Apache Flame (5 page)

“I was getting more than that in Virginia City. Anyway, it’s
not the money. And I don’t need a place to stay.”

Waller held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All
right,” he said, obviously exasperated, “We’ll pay you forty dollars a month,
and pay for your ammunition, too. You can’t turn that down! No need to decide
right now,” he added hastily. “Why don’t you think it over for a day or two?
We’ll be in touch.”

Waller pumped Mitch’s hand again, then hustled his silent
companion into the street where a tall, lanky man dressed in unrelieved black
was lining up the two dead bodies while a man Mitch assumed was a photographer
for the
Canyon Creek Gazette
set up his equipment and began to take
pictures.

Shaking his head, Mitch turned and went back into the
saloon. Newspapers seemed to have a fondness for photographs of dead outlaws.
He remembered seeing a photograph of the Howard gang. All six of them had been
killed during a bank robbery in Tucson. The undertaker had laid them out side
by side in their coffins. The photograph had made the front page. Arizona was a
colorful place. Crawling with gunmen and gamblers, rustlers and stagecoach
robbers, it had earned the name the Southwest Corner of Hell. Mitch had spent a
little time there, and he had been inclined to agree.

Resuming his place at the table, he poured himself another
drink. Sheriff, indeed. He planned to get shut of this town just as soon as
possible. Still, it would give him something to do until he found a buyer for
the old man’s house. He laughed soundlessly, humorlessly. For the first time in
his life, he didn’t have to work for wages. He could fix up the house, stock
the ranch with cattle and most likely earn a comfortable living selling beef to
the cavalry at Fort Apache, but the mere idea left a bad taste in his mouth.
Staying at the ranch would be like living off the old man, and that was
something he couldn’t do.

Sheriff of Canyon Creek, New Mexico, he mused. It would be a
hell of a joke on the town.

By the time he was halfway through the bottle, he had
decided to take the job.

Chapter Six

Alisha took a last look in the full-length mirror that stood
in the corner of her bedroom, making sure her bonnet was straight. It was a new
bonnet, dark blue lined with a lighter blue silk. It had been imported from
France. She turned her head from side to side. It was quite the most becoming
bonnet she had ever owned, she thought, and then chided herself for her vanity
as she tied the long ribbons into a pert bow beneath her chin. It was rare that
she spent her hard-earned cash on such fripperies, but she had seen the bonnet
in a mail order catalog and sent for it before she could talk herself out of
it.

The chiming of the courthouse clock reminded her she would
be late to preaching if she didn’t hurry, and that would never do. Turning away
from the mirror, she took a deep breath. Her mind had been in turmoil ever
since Mitch rode into town. Last night, she had almost burned her father’s
dinner. But how was she supposed to be able to think of mundane things like
cooking and teaching when
he
was back?

Mitch was the new lawman. He had killed two men and foiled a
bank robbery. The news was all over town. People were calling him a hero. She
shook her head. What had he been thinking, to risk his life like that? And why
had he accepted the offer of the town counsel? He had never liked it here. Even
if he hadn’t wanted to get away from his father, he would have left just to get
away from the censure of the town. What was she going to do? Canyon Creek was a
small community. She was bound to run into him often, at socials, the Fourth of
July picnic, the Harvest dance, on the street, in the mercantile. At least she
wouldn’t have to worry about running into him in church!

She pressed her hand over her heart. He couldn’t stay here,
he just couldn’t. Maybe she could talk to him, make him see how impossible it
was.

Grabbing her reticule, she hurried from her room and flew
down the stairs. Outside, she smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath, and
pasted a smile on her face. It wasn’t seemly for the preacher’s daughter to be
seen running down the street, especially when she was also the schoolmarm. She
must always walk sedately and smile at everyone she met.

