Sun God (15 page)

A cloud passed over the sun, casting the Indian into deep shadow, leaving Amy in a pool of bright light. A sudden breeze stirred from out of the west and brought with it the familiar sound of the rustling leaves of cottonwoods and ripples on the river’s calm surface.

Only there were no cottonwood leaves.

There was no water.

A lone white dove sailed down from out of the darkened sky and wet its beak in a fine mysterious mist that had begun to bubble and spray from the barren rock on which the mute Indian stood.

When the graceful dove took flight, the powerful muscles began to dance in the Indian’s long, lean legs. He leapt down from the rock.

The sudden movement shocked Amy into action. Terrified, she shot to her feet and ran for Rojo, her heart hammering in her chest. As she grabbed up the reins and lunged up onto the gelding’s bare back, the Indian reached her.

As swiftly as a striking serpent, his hand shot out and his long fingers encircled her bare ankle, the gold and turquoise bracelet on his wrist catching the sunlight, momentarily blinding her.

Too frightened to look into his scarred face, Amy shouted hysterically to Rojo. The big sorrel immediately bolted into motion, tearing her ankle from the Indian’s firm grip.

Not daring to look back, but certain the savage was in hot pursuit, Amy wildly slapped the long reins from side to side on the sorrel’s neck and dug her bare heels into his sleek flanks.

Eyes wild, great lungs pumping like a bellows, the sorrel thundered straight across the hostile plain, jumping over jutting rock and dead mesquite and tall spiky cactus. Amy leaned low over his neck, expecting a deadly arrow to rip into her back at any second.

Silently cursing herself for riding alone so far from the ranch, she wondered frantically if the aging horse had the stamina to maintain his rapid pace. Could he outrun the Indian’s mount? Even if she made it to the hacienda, what then! There was no one there to help her. Juana and Linda—thank God—were safely on their way to New Orleans. Magdelena and Fernando had gone into Sundown. There were only a handful of vaqueros left on Orilla, and they were stationed far out at the line shacks, miles from headquarters.

No one was home.

The blood beating loudly in Amy’s ears could not shut out the distinct sound of drumming hoofbeats close behind, echoing Rojo’s. Clasping a handful of the gelding’s coarse mane, Amy ventured a look back over her shoulder.

And almost choked on her fear.

Not twenty yards behind, the Indian, astride a huge black stallion, galloped steadily after her, easily keeping pace. His back ramrod straight, his thick raven hair tossing about his scarred bronzed face, he pursued her with calm, chilling menace.

Amy turned back and pleaded with Rojo to go faster. But the aging animal was stretched to his limit and was laboring valiantly to hold his present gait. His foam-flecked mouth open, his tongue lolling out, Rojo labored for breath and already his withers were lathered.

And they were still miles from Orilla.

A terrible picture flashed through Amy’s churning mind: the bare, mutilated bodies of Shirley and Nell Crawford, victims of wild renegade Apaches. The savage after her was surely a Mescalero Apache. If he caught her, she’d meet with the same fate as the Crawfords.

Her hands cold with fear, she clung to the reins and Rojo’s mane and prayed that the end would be merciful and swift. She didn’t mind dying, but everyone in the Southwest knew the dreaded Apache delighted in making the captives suffer first.

Mindless of the dust blowing into her eyes and mouth and her unbound hair whipping about her face and her skirts billowing up around her thighs, Amy kicked wildly at Rojo’s sweaty belly. After what seemed an eternity, she saw the big pink hacienda rising from the desert floor ahead.

Feeling a small measure of relief, she wondered if she could dismount and make it into the house to the loaded Winchester before he caught her. Seconds after spotting the hacienda, Amy blinked back the wind-caused tears and saw, approaching the hacienda from the south, a contingent of mounted men.

Drawing closer, she saw they were a detail of Juarez’s Mexican army and her heart leapt with joy. Frantically trying to swallow so that she could call to them, she lifted an arm and waved madly in an effort to attract their attention.

She was sure she’d been successful when a soldier at the head of the column shouted out an order and the detail halted. At closer range Amy immediately recognized a silver-haired soldier at the head of the command as an old Orilla hand. It was the one-eyed Pedrico Valdez.

