Apache Fire

“Go on,” he ordered. “Put your baby down. Then, whoever’s out there, get rid of him.”

Heart pounding, Rose fumbled swiftly beneath the blanket to tug her robe over her breast. With the gun following her every move, she crossed the kitchen to the flannel-lined basket that served as her son’s downstairs cradle. Half-asleep, Mason whimpered as Rose eased him away from her body and, with trembling hands, lowered him to the soft padding and tucked the blanket around him. He sucked one tiny rosebud fist, his helplessness tearing at her heart.

With imploring eyes, she turned on the tall stranger. “Don’t make me leave him here.”

Latigo’s expression hardened. Then he paused, torn by a conflict that Rose could read in his bloodless face. He was wounded and desperate. Keeping the baby in the kitchen would insure her cooperation and his own safety. Surely he realized that. Still, he hesitated, a muscle in his cheek twitching subtly as the pounding on the door grew louder and more urgent.

“Please,” Rose whispered, “let me take him. He’s all I have.”

Latigo’s sinewy body tensed, then his shoulders slackened as he exhaled. “I don’t hide behind children,” he growled. “Take him. But no tricks, Mrs. Colby. I’ve got the gun, and I’ll be watching every move you—”

His words ended in a groan as his knees buckled and he crashed unconscious to the floor.

Rose crouched beside him and pried his long, brown fingers from around the pistol grip. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow but regular. Even in repose, there was a hawklike ferocity about the man, but surprisingly, she was no longer afraid of him.

“I don’t hide behind children.”

The words echoed in Rose’s mind as she gazed down at the dark face, with its straight, black brows and cleanchiseled features. An Apache’s face, to be sure, but what thoughts and motives lay behind it?

If Latigo had truly saved her husband, she owed the man a great debt—

“Rose! Blast it, Rose, are you in there?” The shout from outside was muffled by the walls of the house, but Rose had no trouble recognizing the voice. Scrambling to her feet, she seized the baby’s basket under one arm and fled from the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

She hurried across the dining room, and moved toward the small anteroom that had served as her husband’s office. There she placed the basket in the hollow beneath John’s massive walnut desk. If more trouble broke out, she wanted her son safely out of harm’s way.

“Rose!” The pounding from outside would have cracked a less substantial door. Rose hesitated again, then slipped the pistol into a desk drawer and hurried out of the room.

In the front hallway she paused to wrap her robe tightly about her body and knot the sash. Taking a deep breath, she slid back the heavy bolt, lifted the latch and opened the door.

“Rose! Thank heaven!”

The man on the threshold was tall and barrel-chested, with ruddy, handsome features and ginger hair that curled over the collar of his starched, white shirt. A longtime friend of John Colby’s, though twenty years his junior, Bayard Hudson had been a regular visitor to the ranch— even more regular, Rose had come to realize, since John’s death.

“Bayard?” She feigned a sleepy yawn, her gaze darting to his gun belt. “What on earth are you doing here? You must have ridden most of the night to arrive at this hour.”

“Are you all right?” His windburned eyes were laced with red. “I saw blood outside, a trail of it across the porch. And your robe, Rose, there’s blood on that, too!”

“Blood?” A picture flashed into Rose’s mind—Latigo, helpless on the kitchen floor. Bayard had no more love for Apaches than John had. He would likely shoot first and ask questions later.

“Oh—” She laughed nervously. “One of the vaqueros, he—uh—slipped and cut himself on his own knife last night. A silly accident. I patched him up and sent him back to the herd.” She was chattering, talking too fast. “It was nothing serious, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I—I’m afraid I’m not very presentable this morning.”

“Nonsense, you always look beautiful.” His gaze wandered up and down her body, lingering where the neck of her robe had loosened to reveal a hint of shadow between her breasts. “But can’t you get someone else to doctor those Mexicans of yours? I can’t say I fancy the idea of you touching those swarthy little heathens.” His thick hand settled onto her shoulder, its weight too warm, too heavy. “You ought to send them packing and hire yourself a bunch of real American cowboys. That’s what I’d do if I was running this spread.”

