Apache Flame (8 page)

“You lied to me.”

She fought back the anger rising within her. “You know all
about lies, don’t you, Papa?” she asked quietly.

The color drained from her father’s face, but he didn’t deny
it. “He was no good, Alisha. A half-breed with no future. I did what I thought
was best for you, the same as any father would have done.” He held his hands
out, palm up, in a gesture of supplication. “Surely you can see that?”

“No, Papa, I can’t see that. I loved Mitch, and he loved me.
“

“I made the right decision.”

“Papa, I was old enough to make my own decisions.”

“Old enough,” he scoffed. “Why you were still a child,
barely seventeen.”

“Mama was sixteen when she married you.” Alisha shook her
head, her faith in her father badly shaken. “I’ve always believed everything
you taught me. How many of them have been lies, Papa?” she asked, her voice and
her temper rising. “How many?”

Russell stared at his daughter, each word like a blow
striking his heart. “Alisha, please…”

“How could you do such a dreadful thing?” she exclaimed. “You
ruined my life! I’ll never believe anything you tell me again,” she declared as
she turned and ran out of the room. “Never!”

“Alisha, wait!” Russell felt a stab of pain in his chest as
he watched his daughter run out of the room. “Angela,” he murmured as he
slumped back in his chair. “Angela, what have I done?”

Chapter Eight

He’d said he would stay away from her, and he had meant it,
but it seemed that every time Mitch turned around in the next few days, Alisha
was there. In the general store. Crossing the street. At the bank. Or maybe,
subconsciously, he was seeking her out. All he knew was that seeing her every
day was driving him crazy. And seeing her with Roger Smithfield was enough to
tie his stomach in knots.

Smithfield. Always the teacher’s pet in school. Always clean
and neat, his shoes always shined, his blond hair slicked back. Never in
trouble. Mitch would have died before he would have admitted it, but he’d
always been a little jealous of Smithfield’s scrubbed good looks. The girls had
always fawned over him, all except Alisha.

Much to his surprise, Mitch found himself in church again
the following Sunday morning. He hadn’t intended to go and had, in fact, been
more than a little late in arriving. The congregation was halfway through the
second hymn when he slipped into the first vacant seat he came to. Glancing
around, he found himself sitting across the aisle from Roger Smithfield.
Looking at the man, it was easy to see why Alisha wanted to marry him. He was
tall and good-looking, with his wavy blond hair and winning smile. Mitch had
seen the house Smithfield was building for Alisha. It was going to be the
showplace of the county. No doubt she would be very happy there, in her new
house, with her new husband…

He shifted in his seat. What the devil was he doing here,
driving himself crazy?

He didn’t hear a word of Faraday’s sermon. All he could
think of was Alisha living in another man’s house, cooking his meals, mending
his clothes, sharing his life, his bed…

When Russell Faraday stood to offer the benediction, Mitch
left the church and headed for the jail. Removing his badge, he tossed it on
the desk, then wrote a short note to the city fathers telling them to find
someone else for the job.

Going up to the house—it would never be home—he packed his
gear. He had always intended to visit his mother’s people, and this seemed like
a damn good time to do just that.

A light rain was falling when he stepped outside. His horse
looked up at him and shook her head. With a grin, Mitch closed the front door,
then descended the stairs. He patted the bay on the shoulder, then slid his
rifle into the boot and swung into the saddle. He remembered his mother telling
him that the Apache were usually in Apache Pass this time of the year. If he
rode hard, he could be there day after tomorrow.

Settling his hat on his head, he lifting the reins and urged
his horse into a lope. A long ride in the rain was just what he needed.

Alisha lifted her head as her father said the final Amen.
Taking her seat at the organ, she glanced quickly toward the back of the
church, frowned when she saw that Mitch was gone. She told herself it was just
as well; she had nothing more to say to him, but she couldn’t suppress her
disappointment. She like having Mitch around, liked knowing he was there.

