Love Forevermore (15 page)

Chapter Fourteen

February 1906

Zuniga sat outside Wild Eagle’s lodge, listening to the soft seat of the medicine drum, listening to the shaman’s soft chant.

“Go away, sick,” Crooked Leg sang in a voice weak with age. “Go away, sick. Go away, sick.”

There was a pause in the singing, and Zuniga knew that the aged medicine man was spitting into the fire, sprinkling sacred cattail pollen over Wild Eagle’s ailing wife.

“Go away, sick. Go away, sick.” The shaman’s voice drifted out of the lodge.

Zuniga gazed into the darkness. The singing and the praying would go on all night.

Rising, he walked through the lodges of his people, nodding to some, stopping to say a few words here and there. Wherever he went, he heard people talking about the schoolteacher and how she had married one of the bluecoats.

Abruptly changing direction, Zuniga left the lodges. Swinging aboard his dun stallion, he rode across the dark land until, without conscious thought, he found himself at the schoolhouse.

Reining his horse to a halt, he stared at the darkened building, remembering how patiently Loralee had taught him to read, how pleased she had been with each new accomplishment. He had never admitted it to her, but after his first token show of resistance, he had enjoyed learning to read and write and cipher.

Closing his eyes, he recalled each detail of her face: the clear brown eyes, the full red mouth, the finely shaped nose, her stubborn chin, the skin smooth and unblemished. The image of her body came to haunt him, and he felt the heat rise in his loins. He had made love to other women, nameless street girls who sold their body for the price of a cheap bottle of booze, but none had ever satisfied him the way Loralee had. He had used the others and forgot them as soon as his desire had been quenched. But Loralee had been in his thoughts day and night since the first time he had seen her.

Riding on, he wondered what it would have been like to marry Loralee and settle down somewhere, and then he laughed. He was not cut out to be a husband. He was a man who had always lived alone, keeping his thoughts and fears to himself. Even with Nachi, he was alone, always a man apart from others. He had few friends, though many would have been his friend if he would let them. But he did not like to be close to people, did not find it easy to share himself with others.

He had what he needed. A few close friends, a cousin whose company he enjoyed, Nachi. And there was Kelly. Once he had sought her company on a regular basis, but he had not shared her bed since he met Loralee.

He reined the stallion to a halt beside Shadow Lake and stared at the man reflected in the dark water, a man too proud and stubborn to admit he had lost the only thing he ever wanted.

Muttering an oath, he touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks and headed for home. Loralee was Schofield’s wife now, and the sooner he stopped thinking about her, the better.

It was late when Zuniga reached home. At the corral, he dismounted, opened the gate, removed the horse’s saddle and bridle, and turned the animal loose in the rough enclosure. Closing the gate, he started toward the wickiup.

He paused at the doorway. A coldness seemed to reach out to him, surrounding him so that he shivered convulsively, the ancient fear rising up within him.

He knew that the old man was dead before he entered the lodge.

Nachi had died peacefully in his sleep. His face, as lined and rough as aged saddle leather, was at peace.

Zuniga gazed at his grandfather for a long time, remembering the many good times they had shared: the hunts, the battles, the laughter. Nachi had always been there, solid as the mountains, dependable as the sunrise. And now he was gone.

Zuniga smiled faintly. He recalled the last fight they had been in, and how Nachi had been in the thick of it, his eyes bright, his voice raised in the shrill Apache war cry. During a brief lull in the battle, they had stood together and Nachi had raised his gun above his head. “Ah, grandson,” he had shouted enthusiastically, “it is a good day to die!”

Stepping out of the lodge, Zuniga lifted his voice to the night, his lament carried aloft by the rising wind. From the distant hills, a lone coyote howled in reply, its melancholy wail an echo of Zuniga’s grief.

He sat outside the lodge until the sun began to climb over the mountains. His cheeks were still damp with tears as he watched the rising sun brighten the horizon, the colors changing from pale gray to gold to fiery shades of orange and crimson.