“My vaqueros are good workers.” Rose squirmed away from his clasp and edged out of reach. “They know horses and cattle, and they send their pay home to their families instead of throwing it away on liquor and women in town.” She swung back to face him, arms folded across her chest. “And now, Bayard, suppose you tell me what you’re doing here. You didn’t ride thirty miles just to tell me how to manage the ranch.”

“I could use some breakfast,” he said. “We can talk while I eat.”

“Esperanza isn’t up yet,” she lied, praying her inhospitality would annoy him to the point of leaving. But Bayard Hudson only snorted his disgust.

“Well, go and wake the lazy old hen! You’re too easy on the hired help, Rose. You need a man around the place to see that things are properly run.”

“I’m raising a man for that very purpose. But until John’s son is old enough to take over, I’m the one in charge.” Rose arranged her features into a smiling mask. “Go and sit down in the dining room, Bayard. I’ll heat up some beans and fresh coffee and bring them in to you.”

“Bacon and eggs would be nice, too, while you’re at it. But you needn’t go so fancy for me, Rose. I’ll eat in the kitchen, and we can visit while you cook. I like watching a woman work.”

“No!” Rose scrambled for a way out. “The baby—he’s asleep, and you might wake him. Go on, sit down, this won’t take a minute.”

“Fine. I like my eggs sunny-side up.”

“Yes. I know.” Her knees went liquid as Bayard ambled into the dining room and slid one of the high-backed leather chairs away from the table. Only after he’d settled his broad frame onto its seat could she force herself to turn and walk back toward the kitchen. Heart pounding, she opened the door wide enough to slip through, then closed it carefully behind her.

Latigo had awakened. He was sitting up on the floor, his back propped against the whitewashed wall next to the door frame. His face was haggard with pain.

“What’s going on out there?” His mouth moved with effort.

“It’s an old friend of John’s, and he’s expecting breakfast.” Rose gathered some kindling sticks from the wood box and thrust them into the stove. As she blew her breath on last night’s embers they began to glow.

“He doesn’t know I’m here?”

Rose shook her head.

“Where’s the gun?”

“You actually think I’d tell you?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips as he settled back against the wall, watching her cat-fashion through the half-closed slits between his eyelids as she filled the enameled coffeepot and set it over the fire. The beans Esperanza had cooked two days ago were in the pantry, cool in their thick earthenware jar, but the bacon, if she wanted it, would have to be brought from the smoke cellar, the eggs gathered from the backyard henhouse. She cared precious little about pleasing Bayard Hudson, but if she could turn such errands to her advantage…

No, Rose concluded swiftly, the peril was too great. If Bayard were to get restless and wander into the kitchen at the wrong moment, anything could happen. She had to be here to keep him out.

Rose ladled some beans into a shallow iron skillet and hurried back to place it on the stove. Latigo’s gaze followed her every move: His feverish black eyes seemed to burn through her flesh.

“Maybe you’d better hide in there.” She jerked her head toward the open pantry door.

He shook his head, and Rose realized that even now he didn’t trust her. The pantry, with its thick, windowless walls and heavy door, could too easily become a prison.

“You could unlock that kitchen door and let me out,” he said.

“You’re too weak to run. You’d pass out in the yard.” Rose scooped the half-warmed beans onto a plate, added two slices of brown bread and poured some coffee into a porcelain cup. Her shaking hand splattered the hot liquid onto the counter. Reflexively she reached for a dishcloth, then, realizing she was only wasting time, flung it down, piled the breakfast things onto a tray and, with a last frantic glance at Latigo, rushed out of the kitchen.

Bayard was teetering backward on the rear legs of his chair, his fingers drumming impatiently on the tabletop. Rose bit back a surge of nervous irritation. Bayard Hudson was a good man, she reminded herself. Any sensible female would throw herself into his arms and beg him to protect her from the brooding stranger in the kitchen.

Sensible?

A grim smile tugged at Rose’s lips. No one, least of all John, had ever given her credit for having much sense. Before his accident, she had been a trophy, with little more expected of her than to adorn his home and produce the heirs he’d so stridently demanded. All that had changed, however, in the past six months. She ran the ranch now, and she would deal with the man named Latigo on her own terms.

