Apache Fire

Silence hung between them. Then, deliberately, Latigo allowed himself to laugh. “You have a fine way of slapping a man’s face without touching him, Rose Colby,” he said.

“If that’s true, maybe I should do it more often!”

“It is true, Rose. Everything I’ve told you is true.”

“How can I be sure of that?” The anguish in her voice was real. She wanted to trust him, Latigo sensed, but she was still fearful.

“Would it be easier if I were a white man?” he dared to ask.

“That’s not a fair question,” she answered. “There are different kinds of white men and, I suppose, different kinds of Apaches.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Latigo said dryly. “So, what kind of Apache am I? Have you decided?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

She made a move to rise, then settled uneasily back onto the chair as if she’d changed her mind. Once more the darkness lay heavy and still between them.

Latigo battled the urge to reach out and demand to know what she was doing here. Her husband’s clothes had only provided her with an excuse to come to him—she could just as easily have delivered them in the morning. If she were a different sort of woman, he might have construed it as an invitation. But Rose Colby was not bent on seduction. Her modest, distant manner and the presence of her child were enough to tell him that.

“Light the lamp,” he said. “I want to see your face. And I want you to see mine.”

She hesitated in the darkness, then rose from the chair with her son in her arms. “The lamp’s in the kitchen. Wait here. I’ll go and light it.”

“You’ll need both hands,” Latigo heard himself saying. “Give me the baby. I’ll hold him for you.”

Her lips parted as her arms tightened around the blanketed bundle. Only then did Latigo realize what he had done. In his readiness to be helpful, he had demanded the ultimate token of her trust, a trust he had yet to earn.

“It’s all right, Rose. I would never harm your son.”

“I know.”

Despite her words, she did not move, and Latigo knew better than to push her. “Never mind about the lamp, then,” he said. “Darkness makes it harder for each of us to know what the other is thinking. Maybe that’s not so bad after all.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the tiny room was the soft rush of her breathing. Then she took a step toward him and very carefully held out her baby.

Latigo’s heart jumped as she thrust the small, squirming bundle toward him. His outstretched hands received the precious weight like a blessing.

“I’ll get the lamp,” she said, and walked swiftly into the kitchen.

The baby whimpered, then relaxed, gurgling contentedly as Latigo settled the tiny body awkwardly against his chest. In all of his adult life, he could not remember having held an infant.

An alien sweetness, frighteningly close to tears, stole through him as he cradled Rose Colby’s son in his arms. Most men his age had sons of their own. Daughters, too, and wives and homes. But a family had no place in the life of a man caught between two worlds. He was alone and destined to remain so, a fugitive spirit, tied to no place, bound to no other human soul.

Light flickered in the kitchen as Rose struck a match and touched it to the lamp wick. The glow moved with her as she crossed the tiles to stand in the doorway.

“Mason seems to have taken to you,” she said as she placed the lamp on the dresser. “He’s settled right down. You should be flattered, he doesn’t do that with everyone.”

“Well, let’s hope the boy acquires better sense as he gets older,” Latigo remarked dryly.

A wan smile flickered across her face. “I can hold him now.”

“He’s fine where he is.”

She settled back onto the chair, making no move to take the baby from him. Latigo watched her, savoring her gentle beauty and the fragile warmth of her child against his heart.

This was foolhardy, his instincts shrieked in the stillness. John Colby’s widow had lost her family to the Apaches and he could not afford to trust her. True, she had not given away his presence this morning. But under different conditions, she could easily betray him. Lovely, brave and gentle she might be, but he could not allow himself to fall under her spell.

“What are you doing in here, Rose?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly rough. “You could be taking an awful chance, you know. I could overpower you, force you to get me the gun, take you and your baby hostage to use against that posse.”

“You don’t hide behind children, or women, either, I take it. At least that’s what you said.”

“But what if you’re wrong about me?” he persisted. “What do you want so much that you’d take this kind of chance?”

“The truth.” Her eyes, reflecting the lamplight, held tiny gold flames. “I want to know exactly how you came to be on this ranch, and I want to hear everything you know about my husband.”

“Even if you don’t like my answers?”

Her pale throat moved as she swallowed, then nodded. “I need to know for my own sake, and for Mason’s one day, when he’s old enough to understand.”

Latigo shifted his body higher on the pillows. The baby stirred in his arms, turning to gaze up at him with wide indigo eyes, and he knew that whatever he said, it would be for both of them. And whatever he said, it would be true.

But would it be the whole truth? Could he trust her with everything he knew?

Gazing at her through the amber haze of lamplight, he cleared his throat and began with a question.

“Rose, how much do you know about the so-called Indian Ring?”

Chapter Five (#ulink_bdf0c22d-830b-5951-8fbe-f57cf80e98fb)

The Indian Ring?

Rose stared at the man in the shadows. She had never heard of the Indian Ring, but something about the name, or perhaps the way Latigo had said it, sounded so sinister that it triggered cold prickles along the flesh of her forearms.

“Your husband never mentioned the Ring to you?” he pressed her. “You never overheard him talking about it with his friends?”

“My husband believed women should keep still and tend to their knitting. His friends did come to the ranch sometimes, but I was never invited to join them.” Rose twisted the hem of her apron, her eyes on her son lying contentedly in the cradle of Latigo’s bare brown arms. In the dancing lamplight, Latigo’s lean Apache face had softened to tenderness, which tore at her defenses. She forced herself to meet his calm gaze. “If you want to talk about the Indian Ring, you’ll have to start by explaining what it is,” she said.

Latigo’s eyes narrowed. Cool evening air drifted in through the barred window, smelling of dust and rain. Thunder rumbled faintly from beyond the horizon.

“Most people would say the Ring never existed,” he said. “But I know better.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not following you!” Rose broke in impatiently. “Are you implying the Indian Ring had something to do with John?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.”

“I know.” Pain rippled across Latigo’s face as he shifted his weight against the pillow. Seeing his discomfort, Rose leaned forward and lifted Mason out of his arms. His eyes watched her guardedly, their black depths whispering unspoken secrets, and suddenly she was afraid.