It was late afternoon when she turned away from the window. Shoulders sagging, her stomach growling loudly, she accepted the fact that she’d never see him again.
Choking back a sob, she sat down on the sofa, then buried her face in her hands and let the tears flow unchecked.
“White woman, why do you weep?”
Sarah looked up, startled to find him standing before her. She hadn’t even heard him enter the room. “You came back!”
He frowned at her as if she’d just said something incredibly stupid. “Did I not say I would return?”
“Yes, but…you were gone so long, I…I thought…”
“Can you help me?”
“Of course.”
With a curt nod, he turned and went outside. Sarah stared after him for a moment, wondering what kind of help he needed and then followed him outside, only to come to an abrupt halt when she saw the two heavily laden horses.
“Oh, my,” she murmured, her mouth watering as she saw the deer slung over the withers of the gray stallion. A buffalo robe, a rifle and two chickens were tied behind the Apache-style saddle. A second horse carried two bulging packs.
Sarah looked at him suspiciously. “Where did you get all this stuff?”
He looked at her for a long moment, one thick black brow raised in mild amusement. The chickens and the food in the saddlebags had been looted from a Mexican household; he’d killed the deer and had the devil’s own time hoisting it onto the back of the stallion.
“Well?” Sarah said
“You don’t want to know.”
She started to argue, then thought better of it. He was right, if she expected to eat any of this, it might be better if she didn’t know where it came from.
She removed the saddlebags from the pack horse, collected the chickens and carried them into the house, leaving the Indian to skin the deer. As she unpacked, Sarah discovered a variety of dried meat, small cakes made from ground acorns and mesquite beans, a sack of nuts, another of dried berries. There were several sacks of flour and sugar, as well as sacks of red beans and cornmeal.
She hummed softly as she put things away, thinking that her cupboards hadn’t been so full in months. She hadn’t hummed in months, either, she thought, not until the Indian entered her life.
When she’d put the last of the food away and plucked the chickens, she went outside. She watched the Indian work for awhile, noting the perspiration that glistened on his skin, the lines of pain around his mouth and eyes.
“Here, let me finish that,” she said, taking the knife from his hand.
“Can you?”
Sarah nodded. An Indian scout had shown Vern how to skin a deer and Vern had taught her, though she had been loath to learn. The blood and the smell made her gag.
Toklanni was in no condition to argue. Raiding the Mexican’s place and getting the deer onto the stallion’s back had sapped his strength. He’d been skinning the buck on willpower alone.
Walking behind the carcass, he found a shady place beside the house. When an Apache skinned a deer, he always laid the head facing east and thereafter he did not walk in front of it, or step over it. The bones were not cast aside, but neatly piled so that the spirit of the deer would not think a part of its body was being thrown away.
With a weary sigh, Toklanni eased down on the ground and watched the woman. She had no love for the task at hand, that much was obvious from the expression on her face, but she worked with stubborn determination, pausing now and then to wipe the sweat from her face with the hem of her apron.
His thoughts were troubled as he watched her. He felt a certain sense of pride that she had volunteered to skin the deer when he knew she’d rather not and with that pride he felt a renewed sense of guilt for being a party to the raid that had killed her husband. Perversely, he was glad her husband was dead and that made him feel guilty all over again, because no matter how much he cared for the woman, she could never be his.
It was near dark when she’d finished skinning the deer.
With a sigh, Toklanni stood up. Securing a rope around the deer’s neck, he hung the carcass from a tree well away from the house, high enough so the coyotes couldn’t reach it.
The woman filled a bucket with water and they washed side by side.
Sarah could not keep her gaze from the Indian. Water glistened on his broad chest, running in little rivulets down his torso, down the length of his arms. Wordlessly, she handed him a towel and when his hand brushed hers, she felt the shock of it hiss through her veins like a bolt of lightning.
Toklanni was aware of the woman’s gaze. Indeed, he found himself staring at her, helpless to look away. Tendrils of hair curled around her face, drops of water clung lovingly to her skin, her face was flushed from her labors, making her eyes seem bluer, brighter.
Washing up took the last of his energy. Tossing the towel aside, he followed the woman into the house. Spreading the buffalo robe he had brought with him on the floor before the hearth, he eased himself down on the robe, asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.
Stepping into the parlor a few moments later, Sarah saw the Indian asleep in front of the fireplace. She gazed at him for a long while before she went into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
It took her several minutes to decide what to fix. It had been a long time since she had a choice.
It was dark when he woke up. For a moment, he lay there, content to be warm and alive. Gradually, he became aware of the scent of roasting meat and his stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since that afternoon.
Rising, he padded barefoot into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to gaze at the woman. As if sensing his presence, she turned around to face him. She had changed her dress and brushed her hair and he thought again how beautiful she was. Her hair was the color of the sun, bright enough to light the room, and he longed to take it in his hands and discover if the strands were filled with light and warmth.