Bayard scowled as she arranged the simple breakfast on the cloth before him, but he did not complain. His warm gaze followed her as she pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and settled uneasily into it.

“You’re not going to join me?”

“I’m more tired than hungry. Forgive me, Bayard.” Rose brushed a lock of hair out of her face, her heart sinking as she noticed the spark her gesture ignited in his hazel eyes. “Your visit can’t be a social call at this hour,” she said, feigning an air of cheerfulness. “What are you up to?”

“Posse business.” He scooped a hunk of bread into the beans, took a hungry mouthful and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “We rode out of Tucson last night and made it as far as the hot springs. While the rest of the boys bedded down for a few hours, I decided to ride over this way and make sure you were all right.”

“As you see, I’m fine. You could’ve saved yourself the trouble.” Rose laughed uneasily, her hands clenched into fists below the tabletop. “Posse business, you say?”

“Uh-huh. Half-breed army scout named Latigo murdered two government agents on the San Carlos Reservation. The wire from Fort Grant said the bastard was headed south, maybe this way. When I got here this morning and saw that trail of blood across your porch, the idea that it could be yours—”

Rose watched him gulp his coffee. She felt light-headed, as if a noose had been jerked around her throat, shutting off the blood supply to her brain.

Was the wire from Fort Grant a mistake, or had Latigo lied to her? Was she protecting an innocent man or harboring a killer?

“I don’t like the idea of your being alone out here,” Bayard was saying. “Those Mexicans of yours, hell, they’ve got no more loyalty than jackrabbits. They’ll turn tail and leave you at the first sign of trouble. You need someone strong, someone who cares about you. You need a man.”

“What?” Rose had been staring down at the weave of the linen tablecloth. Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she had only half heard him. She glanced up to discover that he had stopped eating and was gazing at her with an intensity that raised goose prickles beneath her robe.

“Bayard—”

“It’s time,” he insisted. “John was my friend. He would want me to take care of you and the baby.” He paused long enough to take in her stunned expression. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “I’ve been in love with you for years, Rose. Now that you’re free, and you’ve had a few months’ time for mourning, I’m asking you to be my wife.”

Chapter Three

Rose stared at the man across the table, hoping she had misunderstood him but knowing she had not. His boldly stated words left her no room for evasion.

“Well, Rose?” He was beaming at her as if she had already said yes. After all, what woman wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry Bayard Hudson? He was handsome, well-to-do, and one of the most respected men in Arizona.

So why had her skin suddenly gone clammy beneath her robe?

She sensed his impatience, sensed the tension in him as his body poised to spring out of the chair and sweep her into his embrace. Rose thought of the dark stranger in the kitchen. Lives could depend on her getting Bayard Hudson out of the house as swiftly as possible.

“You’ve been very kind to me, Bayard,” she. murmured, staring down at the tablecloth. “But it’s far too soon. John has barely been gone four months. Out of respect for him, if nothing else, I should wait.”

“The man who was your husband and my best friend died last summer when that horse bucked him out of the saddle onto his head.” Bayard spoke sharply, making no effort to hide his impatience. “It was his body you tended for those last months, but it wasn’t the man we knew and loved, Rose. It wasn’t John.”

“Your breakfast is getting cold,” she said.

“Forget breakfast!” The chair legs grated across the tiles as he slid away from the table and strode around it to stand behind her. Rose stiffened as his warm hands settled onto her shoulders. “Dash it, but you’re tense,” he murmured, his strong, blunt fingers working her knotted muscles. “What’s the matter? You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

Rose shook her head in denial.

“Then what—?”

She forced a tired smile. “Forgive me, Bayard. You just didn’t pick a good time to propose, that’s all. I’ve had a long night, and I’m not thinking very well.”

His hands continued to knead her shoulders, their motion slowing to a sensual caress. “You’re a beautiful woman, Rose,” he murmured, “too beautiful to be alone, without a man. Just say yes.” He bent close to her ear, his lips skimming her tousled hair. “You’ll never be sorry, I promise.”

Rose shivered, imagining Latigo behind the kitchen door, his sharp Apache ears hearing every intimate word.

