“Gracias,” Daniella said with a regal nod any queen would envy—another of Miss Whitfield’s lessons. “While I’m speaking with him, I’d like a tub and hot water for a bath brought to my room. A comb and brush, and some clean clothes, too.” Without a backward glance, Daniella swept down the hall toward her father’s study, inwardly cringing at her ragged appearance. No wonder the girl had gaped so. Daniella knew she’d never looked so unkempt in her life.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the study door. If Sylvia wasn’t there to practice swooning every few minutes, maybe her father would welcome her the way she’d dreamed he would.
With a hopeful smile she knocked once, then entered.
At last a room that still looked familiar, with books lining the back wall, two stuffed leather chairs facing the massive, uncluttered desk, and the portrait of…portrait of—Sylvia!
Before Daniella had time to feel hurt or angry over the replacement of her mother’s portrait with one of her stepmother, Daniella realized either emotion would be unfair to Sylvia. What second wife wanted such a vivid, constant reminder of the first wife? In Sylvia’s place, Daniella knew she would have done the same thing.
“You wanted to see me, Papa?” she asked quietly.
Her father didn’t acknowledge her presence as he stood staring out the open window into the darkness, his broad back tense and forbidding. When he finally turned, his face was set in grim lines. Daniella swallowed nervously.
“That was an unforgivable thing you did this afternoon.” His cold, hard voice lashed out at her with a vicious intent and struck home swiftly.
The blood drained from Daniella’s face. “Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered. “What did I do?“
Howard turned his back on her again as if she hadn’t spoken…as if she weren’t even in the room.
“Papa, what did I do? All I did was come home!” she wailed. Howard spun back around and glared at her, fists clenched against his thighs. “No decent white girl comes home after doing what you’ve been doing up in those mountains for an entire month with those goddamn, stinking, redskin bastards.”
She’d never seen her father so angry. Some part of her mind registered that his face was beet red. When he clenched his jaws shut, the muscles in his cheeks quivered. As his words soaked in, she felt the blood rush back into her face, heating it.
“What I’ve been doing?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, missy. You can’t tell me at least a dozen Apaches didn’t crawl between your legs while you were up there with them. How dare you set foot in this house after letting those gut-eaters have you!”
Bile rose to her throat. Her heart threatened to stop beating. “Letting them? You think I let them?” His cruelty and crudity stunned her. She felt herself blush again with shame and humiliation. “Do you think I wanted them to touch me?” she raved. “I fought and fought, until I couldn’t fight anymore, and still they had their way. I had no say—no way to stop them. It wasn’t something I did! It was done to me! Papa, I’m your daughter! Don’t be this way—please!” Tears streamed down her dirty cheeks, but she made no attempt to stop them.
“No!” he shouted. “You’re no daughter of mine! My daughter didn’t have hair like a…like a witch out of some storybook. My daughter was a good girl. She would have put a bullet in her own head before she let those bastards touch her.”
Daniella reeled as though he’d doubled up his fist and hit her. “Papa, please! You don’t mean that! You can’t!”
“Get out. You’re not my daughter. My daughter’s dead. Killed when the Apaches attacked her stagecoach.”
For one brief instant, which felt more like an entire lifetime, Daniella gaped at her father in horror and disbelief. His words beat against her, cut her, bruised her like hail from a summer storm. A choking cry escaped her throat. She ran from the room, trying to blot out his unbearable words. You’re not my daughter!…not my daughter! My daughter’s dead. Dead. Dead.
But in his eyes there had been another word—one he had not voiced. His eyes said, Whore!
She ran down the hall and outside into the night, sobbing, running until she stumbled and fell to the ground. The pain of his words crushed the breath from her lungs. Even the Apaches thought more of her than her own father did!
Daniella didn’t know how long she’d lain on the ground, but cold started seeping into her bones. Was it the cold from the air and the ground, or the cold radiating from the lump of ice where her heart used to be? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. It settled in the pit of her stomach like a rock in a pond.
