by Diana Palmer
She didn’t rush to get into her own things. She lay, lazy and contented, and watched him dress, her hair haloed on the pillow around her head.
He noticed only when he was dressed that she wasn’t. He turned and looked down at her pink and mauve body in exquisite disarray on his bed. He smiled slowly, with aching pleasure, as his eyes traced her.
“As much as you please my eyes, Mrs. Vance, it might be politic to get your things back on. I hear the sound of automobiles, which I expect means our guests are on their way back.”
“Already!” She sat up. “But they only just left…”
“Hours ago.”
She blushed at the realization of how long she’d spent in her husband’s arms. “Oh.”
“I’ll head them off.” He handed her things to her. His dark eyes swept over her face and body. “I want a child with you, Trilby,” he said, deep velvet in his voice. “I can think of nothing that would please me more.”
He bent and kissed her, softly. He lifted his head reluctantly and his eyes were somber, his face grim. “I wish that I were more of a gentleman and less a savage,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you might be happier here then.”
“Thorn, I don’t—” she protested.
But voices echoed into the stillness, then the bang of an engine being disengaged, and Thorn turned to the door, impatient to spare Trilby any embarrassment. “Dress quickly,” he told her over his shoulder. “I’ll head them off.”
Trilby did dress quickly, all thumbs, and through her blushes, she made up the bed. She’d only just finished and started down the hall when McCollum came along, downtrodden and morose.
“What is it?” Trilby asked, sensing disaster.
“I’ve had some bad news. We stopped by the reservation,” he said quietly. “It seems that the rumors were true. Thorn’s friend Naki has gone over into Mexico to fight with the rebels.”
Trilby straightened. None of them had heard anything of Naki for months, except Jorge, who mentioned something once about a rumor that he was with López. She’d never written to Sissy about it; she simply could not say that to Sissy.
“We had heard that he was in Mexico,” she said slowly.
“I’m sorry to bring the news. It’s very dangerous down there right now.”
Indeed it was, and several rebels had been shot, some Americans among them if the rumors were true. She couldn’t bear to think of Naki among them. She changed the disturbing subject. “Otherwise, how did your fieldwork go?”
That coaxed him back into a good mood. McCollum loved nothing better than to talk about his work. He expounded on it in great detail. Thorn joined them shortly thereafter, no hint of jealousy in his face as he found McCollum with Trilby. In fact, he looked very thoughtful and intense.
THE NEXT FEW DAYS were fascinating ones for McCollum’s graduate students as they divided their time between exploring the sites of the earliest Indian occupation and learning firsthand about daily life among the Apaches. Thorn had urged caution, however, because down in Mexico some of the fiercest fighting of the revolution had been reported, and small towns switched hands almost daily from rebels to Federales. More dynamiting of railroads and bridges and even narrow trails had been reported. In addition, the Mexican War Department had placed an order in France for twenty million Mauser cartridges for immediate delivery.
McCollum took the situation seriously and allowed Thorn to send some cowboys along as escort when he went to the reservation. They waited in the hills for McCollum and his students to do their fieldwork.
“They’re a fascinating people,” Haskins remarked under his breath to Dr. McCollum when they were sharing a meal of meat and beans and tortillas with their host, a sub-chief of the tribe.
“Indeed,” McCollum agreed, glancing at his other rapt students. “Not what you expected, are they, Mr. Greensboro?” he asked a tall, dark man.
“Not at all, sir,” Greensboro replied. “I had expected a Stone Age group of people. They are not the ignorant savages I thought to find. Despite the belief in magic and the superstitions, they are an intelligent and proud people.”
“Seen close up like this, most tribes are. They may not practice social customs in the manner we do, but they have much to tell us about survival in one of the harshest environments on earth.”
“Why is the myth of ignorance perpetuated? It is easy to see that prejudice still abounds here in the West,” Haskins remarked.
