Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  She didn’t care who was watching or what they might think. This was her husband, her man. They loved each other. She pulled his head down and pressed her mouth to his mouth, her body to his body, her heart to his heart.

  When his arms wrapped around her and lifted until her feet dangled several inches from the floor, the customers in Sadie’s Good Food broke out in a rousing cheer.

  Kali sashayed into the room, hands on her hips and a wide grin on her face. Sadie lumbered up behind her. “It’s about damned time!” she hollered.

  Matt tore his lips away and Angela opened her eyes and gasped. The fire in his gaze nearly scorched her with its intensity. Without taking his eyes away, he stood her on the floor and yanked the bow of her apron strings loose at the back of her waist, then rested his hands boldly along the tops of her breasts—much to the crowd’s enjoyment—and unpinned the apron’s bib.

  He tossed the apron to Kali and said, “You’ve just been promoted from dishwasher to waitress.” Then, amid more hoots, whistles and hollers, he swung Angela up in his arms and carried her through the kitchen and up the stairs to her room.

  By the time he kicked the door to her bedroom closed behind him he was trembling with eagerness. He lowered her feet slowly to the floor, his eyes having never left hers. She pulled his face toward her again.

  “Angel.” The word was a sigh on his lips just as they opened to receive her kiss.

  It started out as a tender, loving kiss, but after a few seconds, the tone and feeling changed to one of urgency and stark, immediate need.

  Matt was trying to hold back. He was too eager. After two weeks of dread, her response was more than he’d dared dream. He’d been a fool to wait so long to come back. He should have come sooner. But the possibility that she wouldn’t want him had loomed large in his nightmares. Pure and simple, he’d been afraid.

  But he was here now, and she was his. No more fear. No more uncertainty. No more loneliness. Still he tried to slow down. He didn’t know anything about women who had miscarried. Would he hurt her? Was it too soon? He wanted to ask her. He had to ask her. But to ask, he had to take his lips from hers, and at the moment, he couldn’t. He couldn’t bare to lose touch with her tongue as it danced along with his to some inner rhythm they both felt.

  One of his questions—was it too soon?—was answered for him when Angela’s hands slipped down his neck, over his shoulders, and began releasing the buttons on his shirt with fevered haste. His hands began a similar task on the back of her dress. Then he picked her up, their lips still joined, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and tore his lips away.

  “Are you sure it’s all right?” His eyes burned down into hers like fire. “I mean…can we?”

  “It’s not just that we can.” Angela’s hands shook as she finished undoing the buttons on his shirt. “We should. We must.” One hand slid up the scars on his bared chest, then around his neck. “We have to.” The other hand went down, over his buckle, and traced the throbbing hardness she found there. “If we don’t, I’ll die.”

  Matt thrust himself more fully into her hand and groaned with the pleasure of her touch. He was nearing the point of losing control, but he couldn’t bear to move away from her hand. He pulled her dress down over her shoulders and kissed her neck. When he ran a finger across the tight peak of one breast, Angela nearly jumped off the bed.

  “Hurry, Matt,” she breathed. “Please hurry.”

  He didn’t need any more urging. In seconds their clothes were on the floor and he was laying half on top of her, kissing her hard, pressing her into the mattress with his weight. He slipped a hand between her thighs. She was as ready as he was.

  They came together then, his hardness into her softness, and she cried out her release almost instantly, digging her nails into his back. Matt would have prolonged it, if he’d been able. But the inner contractions of her muscles pulled him right over the edge with her.

  “Oh, Matt!”

  It was only the beginning of a long, long night of love.

  A lifetime of love.

  “Oh, Matt.”

  Epilogue

  June 7, 1874

  Dragoon Mountains

  Arizona Territory

  The great war chief of the Apaches, Cochise, lay on his favorite cougar skin rug inside his wickiup. He kissed his three month old grandson, Niño, on the cheek, then a woman took the child outside. Cochise looked around him at the people he loved.

  There was his oldest son, the next chief of the Chúk'ánéné, Tahza, Tahza’s mother, Tesal-Bestinay, and Tahza’s wife, Niño’s mother, Nod-ah-Sti. Then there was Cochise’s other son, Naiche, and Naiche’s mother, Nali-Kay-deya. On the other side of his bed sat his faithful shaman, Dee-O-Det, along with his friends, Poin-sen-ay, Skin-yea, and others.

  Taglito was not there, but that was all right. He and Taglito had already spoken.

  Cochise wished Woman of Magic and her family were there, but it was too late. There was no time.

  He picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. “Our people are as this sand. These grains escaping are our friends and family who are gone.” He opened his hand to look at the few remaining grains. “This is all that is left of us. The white men are too many. Do not try to fight them any more. Study them. Learn their ways and adopt them as yours, keeping also the ways of our people in your hearts. If we are not all to die away from this earth, you must learn to live with the white men.”