Footsteps approached in the darkness. Quickly she dried her tears and turned to face the intruder on her misery.
It was Tucker. The old man had been in the Apache camp when the warriors brought her and the two men from the stagecoach in that first night. The shaman later told her Tucker was an honored guest because he was crazy. Indians had strange customs, to her way of thinking.
But Tucker wasn’t crazy. He’d known most tribes refused to harm crazy people, so he’d pretended.
Daniella discovered Tucker’s secret one night when he let slip with a few very sane, very vulgar words in English. The Apaches spoke their own language among themselves. They spoke Spanish for her benefit when they learned she understood it. But apparently none of them within earshot had understood English, or Tucker would have been a dead man that night.
He approached her now in the moonlight with a calm, sober look on his face. “You all right, girlie?”
“I don’t think so.” She didn’t question why she felt comfortable with him, she just accepted it. “They don’t want me, Tucker.”
Tucker reached out a bony hand and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Take it easy, girlie. I know. I was out back. The window was open.”
Daniella groaned, mortified. He’d heard! He’d heard those horrible things her father said.
But what did it matter? He may have heard all that, but he’d seen worse. He’d seen what the Apaches did to her. Yet somehow her father’s words were worse—much worse than the other.
She dashed fresh tears from her face. “What am I going to do, Tucker? I can’t stay here, but where can I go? How will I live?”
“Now don’t be gittin’ hasty, girlie,” he said in his gravelly voice. “You cain’t run off in the middle of the night like some dad-blamed thief. You didn’t let them ’Pachees git the best of ya. You gonna let these people drag ya down after all you been through? You gotta stand up for yourself now, just like ya done up in them mountains.”
“Oh, Tucker.” She sighed. “I don’t think I can fight them. I’m tired of fighting. It’s too hard. It hurts too much.”
“Where’s all that spunk gone to?” Tucker demanded. “These here folks ain’t near as scary as them redskins. ’Cept maybe for that screechin’ female what put on that show this afternoon.”
Daniella couldn’t restrain a chuckle at his description of Sylvia. “She’s pretty scary all right. She’s my stepmother. Ever since she first came here she’s had one of those spells probably once a week, just to keep in practice. She’s the one who made Papa send me back east. Said I needed to become a lady or no man would have me. Ha. Look at me. Some lady. No man will ever have me now, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t be judgin’ all men by your father, girlie. You might just find your rod’s a tad short. Now, you gonna sit there all night afeelin’ sorry for yourself, or are ya gonna gather up your wits and figure out what we’re gonna do?”
“We?”
“I’ll stick with ya, girlie, long as you want me around. Heckfire, I ain’t got nothin’ better to do, do I?”
“I hope not.” Her loneliness eased a little at his words. At least somebody wasn’t shunning her. “I think I’m going to need you around for a long time.” Daniella rose on shaky legs and kissed his scraggly gray beard. “Thank you, Tucker.” With lagging steps, she made her way back to the house.
Her bath water was still surpr
isingly hot, and she luxuriated in the first warm bath she’d experienced in weeks. She scrubbed herself from head to toe until her hair squeaked and her skin hurt, then donned a robe someone had left for her and went out into the central courtyard to dry her hair.
This courtyard was one of the things she’d missed most while she’d been away. Oh, there were plenty of gardens, and even a few courtyards in Boston, but not like this one. The winters were too harsh in that city for a courtyard to serve as one of the main rooms of the house. She’d missed the free, open feeling of passing through the greenery and fragrant blossoms countless times during the day while crossing from one room to another.
Now that she was no longer welcome in her own home, she knew she would miss it again.
The evening chill sent her back inside while her hair was still damp, so she sat in the middle of the bed, brushing her hair and thinking on Tucker’s words.
He was right. If the Apaches couldn’t bring her to her knees, why should she allow anyone else to try it.? But God, how her father’s words hurt.
Put it behind you. Close off that part of your life, the way you did when you left the Apache camp.
She would start a new life, that’s what she’d do. But how? Where?