“Indeed, yes.” McCollum belched to show his host that the meal had been enjoyable, scowling until the others got the idea and quickly followed suit. Then, with permission, he lit his pipe and smoked it while the others finished. “You can hardly expect centuries of prejudice to disappear because the century has turned over, Haskins. I’m afraid we shall have to live with it for many more years before civilized people become enlightened enough to accept and appreciate differences in other cultures.”
“We do,” Greensboro pointed out.
“Of course. But, then, we’re intelligent.” McCollum grinned. “Do belch again, Mr. Greensboro. You have our host worried. He thinks you don’t like your food.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Greensboro produced a very satisfying belch.
“In the backwoods of the East, it is also considered good manners to belch after a meal,” McCollum pointed out when he saw the faint unease on his students’ faces. “And I’ll remind you that despite the exquisite manners one finds in an Eastern parlor at teatime, among elite families there does exist the incredible custom of dressing young boys like little girls.”
“But some Indian tribes have men who dress like women,” Greensboro interjected. “They call them berdache.”
“Very good, Mr. Greensboro! You do occasionally listen when I lecture, then?”
Greensboro colored. “Of course, sir!”
“What is this lecture?” the sub-chief, who was keeping silent during the conversation, asked politely.
“It is the way we teach in college,” McCollum told him. He said the Apache word for learning. “I teach anthropology as well as archaeology.” And he went on to explain that as well.
“I see,” the older man replied when he finished. He looked around at the students. “Do these young ones live in wickiups, as we do—” he indicated the lodge in which they sat “—and learn the ways of manhood as we teach our youth?”
“You mean, how to go without water in the desert by sucking pebbles and fasting to gain a vision or a spirit guide?” McCollum asked. “No. Not exactly. These men are learning how to appreciate other cultures and other ways of life, as well as learning about how early men lived. They will, in turn, teach others.”
The sub-chief nodded. “This is good. We will learn about each other and there will be less—” he paused, searching for the wood “—hostility.”
“We hope so,” McCollum replied.
The sub-chief drew out the ceremonial pipe and, with a twinkle in his eyes, glanced at McCollum as he filled it. “Have you explained this custom to them?”
McCollum was uneasy about it. He knew of the use of peyote, but this was his host’s home and he was required by ethics and custom not to refuse the hospitality. “Yes, I have,” McCollum said, looking around with eyes that dared any of his students to make a disparaging remark.
“Not to worry, sir,” Haskins said, with a twinkle in his bespectacled eyes. “We’re troupers.”
As he spoke, the sub-chief finished filling the pipe. He offered it to the four directions with a prayerful solemnity.
When the ritual was complete, the pipe was handed around the group, with everyone taking a puff. A ceremonial drink from a central container followed. The noxious liquid smelled even worse than it looked, but ritual demanded participation. Only a brief time later, there was a mad scramble for the flap that closed the wickiup, as the students and their professor barely made it to the undergrowth in time.
“Good medicine.” The sub-chief chuckled as he, too, emptied the contents of his stomach. “It cleanses
.”
McCollum, who knew all too well—from studying Eastern Indians—about the noxious “black drink” that accompanied each meeting with white men, murmured a weak assent. His head was spinning and his stomach felt like all the fires of hell. “Good medicine,” he agreed gamely.
Haskins thought he might die. He was offered a drink of water and took it eagerly, his face pale but still game.
“Congratulations,” McCollum said under his breath. “You are now a man.”
“Thank you so mu—”
The rest of the contents of his stomach came up.
The sub-chief was delighted at the fortitude of his guests. He opened up to them, then, detailing small facets of Apache life that even Naki hadn’t shared with McCollum. He told them about the various sicknesses—bear sickness, coyote sickness—and how they were treated. He told them how the owl was feared, because the souls of the evil dead inhabited them at the moment of death. He told them about the casting out of disease and how to recognize a witch. These were very secret things, and only by promising to keep the knowledge secret were they allowed to hear it. McCollum respected the customs and confidences of his host and insisted that his students do the same.
