Apache Caress (17 page)

“I just decided I didn’t have to put up with being one of the mindless masses, that I could make my own destiny if I put my mind to it.”

“Put your mind to finding things washed up along the river, things we might be able to use. Like some rope or cans we can cook in–or maybe even our bedrolls. We could dry them out.”

“Those are long gone down river,” Sierra said. “Maybe we could make some fishhooks and catch a few fish.”

“Fish?”

She frowned at him. “Fish are usually found in rivers. We could roast them on sticks.”

“No.” His voice was firm as he shook his head. “You sound like the government. I think one of the reasons they decided to put the Apaches in Florida was that they thought we could cut expenses by catching a lot of fish to eat.”

“So? Sounds reasonable.”

“The Apache do not eat anything that swims.”

She looked at him and frowned as she unbraided her hair, shook it out to dry. “That’s silly.”

“Is it?” He paused in his bow-making. “Some Apaches have developed a taste for Army mules. It’s good, fat meat. They don’t understand why the whites don’t eat them.”

Sierra made a face. “Merciful heavens!”

Cholla laughed. “Same difference. The whites have no respect for Indian taboos. I’ll starve before I start catching fish.”

“And what about me? Am I supposed to starve, too?”

He looked at her a moment, then sighed. “For you, I might do it. I wouldn’t want my hostage to die on me.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” He seemed tired and even a little defeated as he looked around. “This Indian summer can’t last forever. We’ve got to be out of this country before winter begins in earnest. Somehow, my instinct tells me this is going to be an unusually bad season.”

She gave some thought to the train again. Sierra had no idea how often one came through. She wondered if there was a town or a ranch or any place they could walk to to get food. “If we run across a town or something, are you going to turn me loose?” She had finished combing her hair with her fingers and started braiding it again.

“I haven’t decided. Don’t worry me about it.” He sounded annoyed and out of sorts.

“Well, at least we’re alive,” she said.

He smiled wryly. “You never did thank me for saving your life by pulling you out of the river.”

“Why, you–! I wouldn’t have been in the river if it weren’t for you, or even on that train.” She reminded herself of all the things she’d been through because of him, and she promised herself she would be there to enjoy it when the Army hanged him or loaded him back on a Florida-bound prison train.

“At least we’re alive.”

“Alive?” Sierra fumed. “We’re out here with no supplies, no food. We don’t know where we are. It couldn’t get any worse than this.”

Cholla’s head came up suddenly and he froze. “Oh, yes, it could. Don’t move, Sierra.”

His tone and the way he clasped the butcher knife as he stared past her shoulder caused Sierra to turn around. A white woman wearing an elegant black velvet riding habit, two fancy pistols in her belt, rode out of the nearby woods, leading a group of mounted men.

“White people. I’m saved!” Sierra stood up even as Cholla grabbed for her. She eluded him, went running to meet the riders. “I’m here! Hey, here I am!”

The woman might have been pretty in her younger days, but she was nearing forty and her face was weathered and plain. She looked startled, held up a hand to halt the men riding with her. Sierra glanced over her shoulder, but Cholla had disappeared into the woods.

Well, maybe they won’t capture the Apache, but at least I’m safe, Sierra told herself. She ran toward the riders, waving her arm. “I sure am glad to see you! I need help.”

She came to a sudden halt, staring up at one of the men, recognizing him. The memory of ice blue eyes burned into her brain.

He grinned and leaned on his saddle horn. “You sure do, sweet thing. I ain’t forgot you.”

It was Slim.

Sierra wasn’t quite sure what to do. She glanced over her shoulder. Cholla had disappeared into the brush. It suddenly dawned on her that she was free, even if she had to deal with Slim.

She managed to smile, then stepped forward and addressed the woman rider. “I’m Sierra Forester. The law is looking for me. I’m so glad to see you.”

“Sweet thing,” Slim drawled, “the law is lookin’ for a lot of us. Ain’t that right, Belle?”