He sat there a moment longer; then, resolutely, he rose to his feet and went to the corral where he saddled the dun and threw a bridle over Nachi’s bay gelding.

Returning to the lodge, he dressed Nachi in his finest buckskin trousers and fringed war shirt. Tenderly he brushed the old man’s hair. As an afterthought, he placed an eagle feather behind Nachi’s right ear. That done, he wrapped the body in a blanket and carried it outside.

The dun shied and snorted nervously when Zuniga placed the body across its back. A soft word calmed the stallion, and Zuniga swung up behind the blanket-wrapped body, took up the bay gelding’s reins, and rode away from the lodge, leading the bay.

He rode high into the hills until he came to a sunlit patch of ground surrounded by tall trees. Dismounting, he dug a grave, gently placed the frail body in its final resting place, and covered it with earth. That done, he sprinkled ashes and pollen around the grave, beginning at the southwest corner in the belief that this would help Nachi’s soul enter
O’zho
, heaven. Following ancient traditions, he left a small bag of provisions at the gravesite so that Nachi might have food on his journey to the land of spirits. Lastly, his face void of emotion, he placed a bullet between the bay gelding’s eyes so that Nachi might enter heaven in comfort.

That done, he stood at the burial site for a long moment, his head bowed. An owl hooted, making a lonely sound. According to the beliefs of his people, owls called for the dead after they were buried and took their spirits into the air.

With a sigh, he left the grave. Only rarely would he speak his grandfather’s name, lest Nachi’s spirit be called back to earth.

The ride back to the wickiup seemed long and lonely. Removing his clothing from the lodge, he set fire to the brush-covered structure.

He sat a safe distance from the blaze, his face impassive, as he watched his grandfather’s lodge and belongings burn to the ground.

Loralee took a deep breath as she turned Lady toward the schoolhouse. She had left several papers there that needed to be graded before Monday, and she looked forward to the short ride. Mike had tried to persuade her not to ride in her condition, but she had insisted that she felt fine. Lady was a reliable mount, surefooted as a mountain goat and not easily spooked.

Loralee let out a long sigh as she thought of Mike. He was a good man. If only she could love him. Certainly he deserved more out of their relationship than he was getting, but he never complained, never indicated that he regretted his decision to marry her.

She shook her head sadly. After all this time, she still longed for the touch of Zuniga’s hands in her hair, for the taste of his lips, the warmth of his flesh against her own. Often her dreams were haunted with his image. In her dreams, he came to her, his copper-hued body a study in male perfection, his black eyes warm and adoring as he swept her into his embrace and made love to her hour after hour. She woke from such dreams feeling flushed and guilty, as though she had been physically unfaithful to Mike.

Loralee was halfway between the fort and the schoolhouse when she saw the smoke. Without thinking, she reined Lady toward the hills, urging the mare to go faster, faster, until they topped the rise where Zuniga’s lodge stood.

She gasped aloud at what she saw. The brush-covered wickiup was gone, and in its place stood a few blackened poles and a pile of smoldering ashes. Horrified, she wondered if Shad and his grandfather had been inside.

Relief, sweeter than honey, washed through her when she saw Zuniga materialize through the blue-gray haze. He walked toward her, his face void of expression. Blood dripped from several cuts on his forearms, and she knew then that Nachi was dead, for it was the Apache way to vent their grief by self-inflicted wounds.

Now that she knew Zuniga was safe, Loralee was eager to be gone, but Zuniga reached out and grasped Lady’s bridle.

For a moment, they studied each other. Then, without a word, Zuniga lifted Loralee from her horse. His hands slid along her rib cage as he lowered her to the ground, then came around to rest on her belly. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the swell of her abdomen beneath his hands. He had heard she was pregnant, and he had assumed the child was Schofield’s. But now he knew otherwise.