Sarah smiled at him uncertainly. His presence dwarfed her small kitchen. He was tall and muscular and very male, easily the most virile, most handsome man, she’d ever seen. It still surprised her that she wasn’t afraid of him. He was an Indian, after all, the enemy, yet she knew instinctively that he would never harm her.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, wondering at the sudden quiver in her voice.
His gaze lingered on her face. “Yes,” he replied quietly, only hungry didn’t begin to describe what he was feeling.
“Dinner’s ready.” She gestured at the table. “Won’t you sit down?”
It felt strange, to sit in a chair again. Toklanni stared at the clean linen cloth, at the plate, at the knife and fork.
It had been over twenty years since he sat at a cloth-covered table.
The woman carried several platters to the table, then sat down across from him. Bowing her head and folding her hands, she blessed the food, thanking the white man’s god for his goodness and mercy.
“Help yourself,” Sarah said, then bit down on her lower lip. Should she have served him? Would he know how to use a knife and fork? Did he even know what a napkin was for?
Toklanni filled his plate with chicken and dumplings and then, feeling awkward, he picked up his fork and began to eat.
It was the most pleasant meal Sarah had eaten in months. Although they didn’t have much to say to each other, it was a treat for Sarah just to have company at the table, to have a man to cook for again, even if that man was a savage. Yet he didn’t seem like a savage, this man who brought her food, this man who was becoming her friend.
When dinner was over, Sarah started to rise, but he placed his hand over hers. “Wait.”
His touch sent a little shiver up her arm. “What is it?”
“I would like to know your name.”
He wanted to know her name. Why did that please her so much? “It’s Sarah. Sarah Andrews.”
“Sarah.” He repeated her name slowly, thinking it sounded like a sigh. It had been a long time since he’
d heard any but Apache names.
“Would you tell me yours?”
“Toklanni.”
“Toklanni.” It sounded musical. “Do you have a white name?”
“My mother named me Devlin, after her father.”
“Would you mind if I called you Devlin?”
“If you like, though I may not answer.”
“Where did you learn to speak English?”
“From the woman who was my mother.”
“Oh?”
“She was a white woman,” he explained. “My father kidnapped her from a stagecoach and made her his woman.”
“How awful!” Sarah exclaimed in horror, and then blushed. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I guess it was awful for her, at first, but later…” He shrugged.
“Later?” Sarah prompted. She was intrigued by the fact that his mother had been white, intrigued and pleased. Somehow, it made the fact that they were alone in the house less scandalous, thought she didn’t know why that should be. He was still a man and she was still a widow without a proper chaperon.
“They fell in love and got married.”
“And she was happy, living with the Apache?”
“You find that hard to believe?”
“A little.”
“She left my father when I was nine or ten. We went to Santa Fe, to live with her parents. Her people scorned her because she’d had a child by an Apache warrior. After six months, we went back to my father.”
“It must have been hard for you,” Sarah said sympathetically.
“Not as hard as it was for her. I vented my anger and frustration with my fists, proving that I was a savage, just like everybody said. But it hurt my mother deeply, the way her people treated her, as if she were unclean. She tried not to let it show, but I often heard her weeping in the night.”
“Do you live near here?”
“My village is a two hour ride to the south.”
The thought that Indians were so close sent a shiver of apprehension down Sarah’s spine. She bit down on her lip, wondering again if his people were the ones who had killed Vern and kidnapped Danny.
“Are there any other white women in your village?”
“No.”
“Are there…any children? Any white children?”
Toklanni heard the hope in her voice. The hope and the fear. “A few.”
“Were they kidnapped?” Sarah asked, her thoughts immediately turning toward Danny.
His nod was curt. “My people don’t usually make war on children, but they often take them captive to be raised as Apache.”
His words chilled her soul. It was the thing she had dreaded most, that her sweet little boy would be raised to be a savage.
“Have you seen my son? He’s six, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was wearing brown pants and a blue plaid shirt when the Indians took him.”
Slowly, Toklanni shook his head. He did not want to lie to her but he wasn’t yet ready to tell her that his people were the ones who had raided her farm, that it was his brother who had killed her husband and taken her son, but mostly he was afraid she’d beg him to take her to the village and that was something he could not do.
“Do not worry about your son,” Toklanni said, hoping to ease her mind. “Indian children are rarely punished and children of any color are prized among my people.”
Sarah nodded. His words allayed some of her fears, but not all. “You’ll still take me to town when you’re feeling better, won’t you?” she asked. So much time had passed since Danny was taken. With each day, she felt her chances of getting him back dwindle a little more.
Toklanni let out a long sigh. He could not tell Sarah the truth about her son’s whereabouts, nor could he let her go on thinking he would take her into town. Such a thing would only cause more trouble.
“Won’t you?” Sarah asked.
“No. Wait, hear me out. If you tell the soldiers that your son has been kidnapped, they’ll have to search for him. They’ll search every village they find. The Indians will fight. And there’s a chance that the Indians who took your son will kill him rather than be caught with a white captive. Are you willing to take that chance?”
Sarah had listened to his words with growing horror, unwilling to believe he was telling her the truth. Now she shook her head. “They wouldn’t.”
