“You want some of the same, you stupid bitch!” he roared, grabbing the lapels of her blouse. “I can have the squaw any old time. Ain’t often I get to sample a fine thing like you!”
Just as the man’s hands settled over Rebecca’s breasts, something small and dark cannoned into him, knocking him backward. “You take your filthy hands off my ma!”
Zachariah! Rebecca scrambled to her feet, horrified. Her seven-year-old son was swinging his arms like a windmill in a high gale, his little fists pummeling the man in a hail of blows. Rebecca retrieved her board, terrified her child might be harmed. With all her might, she hit the man over the head. He didn’t go down. She hit him again. And still he didn’t go down. Just then, the other man revived and came to his knees. He would have tackled Rebecca, but the little Indian girl, taking her cue from Zachariah, leaped onto his back like a crazed little badger, reaching around to claw at his eyes and sinking her teeth into his ear. Rebecca went back to work on Zachariah’s opponent. The fourth time she beaned the man, he went down like a felled pine tree, out cold.
Zachariah sat astraddle him, his small fists doubled, his lips snarled to show his teeth, his blue eyes fiery. He looked for all the world as if he’d whipped the man completely by himself.
Rebecca turned her attention to the other man, ordering the little girl to get out of the way. The instant the child leaped from the fellow’s back, Rebecca swung with the board, nailing him along his jaw. He fell face first to the ground and didn’t move.
Silence. Rebecca stood there for a moment, ready to bean both men if they so much as twitched. Neither did. When she deduced that they were unconscious, she leaned her club against the building and hunkered down beside the poor Indian woman, who had obviously endured some cuffing and rough handling. After helping her to sit up, Rebecca began checking her for injuries.
“Are you badly hurt, dear heart?” she asked.
The woman didn’t reply. Rebecca guessed she spoke no English and, after studying her a moment, decided she must be a Cheyenne. Since the Sand Creek Massacre, the Cheyennes were a downtrodden lot. Rebecca wasn’t at all surprised that some no-account white man had taken advantage of the Cheyenne people’s misfortune to buy himself a squaw. The Indians believed the price paid for a woman to her family was her “bride price,” the reverse of a dowry, and that a purchased girl was going to be a white man’s honored wife. Unfortunately, most white men didn’t see it quite that way and, after buying an Indian woman, treated her like chattel, working her like a slave and lending her to his friends. It was a horrible fate for any woman, and one that Rebecca sorely wished never occurred.
The child looked as if she might be a half-breed. Rebecca turned on the balls of her feet and held out an arm to her. “Come here, sweetness. It’s all right now. Those mean men aren’t going to hurt your ma anymore. I give you my solemn oath.”
Some gestures were evidently universal, the offer of a hug being one of them. The little girl ran straight into Rebecca’s arms and clung to her, still shaking with fear. Just then Race appeared at the end of the alley. He swung Sarah down from her perch on his shoulders and ran toward his wife and elder son. Pete arrived seconds later with Rachel and Abe in tow. Leaving all three children standing between the two sections of boardwalk, the wiry ranch foreman hurried to follow Race.
“What happened!” Race roared when he took in the scene. “My God, Rebecca Ann, are you all right?”
The poor squaw quailed in fright, flattening herself against the wall. Rebecca felt the child in her arms begin to shake more violently. “Race, sweetheart, please, don’t yell. You’re frightening them half to death.” Choosing her words carefully out of regard for her son’s innocence, Rebecca told Race and Pete the story. “I couldn’t just walk away, so Abe ran for help.”
Race glanced at the unconscious men. “Help? You wantin’ me to haul ’em over to see Doc? Or should we just bury ’em?”
Zachariah chortled with laughter. “You should’ve seen her, Pa. She flat walloped the sand right out of ’em with that board!”
“Your son didn’t make a bad showing of himself, either,” Rebecca said proudly. Nodding toward one of the unconscious men, she said, “He knocked him off me and pounded his face. I didn’t know he could take up for me like that.”
