Apache Fire

The edge in his voice unnerved her. “No,” she said. “I only meant to tell you there’s water in that clay pitcher on the dresser, and there’s a necessity under the bed if you need it. Be careful getting up.”

He gazed at her in mocking, slit-eyed silence. Flustered, Rose spun away, swung the door shut and jammed the bolt into its slot. Then she wilted against the wall, eyes closed, heart slamming her ribs.

How could she let the man unsettle her so? Everything he said, everything he did, threw her off balance, causing her to question things she’d always been sure about, leaving her vulnerable, exposed and shaken.

Even now, his image flashed through her mind as she had last seen him—Latigo, half Apache, half devil, sitting up in bed, his beautiful, tawny chest and shoulders naked except for the dressing on his wound, the bedclothes scrunched around his hips—his jet-black eyes seeing her secret thoughts, thoughts no decent woman should be having.

It was as if, suddenly, she no longer knew what she believed, or even who she was.

Her thoughts flew to the baby. She had left him upstairs, fast asleep, less than an hour ago. He could be awake and crying, needing her.

Rose crossed the kitchen to the hallway and raced upstairs, urgently needing the comfort of her child in her arms. Mason was her anchor. He was her link to reality, to John and to her own duty.

Rose stole inside the bedroom to find her son still fast asleep beneath the soft lambs-wool blanket she had crocheted before he was born. Tenderly she bent over the cradle, her gaze caressing every delicate curve of his tiny face. She ached to gather him up, to hold him close and lose herself in the bliss of cradling his precious little body. But Mason needed his sleep, she reminded herself. He would be cross if she woke him too soon.

As she glanced up, her eyes caught the last glimmer of sunset on John’s medal where it hung on its blue ribbon above her son’s cradle.

Pride…Honor…Courage…Duty.

The words mocked her as the image of John and his cohorts, riding down on a band of helpless squaws and papooses, flashed through her mind. She slumped over the cradle, her whole body quivering. If Latigo was to be believed—and the evidence of the scar was too strong to deny—John’s militia had gunned down Apache women and children with no more mercy than the Apaches had shown her own family.

She had always believed John to be brave and honorable, and she had vowed to raise Mason by his father’s code. Now that code had crumbled away to reveal something she could not even pretend to understand.

Rose struggled to rationalize what she had heard. How could she judge what John had done? Terrible things had happened on both sides of the conflict Even Latigo had said so. John and his fellow volunteers had done no more than repay the Apaches in kind, following the old biblical law of an eye for an eye. Was that so wrong, in view of what Apaches had done to her own family?

Torn, Rose gazed down at her sleeping son—John’s son, too, she reminded herself. In a few years Mason would be old enough to ask questions about his father. How could she tell Mason the truth about his father when she knew so little of it herself? The quest for answers would be long and painful, Rose knew. And her search would have to begin now, before the trail grew too cold to follow.

She had not known many members of John’s militia. Of those she had met, most of the older ones had died, and the younger ones had moved on. There was Bayard, but— no, she could not go to Bayard! Not now!

Rose sighed raggedly as she realized her one sure source of knowledge lay downstairs, locked in the little room off the kitchen. For all his rough manners, Latigo was the one man she could count on to give her honest answers. He might hurt her. He might outrage and offend her, but he would not lie.

Tomorrow he would be gone. She needed to talk with him now, tonight, while she still had the chance.

Crossing the room, she raised the lid of the chest that stood against the far wall. Inside, John’s clothes lay clean and neatly folded. John was gone. Why had she kept them?

Maybe this was why.

Piling everything on the bed, she selected a cotton union suit, a soft gray flannel shirt, some woolen socks, and a pair of new Levi’s to give to Latigo.

The thought of opening the door and seeing him there in the narrow bed, his black Apache eyes as fierce and alert as a hawk’s, sent a strange hot chill through her body. The man was everything she hated and feared. All the same, she burned to know the secrets that lay behind that bitter face, behind the anger, behind the sadness that seemed to steal over him at unguarded moments.

Hurrying across the room, she discovered Mason awake and cooing. He smiled up at her as she lifted him.

Then, she kissed one rosebud ear, clutching the fresh clothes under one arm and cradling her baby with the other, Rose made her way down the darkening stairs. This time, she vowed, she would ask all the difficult questions, and this time she would not turn away from the answers.

Latigo’s pulse leaped at the sound of Rose’s footsteps. Strange, he mused, how he had already come to recognize the light, graceful cadence of her walk, the agitated rush of her breathing, the husky little catch in her voice when she spoke. Even blindfolded, he would know this woman from all others.

Sitting up in the bed, he waited tensely for the sliding of the bolt. He had not expected Rose Colby to return so soon, but he was far from dismayed at the thought of seeing her again.

Time seemed to stop as the door swung open.

“I brought you some clothes,” she said, stepping into the room. “You can have your boots in the morning.”

“Are you that determined to keep me prisoner?” he asked, half-amused.

“It’s for your own good. You’re still very weak.”

“For my own good, I should be leaving right now. I don’t fancy the idea of playing tag with that posse in broad daylight.”

“Then stay until nightfall tomorrow.” She tossed the bundle of clothes onto the foot of the bed. A wry smile tugged at Latigo’s lips as he noticed the union suit—one trapping of white civilization he had stubbornly rejected.

“Your husband’s?” he asked.

“Yes.” Taut and expectant, she lowered herself to the edge of the chair. Nested in the crook of her arm, the baby gazed at him with innocent, violet-blue eyes. Her eyes.

“You never told me how your husband died,” he said.

“You didn’t ask. It was an accident.”

“An accident?” He stared at her.

“Why should that be so surprising?” she asked.

“You’d mentioned hand-feeding him. From that, I assumed it was an illness, maybe a stroke.”

She shook her head. “It happened last summer. John had ridden out alone to check on the herd—something he often did. When his horse came back with an empty saddle, I sent the vaqueros out to look for him. They brought him back in the wagon just before nightfall, unconscious. Evidently he’d fallen, or been thrown, and struck the back of his head on a rock.”

“I’m sorry,” Latigo said, reminding himself to be gentle with her. “If it’s too painful—”

“No, it helps me to talk about it. Most people don’t seem to understand that.” Rose sat in near darkness now, her beautiful, sad face obscured by shadows. “At first we didn’t expect him to last through the night. But John was a strong man. He lived for four months, if you could call it life. He was bedridden. He couldn’t stand or speak, and he didn’t seem to know anyone, not even me.”

“And you took care of him?”

“I was his wife.”

Latigo gazed at Rose Colby’s delicate face through the soft veil of twilight. Pampered, he had called her. Spoiled. Lord, how could a man be so wrong?

“Of course, I couldn’t have cared for John all alone,” she added swiftly. “I had Esperanza to help with the housework and cooking, and Miguel to keep the ranch running. And there was Bayard, of course.”

“Bayard?” The name triggered a taste as bitter as creosote in Latigo’s mouth.

“Bayard rode out from Tucson as soon as he got word of John’s accident.” She paused, head tilted, lost in thought. “You know, I truly can’t imagine what got into him this morning. Bayard was wonderful the whole time John was dying—sitting with him by the hour, bringing us things from town…”

“If he was so wonderful, maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to run him off!” Latigo growled.

He regretted the remark instantly, but it was too late to call it back. He saw her body stiffen and, even in the darkened room, caught the fire, like flecks of Mexican opal, in her splendid eyes.

“My relationship with Bayard Hudson is none of your concern!” she retorted sharply. “You asked me how my husband died, and I was telling you. That’s all you need to know!”