She fell asleep long before any answers came to her. Then the nightmare started. Screaming…pitiful whimpering, pleading moans, and pain-racked screaming pierced the night. Continuous, never-ending screaming.
Hands! Hands came at her, grabbing, hurting, trying to pull her limbs from her body.
Fire! A glowing stick. The sickening odor of burning flesh…her own flesh!
More screams.
A terrible weight pressed down on her, pounding her into the ground, thrusting again and again into her tormented flesh.
Hammering. Bright light. The screams grew louder, echoing all around her amid other voices. She thought she heard her father, but that was impossible. He was home, safe. In her madness she’d only conjured up his memory.
“Ella! Ella, wake up!”
“Daniella! Stop it this instant!”
Sylvia? It was just her imagination. Her stepmother wasn’t really here either. Why did she sound so cold, so angry?
The screams intensified. Daniella bolted upright from her pillow. The screams were coming from her own throat! Terrified, stunned, she panted heavily and turned her wild-eyed stare on the faces around her.
“¡Madre de Dios!” Sylvia whispered as she backed toward the hall and crossed herself, a look of horror and revulsion distorting her face.
Papa was there too, his face unreadable.
Sylvia squared her shoulders and sneered. “She woke Ramón.”
A commotion in the hall drew everyone’s attention.
As Daniella turned to face that direction, her eyes passed the mirror near the door. Her gaze froze. What she saw in the mirror was every bit as terrifying as the images in her nightmare. She screamed again. The face in the mirror screamed with her. It was a scream filled with horror.
“My word, Howard,” Sylvia screeched. “She’s lost her mind.“
Tucker elbowed his way into the room. “Get outa here—all of you!”
Daniella kept screaming, her eyes riveted on the stranger in the mirror, while Tucker shoved everyone else out and closed the door. He placed himself in front of Daniella, blocking her view of the mirror.
“Girlie, girlie. Calm yourself…calm yourself.” His low, quiet voice finally penetrated her shock. She dropped her head into her hands, and her screams turned into wrenching sobs. Tucker kept on in his soft, gravelly drawl until she quieted.
“That must have been some nightmare you had, kid.”
With a shudder, Daniella wiped her face on the sleeve of her nightgown. She leaned back against the carved wooden headboard and took a deep, painful breath.
“That the first time you looked in the mirror?”
“Yes,” she croaked, her lips quivering.
“But you knew what you’d see, didn’t you?”
“Yes…but I was hoping—” Another sob shook her, cutting off her words.
“Hoping what?” he prodded.
“That it wouldn’t be so bad,” she wailed, tears streaming down her face again.
“And was it so bad?” the old man asked gently.
Daniella buried her face in her hands, unable to answer. It couldn’t be much worse. Her own reflection terrified and sickened her.
“Come on, girlie. Stop that caterwaulin’ and come over here.” He tugged on her arm and pulled her out of bed, making her cross the room. He turned up the lantern so her reflection showed clearly. With a firm, calloused hand, he forced Daniella look in the mirror.
Her face looked about the same as always, only darker after a full month in the sun. The deep tan made her pale blue eyes look even paler, and now they were red-rimmed and swollen from crying. The pert nose and full lips hadn’t changed, except for the slight tear-induced puffiness.
With dread, Daniella slowly raised her eyes to the hair of the woman staring back at her. She lifted a trembling hand to touch the black curly locks that still reached to her waist. What caused her breath to catch was the two-inch-wide streak of pure white hair sprouting from her left temple.
She’d known it was there, had even see it once, but her reflection then had been dim and distorted by the ripples in the pond near the Apache camp. When she’d bathed and dressed this evening, she’d purposely avoided the mirror. This was the first time she’d really seen it.
“What I see,” Tucker said, “is a beautiful young woman. Heckfire, lots of folks have white in their hair. Look at me—mine’s white all over.”
Daniella took a deep breath and turned away. “All over is one thing. I’ll bet I’m the only person around with striped hair. A few more inches up, and I’d look like a stinking polecat,” she said with disgust.
