Apache Fire

“Steady, boy.” Rose approached the animal cautiously, fearful that it might bolt and drag its injured rider back into the scrub. “That’s it…easy…” She caught the reins that were dangling loose over its neck and looped them around the rail.

The rider had neither spoken nor moved. He lay as still as death in the moonlight, while Rose labored to free his worn boot from the stirrup.

The leathers, she swiftly discovered, had become twisted around his ankle as the horse dragged him along the ground. So stubbornly were they tangled around his high-topped boot that she could not tug it loose. Rose hesitated, then laid the pistol on the ground. The man was surely too far gone to pose any danger.

Panting with effort, she tugged and twisted, but the stranger’s boot was caught fast. To free him, she would need to slide the boot off his foot, worsening any possible bone fractures in the process.

Praying she wouldn’t hurt him too badly, Rose cradled his leg against the curve of her waist and began, slowly and carefully, to work away the boot, which was so old and worn that the leather had molded like a second skin to the lean, bony contours of his foot. She was so intent on her task that she forgot her peril until the stranger spoke.

“No tricks, lady.”

The hoarse whisper struck Rose like a bullet. She turned to find herself staring down the barrel of her own discarded gun. The stranger’s face lay in shadow, but there was no mistaking the raw desperation in his voice.

“You heard me, lady. I don’t want to hurt you, but try anything cute, and you won’t live to be sorry!”

Rose knew she should be frightened, and she was. But bubbling hotly over her fear was a tide of anger. Her trembling hands balled into fists as they dropped to her sides.

“You crazy fool!” she snapped. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you? I could’ve left you out here to die, and maybe I should have!”

Her words echoed on the silent wind. For the space of a long breath the stranger did not respond. Then Rose heard the sound of sharp-edged laughter in the darkness. Laughter that ended in a grunt of pain.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“Hell, yes, I’m hurt,” he snarled. “Get me loose from this horse, and then you can do something about it.”

“That’s exactly what I was trying to do when you interrupted me,” Rose said coldly. “May I go ahead now?”

“Go on.” His hand held the pistol steady as she turned back to working the boot off his foot.

“You could have broken bones,” she said. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“Won’t make much difference if you do.” His breath sucked in, then rasped painfully out of his lungs. “I’m looking for John Colby. Is this his place?”

“It is. But he’s…not here.” It would not be wise to tell the stranger John was dead, she reasoned, at least not until she knew who he was and what he wanted.

“Are you Colby’s daughter?” The man winced as she repositioned his leg to support it against her hip.

“No, I’m John Colby’s…wife.” Rose felt his heel loosen from inside the boot. Holding her breath, she began easing the leather from around the threadbare stocking. When she glanced around, she saw that his gun hand had fallen to the ground. He was watching her cautiously, his jaw clenched against the pain.

“So, when will your husband be back—uh—Mrs. Colby?”

“What is it you want with him?”

“I—blast it, woman—” He muttered a string of curses as his foot slipped free of the boot, allowing the leg to drop. His hand, however, kept its grip on the pistol.

“You can let go of my gun,” Rose said coldly. “I don’t intend to harm you.”

“I’ll think about that after I’ve seen John Colby.” His voice grated with determination. “When did you say your husband would be back?”

“I didn’t.” Swallowing her fear, she forced herself to crouch beside him. He had propped himself on one elbow, the pistol clutched in his free hand. A chill knifed through Rose, stabbing to the marrow of her bones.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her throat dry and tight. “What do you want with John?”

A muscle twitched below his sharp cheekbone. “Let’s just say I’ve shown up to collect on an old debt,” he muttered.

“You mean to kill him, don’t you?” The words burst out of Rose with an audacity she might not have possessed if her husband had been alive.

“No, I only need his help…his word.” The stranger coughed, doubling over in sudden agony. “Get me in the house,” he said. “Now!”

Rose’s eyes swiftly measured his length and bulk. He was at least six feet tall, with broad, heavy shoulders and a deep chest. Too big a man for her to drag up the steps, let alone lift. “Can you walk?” she asked cautiously.

“My legs are fine. Just damned sore.” He struggled to rise, then sank back in obvious pain. As his arm shifted, the moonlight revealed an ugly, dark blotch still oozing crimson down the left side of his shirt.

Drops of sweat glistened on his skin as he strained to get up. “Give me your hand.”

Rose knew she had to take control now, while she could. “Give me the gun first,” she said quietly.

His black eyes flashed with sudden wariness. “Who’s in the house?”

“Nobody who could do you any harm. Give me the gun.”

He hesitated, then shook his head groggily. “Can’t trust you,” he mumbled. “Can’t trust anybody till your husband gives his word. Let’s go inside, Mrs. Colby.”

Rose thought of her son, asleep in his cradle upstairs. Anxiety made her bold. “No,” she said.

“No?” He glared at her, as if questioning her sanity.

“Not until you give me the gun.”

“From here, lady, I’d say you were in no position to argue.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Rose retorted, masking her fear with ice. “You’re badly wounded, and I’m the only one who can help you. Shoot me, and you won’t last till morning.”

He blinked, as if trying to clear some unseen darkness from his vision. His gun hand quivered. “Your husband—”

“John died four months ago.” Rose thrust the truth hard into him like the point of a lance. She saw him slump, saw the resistance ebbing out of him. “Give me the pistol,” she said more gently. “Believe me, I’m all you’ve got.”

His eyelids drooped, then, with effort, jerked upward again. The stranger had lost a great deal of blood, Rose surmised. It was all he could do to stay conscious. He did not even resist as she reached out, grasped the Peacemaker by its long barrel, lifted it from his hand and carefully released the hammer.

“Come on,” she said, shoving the weapon into the knotted sash of her robe. “Let’s get you up those steps before you pass out.”

Crouching close, she managed to work her shoulder under his right arm. His body was rank with sweat and blood, his clothes saturated with wood smoke. The blending odors ignited memories of death and terror in Rose’s mind, but she forced them aside. This man was too weak to fear, she reassured herself, even though every instinct whispered that she was wrong.

“Help me,” she ordered, gathering her strength. “Now!”

A grunt of agony exploded through his teeth as they lurched upward together. Rose staggered under his weight, fighting for balance as he struggled to get his footing. His body was as hard as ironwood, all bone and sinew through his clothes.

“Can you make it up the steps?” She strained against him, her flesh hurting where his hand gripped her shoulder.