Blaze of Lightning Roar of Thunder

by Helen A Rosburg

  “Whoa, now,” he said in an unsteady voice. “I know about them Injun tempers. Take it easy. Just take it easy.”

  “Yet you apparently know nothing of Mexican tempers, do you?” Blaze responded heatedly.

  “It’s all right,” Bane said calmly. “Put your guns away.”

  Blaze reluctantly lowered the guns to her sides, but did not holster them. Bane turned back to the bartender.

  “Strangers,” he repeated. “We only want to talk about strangers.”

  “We … we get lots of strangers in here,” the bartender said grudgingly. “You’ll have to do better’n that.”

  The bartender’s eyes shifted nervously from Bane to Blaze and back again. Blaze realized, in a flash, that in all their conversations, she had not once given Bane a description of the man who had murdered her brother. She would have to wait her turn, then question the saloon keeper herself.

  “A big man,” Bane continued, and Blaze heard the tension in his voice. “Ugly. He has a scar, here.” He drew a crooked line down across his eye with one finger. “Like lightning. Like the mark in the woman’s hair.”

  The guns dropped from her nerveless fingers and clattered on the floor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE GREED FOR WESTERN LAND AND GOLD HAD opened many new trails. One of the most useful was the road over the great Rocky Mountain range. Though impassable in winter, late spring was a beautiful time of the year to climb to the pass. Where grass grew, on the flat ground and among the colossal up-thrusts of rock, it was as green as the eye could stand. Wildflowers, purple, pink, blue, red, yellow, and white, dotted the green. Orange and golden butterflies were living blossoms floating on the mild spring breeze. Almost magically, however, snow still lay in patches in the cool shadows of the towering rock. In its own way, it was as great a wonderland to Blaze as the painted desert had been.

  Though the way was scenic, it was also steep. They had stopped to rest the horses often and, once, took the time to dismount and reinforce themselves with the dried meat that had become their standard fare. Blaze had been acutely aware of Bane watching her, but she had studiously avoided his gaze. It was enough, for now, that he knew they sought one and the same man. She would give him the details later. Later, when the shock of the discovery had been absorbed into her system, and she could speak of it without the humiliation of tears and trembling.

  The shadows were long and the wind cold when Bane, without a word, led them off the main trail. They climbed a grassy path that wound through the rock, until they came to a flat and verdant spot hidden by the arms of the mountain, sheltered by a trio of stunted trees. The remains of an old campfire were evident, within a circle of stones.

  Blaze was not surprised. It was obvious Bane had traveled this way before, no doubt many times. She was merely grateful for his trail sense and far-seeing accommodation for future trips.

  Their first priority, as always, was to care for the horses. They stripped them of their tack, rubbed them down and watered them, and, finally, hobbled them so they might graze at will. Bane started a fire, and Blaze sat as close as she could. It was early night on the mountain, as the sun sank below the level of the peaks.

  The darkness deepened and Blaze continued to sit silently. She declined food when Bane offered, and noticed he himself did not choose to eat. She knew he was giving her time, would give her all night if need be, to pull herself together and tell her tale. And she tried. But each time she attempted to form the words, to relive that horrible day, it felt as if icy fingers closed around her throat while her heart threatened to burst with grief.

  It was Bane, finally, who broke the long and terrible silence. He cleared his throat, then: “The man who caused my mother to give me life was evil.”

  Blaze cringed at the sorrow she heard in his tone.

  “But, though he stole her mind,” Bane continued, “he did not also take her heart. She loved me. Her love nurtured me. I was shaped by her hand, and the hands of my people … not by the evil seed of my father. Please do not hate me, Blaze. I had no more choice of sire than a foal in the pasture.”

  Blaze opened her mouth, but no words would come. She was horrified by what Bane had said, what he apparently believed to be true and the reason for her reticence to speak.

  “Bane … oh, Bane, no,” she managed at last. She uncurled from her position on the opposite side of the fire and hurried to his side, where she knelt. A great wave of emotion welled up in her, and before she realized fully what she was doing, took his face in her hands.

