promises to bring him back the next evening were met with delight.

  “Promise you’ll come get me, if he gets worse?”

  Breed waited at the door to escort her the short distance from the bunkhouse to the main house. With her back toward him, she missed the silent exchange between him and Woods.

  Breed’s icy blue eyes warned the older man that he would regret making such a promise.

  “It ain’t gonna happen, so we’ll see you in the morning … but not too early. Don’t want you bargin‘ in when one of the hands is still in his longhandles.”

  At least ten pairs of eyes shifted toward her, and March turned a fiery red with embarrassment. Mumbling a hasty good night, she walked into the darkness with her silent companion.

  Jim had not yet returned from town, where he had gone to report the incidents of the day before to the sheriff. The house was eerily quiet in the consuming darkness. It had never before bothered March to be alone at night, and she didn’t like the gooseflesh that dotted her skin as she rushed to the nearest lamp. Breed followed her inside, and waited while she lit several lamps.

  “Do you think he’ll survive?” she quietly asked the foreman.

  “I’ve seen men die with lesser wounds, and live with greater ones. He is an old man, but his spirit is strong.”