She reached the church a few minutes later. Entering the
sanctuary from the side door, she took her place at the organ and struck the
chords of the opening hymn. She couldn’t help smiling as the congregation began
to sing “Shall We Gather At the River”. Nor could she help wondering what had
happened to the carefree girl who had once gone skinny-dipping with Mitchy…

She stared at him, her eyes wide, unable to believe he was
serious. “I can’t go swimming now,” she said. “I didn’t bring anything to
wear.” She wasn’t a little girl anymore; she couldn’t swim in her drawers.
These days, she swam in an old shirt of her father’s and a pair of Mitchy’s
cut-off trousers.

“You don’t need anything to wear,” he had replied with a
roguish grin. “I’m not wearing anything.”

“Mitchy!”

“Come on in, ‘Lisha. Don’t be chicken.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts. “What if someone
comes?”

“No one’s going to come down here at this time of night.
Come on.”

“We’re here.” She tried not to stare at him. The water
covered him a few inches above his waist. She tried not to think that he was
naked beneath the water, tried not to notice the way the water glistened on his
sun-bronzed skin, tried not to stare at his broad shoulders, at the way the
setting sun caressed his hair, highlighting the shiny black with bright gold.

“Come on, ‘Lisha,” he coaxed. “I know you can swim. I taught
you.”

He had taught her so many things. Of course, her father
wouldn’t have approved of most of them.

Mitch smiled at her, his head cocked to one side, one brow
raised. “Come on, ‘Lisha, you know you want to.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

He winked at her. “I’ll keep your secret, darlin’. Haven’t I
kept all the others?”

She nodded. She had told him things she had never told
another soul, her hopes, her fears, her girlish dreams. “Turn your back.”

He splashed her once, then turned around, giving her a clear
view of his back. It was a beautiful back, she thought, if a man’s back could
be called beautiful.

But there was no time to admire it now, not when he was
liable to turn around at any minute.

She undressed quickly and slid into the river, shrieking as
the cold water closed over her. “Why didn’t you tell me it’s freezing!” she
exclaimed. She bent at the waist and crossed her arms over her breasts again.

“You’ll get used to it.” He turned to face her, grinning.
“Come on, I’ll race you to the bend of the river.”

She shook her head. “It’s too cold.”

“Don’t be such a baby. Come on, I’ll even give you a head start.”

“Oh, all right,” she agreed, knowing he would just rag on
her until she gave him his way.

“Count of twenty,” he said.

“Make it thirty. And count slow.”

“All right. Thirty. Go!”

She struck out, her strokes long and even, the way he had
taught her. She could hear him counting, hear the suppressed laughter in his
voice. He was so sure he would win. But then, he always did. But not today!
Concentrating, she swam for all she was worth. She could hear him coming up
fast behind her, but it didn’t matter. She was going to win!

She was grinning triumphantly when he reached her. “Ha!” she
shouted triumphantly. “I won!”

“So you did,” he agreed. “I guess there really is a first
time for everything.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then shrieked as he put his
hand on top of her head and pushed her under the water. She came up sputtering
and swinging, heard him grunt as her fist connected with his eye…

“Oh, Mitchy, I’m sorry,” she said, instantly contrite. “Are
you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.”

But even then, his eye had been turning red, swelling shut…

“Let us pray.”

Alisha bowed her head and folded her hands, but she didn’t
hear the words of her father’s prayer. She was lost in the past. For days after
she hit him, Mitch had sported the most gorgeous shiner. She had felt guilty as
she watched it change color, from black to purple to bilious green.
Mitchy,
oh Mitchy. I waited and waited. Why didn’t you send for me?

She looked up as her father said “Amen,” felt her heart
catch in her throat as she glanced out over the congregation and saw Mitch
sitting in the second row, beside Mr. West, who was snoring softly, as usual.
She closed her eyes and opened them again, certain she was imagining things.
But he was still there. What on earth was Mitch doing here? He had never come
to church, not once in all the years she had known him.

She looked away before he could catch her staring, only to
find her gaze straying toward him again moments later. He looked older, of
course, and even more handsome that she recalled. She thought of the baby she
had lost. Had her son lived, would he have looked like Mitch? Her son, their
son, would be four now. If he had lived…

She felt a wave of heat sweep up her neck and into her
cheeks when Mitch’s gaze met hers, and she quickly looked away, wondering if
the entire congregation was aware of the tension that flowed between the two of
them.