  Tom Jeffords nearly ran the legs off his bay gelding trying to get back to the reservation with the doctor from Fort Bowie in time, even though he knew it would be too late. He and the doctor reined in on a low hill, still an hour away from Cochise’s wickiup. They paused to let their lathered mounts rest a moment before the final stretch.

  The breeze cooling their faces suddenly died. Both men wiped the sweat from their brows. Tom raised his head and sat perfectly still in the saddle. Nothing moved around them, nothing at all. There was no movement, no sound—not even a bird.

  Suddenly a great gust of wind swept down from the mountains. It swirled around them, then blew off across the valley toward the west. Like a dust devil, but with no dust.

  Tom Jeffords shivered in the hot morning sun, then calmed. He was agnostic by nature, but suddenly he felt an inner peace he’d never know before. That wind! What was it? Why should a gust of wind feel…friendly?

  And then he knew. It wasn’t a wind at all. It was the breath and soul of a friend, come to say good-bye.

  “We will meet again, my friend,” Taglito whispered, “where the cottonwoods stand in line.”

  The doctor could go back to the fort now. There was no more need for him, Tom knew.

  Cochise was dead.

  It would be several days before the people at the Triple C received official word of Cochise’s death. The family was currently occupied with another great event, this one much happier.

  A child was born this morning. Joanna Colton, daughter of Matt and Angela, granddaughter of Travis and Daniella, great-granddaughter of Jason, gave a lusty cry when she entered the world.

  Joanna was an hour old, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Her mother lay in exhausted sleep, and her father, grandfather and great-grandfather drank toasts in her honor at the other end of the house.

  Daniella and her children were in the courtyard enjoying Rosita’s lemonade when the strange wind blew over them. It had gained strength as it blew across the land, and now it shook the shutters of the adobe ranch house.

  Matt and Travis came outside. Daniella, Serena and Pace stood staring at each other, speaking, without words. Matt and Travis both knew instantly that somehow, the twins had inherited some portion of their mother’s strange gift.

  “Grandfather!” Serena screamed.

  Matt scooped his stepsister up in his arms and held her. Travis went to Daniella and saw that she, too, was crying.

  “Pace! Where are you going?” Travis asked sharply.

  The boy didn’t an
swer, just kept walking away from the house.

  “Let him go, Travis,” Daniella whispered.

  “What is it, love,” he asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s …shitaa!” she wailed.

  Travis didn’t ask how she knew, he only asked what she meant.

  “He’s dead, Travis. Cochise is dead.”

  Travis and Matt did not share Daniella’s gift of sight, but they shared a strong bond as father and son. They sought each other now with their eyes, and each knew the other’s thoughts.

  Two years. They’d had two years of peace in the territory since the treaty. And now Cochise was dead. The peace would not live long without him. Tahza would be elected the next chief. He was good and brave, but he would not be able to hold all the bands together as Cochise had. There would be war.

  It might not come soon, but it would come. And when it did, it would make Cochise’s ten–year war seem like a picnic. There were some truly vicious men among the Apaches, and those men would gain control and lead their warriors on a long and bloody trail.

  Jason Colton had always said he wanted to live long enough to see his first great-grandchild born, and he did. He got to hold Joanna when she was only a few hours old.

  When Travis entered his father’s room the next morning, Jason was dead. He had died with a relaxed, even smile curving both sides of his mouth.

  And somewhere far to the north, an escaped convict hunkered beside a small fire high in the Colorado Rockies. No lawman would ever find him here.

  He flexed his left hand and grinned. The man hadn’t been as good at maiming as the woman. His right hand was still dead, but the left had healed. They would pay for what they’d done to him.

  His gaze ranged southward. He looked past the huge rugged peaks, down past the border, through more mountains, across desert, until he pictured a certain adobe ranch house before him.

  He could see a man and woman walking arm in arm. The man was tall, broad–shouldered and scarred. The woman was trim, petite and beautiful. Both were blond.

  The outlaw’s lips moved. “Soon,” he whispered.

  THE END

  Author’s Note

  The Howard-Jeffords-Cochise treaty was signed in late September, 1872. It was filed in Washington, D.C., and the Chiricahua Reservation became official December 14 of that year. The reservation consisted of 3,100 square miles, extending from the Dragoon Mountains to the Mexican border, and had a population of approximately 2,500. Tom Jeffords was the Indian agent.

  If giving up one’s way of life in the face of insurmountable odds is wise, then this treaty was good. If Cochise’s last words to his people can be considered wise, then the creation of the Chiricahua Reservation was good.

  And if the Howard-Jeffords-Cochise treaty was a good thing, then it was absolutely the last good thing that ever happened to the Chiricahua Apaches.

  The Chiricahua Reservation no longer exists. It was abolished shortly after Cochise’s death.

  The Chiricahua people do still exist, and that, considering what had already happened to them, and what would happen to them in the years to come, is nothing short of a miracle.