  Bane pulled away and took her hands from his face. He shook his head as if to deny his sadness and vulnerability to her opinion of him. Blaze grasped his shoulders instead.

  “Bane, I would never think that … could never think that. I saw him, your father. I saw what he can do. You’re not him.”

  “You saw him.” Bane’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Blaze pressed her lips tightly together. She had to tell him. Everything. Now. She hung her head for a moment, then sat down in front of Bane.

  The memories settled and collected on her like dust. She was back in the high desert, breathtaking in its spring finery. Her burro, laden with sticks, followed along behind her, tail swishing …

  It was long into the night by the time Blaze drew to the close of her tale. It was a wonder to her that she had not broken down with the horror of reliving the experience. Bane had given her his rapt attention.

  “Then I … I cut my brother down,” Blaze said finally. “At the last. I laid him with my mother and father. And I covered the grave. Covered all of them.”

  Stillness settled once again. Blaze thought she could hear the sound of Bane breathing.

  “He killed your family.” Bane’s voice was still hoarse. “He brought this upon you.”

  “Yes. And the others. The ones with him.”

  “Yet, you do not seek them?”

  Blaze recalled the man at the ford on the Gila. “I learned that the man who led them died of a fever. Most of his band went west. Only the … scarred man … did not follow the gold trail.”

  “The scarred man,” Bane repeated, as if to himself. He moved a little closer to Blaze and tilted her chin up to the firelight, as if to see her better. He traced the white in her hair with a fingertip. “Blaze,” he breathed. “Blaze of lightning. It is an omen. He will be delivered to hell by you, Blaze of Lightning. And I will bring the thunder.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NEAR THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN RANGE, JUST WEST of the pass, they met their first wagon train of settlers. Blaze was taken aback at first by the sheer size and noise of the procession that seemed to pass endlessly.

  “Come,” Bane ordered under his breath. “Stay well off the trail.”

  Blaze did not hesitate to obey. Even Lonesome was shy of the great, swaying wagons, the teams of horses, oxen, and mules. What struck Blaze the most, however, were the lines of weariness etched into the faces of all who passed. Even the children were subdued and quiet. There was little conversation Blaze could observe, merely exhausted men and women sitting side by side on the benches of the high wagons, swaying from side to side. Besides the noise the wagons themselves made, only the crack of whips could be heard, or the occasional shout of a driver.

  More than the people, Blaze pitied the animals. The people, at least, had chosen to take the hard road west. The animals had not. Most were gaunt. Many were lame. Some had open, running sores where their harnesses bit into them and rubbed. As if to underscore her silent thoughts, the nearside wheeler of a team of mules suddenly stumbled to its knees. It struggled to get up, but seemed unable. The driver snarled, and the lash of his whip snaked toward the stricken animal. It was more than Blaze could stomach.

  “Stop,” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Blaze,” Bane hissed. “Leave it.”

  She seemed not to hear him. She jumped off her horse and ran to the mule, still on its knees.

  “Get away from that ani
mal, squaw,” the driver bellowed. Once again he raised his whip.

  Blaze ignored him, and put gentle hands on the mule’s trembling withers. The lash whistled toward them both. It was Blaze, however, who was the target this time.

  The pain was horrible, worse than anything she had ever imagined. A high, thin sound came to her ears, and she didn’t even realize it was her own cry of agony.

  The scream went through Bane like an arrow through his heart. And, in that single instant, a realization ran though his mind.

  Blaze saw the driver’s arm rise again. Her hands were already on their way to her holster. But someone else was faster.

  Before the driver could bring down his arm and snap his wrist, an object hurled through the air. It pierced the handle of his lash and pinned it to the wagon frame. With a curse, he tried to wrench it free. The blade held fast. Blaze smiled grimly as her hands rested lightly on her pistol grips, guns still holstered. Bane had already unsheathed his rifle and held it pointed at the driver’s heart.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Bane said, his voice low and taut with menace. “Just leave the woman alone.”