Roger was waiting for her when she left the church a few
minutes later.

“Hello, Alisha,” he said. “Right nice sermon your father
preached today.”

She smiled up at him. It was the same thing he said every
Sunday.

“Yes.” She glanced around the churchyard, hoping to see
Mitch loitering about.

“Mind if I walk you home?”

“Of course not.” He asked that, in one form or another,
every Sunday, too. It had never bothered her before. Why did she suddenly find
it so annoying? And where was Mitch?

“Is your father feeling well?”

“What do you mean?”

Roger patted her shoulder. “Nothing. He just looks a little
pale this morning.”

“Does he?” She felt a stab of guilt of conscience,
remembering the scene she had caused the night she’d had dinner with Mitch. Her
father had been unusually quiet and withdrawn ever since then. Now that she
thought about it, he had looked a little wan these past few days.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Roger said. He
patted her shoulder again. “You haven’t been out to see the house in the last
few days. It should be finished by the end of next week.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Shall we go look at it now?”

“If you like.”

“I think you’ll be pleased,” Roger said, taking her hand in
his.

Reversing direction, they walked through the town. Alisha
nodded at the people they passed—old Mr. West sitting in a rocking chair in
front of the barber shop, Mrs. Chamberlain, who was sweeping the boardwalk in
front of her shop, the Kensington twins who were tossing a ball back and forth
in the alley beside the sheriff’s office.

They turned left at the corner of Front Street and First and
followed the narrow rutted road that led to the house they would share when
they were married.

“Oh, Roger, it’s lovely,” Alisha exclaimed.

“You said you wanted yellow trim. I hope it’s the right
shade.”

“It’s perfect.” The house was L-shaped, with a peaked roof
and a red brick chimney. She slipped her hand from his and ran up the three
stairs to the verandah. Opening the front door, she stepped into the foyer,
then moved into the parlor. Roger was planning to quit his job at the store and
devote all his time to his trade. The house was the first he had built entirely
on his own, and he was hoping that when people saw what a good job he had done,
they would want to hire him. He loved his work and took pride in his craft, and
it was reflected in every room. The floors were made of oak, sanded and waxed
to a high sheen. The walls were painted white.

She moved through the house, imagining how she would
decorate each room. She paused in the bedroom they would share, feeling a
twinge of unease as she imagined sharing a bed with Roger. Would he be
disappointed when he learned she wasn’t a virgin? Should she tell him before
the wedding? She wished she had someone to talk to, someone she could confide
in. She had no close friends in town. Even though no one knew she had born a
child out of wedlock, speculation had run rampant when she and Chloe left town,
ostensibly to visit family in the east. She had, on several occasions,
considered asking Chloe for advice. Chloe had married Sylvester Quimby,
publisher of the
Canyon Creek Gazette
, and moved into her own home the
year Alisha turned eighteen.

“Alisha? Don’t you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” she replied quickly. “I was just…just
decorating it. In my head, you know? What would you think of doing the bedroom
in blue? I saw a lovely spread at the mercantile…”

Roger stepped up behind her, close enough that she could
feel his breath moving in her hair.

“Alisha.” She didn’t resist when he placed his hands on her
shoulders and turned her to face him. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “Is it all
right?”

“Of course.”

He drew her into his arms and kissed her and Alisha closed
her eyes, remembering another man’s arms, another man’s lips. Mitch had never
asked if he could kiss her. There had been nothing hesitant in his manner, no
uncertainty in his voice or his kiss. Mitch had always known what he wanted.
What she needed. She remembered the nights she had met him down by the
creek—starlit summer nights when the air was soft and warm and the crickets and
tree frogs serenaded them, rainy winter nights when storm clouds hid the moon
and the heat between them drove away the cold.

Guilt rose up within her. She had no business thinking of
Mitch, especially now, when she was in Roger’s arms. She had pledged her heart
to Roger when she agreed to marry him. He deserved her affection and her
loyalty.

“I’ll try to make you happy, Alisha,” Roger whispered.