  The tale of the Coltons and the Chiricahua, whose lives and fates are intertwined, will continue in the next volume of this series with the story of Serena Colton, as she grows to womanhood and reaches for the love of a lifetime in the turbulent 1880’s. The man of her dreams will try to resist the temptation she offers, but Serena…

  Ah, but that’s another story. When next we share a campfire, you and I, I’ll pass you a cup of coffee and tell you of the temptation Serena offers—a temptation of peace and love, of strength and freedom. An APACHE TEMPTATION.

  Sincerely,

  Janis Reams Hudson

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1993 by Janis Reams Hudson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition October 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-458-5

  This book is dedicated with love and fond memories to

  Dwight V. Swain, mentor, teacher, and friend.

  Land of Temptation

  The desert tempts a man to harshness.

  Rugged mountains can make him hard.

  A vein of silver might stir his greed

  while lawlessness can turn him to revenge.

  But of all the temptations this land has to offer,

  a beautiful woman is the strongest.

  She can tempt a man to great cruelties,

  or she can lure him to love.

  Prologue

  April 14, 1878

  Triple C Ranch

  Arizona Territory

  The wind sent heavy black clouds tumbling across the sky until they bunched up and blocked out the sun. Matt Colton hugged Joanna to his chest and shielded her from the stinging grit that flew before the approaching storm.

  He could shield her from the elements, but how could he shield her from this? How did a man explain to his three-year-old daughter about death? Her mother’s death?

  Pain, sharp, sickening in its intensity, knifed through him. He stared at the coffin resting on the ground next to the gaping dark hole in the earth. He closed his burning eyes then forced them open. If the pictures behind his lids didn’t go away soon, he might never close his eyes again.

  He kept seeing the ranch off in the distance over the horses’ ears, as he and Angela drove the wagon home from Tucson yesterday.

  Yesterday? Dear God, was it only yesterday?

  Then the rider, racing out from behind that clump of cedar. Matt could still feel Angela clutching his arm as she recognized Abraham Miller Scott, the man who had murdered her father and kidnapped her a few years ago.

  If Matt closed his eyes right now, he knew he’d see Miller’s gun centered on his chest. He’d see Angela—oh God, would it never stop? He’d see Angela throwing herself between him and that bullet.

  He kept telling himself the pictures weren’t real, it hadn’t happened. But the coffin, now being lowered into the ground by his father, his brother, and his friends, was real. Too real.

  Matt wasn’t even aware when his stepmother took Joanna from his arms and went back to the house with the rest of the family. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the sudden silence, the absence of quiet sobs and sniffling.

  He didn’t care about the wind whipping at his back, didn’t care that fat drops of rain made tiny dust clouds when they hit the ground. He didn’t care about the rapid drop in temperature. He didn’t care about or particularly even feel any of it. He didn’t feel much of anything…except emptiness. And pain.

  By the time he made it back to the adobe ranch house he was soaked. He bypassed the mourners gathered in the salon and went straight to his room. Their room. If he was trying to escape his memories of Angela, he’d come to the wrong place.

  He ran a trembling hand over the quilt on the bed and remembered when she made this quilt the first year they were married. Double Wedding Ring, she’d called it.

  Angel.

  Matt clenched his fist and turned his back on the bed. It was not a place of rest any longer. It was a torture chamber. The whole room was a torture chamber. It even smelled like her.

  He swore beneath his breath and stripped off his wet clothes.

  It was a different Matt Colton who entered the salon a short time later.

  At the sight of him, his stepmother gasped.
She took in the worn buckskins that covered him like a second skin, the six-shooter strapped to his thigh, the hilt of the knife protruding from his knee-high moccasins. He carried a bedroll and saddlebags slung carelessly over his shoulder. Her heart quailed. “Matt?”

  The tremor in Daniella’s voice drew her husband’s attention. Travis Colton stiffened, knowing what he would find when he turned from contemplating the fire to face his son. He saw the same things Dani saw, and more. He saw death in the eyes of his oldest son—the death of one Abraham Miller Scott.

  “Do you have enough money on you?” Travis asked quietly.

  “I’ve got enough,” Matt answered.

  “Enough for what? Where are you going?” Daniella demanded. Then she looked into his eyes and her questions were answered. “No,” she cried. “Matt, you can’t mean to go after him.” When he didn’t answer, she panicked. “Travis, stop him. Matt, let the law take care of it. They’ll catch him—that’s what the law’s for.”

  “Where was the law yesterday?” Matt asked harshly. “What law are you talking about, anyway? The law that lets a convicted murderer escape and run loose for years? The same law who let that bastard ride up in broad daylight and murder my wife? He killed Angela. He killed her. If you think I’m going to wait around for the law to take care of him, you don’t know me very well.”

  Daniella turned to her husband for help. “Travis, do something! You can’t let him ride out after that madman!”