“The mysticism is fascinating,” Greensboro whispered as they followed the old man around the village.
“Don’t ever make the mistake of criticizing the beliefs of people from other cultures,” McCollum advised. “In most ancient cultures, illness and death are considered abnormal events that are caused by magic.”
“Yes, I know,” Haskins said knowledgeably. “I’ve read about some tragedies involving the breaking of tribal taboos by outsiders.” He mentioned a massacre in a South American country connected with one.
“Such things happen,” McCollum agreed. “A very dangerous thing, meddling in mysticism.”
“Surely the Apaches aren’t that hostile…?”
“They’re very superstitious,” McCollum replied. “They might not kill you, but you could undo all my hard work here. Don’t jeopardize my research with any careless remarks. You don’t have to agree with their customs to respect them.”
“Of course, sir. Certainly I won’t give offense.”
“You’re doing very well, Greensboro,” McCollum added quietly. “Quite well. I think you have the makings of a superior archaeologist.”
The young man colored with embarrassed delight. “Why, thank you, sir.”
“You’ve never said that about me,” Haskins pointed out.
His thick blond eyebrows arched. “Do I look stupid, Haskins? You’ve made perfect scores on all my exams, and the dean tells me I’m in danger of losing my chair to you before you even graduate! My God, encouragement is the last thing you need!”
Everyone laughed, including Haskins.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THORN AND MCCOLLUM were subdued at the evening meal, and Trilby realized that it was because of what they’d learned today about Naki. Thorn had asked Jorge for any news from Mexico about the missing Apache. When pressed, the Mexican had reluctantly told McCollum that there was a rumor from some cousins in Mexico that Naki could be dead. No one knew.
Trilby didn’t know how she was going to break the news to Sissy when she wrote to her next. The other girl’s most recent letter had been heartrending, hungry for any news of Naki. Trilby had waited to answer it, hoping for something to ease Sissy’s mind. She had, it seemed, waited in vain.
Trilby had a flash of insight as she realized how it would be if Thorn were fighting in Mexico and hadn’t been heard from in months. She got sick to her stomach and had to sit down.
“What is it?” McCollum asked.
“Nothing,” Trilby replied. But she felt hollow inside. The full force of what she felt for Thorn blossomed inside her. She’d always known that she cared for him, but she hadn’t really known how much until now. He had become her world. If she lost him, wouldn’t she feel exactly as Sissy would when she knew about Naki?
“Can I get you something?”
Thorn came through the doorway and scowled when he saw Trilby sitting down and a worried McCollum hovering over her. “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.
“Trilby was a little wobbly, that’s all. I’ll leave her in your hands.”
Thorn knelt beside Trilby, his eyes almost on a level with hers because he was so tall. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” he asked gently.
She looked into his eyes and some of the terror vanished. She touched his face slowly, tracing his cheek down to his mouth. Impulsively she leaned forward and put her mouth softly to his.
He made a rough sound and jerked back.
“Oh, I—I am sorry,” she faltered, embarrassed. Her hand dropped. “I didn’t mean to—”
But he caught her hand and brought it back to his face. His other hand tangled suddenly in her hair, and she had a glimpse of blazing dark eyes before he jerked her face to his and kissed her with a passion that made her knees go weak.
His lean hands smoothed over her back. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he said heavily, with an odd laugh. “You don’t usually touch me, Trilby.”
She lifted her head and looked up into soft, quiet dark eyes. “I could, if you—if you like it.”
His face went tense. “I like it, all right.”
She reached up, her hands tracing his lean face slowly, tenderly. “You’re very handsome,” she whispered. “And I like the way it feels when we kiss.”
His breath darted through his nose in sharp jerks. “So do I.” His eyes fastened on her mouth. “I would very much like to stretch you over the kitchen table and—”
“Oh, Thorn!” she moaned.
The sound of approaching footsteps brought back sanity. He moved her discreetly away from his powerful body and laughed unsteadily. “You take my breath away.”