“Rose, darling…” Bayard’s voice had deepened to a breathy rasp. His mouth nibbled a damp trail down the side of her neck as his fingers nudged aside the collar of her robe to expose the naked slope of her shoulder. “Do you know how long I envied your husband? How long I’ve wanted to—”

“No!” Rose spun away from him, toppling her chair in a spurt of nervous panic. The crash resounded like a gunshot through the empty house, freezing her in midmotion.

Bayard righted the chair, his expression as bewildered as a slapped child’s. Silence lay leaden between them, broken only by the ponderous tick of the grandfather clock in the entry. Little by little Rose began to breathe again.

“You are afraid of me,” Bayard said. “Rose, I swear I would never hurt you.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.” Wanting only to have him gone, she molded her features into a conciliatory smile. “You’ve caught me off guard, that’s all. I’m honored by your proposal, Bayard, but I truly need some time to think about it.”

“I’ve waited a lot of years for you, Rose, and I’m not a patient man. All the nights I’ve lain awake, imagining you in my bed, in my arms…” He made a move toward her, then hesitated, realizing, perhaps, that he had said too much. “So when do I get my answer?” he demanded. “In a day? A week?”

Rose’s gaze flashed toward the kitchen door. It was open a crack, and she realized Latigo was not only listening but watching. She groped for a reply, anything that would placate Bayard and send him on his way.

“I was thinking of longer,” she hedged, already knowing what her answer would be but desperate for him to leave.

“A month, then. But don’t expect me to take it in good grace. I’m anxious, girl. Anxious to make you mine.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your posse?” She edged toward the front hallway, praying he would follow her.

Still, maddeningly, he lingered. “I don’t like leaving you here with that half-breed Apache murderer on the loose,” he said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll be fine!” Rose punctuated the words with a toss of her head. “A lone desperado would never take on a ranch this size.”

“Maybe not” He exhaled like an agitated bull. “But keep John’s big pistol handy—I know you can use it. If you see a stranger, don’t take any chances. Shoot to kill.”

“I hardly think that will be necessary.” Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen door.

“Is something wrong, Rose?”

Her heart convulsed for an instant. “No—no,” she answered much too quickly. “You caught me unprepared, that’s all. I prefer to look my best when people come calling, and I haven’t even combed my hair.” The laugh she attempted came out sounding like a nervous hiccup. “Off with you, now, I need to get dressed and start my day!”

Bayard stood his ground, his thumb absently rubbing the butt of his pistol. “Not until you kiss me goodbye,” he declared.

Rose struggled to ignore the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Right now, she reminded herself, the only thing that mattered was getting the man out of here before he discovered Latigo and someone wound up dead.

“I’m waiting, Rose.”

“You’ll go if I kiss you?”

“I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.”

Rose forced herself to stop thinking as she strode back across the room. She had meant to give Bayard a light peck, but his arms closed around her like the jaws of a trap. His full, wet lips captured hers with a force that pressed her spine into an arch, jamming his belt buckle hard against her belly.

“Rose…” He was panting like a stallion. Frightened now, she began to struggle, but he was a large, powerful man, and her twisting movements only served to heighten his ardor. “Rose…dash it, girl, if you only knew how long I’ve wanted you.” He kissed her again, his hands groping downward toward her buttocks. Rose could sense Latigo’s mocking black eyes watching everything from the kitchen doorway. She knew he could not help her.

For an instant she went rigid in Bayard’s arms. Then, as his hot palms slid lower, she gathered all her strength into one desperate, wrenching shove.

“No!” she gasped, twisting away from him and spinning free. “I’m not ready for this.”

“You were married to an old man, Rose.” He reached for her again, his face flushed, his lips damp and red. “It’s time you found out what having a younger fellow is like.”

“No!” Dizzy with rage and fear, she clutched the back of a chair, keeping it between them. “You have no right to touch me! You’ve insulted me, dishonored my husband’s memory. I want you gone!”

He took a step backward, startled by her vehemence. “Now, Rose, honey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Get out, Bayard.” Her voice was flat and cold, her body drained of its emotional energy. “I’m sorry if I misled you, but I have no desire to marry you or anyone else. This ranch was John’s, and it belongs to John’s son. I intend to raise the boy here—by myself.”

