Apache Flame (6 page)

Crossing the dusty street, he headed toward the hotel,
thinking about getting something to eat. Abruptly, he changed directions and
made his way toward the river. The water was running high and fast due to the
recent rains. Standing on the bank, he looked at the ramshackle huts on the
other side. Nobody should have to live like that, he mused, remembering the tar
paper shack where he’d spent the first twelve years of his life. Cold and
drafty in the winter, hotter than hell’s furnace in the summer. He remembered
drawing water from the river to bathe in, collecting wood for the stove.

He remembered his mother…

“Why do you live with that man?” He had been eight or nine
when he asked that question for the first time.

“Because he is your father.”

He had frowned at her, wondering how his gentle mother could
love such an abusive, angry man. “He’s mean to you,” he said, staring at the
dark ugly bruise on her arm. “He hits you.”

“He doesn’t mean it,
ciye
.”

He hadn’t understood why his mother defended Con Garret, why
she stayed with him.

Now, more than twenty years later, he still didn’t
understand why his mother had stayed with his old man for so long, or why she
had finally left him to go back to her own people. He had never blamed her for
leaving, only for not taking him with her.

He never should have come back here. Muttering an oath, he
picked up a rock and tossed it into the river. It was all in the past and best
forgotten.

Like Alisha…

A faint rustling from down river drew his attention. He
glanced over his shoulder, and she was there, poised like a doe ready to take
flight.

“‘Lisha.”

“Hello, Mitch.”

She had changed out of her dark blue dress into a gray skirt
and white shirtwaist. She wasn’t wearing a hat and he had a sudden urge to
loosen her braid and run his fingers through the thick golden strands.

“It’s been a long time,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Yes.” Five years, two months, three days.

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine. You?” She couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked
wonderful. Gone was the tall skinny boy in patched clothes and in his place
stood a ruggedly handsome man dressed in a crisp white shirt, black wool
trousers, black boots, and a black hat with a snakeskin band.

“I’m doing all right.”

“I guess you’re planning to stay awhile,” Alisha glanced at
the badge pinned to his shirt pocket, “now that you’re the new Sheriff and
all.”

He shrugged.

She smoothed a hand over the front of her skirt. “What have
you been doing all these years?”

“Not much. How about you? You happy with Smithfield? He
treating you all right?”

“Of course. We’re getting married in June.”

“You’re not married yet?” He stared at her. He had heard of
long engagements, but five years? Hell, it was none of his business. There was
no point in bringing up the past. She was engaged to Smithfield. And even
though he had never cared much for the man, he had to admit that Smithfield had
turned out to be a decent sort, honest and hard-working. No doubt he would make
Alisha a good husband.

She ignored his question. She didn’t want to talk about
herself, about why she had waited so long to marry. “What about you, Mitch? Are
you married?”

“No.”

She wanted to ask him why he had never sent for her, but she
couldn’t summon the nerve. Besides, it didn’t matter now. She had been engaged
to Roger for the past eight months. In that time, she had come to love him, not
with the same intensity she had once loved Mitch, to be sure, but she loved
Roger nonetheless. He was a fine, decent man, and she knew marrying him was the
right thing to do. Why, then, did his ring suddenly feel heavy on her finger?

“I was surprised to see you in church this morning,” she
said, needing to break the heavy silence that had settled between them.

“I was a little surprised myself. Your old man preaches a
hell of a sermon. All that fire and brimstone.”

“Yes, he does.” There was no mistaking the love, or the
pride, in her voice. She glanced out over the creek, remembering the first time
she had seen Mitch here.
This is my spot.
She smiled wistfully as she
recalled that day.

“What are you thinking?” Mitch asked.

“Nothing, really. Just remembering.”

“We had some good times here,” he remarked, making her
wonder if he, too, was reminiscing about those halcyon days gone by.

“Yes.” It was here, in this very place, that he had taught
her to swim. It was on this very rock that he had taught her how to kiss… She
shook the memory away. “I’d better go.”