“Pedrico!” she shouted jubilantly. “Pedrico Valdez! Oh, thank God, thank God.”

Pedrico and the Mexican soldiers would save her. Her worries were over. A smile lighting her dusty, tear-streaked face, Amy brought the lathered Rojo to an abrupt halt, hurriedly slid from his back, and ran anxiously toward the mounted Pedrico Valdez.

But as Amy ran toward Pedrico, the Indian astride the shimmering black stallion rode quietly up and raised his right hand. Every eye in the detail snapped around and came to rest on him. Wordlessly he issued an order. The soldiers rapidly dispersed, including Pedrico Valdez.

“No!” screamed Amy, totally baffled. “Don’t leave me, Pedrico. Come back here!” She ran after the departing troops, stumbling, shouting frantically for them to help her. They continued to ride away, deaf to her tearful pleas. Disbelieving, she stopped running and her worried eyes flicked to the mounted Indian.

The half-naked warrior calmly sat his horse, staring fixedly at her. For one brief moment their gazes locked. Then Amy gasped in fear when he threw a long, bronzed leg over his mount and dropped agilely to the ground.

She whirled about and ran for the house, knowing he was right behind her. She raced up the front walk and onto the porch. She had reached the door when he caught up to her. His long fingers clutched at her billowing skirts, and roughly he slammed her back against his hard, powerful body.

Amy’s slender form struck the Indian’s with such fierce suddenness, the wind was temporarily knocked from her. Gasping for air, she felt him yank her arms up high over her head then press his warm palm to the center of her diaphragm, rhythmically applying pressure until her breath returned.

He lowered her arms and Amy instinctively looked up over her shoulder into a hard-planed face with mean black eyes, a vicious white scar slashing down a smooth bronzed cheek all the way to his cruel mouth.

She screamed loudly and pulled away. She dashed into the house while the sound of his strange, haunting laugher followed her. Sobbing, she stumbled up the stairs and into her room, quickly bolting the door behind her.

Turning about, she leaned her trembling back against the heavy door and waited, her breath short, her heart racing. Any second he would climb the stairs. Would be in the hall, outside her door. She strained to listen. Heard nothing. Nothing but the sound of her own labored breath.

Amy waited. And waited.

The sun went down and still she waited, sagging against the door, her body tensed, her legs weak and stiff.

Twilight crept over the desert and over the big empty hacienda. The spacious bedroom grew steadily darker. And still she waited, on edge, expectant, rigid. Knowing that any minute the deadly savage would tire of his game and break down the heavy carved door.

It never happened.

When the first streaks of pink light spilled into the room the next morning, Amy awakened, aching and disoriented from dozing on the floor beside the door. Looking about her at the undisturbed room, she wondered briefly if she had imagined the whole thing. A tall, lean Indian? A spraying waterfall? The rustling of cottonwood leaves?

Amy shook her head and for a long moment remained as she was.

It made no sense that a renegade Apache had followed her all the way from Puesta del Sol and then had not harmed her. Even more puzzling was a detachment of well-armed Mexican soldiers scattering with just one look from a lone unarmed Apache.

Amy stiffly rose, cautiously unbolted the door, and cracked it open. She peered out and, seeing nothing, opened the door wider. She looked one way and then the other. She finally ventured out into the silent hallway and saw no one.

But at the upstairs landing of the wide hall, she looked out the tall window and saw a uniformed Mexican militia surrounding the hacienda. Her brows knitted, she scanned each face but did not see the Indian’s.

After returning to her room, she hurriedly freshened up, then went downstairs hoping to find Pedrico Valdez. A polite young soldier stationed on the west patio looked up and smiled when she came outdoors.

“We beg your humble pardon,
señora
, for our intrusion on your property, but—”

“Never mind that,” Amy said. “Pedrico Valdez? I need to speak with him immediately.”

The young man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I am sorry. Lieutenant Valdez ride into village with our superior officer. They will return late today, I think.”

“Tell Lieutenant Valdez I wish to see him the moment he returns.”

“Ah
sí.
I tell him.
Sí.
”

“
Gracias.
” Amy turned to leave, stopped, and said, “Tell me, when you and the troop arrived here yesterday, did you see a renegade Apache on my land?”

The young man made a face. “No, oh, no,
señora.
” He smiled broadly then, and added, “You are not to worry. We not going to let Apache near you!”