After running his big hands over Rebecca to make certain she was unharmed, Race hunkered down and tousled Zachariah’s hair. “Good work, son. I thank you for stayin’ to watch after your ma. I guess you’re growin’ up, ain’t you?”
Rebecca smiled when her husband’s dark gaze turned back to her. He cupped her chin to tip her face and better examine it. “You sure you’re okay, darlin’?”
The husky concern in his voice caught at Rebecca’s heart. On this, their eighth anniversary, she would have expected their love for each other to have become complacent and less consuming. But if anything, their feelings ran deeper, their passion as easily kindled as it had been at the first, if not more so. He caught her gaze, and for a moment, they regarded each other, communicating without words, the warmth in his eyes telling her how very much he loved her. She thought her answering smile probably sent him the same message in return. He feathered his thumb over her cheek, then looked back at their son.
Rebecca returned her attention to the squaw and noticed how warily the woman was watching Race. Rebecca patted his broad shoulder, then pointed to her wedding ring. “Husband. My husband.” She lightly stroked the woman’s arm. “No harm. Don’t be afraid.”
“Don’t she speak English?” Race asked.
“I don’t think so. Could you try to communicate with her, Race?”
“What’ll I tell her?”
Rebecca cupped a hand over the little girl’s grimy hair. “Tell her she is coming home with us, and that she’ll never have to be afraid again.” She thought for a moment. “That she will be like a sister to us, and her daughter will be our niece. She can help me with the household chores, and she’ll be very happy living with us.”
Race shot her a questioning look. “Rebecca Ann, we don’t know if she wants a home. It’s temptin’ to do nice things for folks, but you gotta give ’em a choice. You know?”
“Very well, then. Phrase it as an invitation.”
Race spent several minutes speaking to the woman, using his limited knowledge of the Cheyenne tongue and Indian sign language to extend Rebecca’s invitation. When he finally stopped gesturing and grunting, the squaw got tears in her eyes, nodded enthusiastically, and said, “Yes, please, thank you! Little Weasel, she like go.” She motioned with her hand. “With you? Home to Spencer Valley. Little Weasel be big happy!”
Race narrowed an eye at Rebecca. “All of that, and she talks Anglo?” He shook his head. “Women!”
Despite his gruff tone, Rebecca knew Race was touched. Her actions today could never undo the tragedy that had taken Race’s mother, but in some small way, maybe it evened the score, if only by a small margin.
Race chuckled and pushed to his feet. “Well, Pete! Looks like we’re gonna have some new faces at the ranch. What say we haul these stinkin’ carcasses over to the sheriff and head home. It don’t look like we’re gonna make it for that lunch date.” Scooping Zachariah off the unconscious man, Race said, “Is this the one that laid hands on your ma?”
Zachariah nodded.
“I figured.” Race bent and grabbed the man by his hair. “Come on, you miserable son’buck.” As he started to drag the man away, Race glanced back for his foreman. “Hey, Pete! You comin’?”
Pete was still staring at the squaw, apparently oblivious to all else. He had a rather dazed look on his weathered face.
“Pete!” Race barked. “What’n tarnation’s the matter with you. You goin’ deef?”
Pete jerked and seemed to come back to himself. “I’m comin’, boss.” His pale blue eyes still locked on the Indian woman, he smiled slightly. The squaw lowered her lashes, clearly unnerved by his intent regard. Pete slanted a look at Rebecca. “I’ve h
eard of women bein’ prettier than sunrise, sunset, and ever’ damned thing in between. But I ain’t run across a female that pretty in a nigh on thirty-five years.” He seemed to focus and realize Rebecca might take offense. “Exceptin’ for you, of course,” he amended.
Rebecca glanced at the squaw, who looked rather ordinary in her estimation. Then she looked at Race, who arched an eyebrow, apparently as bewildered by Pete’s behavior as she was. Then they both smiled. Pete never noticed the exchange. He had hunkered down in front of the frightened squaw and taken her hand.
Lightly caressing the backs of her fingers with his callused thumb, he said, “Ain’t no need to be feelin’ afraid no more, sweetness. Nobody’ll lay a mean hand on you in Spencer Valley. You got Pete Standish’s word on it. You hear?”