Tucker cackled. “Maybe so, girlie, but I think it’s what some folks would call ‘striking.’ Besides which, kid, it did get you out of that ’Pachee camp, and me right along with ya. Yup, the more I think about it, the more I like that stripe of yours.”
“Well, it’s sure going to cut down on my primping in front of mirrors from now on.”
Tucker smiled with what looked a lot like satisfaction.
They talked for a few minutes, then he left for his bed of straw in the barn. He said he preferred it to sleeping in the house.
Daniella turned down the lantern, leaving a small glow to keep the darkness at bay, and crawled back into bed. Her eyes stayed open the rest of the night. As long as she didn’t close her eyes, she couldn’t dream. She could still remember, but waking memories could sometimes be shoved aside and blocked out. Nightmares couldn’t. She stared wide-eyed at the lantern, struggling to keep the horrible images at bay.
Concentrate. Think about something else.
She tried to plan what to do with herself, since she obviously wasn’t wanted in her father’s home. Where could she go? Was there someplace she and Tucker could live? Hour after hour, she searched her mind for ideas, trying to come up with a plan. All she knew was she had to leave. But not immediately. Not until she had a place to go and everything she’d need to start a new life.
By the time the blackness beyond her window turned gray, she’d stared at the tiny lantern flame so long her eyes refused to blink. It held her trapped in its spell, mesmerized her with its subtle sway and flicker. Then it broke loose from the wick and floated free to hover in the center of the room. There it grew and grew until it filled her vision.
She shivered. How odd. With a flame so large, she should feel heat, not this numbing coldness that surrounded her.
A pinpoint of black emerged from the center of the flame. It grew and shifted and tore itself in half to become two dark eyes. They lightened to brown and stared directly at her. Daniella shivered once more, but couldn’t drag her gaze away from those eyes or the face forming around them.
It was him again—the man she’d seen before in the
flames of the shaman’s fire. He’s alive! When she’d seen him that first time, she’d watched in horror as half his face was blown away by the Apache warrior who held the man’s son. She’d thought he was dead.
She must be mad to be seeing faces in the night. Even madder to want to ease the suffering etched in cruel lines across the rugged, handsome apparition. His coffee-colored eyes beseeched her for help. Yet what help could she give a phantom?
Her hand trembled as she reached to smooth the furrowed brow. In that instant, the golden-haired man with the pleading eyes vanished. Daniella was left staring once again at the tiny lantern flame, shaken clear through to her soul.
Chapter Three
During the next few days the disturbing vision lost itself in Daniella’s determination to leave home. Her father’s open contempt was all the incentive she needed. Whenever she made the mistake of being in the same room with them, her father and stepmother talked around her as if she weren’t there.
Each night Daniella suffered the same horror-filled dreams, until she gave up all efforts to sleep at night. Instead, she napped during the day. No bad dreams plagued her daytime sleep, and the vision of the golden-haired man didn’t return. The new routine gave her the freedom of the house at night.
She began a thorough inspection of each room to locate items she might wish to take with her when she and Tucker left. She dared anyone to stop her from taking whatever she wanted from the house.
Through it all, Tucker was Daniella’s rock. She hadn’t told him about her vision, yet she told him everything else. Whenever she needed someone to talk with, he was there. When she needed advice, he was there. When she just wanted the company of another person, he was there. Thank God for Tucker.
If not for him, she didn’t know what she’d have done. He became her confidant and best friend, her father, mother, and brother all rolled into one. He was her whole family now.
She said as much to him one day, and he scoffed. “Shoot, girlie, I’m jist an old man. I’ll be yer friend, or whatever else ya want me to be. But I ain’t never been no father. Leastwise, not that I knew of,” he added with a grin. “‘Sides. You still have a father. Two, if ya wanna count Cochise. I wouldn’t be forgettin’ him, girlie. Much as I hate to admit anything good about an Apache, he done right by ya.”
Apache-Colton Series Page 2