He took a closer look at Loralee. Her breasts were fuller, her hands were swollen. Birth and death were not mysteries to the Apache. He had seen enough pregnant women to know that Loralee was too far along for the child to be Schofield’s. Unless…

His eyes, dark and accusing, locked on hers.

Loralee glared back at him, her cheeks growing hot under his probing gaze. Why had she come here?

Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head, and now her eyes rested on Zuniga’s hands. The long brown fingers were spread across her abdomen, and her mouth went dry as she remembered how those same fingers had stroked and explored every inch of her body.

“Look at me,” Zuniga demanded, and when she refused, he captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her head up.

“You are with child,” Zuniga said, each word cracking like a pistol shot.

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it.

Zuniga’s eyes narrowed. “You have only been married for eight weeks.”

“So?” She knew suddenly what he was getting at, and her heart began to beat faster.

“You are more than eight weeks pregnant.”

“Really?” Loralee replied sarcastically. “And when did you get to be such an expert on women in the family way?”

“Is the child mine?”

“No.”

“No? Then you were sleeping with the white man while you were sleeping with me.” A surge of white hot anger enveloped him at the thought of another man touching her, caressing her.

Loralee opened her mouth to deny Zuniga’s accusation. How could he even think such a thing? The words of protest died in her throat. If she said she hadn’t slept with Mike, Shad would know without a doubt that the child was his. And she did not want Zuniga to know he had fathered her child. Not now. Not ever.

“Well?” Zuniga prompted. His hands fell away from her face and balled into tight fists as he waited for her answer.

Loralee lifted her head proudly, her brown eyes flashing defiantly. “I’m only eight weeks pregnant,” she lied boldly. “I’ve just been eating too much and,” she shrugged nonchalantly, praying that Zuniga would believe her, “I’ve gained a lot of weight, that’s all. It’s perfectly normal.”

It was possible, Zuniga thought skeptically, and yet he knew, deep in his heart, that the child was his. Why wouldn’t she admit it?

“I do not believe you,” he said stubbornly.

Loralee took a deep breath. “Well, it’s true whether you believe it or not.”

Zuniga continued to stare at her intently. She was lying through her teeth and he knew it. But why? Was she ashamed to admit that an Indian had fathered her child? Or had she been sleeping with Schofield before they were married? Rage boiled through Zuniga. If Schofield had dared touch Loralee before they were married, he would die for it.

Zuniga swallowed his fury, and as he did so, a new thought occurred to him. Perhaps he had misjudged Loralee all along. Perhaps she was not the sweet innocent he had thought her to be. Perhaps she slept with every man she met and didn’t know who the father was. Yet even as the idea crossed his mind, he knew it wasn’t possible. Loralee had been a virgin when he took her the first time, and he was certain she had been with no other men but himself and Schofield.

Loralee licked her lips nervously. “I don’t care what you believe,” she retorted. “The child is Mike’s, not yours, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Zuniga took a step closer, his dark eyes ablaze with jealousy. “Does the white man please you as I did?”

Loralee gasped, outraged that he would dare ask such a thing. Hot color rushed to her cheeks, and she turned away, refusing to answer him, refusing even to look at him.

“Do you call his name and claw his back as you once did mine?” Zuniga demanded. He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. His eyes were like liquid ebony, deep and dark and angry. “Do you?”

“Shut up,” Loralee hissed. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but his hand was like an iron vise, holding her immobile.

“Do you whimper softly when he strokes your sweet thighs, Loralee?” Zuniga taunted angrily. “Does he know the hills and valleys of your body as well as I do?”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” she shrieked. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away with her fists. What right did he have to humiliate her in such a fashion, to make what they had shared seem cheap and degrading?

She gasped as Zuniga released his hold on her chin and grabbed a handful of her hair. Jerking her up against him, he pressed his mouth over hers, his lips grinding painfully against her own. Furious at his unwarranted assault, she bit down on his lower lip as hard as she could, and felt her stomach churn with revulsion as his blood filled her mouth.