The little squaw smiled shyly and nodded. Pete started to stand up, then stopped to cup the little girl’s tear-streaked face in a leathery palm. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you neither, darlin’.” He rubbed at her still wet cheeks. “I’ll be. You’re pert near as pretty as your ma! You know it?”
Pete swung the child up onto his hip. Rebecca’s heart warmed at the gentle expression in the foreman’s eyes. She had a feeling Pete’s days as an ornery, cantankerous, aging bachelor had come to an abrupt halt. After a moment, the foreman set the child back down, patted her head, and smiled kindly at the squaw again.
“Yessir, two right beautiful females, them two are.”
Rebecca pushed erect as Pete grabbed the other drunk and started dragging him toward the street. When the Indian woman stood, Rebecca linked elbows with her, called for Zachariah, and grabbed the little girl’s hand.
“Let’s go home,” she said softly.
Ten minutes later, the Spencers left town, their buckboard a mite overcrowded, but every passenger smiling.
To this day, the folks in Cutter Gulch still tell the story of that long-ago Sunday afternoon when Rebecca Ann Spencer, once a cheek turner and a dyed-in-the-wool Bible thumper, beat the ever-loving hell out of two grown men in the alley next to the general store. Some people claim the poor girl had no choice but to turn ornery, living way to heck and gone out there in Spencer Valley with that ex-gunslinger husband of hers. A quarter-breed Apache, he was, and if rumor was true, meaner than a sidewinder. Kidnapped the poor girl, you know. Reverted back to his Apache ways, they say. When he finally got around to marrying the woman, right and proper, folks say she was eight months pregnant with their third child. Indecent, treating a God-fearing, Christian woman that way, but somehow, no one in Cutter Gulch could work up the courage to tell Race Spencer that to his face, not even the Baptist minister.
Other folks maintained it was the raising of her sons that turned Rebecca Ann Spencer so dad-blamed feisty. Could be true, for sure. Anybody who ever had truck with the Spencer boys could testify on a stack of Bibles that both of those young men had a wild streak a mile wide running through them. After all, how many young men have you known who would dare to kidnap and hogtie the Cutter Gulch schoolteacher, then carry her home on the back of his horse? Zachariah Spencer did exactly that, then married the poor girl the Apache way, giving her no say in the matter at all. Now, if that wasn’t something? And, even worse, the black-hearted polecat got away with it!
About the Author
CATHERINE ANDERSON lives with her husband and her Rottweilers, Sam and Sassy, who seem convinced they are teacup poodles and that obedience training is for people. The Andersons’ mountaintop chalet is the perfect setting for a writer, for the view is a continuing source of inspiration. In her leisure, Catherine spends time with her friends, her sons, and daughters-in-law, and travels to adventures all over the world.
An award-winning author of sixteen published works, Catherine is presently working on her sixth full-length novel for Avon Books.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Praise for
CATHERINE ANDERSON!
“A delightful comedy of errors…. With this latest, Anderson creates a heartwarming page-turner while establishing herself as a major voice in the romance genre.”
Publishers Weekly (*Starred Review*) on Simply Love
“Seldom have the themes of trust and forgiveness been so well treated…. Ace Keegan, despite his alpha-male persona, is a paragon of patience and understanding, a romantic hero in every way.”
Publishers Weekly on Keegan’s Lady
“Catherine Anderson is one of the best romance writers today. This book is the definition of a keeper: moving, touching, with amazing characters who live with you long after the book is done. A brilliant author and fabulous not-to-be-missed romance.”
Affaire de Coeur on Annie’s Song
Winner of nine consecutive
KISS Awards for her heroes!
Avon Books by
Catherine Anderson
SEVENTH HEAVEN
BABY LOVE
CHERISH
FOREVER AFTER
SIMPLY LOVE
KEEGAN’S LADY
ANNIE’S SONG
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHERISH. Copyright © 1998 by Adeline Catherine Anderson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition July 2007 ISBN 9780061740671
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900
Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com
Cherish Page 40