  The driver looked about wildly, as if searching for help. But the wagons ahead had all moved on, oblivious to the drama in their wake. Those behind were equally blind to what had transpired. The woman at the driver’s side, eyes wide with fear, laid a hand on his arm. The man sat stock-still.

  “Don’t move a muscle. I’m just going to retrieve my knife.” Holding the rifle level, Bane urged the black mare forward. She sidled up to the wagon, and he grabbed the hilt of the weapon. It came free in his hand and he sheathed it. “Blaze, go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Blaze gave a low whistle, and Lonesome jogged to her side. A moment later she was riding back up the trail. She heard Bane follow. When he reached her side, they kicked their horses into a lope by mute agreement, and soon passed the last wagon in the train.

  Blaze tried not to show it, but each step Lonesome took brought fresh agony to the raw weal on her back. She was wondering how much longer she could go on, when the ground leveled out and they found themselves atop the majestic mountain pass.

  Pain, for a moment, was suspended, and Blaze sucked in her breath. Pine, fir, and blue spruce dotted the lawnlike grassy field. A glass-smooth lake reflected cottony clouds sailing in a bright blue sky, and the jagged peaks of distant mountains higher than the ground on which they stood.

  “Bane, it’s … beautiful,” she breathed.

  “Yes,” Bane replied in a curiously quiet voice.

  Blaze stared into Bane’s light eyes and wondered what was wrong. His tone sounded odd Then it occurred to her how very little she knew about this man; the man at whose side she slept every night, but for warmth, not love, yet whose nearness heated her blood as no man had ever done … whose every word, every gesture, carved a memory into her heart, but whose heart was closed to her in return. He had shared his story with her, and they shared the same trail of vengeance. But what did she really know of Bane, besides his desire to avenge his mother? Her tongue, it seemed, had cleaved to the roof of her mouth. The rhythm of her heart was frantic.

  “Come and sit by the lake with me,” Bane said quietly. “I will wash your wound.”

  His gentleness was a stark contrast to the murderous intent that simmered in his soul. Which part was the real Bane? And how was he any different from she herself? Blaze shook her head and, on horseback, followed Bane to the opposite side of the mirrorlike water. Beneath a thick stand of evergreen, he dismounted and helped Blaze to the ground.

  “Go, sit. I will take care of your horse.”

  Blaze did as she was bidden and sat, gingerly, at the water’s edge. In minutes, Bane joined her.

  “Lift your arms,” he ordered gently. “I do not wish to have to cut this fine deerskin shirt from your back.”

  A joke? Had he actually made a joke? What was happening? Obediently, Blaze raised her arms. So familiar had they become with one another, she did not even consider her nakedness.

  Then Bane’s hands were pulling the shirt upward, slowly, taking the greatest care. The soft, well-cured hide slid smoothly over her skin and, suddenly, it was a sensual sensation almost beyond endurance. And her awareness of her nakedness abruptly became acute. Blaze had to bite her lip to keep from panting and giving away the forbidden feelings she harbored for Bane. He must never know. It was enough to be near him.

  Bane laid the shirt aside and examined the wound. Tenderly, he pressed the flesh around the weal. “It will heal quickly,” he pronounced. “But it will cause you pain until it does.”

  “I … I don’t mind,” Blaze mumbled.

  “Cold water will numb it.” Bane opened Blaze’s bedroll and took out one of her flannel shirts. He soaked it in the lake, then returned to sit behind her. She had, he noticed, crossed her arms across her breasts.

  Blaze gasped when the icy flannel was first applied to her back. In minutes, however, the pain was significantly reduced.

  “Is it better?”

  Blaze could only nod.

  “I’ll bring you another of your shirts. It will be softer, I think, than the deerskin. No matter how fine a shirt it is.”

  Blaze turned just in time to see him smile. She felt as if she were melting. Arms still crossed over her breasts, she smiled tentatively, and watched Bane as he retrieved another shirt. He held it out to her.