“Smithfield coming to Sunday dinner?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Would you like to join us?”
She said the words quickly, before she could change her mind. She could well
imagine her father’s shock, Roger’s displeasure. But the words had been said,
and she couldn’t call them back. Didn’t want to call them back.

“Why do I have the feeling you’d faint if I said yes?”

She lifted her chin and Mitch caught a glimpse of the spunky
girl she had been years ago.

“Will you come?” Alisha asked. She could feel a tide of
color rushing into her cheeks but she refused to look away, refused to rescind
the invitation. She could invite anyone she pleased to dinner. After all, it
was her house, too, and she was the one doing the cooking! Besides, Mitchy’s
presence at the table would certainly add a little excitement to their staid
evenings.

“Well, thanks for the invite, but I don’t think so. Sitting
with your old man and your steady beau doesn’t sound the least bit pleasant.”
He grinned at her. “Although just seeing the expression on your old man’s face
might be worth it.”

She laughed, and he laughed with her. Too long, she thought,
it had been far too long since she felt this lighthearted, this happy. Why was
it only Mitch who made her feel this way?

Why hadn’t he sent for her? The laughter died in her throat
as the question that had plagued her for the last five years teased the back of
her mind. Why, why?
“I’ll send for you, as soon as I get settled somewhere,”
he had said.
“Will
you come?”
She could still hear his words in
her mind, still hear herself asking,
“You promise, Mitchy
?” and his
voice assuring her that he would.

What had happened to make him change his mind? Woman-like,
she had assumed he had found someone else, but that didn’t seem to be the case.
She wished she had the nerve to ask him straight out, but she couldn’t form the
words.

“Well,” she said at last, “I’ve got to go. Maybe you’ll come
to dinner some other time.”

“Maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe I could take you out
to dinner some night.”

She should decline, politely. It would only cause trouble
with Roger and her father if she were seen in Mitch’s company, not to mention
the gossip it would surely arouse.

She took a deep breath, prepared to refuse. “Yes,” she said.
“I’d like that.”

“Tomorrow night?”

She nodded, her heart pounding. “Where?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

Alisha shook her head. “I’ll meet you.” She saw the protest
rise in his eyes. “Please, Mitch.”

“All right. The hotel dining room, at six?”

“I’ll be there.”

He watched her walk away, admiring the gentle sway of her
hips, the way the brilliant rays of the afternoon sun seemed to follow her,
surrounding her in a halo of golden light. He wondered what the odds were of
her actually showing up at the restaurant tomorrow night. Probably not too
good. Unless he missed his guess, she would change her mind as soon as she got
home, maybe send him a brief note of apology.

Still it was something to look forward to.

Chapter Seven

Her father and Roger discussed politics over dinner. Alisha
said little. Being a woman, she wasn’t expected to have an opinion on who would
be the best candidate for governor, or the pros and cons of having the railroad
come through town. Usually, such narrow-mindedness annoyed her, but tonight she
was glad to remain silent while the men talked. She wouldn’t have been able to
concentrate on the conversation anyway. All she could think about was Mitch. He
was back, and he was here to stay, at least for a while. And she was having
dinner with him tomorrow night.

“Hard to believe Garret’s back in town.”

Alisha looked up at the mention of Mitch’s voice.

“People are calling him a hero,” her father said. “If he
hadn’t interfered the other day, the robbers would have gotten away with near
ten thousand dollars.”

“He was always looking for a fight, as I recall,” Roger
said, his voice heavy with disdain. He looked at Alisha. “Isn’t that right?”

“Was he?” She didn’t want to discuss Mitch with her father
or Roger. Standing abruptly, she picked up her dishes and carried them into the
kitchen.

The men went into the parlor while she cleared the table and
did the dishes. Standing at the sink, her hands immersed in dishwater, she
tried to think of something, anything, besides Mitch Garret, but it was
impossible. She’d been unable to think of anything else since he came back to
town. Had she truly thought of anything else since he went away? Dinner,
tomorrow night. What should she wear? She looked down at her dress. Long
sleeves, high collar, utterly dreary, she thought. All her clothes were drab
and dreary. Everything in her closet was brown or gray or dark blue. She might as
well be an old maid or a widow. She didn’t own a single dress that was bright
or cheerful or even pretty.