She was glad when it was time to play the organ for the next
hymn, though Mitchy’s presence made her so nervous, she made several mistakes,
something she rarely did. She caught her father looking at her strangely and
shrugged, certain he would comment on it later.

She could feel Mitch watching her, and she wondered again
what had brought him to church. He wasn’t of her faith, nor did he believe in
any of the others. She had often asked him to attend church services with her
when they were children, and he had always refused, saying that he didn’t hold
with the white man’s religion, that, when he prayed, he prayed to
Usen
.
She had asked if he couldn’t pray to
Usen
in her church, and he had
said, no, that the Great Spirit of the Apache couldn’t be found within the four
square walls of the white man’s church. She wondered if he had changed his mind
about that, or if he was there today merely to make her uneasy. She winced as
she hit another wrong note.

When the hymn was over, she moved to one of the choir seats
behind the pulpit. She tried to concentrate on her father’s sermon, but all she
could think about was Mitch, laughing at her, smiling at her, kissing her.

She drew her gaze from Mitch and searched the congregation
for Roger. He was sitting near the back, wearing his Sunday-go-to-meeting blue
suit, his cravat neatly tied, his blond hair slicked back. He would expect an
invitation to supper, and then, after he spent an hour or so visiting with her
father, they would take a walk through town, looking in the store windows,
making small talk. He would bring her home, thank her for a pleasant evening,
give her a quick kiss good night.

She sighed heavily, suddenly depressed at the thought of
spending another evening with Roger and her father. She glanced at Mitch again.
He had ridden out of her life and taken all her girlish hopes and dreams, all
her laugher and good times, with him.

She hated him for that.

She stood up and moved to the organ as her father began to
offer the benediction.

* * * * *

Mitch glanced around the church as Russell Faraday’s
sonorous voice pleaded with the Almighty on behalf of his congregation. It was
a large square building, with a peaked roof and whitewashed walls. The benches
were made of pine, the altar rail and pulpit of oak. A large cross, also made
of oak, hung on the wall behind the pulpit. Sunlight streamed through a round
stained glass window. He studied the window a moment. The scene depicted the
Good Shepherd standing near a clear blue stream, surrounded by a flock of
sheep. One small white lamb stood on the far side of the water, looking lost
and forlorn.

Mitch shook his head as the prayer went on and on. His old
man hadn’t believed in a Supreme Being, but then, he hadn’t believed in much of
anything. His mother had worshipped in the Apache way. She had no Sabbath day,
as such, no holy days. She had told him that the People worshipped when moved upon
to do so. Sometimes the whole tribe would gather to sing and pray. At other
times, only a few would join together. She told him that sometimes they prayed
in silence, at other times each one assembled would pray aloud. Sometimes an
Old One would pray for all. He had never seen his mother pray, yet he knew her
faith in
Usen
had been strong and unwavering.

Mitch let out a sigh. He wasn’t sure what foolishness had
brought him here this morning. It was the first time he had ever set foot in
this church, or any church, for that matter. He had told himself it was because
he was now the sheriff and people expected it of him, but that was a lie. He
had never done what people expected of him. He had come here to see Alisha and
for no other reason.

It was hard to believe that the woman sitting at the organ,
modestly clad in a dark blue dress and silk-lined bonnet, was the same girl he
had once known. He couldn’t imagine this demure woman sneaking out of her house
to meet him late at night, or skinny-dipping in the creek.

He had a sudden, inexplicable urge to go to her house that
night, to stand beneath her window and call her name and see if she would meet
him in the moonlight.

Faraday said the final Amen. Mr. West came awake with a
start as the strains of “Blest Be the Tie That Binds” filled the air. The
congregation rose to their feet and began to file out of the church.

Outside, Mitch nodded to Waller and Plumber, then skirted
several groups of parishioners who were gathered together, talking about the
weather, the sermon, babies, and all the other mundane things small-town people
gossiped about.