“Shut your mouth, Slim,” the woman snapped, she fixed her cold, dark gaze on Sierra. “Are you the one that shot Slim?”

What could she say with Slim leaning on his saddle horn, grinning down at her, a bandage around one arm. “I sure did. He and Pete tried to rape me.”

“I thought as much. It seems he forgot to tell me that.” The woman turned and glared at Slim, then smiled at Sierra. “Pete wasn’t worth the bullet it took to kill him nohow. I’m Belle Starr from over at Younger’s Bend. You heard of me?”

Her expression indicated she expected Sierra to say yes, so Sierra obliged. “Why, of course. Everyone’s heard of you. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

The woman beamed at the men in her party, her plain face lighting up. “You see? Those dime novels about me are getting around.” To Sierra, she said, “You appear to be in dire straits, miss. If you’d care to accompany us back to my place, maybe I can find some clothes to fit you, although you wear a larger size than I do.”

That certainly isn’t true, Sierra thought, but she sensed this older woman had a great sense of self-importance. Why else would she wear such an elegant velvet riding outfit and have two fine pistols stuck in her waistband? “I’d be happy to accompany you, Miss Starr.”

“It’s
Mrs.
Starr,” Belle said frostily

Slim snickered. “Belle’s been married so many times, she keeps a preacher on call. How many times is it, Belle, four?”

The woman fixed him with a withering gaze, and then her quirt snapped suddenly. The short whip caught Slim across the face.

“God damn, Belle, I was only jokin’!” Slim snarled, and the other men in the party looked away uneasily.

“Slim,” Belle said coldly, “when Jim and my son get back from Fort Smith, I think we need to have us a little talk. My latchkey is always out to hard cases, but I think you’ve done wore your welcome out.”

“I didn’t mean no harm, Belle.” Slim rubbed the red weal on his face. “I’m much obliged for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Then you ought to remember that Hanging Judge Parker over at Fort Smith would dearly love to know where to find you.”

“I said I begged yore pardon, Belle,” Slim grumbled. “You want I should get down and crawl on my belly like a damned dog?”

Sierra began to feel uneasy. She had evidently been forgotten during this quibbling. “Mrs. Starr, if you’d take me someplace where I can get a message to the Army or the law, they’re looking for me.”

“They’re looking for me, too,” Belle smiled a little proudly. “Only the fact that I help Judge Parker run down an
hombre
now and then here in the Nations keeps him off my back.” She turned to one of the other men. “Joe, get the lady a horse.”

The unshaven hombre brought around one of the fine pair of unsaddled palominos he’d been leading, and Sierra managed to get up on the beast. It wore a Running B brand on its hip. B for Belle, she thought as she looked over the glowering men and decided to ride up next to the woman. When she glanced at Slim, he ran his tongue along his lips in an almost obscene manner. He mouthed the words at her, Just wait!

Sierra shuddered. She might not be any safer riding with this rowdy-looking bunch than she had been with Cholla, but if she could get a message to the authorities, she’d be out of here in a day or two.

Belle looked over at her as they rode along. “What happened to the big Indian Slim says was on that train with you?”

“He kidnapped me to use as a hostage,” Sierra said, “but when Pete and Slim tried to rape me, he got Pete.”

“Sounds like quite a man,” Belle said as they rode along. “I like Indian bucks; been married to two of them.”

Sierra frowned. “I think he was just trying to hang on to me in case he needed a human shield if he tangled with a posse.”

“What happened to him?”

“He turned tail and ran like a rabbit when you rode up,” Sierra snapped. She was a little surprised to find that Cholla’s desertion annoyed her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Slim watching her. Had she gotten out of the frying pan and into the fire?

They rode to Belle’s cabin on the bend of the South Canadian River, to the east of where Sierra and Cholla had jumped off the train. Sierra got the feeling that Belle might be little more than a den mother to every two-bit outlaw in the Indian Nations. Once she was cleaned up and wearing one of Belle’s old dresses, though, the woman acted annoyed because at supper the men watched Sierra and ignored her.