  Blaze hesitated, inexplicably shy. Why? Hadn’t he undressed her, seen her unclothed form, when he had pulled her from the river? Hadn’t he lain next to her, pressed to her naked flesh? Blaze took a deep breath and forced herself to uncross her arms and reach for the shirt.

  It was Bane’s turn to catch his breath, and he wondered at his reaction. He had seen her before, every inch of her lovely form. So, why now was there a stirring in his loins, a fire in his blood? Self-consciously, he averted his gaze as she slipped quickly into the shirt. He turned around in time to see her buttoning the last button. This time, he had to wonder at his flush of disappointment. Then he remembered the pain he had felt when the lash had kissed her back, almost as if it had wrapped itself around his shoulders instead of hers. He recalled, too, the anxiety he had felt when he had raced his mare along the riverbank, unsure whether or not he would be able to rescue Blaze from the floodwaters. Why?

  Because they shared a common goal, Bane told himself quickly. And firmly. A goal more common than they ever might have dreamed. That, perhaps, was the reason he felt so intensely protective of Blaze. She was the vessel that would deliver his father to hell.

  The rationalization did not, however, account for the uncomfortable tightness at the groin of his breeches, or the heat that rose upward into his breast. Frustration welled in Bane and finally spilled over.

  “I … I must see about fresh meat for our dinner.”

  Blaze gaped as Bane spun abruptly on his heel and disappeared into the trees. To her surprise, and the gratification of her stomach, Bane returned later with a bag full of doves.

  “I’ll help you clean them,” Blaze offered.

  “There is only one knife,” he replied curtly.

  Blaze winced, as if stung. “All right, I’ll … I’ll cook them, then.”

  “If it pleases you.”

  The evening was a somber one. Blaze was hurt and confused by Bane’s behavior. What had she done? She ran through her memory of the day’s events, and experienced a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  When she had reached for her shirt and bared herself to him … had she breached the unspoken rules of their intimacy as companions? Had she unwittingly crossed some boundary he preferred remain intact? Blaze shivered.

  That had to be it. The way she felt about him, she must have given him some unconscious sexual signal. But he did not feel that way about her, and therefore responded in the way he was acting now. Blaze felt sick.

  In no way had he ever indicated he was interested in being more than just a friend to her. She
felt as if she had just betrayed that friendship.

  As a near-full moon rose above the mountains, Blaze sadly picked up her blankets and spread them beneath a fir. Some time later, she heard Bane moving about. She waited, but he never came to lie next to her.

  Silently, she cried herself to sleep.

  At least Blaze thought she had kept the sounds of her sadness to herself.

  “Blaze?”

  She froze in mid-sniffle. The sound of his voice was so close he had to be kneeling next to her.

  “What is it, Blaze? Does the wound pain you?”

  She had been a small child when she had last cried over a skinned knee. It galled Blaze to have to tell the lie, but what choice did she have? “Yes … yes, I’m … sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I was not sleeping. Would you like me to numb the pain again?”

  “That’s not … not necessary.”

  “It is necessary if it causes you such distress you shed tears.”

  “Oh … damn.”

  “Blaze—”

  Blaze sat up abruptly and saw Bane was, indeed, kneeling at her side. By the light of the full moon, she saw genuine concern in his gaze. She couldn’t lie to him anymore.

  “My back is fine, Bane. Well, not fine. But it’s not why … I mean …”

  Blaze’s long, black hair streamed over her shoulders and down her back. Highlighted by the moon, it looked like a cascade of dark water. He wanted to reach out and stroke it.

  “Yes?” he prompted. “You mean …”

  “I mean I’m … I’m not crying because I … hurt.”

  There were gold flecks in her dark eyes. Had he ever noticed before? “Then why do you cry?”

  “Because I … I …” To her horror, tears threatened her again. The lump in her throat was huge and nearly as painful as the weal on her back. It rendered her completely unable to speak, and Blaze realized it was probably a very good thing. Had she been able to find her voice, she might have revealed her hidden heart to Bane, and driven him away forever.