She thought about the soiled doves she sometimes saw coming
out of the saloon. They rouged their cheeks and painted their lips and put kohl
on their eyes, and wore low-cut dresses in gaudy colors. She might not agree
with their lifestyle, but people, especially the men, noticed them. And she
very much wanted Mitch to sit up and take notice.

She rinsed the dishes, plucked a cotton towel from the back of
a chair, and began to dry them. Well, there was only one thing to do. She was
going to buy a new dress. She had been saving money out of her wages to buy a
new rocking chair for her father for Christmas, but suddenly a new dress seemed
more important. Something red, she thought, giggling. Something wickedly
low-cut that would show off her bosom and her shoulders.

When the dishes were done, she poured three cups of coffee
and placed them on a tray. She added the sugar bowl and creamer, a plate of
sugar cookies she had baked earlier that day, and carried the tray into the
parlor.

Her father and Roger both looked up at her and smiled.

Alisha smiled back, wondering what her father and fiancé
would think if they knew she was planning to have dinner with Mitch Garret
tomorrow night.

* * * * *

Mitch stood outside the restaurant where he was supposed to
meet Alisha. According to the courthouse clock, it was a quarter past six. He
grunted softly. Well, he hadn’t really expected her to show up.

He swore under his breath, more disappointed than he wanted
to admit. He’d been looking forward to seeing her all day. To pass the time, he
had taken a ride around the ranch. It was a pretty piece of land, especially
the meadow near the south pasture. Towering pines bordered the lush green
meadow that was watered by a narrow stream. It wouldn’t take much to restore
the ranch. A little money, a lot of hard work, and it would make a good place
to settle down, raise some cattle and some kids… He’d never thought much about
being a father, maybe because his old man had been such a rotten one, but
lately he’d been thinking it might be nice to have a son of his own.

He swore again. He’d been doing far too much thinking
lately. He needed to get shed of this town right quick before he made a damn
fool out of himself.

He blew out a sigh as the clock chimed the half-hour.
Six-thirty.

There was no point waiting around any longer. He was about
to head for the nearest saloon when he saw a woman clad in a sky-blue dress
hurrying down the boardwalk.

A slow smile spread over his lips as he recognized Alisha.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly.

His gaze moved over her, slow and lazy and filled with
appreciation. “It was the worth the wait.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Thank you.”

He opened the door for her, followed her inside. It was a
pretty fancy place for a town the size of Canyon Creek. The tables were covered
with white cloths. Dozens of candles in silver wall sconces lit the room with a
soft warm glow. Each table had a small vase of wildflowers. The dishes were
china, the glassware looked like crystal.

Alisha held her head high as she made her way to an empty
table near the back, well away from the windows near the street. She was sure
it was only her imagination, but she couldn’t help feeling that people were
staring at her, pointing, gossiping behind her back, speculating on what Miss
Faraday was doing dining with a man who was not her fiancé, her father, or a
relative. A few of them recognized Mitch. She saw it in their eyes, heard it in
the whispers that followed them to their table.

Mitch held her chair for her. He had picked up some manners
somewhere along the way, she thought as she watched him take the seat across
from hers, unfold his napkin and put it in his lap.

She picked up the menu, glad to have something to do with
her hands.

“What’s good here?” Mitch asked.

“Just about everything,” Alisha replied, not meeting his
gaze.

“What are you having?”

“I’m not sure. The roast beef, I think. Although their fried
chicken is very good, too.” She looked at him over the top of her menu. “I’ll
bet you have the chicken.”

He grinned at her. “You’d win.”

She grinned back. Mitch had always loved Chloe’s fried
chicken. Alisha had asked her to make it often, just so she could sneak some to
Mitch.