“I know you will.”

“I told Mr. Halstead over to the mercantile you’d be coming
by to look at curtain material and the like.” Roger draped his arm around her
shoulder as they left the house. “Buy whatever you want for our house, Alisha,
whatever you think we need. Mr. Halstead will put it on my account.”

“That’s very generous of you, Roger.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I am.” The lie pricked her conscience. She seemed to be
telling a lot of untruths these days—to her father, to Roger, to Mitch. To
herself. “We should go,” she said. “Father will be wondering what happened to
us.”

With a nod, Roger brushed a kiss across her forehead and
released her. Hand in hand, they left the house.

* * * * *

It wasn’t until the next night that Alisha heard that Mitch
had left town.

She stared at Roger, unable to believe the news. “Left? How
do you know? Where did he go? When’s he coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Roger replied with a shrug. “What difference
does it make?”

“None, of course. I was just curious.”

The next day, after school, she went by the Sheriff’s
Office. The shades were drawn, the door was locked. A sign in the window
advised anyone needing help to contact Casey Waller or Fred Plumber.

She couldn’t believe he would leave town without telling
her. Unable to help herself, she made the long walk up to the Garret house.

She was breathless when she reached the top of the rise.
With one hand pressed to her side, she studied the place. In all the years she
had known Mitch, she had never come here.

She knew the house was empty even before she climbed the
steps and knocked on the door. She wondered what she would have said if he had
come to the door. Moving to the left, she peered in the window, but it was too
dark inside for her to see anything.

Overcome with curiosity, she tried the front door. It opened
with a squeak. She battled her conscience for a moment, then stepped inside.
The interior was dark and quiet. Her footsteps sounded extraordinarily loud as
she walked down the short hallway to the parlor. The room was dark and
oppressive. The air smelled musty, tinged with stale tobacco.

Leaving the parlor, she walked slowly from room to room. He
was gone, there was no doubt about that. The house felt empty, abandoned.

Feeling heavy-hearted, she left the house, shutting the door
behind her. Why had he left town so abruptly? Where had he gone? Was he coming
back?

She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. Whatever they
had once shared, whatever tender feelings she had once felt for Mitch were dead
and buried years ago and could not be resurrected no matter how she might wish
it.

And yet she couldn’t help but wonder what her life would
have been like if her father hadn’t interfered, if Mitch had sent for her, if
her baby had lived…

Resolutely, she put such thought from her mind. There was no
point going over it again, no point wondering, wishing. It was over and done,
and she was glad he was gone again, apparently for good.

“Still lying to yourself, aren’t you, Alisha Faraday?” she
muttered as she hurried toward home. And knew she would always wonder how her
life would have turned out if Mitch had ignored her father’s letter and come
back for her all those years ago.

Chapter Nine

It was midafternoon four days later when Mitch reached the
entrance to the Apache stronghold. He had removed his hat and shirt, hoping
that any scouts who saw him would recognize him as one of their own.

He rode easy in the saddle, his hands well away from his
guns. He had been riding up the mountainside about an hour when he felt a
tightening between his shoulder blades and knew he was being watched.

Resisting the urge to look behind him, he kept riding. The
trail grew narrower, flanked by the mountain on one side, and a sheer drop on
the other. His horse snorted and shied as a rabbit sprang out from under a bush
and darted up the path ahead. Mitch felt a sudden sinking in the pit of his
stomach as the mare’s hindquarters came perilously close to the edge of the
trail.

Winding upward, the trail widened a little, hemmed in on
both sides by the mountains.

A short time later, he came to a fork in the trail. He was
pondering whether to turn to the left or the right when he heard the
unmistakable sound of several rifles being cocked.

Slowly, he raised his hands to shoulder level. “
Ya a teh,
shila aash,”
he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness.
Greetings, my friend
.

“We have no friends among the whites.” The voice, speaking
remarkably good English, came from behind him, high up and a little to his
right.