“It’s been done before.” He saw the revulsion in her eyes, heard the anguish in her voice. Perhaps it would be better if he left this place before he caused her more pain. “Do you wish me to go?”
“No,” she said quickly. Even if he wouldn’t take her into town for help, she might be able to persuade him to look for Danny on his own. For a moment, she considered asking him to take her into town anyway. She had a few friends there, but even as she considered the idea, she put it aside, knowing that if she went into town, she might never see him again and that was a possibility she wasn’t prepared to face. There was something reassuring about Devlin, a quiet strength that soothed her fears. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, his nose was straight, his lips full and finely shaped. Even the scar didn’t diminish the fact that he was a strong and handsome man.
A muscle twitched in Toklanni’s jaw as Sarah’s gaze moved over his face. He had a sudden urge to look away, to hide the scar beneath his hand. He thought he’d grown used to it, being stared at, but for the first time in years he felt the humiliation of being disfigured, of having people look at him with pity or revulsion.
But it wasn’t pity or revulsion he read in the depths of the woman’s eyes and that confused him more than anything else.
Sarah felt her cheeks flush as she realized she’d been staring at him. “I’m sorry, I…I mean, I…”
“It’s all right,” he said with a shrug. “Everybody stares at first.”
“How did it happen?”
“In battle.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Sarah remarked.
“Yes,” he replied bitterly. “Lucky.”
“I wasn’t staring because it’s ugly,” Sarah began, then wished she’d never said anything. How could she tell him she thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, scar or no scar? And what right did she have to be noticing such a thing?
Her husband had been dead less than six months. “I mean, I…”
Toklanni watched the color rise in her cheeks and slowly shook his head. Was it possible she wasn’t repulsed by his appearance?
Sarah stood up and began clearing the table. She couldn’t sit there any longer, couldn’t endure the force of his gaze for fear he’d somehow see into her heart and mind. She was a white woman and no matter how attractive he might be, he was still an Indian. It didn’t really matter that he was half white, after all. He had obviously turned his back on that part of his heritage long ago. He was a savage now, a heathen. He couldn’t live in her world and she couldn’t live in his.
“Why don’t you go lie down?” Sarah suggested. “You need the rest. I’ll bring you a cup of coffee after I’ve done the dishes.”
Toklanni nodded, wondering at the abrupt change in her attitude, the sudden lack of warmth in her voice.
Leaving the kitchen, he went into the parlor and stretched out on the buffalo robe. Eyes closed, he listened to Sarah as she moved about the kitchen. He had never thought of going back to the white man’s world but now, with Sarah Andrews humming softly in the next room, he wondered what it would be like to settle down in this place with this woman.
He swore softly, startled at the turn of his thoughts.
Never before had be contemplated marriage and marriage to a white woman would be impossible, even if she’d have him. He had spent too many years with the Apache to make the kind of husband Sarah would want.
If he was smart, he would put her on a horse and take her to Pepper Tree Creek and leave her there. Someone would take her in.
If he was smart, he would take her there tomorrow.
But sometimes he just wasn�
��t smart.
Chapter Seven
Toklanni spent the next few days resting, feeling guilty for staying in the woman’s house, for accepting her hospitality when he had lied to her about her son’s whereabouts.
At night, he often heard the sound of weeping from her room and it was like a knife twisting in his gut. He knew Sarah wept for her husband and for her son and though he was not personally responsible for her loss, he was guilty just the same. He knew he should tell her that her son was well, but he didn’t want to spoil the tenuous friendship between them, didn’t want to see the growing affection in her eyes turn to loathing when she realized that he had been with the raiding party that day. He didn’t want to admit to himself that if her hair hadn’t been as yellow as new corn he might have killed her.
In all the years he’d been with the Apache, the only whites he’d killed had been soldiers and that only in self-defense. And Noche knew it, had taunted him about it on more than one occasion. That was why his brother had sent him to kill the woman, to test Toklanni’s loyalty, to see if he still felt bound to his mother’s people, or if he had, at last, become totally Apache in mind and heart.
A muscle twitched in Toklanni’s jaw as he tried to imagine what he would have done if Sarah hadn’t reminded him of his mother. Would he really have killed her? Could he kill a woman in cold blood? He didn’t want to think so and yet it happened all the time, on both sides. He’d seen white women riddled with arrows. He’d seen Apache women brutally slaughtered. Children, too, on both sides. Who was to say who was right and who was wrong?
In the days that followed, he made excuses for not telling Sarah who he was, lying to himself, telling himself it was to protect her feelings when all the time he knew it was to protect himself from her scorn, her hatred, because he was falling in love with her.
As his ribs healed, he began to do little things around the cabin. He repaired the corral fence, sharpened the axe, cut enough firewood to last the winter. His hands blistered and his side ached and he relished the pain because he deserved it for being such a coward. Each night before he went to bed he swore he’d tell her the truth in the morning and each morning he put it off again, wanting to be near her one more day, see her smile, touch her hand, listen to the soft, slightly husky sound of her voice as she read from the Bible each evening.
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