Nodding, Amy again said, “
Gracias
,” and went back into the hacienda.

Inside, she met Magdelena, coming out of her room. The older woman stopped, surprised.

“Why are you up?” she said, giving Amy the onceover. “And why you look so tired? Like not sleep at all.”

Amy said, “I didn’t sleep too well.”

“And it is no wonder. All these soldiers on Orilla. How long they going to stay and how are we supposed to feed them?” She paused, shook her head, then gestured at Amy. “You get back upstairs and change your clothes. I will not have these troops say Magdelena not take good care of this family!”

“Mag, you and Fernando didn’t see any Indians when you got home last night, did you?”

Magdelena frowned, stepped forward, and laid a hand on Amy’s forehead. “You feeling feverish? I know it, soon as I see you, I know you are sick. Should never have left you alone here.”

Amy brushed Magdelena’s hand away. “I feel fine. I’ll go up and change.” Deciding against telling the overly protective servant and friend about the strange encounter at the river, Amy turned to leave.

By noon Amy was a little less edgy.

The warm sunny day passed uneventfully. Magdelena went about her chores in the kitchen, singing loudly as usual. Old Fernando, reliving his own glorious youth, spent the spring afternoon outdoors talking with the young troopers.

As the shadows lengthened and the sun began its slow descent, Amy relaxed completely. Real or imagined, the Indian had departed. She felt foolish for having been so frightened. Still, it was comforting to have dozens of well-armed Mexican soldiers guarding Orilla. She had no idea how long they intended to stay. But it was obvious they had no intention of leaving immediately.

Tired from her sleepless night, Amy decided a hot bath and a book in bed was precisely what she needed. Choosing a handsomely bound leather edition of Victor Hugo’s
Les Misérables
, she had started up the stairs when all at once she heard a loud pounding on the front door.

Frowning, she went back down. A pair of burly soldiers stood on the porch. When she asked what they wanted, they grabbed her arms. Her book crashed to the floor. Forcefully they took her from the house, across the porch, down the front walk, and to a pair of waiting horses.

Amy hotly demanded the two bullies free her at once. She would report them to their commanding officer! They would be severely reprimanded, perhaps punished. They paid no attention to her threats and demands.

Rudely she was thrust up into a saddle, and one of the soldiers swung up behind her. Enclosed in his arms, she was taken atop the galloping horse straight down to the tall ranch gates on the property’s borderline.

Stunned and disbelieving, Amy found herself, moments later, standing on the dusty ground directly beneath the ranch gate’s high white arch. Her wrists were bound tightly with a lariat, her arms jerked up over her head, the rope tossed over the high supporting beam and tied securely.

Then, without a word, the troopers remounted and rode away. Frantically Amy called after them, begging them to return and to set her free.

But the soldiers were gone.

Bewildered, Amy pulled and twisted to free herself, succeeding only in burning her tender wrists raw on the restraining rope. Angered and afraid, she wondered what this was all about. Did they know—and hold it against her—that her fiancé was fighting under Maximilian against their army of liberation? What did they plan to do with her? What was going on? This was insane!

Straining against her bonds, Amy stood facing the dying sun, dreading nightfall. Hating the thought of darkness. Praying someone—anyone—would come for her.

And, just as the blood-red sun became a fiery ball on the western horizon before her, a lone rider approached from the east behind her. Amy could not see the rider. She could only hear the clatter of the horse’s hooves striking the hard ground as the rider steadily cantered closer.

And closer.

S
TRAINING TO LISTEN, AMY
heard the rider leisurely cantering closer, as if in no particular hurry. All at once the great sense of relief she had felt on first hearing the approaching hoofbeats now changed to disturbing doubt.

Confused and suddenly terrified, her whole body stiffened when the rider at last reached the arch and pulled up on his mount. The horse snorted and pawed the earth, but the rider made not one sound. Waiting for him to speak, Amy found that she was speechless, unable to ask who had come.

Finally saddle leather creaked as the rider dismounted, and Amy felt her throat constrict with fear. The sound of his approaching footfalls seemed magnified as the rider slowly walked toward her, gravel crunching beneath his heels. When he reached her, he stopped abruptly. Still he did not speak.