When they finished eating, they went into the parlor and Belle sat down at the piano. “Do you play?”

“No, but I’d love to hear you,” Sierra said politely.

Belle immediately preened a little, both delighted and relieved that she had found something at which she could best the younger woman. “I was good enough. I played at theaters some, and I always dreamed of being on the stage. I was hoping my daughter, Pearl, would follow in my footsteps, but she doesn’t seem to have much talent in that direction.”

“Oh, I’d be pleased to meet Pearl–and the rest of your family, too.”

Belle stiffened. “Jim and my son, Eddie, are gone on business, and Pearl ... well, Pearl’s gone to visit her aunt in Missouri.”

Slim snickered, and Belle fixed him with a black look. “Is there something terribly funny, Slim?”

He coughed, got up, and poured himself a whiskey. “No, ma’am.”

“I think,” Belle said icily, “tomorrow you’d better ride on, Slim.”

Sierra caught the tension as the other men exchanged glances. She was only glad the older woman didn’t have her quirt at hand. The way Belle was glaring at Slim, the gunfighter would have had more red welts across his face.

Belle began to play the piano. She played “Buffalo Gals;” “Listen to the Mocking Bird,” and that Civil War favorite, “Lorena.”

Sierra was so tired, she could hardly sit up, but she applauded politely as did the men. Whatever else Belle Starr was, she was a talented performer. She wasn’t all that pretty, though. She looked every day of her forty years, and her face was hard, the face of a woman who had survived the Civil War and a lot of personal adversity.

Slim caught Sierra’s arm. “Hey, sweet thing, how about a dance?”

She tried to protest, but Slim swept her into his arms, holding her tightly as he danced her across the plank floor. His body rubbed against hers, and the lust in his eyes was unmistakable. Sierra complained about a hurt ankle, pulled away from him, went back to the piano.

Belle played a couple more songs, then looked bored and stood up, frowned at Sierra. “You can have Pearl’s room at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” Sierra said, “and tomorrow you’ll try to get a message to Fort Smith, or maybe give me an escort there?”

“We’ll see,” Belle answered with a shrug. Sierra realized immediately that she was expected to keep her mouth shut and let Belle make the decisions. Certainly the older, plain-faced woman did not seem to like other women. Maybe she saw them all as enemies, especially younger, prettier ones.

Sierra said her good nights and retired, making sure she locked her door behind her. Had she fallen into a nest of outlaws and robbers? She might not be a bit better off than when she’d been a captive of the Apache.

Cholla.
His face came to her mind, and she finally faced the fact that she was annoyed with him, no, angry with him for deserting her the minute the group had ridden up. By now he was probably headed southwest, Sierra already forgotten in his all-consuming passion to return to his own land. She just hoped he didn’t take another hostage along the way.

What was she to do now that she was rid of him? She thought about it as she got ready for bed. When she got to Fort Smith, she might go back to St. Louis. Why? She didn’t know anyone there who would help her.

It occurred to her that Robert had relatives in Austin, although she had never met them. She had written a note to Robert’s mother at his death, but had never gotten an answer. Her husband had said his mother had disinherited him. Perhaps grief might have softened his mother’s heart, and Sierra would be welcomed into the family fold. She hadn’t realized how much she missed Zanna and Grandfather and how alone she was. Any family was better than none at all.

Sierra got into bed and blew out the lamp, wondering where Belle’s daughter was? Slim’s snicker hinted of scandal. Well, it was hardly Sierra’s business. She lay back on the pillow with a sigh, and dropped off to sleep.

Cholla watched from the brush as Sierra climbed up on the palomino and rode away, bareback, with the older woman and the men. He had to fight an urge to run after them, stop her. But he stayed put. Armed with only a butcher knife, he could hardly take on half a dozen outlaws. He had recognized Slim when the group first rode out of the trees.

Sierra should have obeyed when he’d told her to run, but the stubborn girl wouldn’t listen. Cholla wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but the riders’ expressions told him Sierra might have gotten herself into more trouble than she realized.