“How nice,” she whispered impishly.
“Are you trying to drive me mad?” he groaned.
Her eyelashes fluttered. She was alive as never before, conscious of her power and his vulnerability. “Tit for tat,” she whispered. “I can barely stand.”
“Will you sleep with me tonight?”
She looked up. “Of course.”
His cheekbones went ruddy with color, and there was something explosive in his dark eyes as McCollum paused at the doorway.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, aware of some odd undercurrents in the room.
“I’m quite all right. Really I am,” Trilby told him. “It was just a dizzy spell. I get them from time to time. It’s nothing serious.”
“Are you sure?” Thorn asked worriedly.
She smiled into his dark eyes. “Oh, yes. I’m sure.”
TRILBY DIDN’T WANT McCollum to tell Sissy about Naki. He promised that he would keep the confidence.
“I’m sorry about Naki,” McCollum said wearily.
“So am I,” Thorn agreed.
“He might still turn up, you know,” McCollum added, smiling. “He’s resourceful.”
“He’ll need to be.” Thorn toyed with his fork and studied Trilby with eyes that grew quickly hungry. He’d kissed her last night until his mouth ached, but he didn’t dare do more than that after the passionate loving they’d shared in the afternoon. So he’d cradled her against his heart under the covers and they’d held each other all night. This morning, there was a totally new relationship between them. She looked at him openly with warm, secretive eyes, and the looks he gave her back were darkly possessive. When his arm slid around her shoulders, she didn’t draw away. She pressed close and laid her cheek against his chest. He could barely breathe for the utter delight he felt. For once, he didn’t consider motives or causes. He pushed the specter of Richard Bates to the back of his mind and was determined to live for the moment.
THREE DAYS LATER, McCollum and his students boarded a train and left. They’d had plans to stay for two weeks, but McCollum was called back early. It was just as well, Thorn told Trilby, because the situation over in Agua Prieta had sudd
enly ignited again as projections of a rebel attack mounted. The Nacozari train, which came up from the mining camps in Sonora, had been boarded and delayed by “El Capitán” López at Fronteras. Their orders had been to take the train into Agua Prieta to attack, but there were women and Americans on the train, and López refused to put them at risk. The very controversial López’s stock went up several points in Thorn’s eyes after that.
No sooner were Trilby and Samantha and Thorn back at Los Santos than a lone rider appeared on the horizon, riding hell-for-leather toward the house.
Trilby had taken Samantha inside. Thorn waited on the porch for the horseman, his keen eyes already having determined the visitor’s identity.
“Naki!” he burst out when the other man dismounted at the steps. “Is it you?”
He had to ask, because the man wearing conventional cowboy clothing with boots and a gunbelt and a huge Mexican hat didn’t look like Naki. He’d even cut his long hair. When he took off the hat, he looked like a highborn Spanish grandee, right down to the arrogance of his dark eyes and high-bridged straight nose.
“Yes, it’s me,” Naki said. He was half out of breath. “Where is she? They said you had McCollum and several students here. I hoped she might be among them. I rode all night to get here… Is she in the house?”
Thorn just stared at him, faintly horrified. “She’s not here.”
Naki stared back. “They said—”
“She didn’t come,” he replied. “Only McCollum and several male students. McCollum was told that you’d gone to fight for the Maderistas and that you hadn’t been heard from. Jorge said you were missing in action and presumed dead.”
He hesitated, his face grim. “Does Alexandra know? Has someone told her that I was dead?”
“No,” Thorn said. “No, not yet. Trilby swore McCollum to secrecy.”
Naki ran a lean hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat. “I got embroiled in the fight. It seemed like a second chance, somehow, to help free an oppressed people. I’ve been riding with Colonel José de luz Blanco’s people, mostly with Red López, against the Federales. It’s been hell. I was wounded in the shoulder and it took me a few weeks to get completely back on my feet, but I’m certainly not dead.”