His eyes bulged with the outrage of a man accustomed to getting his own way. “You’ll change your mind. I can make you change your mind. You’ll see.”

Rose tightened her lips, her silent glare saying more than any words she might have uttered. His voice faded, then rallied once more.

“You’ll find I don’t give up that easily,” he declared, retreating toward the entry hall. “Mark my words, Rose. One day you’ll come to me on your knees. You’ll kiss my boots, and you’ll beg me to marry you!”

When she did not answer, he turned and strode out the front door, closing it behind him with a bang.

Rose stood poker-spined, listening to the snort of his horse as he mounted and rode away. Only when the galloping hoofbeats had faded into silence did she slump, trembling, onto the chair.

“That was quite a performance, Mrs. Colby.”

Latigo had opened the kitchen door. He was on his feet, leaning unsteadily against the frame. His face was as gray as river mud. His right hand clutched the long, sharp kitchen knife she had used to slice the bread.

Rose glared at him, too unstrung to be frightened. “You can put that thing down,” she snapped. “Bayard is gone, and you’ve certainly nothing to fear from me!”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He remained stubbornly where he was, his eyes glazed and feverish.

“Bayard told me you killed those two government men,” she said.

“So I heard.” His lips thinned as a shudder of pain passed through his body. “Now you’ve heard two versions of the same story. Which one have you decided to believe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why didn’t you turn me over to your hot-handed friend? He was packing a gun. It would’ve been easy enough to let him take me.” His pupils glittered like shards of black flint. Rose quivered as she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“I had to be sure,” she said. “If Bayard had taken you back to that posse, you would never have lived to reach Tucson, and I would never know if I’d done the right thing.”

“You…did right.” His speech had begun to slur. His hand dropped to his side, as if the blade had taken on the weight of a sledgehammer. “But under the circumstances, I’d say that you’re either very brave or very… very…foolish.”

The knife slid down his leg and clattered to the tiles. For the second time that morning, his body went limp, his knees buckled and, as Rose sprang from her chair, he slumped to the floor.

Sinking to her knees beside him, she eased him onto his back. A glance at his shoulder revealed blood seeping through the fabric of the old cotton shirt she’d found to put on him. The fall had most likely opened the wound, and he was already so weak from loss of blood that she feared for his life.

Feared?

Rose fumbled for his pulse, her eyes fixed on his proud Apache features—the sharp, high cheekbones, the bitter, oddly sensual mouth. This man was still her enemy, she reminded herself. If he died, she would be rid of him. She and the baby would be safe.

Her trembling fingers found the pulse point along the side of his neck. He was alive, but his flesh was clammy, his heart racing like the wheels of a runaway train.

Who was this man? What, if anything, did she owe him? Rose struggled to slow her pinwheeling thoughts and examine what she had heard.

It was possible that he had saved her husband’s company from an Apache massacre, she conceded. But what about the two government agents? The story about the white assassins was so preposterous it might as well have been a joke. Even his bullet wound could be explained in any number of ways. For all she knew, the dark-eyed devil was the world’s most convincing liar, and the price of trusting him could be her life and her child’s.

Was she harboring an innocent victim or a cold-blooded murderer?

Whatever Latigo was, Rose knew she could not turn her back and let him die.

He moaned incoherently as she jerked his shirt open to get at his bandaged wound. Stop the bleeding, that was her most urgent task. Then she would need to get him to bed and get him warm. Leaving him on the floor had been a mistake. The cold tiles, she realized, had chilled away his strength. But then, she had not been thinking clearly. She had been so afraid of the man, so unnerved by his fierce Apache features that even her thoughts had frozen.

Strange, she mused, how her fear had diminished now that she knew him.

Knew him?

The man had menaced her with a gun, Rose reminded herself as she ripped off the ruffled hem of her nightgown and wadded it against the seeping wound. He had arrogantly claimed that she was in his debt and told her stories that defied belief. No, she did not know this mysterious stranger at all, and she would be a fool to trust him.

But he would live, she vowed. He would live to tell her his whole story.