That wasn’t his problem anymore. He turned toward the southwest and started walking. Within hours, Sierra might have a posse or the soldiers looking for him, so he intended to get out of the Territory as fast as he could. If she ended up being the entertainment for a bunch of white outlaws, that wasn’t his concern. But his steps slowed after a few hundred yards.

Sierra wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him. On the other hand, it was all she deserved for being Robert Forester’s woman. He hoped those
hombres
enjoyed her as much as he had. Then he remembered her in his arms, writhing under him as her own passion built, and rage swept over him at thinking the white men might make use of her beautiful body. Sierra belonged to him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, undecided. Finally, cursing himself for a fool, Cholla set off after the group. Keeping out of sight and checking hoof marks, he followed the riders to a big cabin on the bend of the river. It was nestled in a grove of trees.

By Usen, why did he bother? She didn’t want to go with him, and he could find a new hostage down the line if he needed one. Dragging a captive along only slowed him down and complicated things. Of course, I didn’t come just for Sierra, he thought as darkness came on and he crept to the cabin window to look in. He would just check to make sure they were all occupied, then he’d steal a horse and maybe some supplies from this nest of white outlaws, and be on his way. He heard music. White man’s music.

They were all gathered around a piano, and the older woman played. Cholla took a long look at Sierra. Washed and combed and in a clean outfit, she was breathtakingly beautiful. From outside the window, he watched Slim look at her, lust in his pale, ice blue eyes, then sweep her into a dance.

Sierra held herself rigid as if she weren’t enjoying herself at all, but Slim only held her tighter, rubbing his body against hers.

It serves the little chit right, Cholla thought, but he was annoyed with the man nonetheless. Sierra was Cholla’s captive, and he’d begun to think of her as his personal possession. He didn’t like to see Slim rubbing his chest up against her breasts. Maybe if I take her away with me, the older woman will shrug off the whole incident and forget about it, he told himself. After all why should she help a younger, prettier woman when her expressions reveal she is jealous of Sierra?

The older woman stopped playing. They were going to bed now. Cholla watched them leave. The men went out the back door to a bunkhouse. When he looked around, both women had disappeared into a hall. What should he do?

Good sense told him to wait until everyone was asleep, climb through the window and steal some of the guns in the rack over the stone fireplace, take some food from the kitchen, grab a horse, and be on his way southwest. Horse stealing could get a man hanged faster than murder in the West, Cholla remembered. But the group had some good mounts. He recalled the pair of palominos one of them had been leading, unusual coloring and top quality.

It was cold outside, frost gradually settling on the dead grass and making it crunch beneath his moccasins. The lights went out in all the buildings. Cholla crept around to the wing where the hall led, tried to decide which window was Sierra’s. There was really no way to tell.

He chose one, pushed the window up slowly, climbed over the sill. A woman’s form lay under the blankets, barely visible in the shadows, dark hair spread loose over the pillow. He tiptoed over, leaned closer. With no moon, it was as dark as the inside of a cave in there. He leaned over clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth and held onto her as she came awake, struggling. “It’s okay,” he assured her softly. “It’s me. I came back for you.”

Immediately, the woman stopped struggling and relaxed. Cholla heaved a sigh of relief. Was she happy he was there, or was it a trick? When he removed his hand, was she going to scream and bring everyone running?

Without taking his hand from her mouth, he lay down on the bed beside her. She reached out to pull him close, stroke his chest, run her hand down his thighs. The implications were obvious. She wanted him; was glad to see him. Maybe the little fool had realized she was in deep trouble here with all these
hombres
eyeing her–a fawn in a coyote’s den.

He slipped his fingers off her mouth as he covered it with his own, her tongue went between his lips, her hand reached to unbutton his shirt.

Her skin didn’t feel as satiny smooth as before. Nor did her breasts seem as large as he remembered, and they sagged a little in his hand. A horrible thought crossed his mind. Cholla pulled back and took a good look at the woman who was already reaching to unbutton his pants.