Apache Fire

Rose stole inside the bedroom to find her son still fast asleep beneath the soft lambs-wool blanket she had crocheted before he was born. Tenderly she bent over the cradle, her gaze caressing every delicate curve of his tiny face. She ached to gather him up, to hold him close and lose herself in the bliss of cradling his precious little body. But Mason needed his sleep, she reminded herself. He would be cross if she woke him too soon.

As she glanced up, her eyes caught the last glimmer of sunset on John’s medal where it hung on its blue ribbon above her son’s cradle.

Pride…Honor…Courage…Duty.

The words mocked her as the image of John and his cohorts, riding down on a band of helpless squaws and papooses, flashed through her mind. She slumped over the cradle, her whole body quivering. If Latigo was to be believed—and the evidence of the scar was too strong to deny—John’s militia had gunned down Apache women and children with no more mercy than the Apaches had shown her own family.

She had always believed John to be brave and honorable, and she had vowed to raise Mason by his father’s code. Now that code had crumbled away to reveal something she could not even pretend to understand.

Rose struggled to rationalize what she had heard. How could she judge what John had done? Terrible things had happened on both sides of the conflict Even Latigo had said so. John and his fellow volunteers had done no more than repay the Apaches in kind, following the old biblical law of an eye for an eye. Was that so wrong, in view of what Apaches had done to her own family?

Torn, Rose gazed down at her sleeping son—John’s son, too, she reminded herself. In a few years Mason would be old enough to ask questions about his father. How could she tell Mason the truth about his father when she knew so little of it herself? The quest for answers would be long and painful, Rose knew. And her search would have to begin now, before the trail grew too cold to follow.

She had not known many members of John’s militia. Of those she had met, most of the older ones had died, and the younger ones had moved on. There was Bayard, but— no, she could not go to Bayard! Not now!

Rose sighed raggedly as she realized her one sure source of knowledge lay downstairs, locked in the little room off the kitchen. For all his rough manners, Latigo was the one man she could count on to give her honest answers. He might hurt her. He might outrage and offend her, but he would not lie.

Tomorrow he would be gone. She needed to talk with him now, tonight, while she still had the chance.

Crossing the room, she raised the lid of the chest that stood against the far wall. Inside, John’s clothes lay clean and neatly folded. John was gone. Why had she kept them?

Maybe this was why.

Piling everything on the bed, she selected a cotton union suit, a soft gray flannel shirt, some woolen socks, and a pair of new Levi’s to give to Latigo.

The thought of opening the door and seeing him there in the narrow bed, his black Apache eyes as fierce and alert as a hawk’s, sent a strange hot chill through her body. The man was everything she hated and feared. All the same, she burned to know the secrets that lay behind that bitter face, behind the anger, behind the sadness that seemed to steal over him at unguarded moments.

Hurrying across the room, she discovered Mason awake and cooing. He smiled up at her as she lifted him.

Then, she kissed one rosebud ear, clutching the fresh clothes under one arm and cradling her baby with the other, Rose made her way down the darkening stairs. This time, she vowed, she would ask all the difficult questions, and this time she would not turn away from the answers.

Latigo’s pulse leaped at the sound of Rose’s footsteps. Strange, he mused, how he had already come to recognize the light, graceful cadence of her walk, the agitated rush of her breathing, the husky little catch in her voice when she spoke. Even blindfolded, he would know this woman from all others.

Sitting up in the bed, he waited tensely for the sliding of the bolt. He had not expected Rose Colby to return so soon, but he was far from dismayed at the thought of seeing her again.

Time seemed to stop as the door swung open.

“I brought you some clothes,” she said, stepping into the room. “You can have your boots in the morning.”

“Are you that determined to keep me prisoner?” he asked, half-amused.

“It’s for your own good. You’re still very weak.”

“For my own good, I should be leaving right now. I don’t fancy the idea of playing tag with that posse in broad daylight.”

“Then stay until nightfall tomorrow.” She tossed the bundle of clothes onto the foot of the bed. A wry smile tugged at Latigo’s lips as he noticed the union suit—one trapping of white civilization he had stubbornly rejected.

“Your husband’s?” he asked.

“Yes.” Taut and expectant, she lowered herself to the edge of the chair. Nested in the crook of her arm, the baby gazed at him with innocent, violet-blue eyes. Her eyes.

“You never told me how your husband died,” he said.

“You didn’t ask. It was an accident.”

“An accident?” He stared at her.

“Why should that be so surprising?” she asked.

“You’d mentioned hand-feeding him. From that, I assumed it was an illness, maybe a stroke.”

She shook her head. “It happened last summer. John had ridden out alone to check on the herd—something he often did. When his horse came back with an empty saddle, I sent the vaqueros out to look for him. They brought him back in the wagon just before nightfall, unconscious. Evidently he’d fallen, or been thrown, and struck the back of his head on a rock.”

“I’m sorry,” Latigo said, reminding himself to be gentle with her. “If it’s too painful—”

“No, it helps me to talk about it. Most people don’t seem to understand that.” Rose sat in near darkness now, her beautiful, sad face obscured by shadows. “At first we didn’t expect him to last through the night. But John was a strong man. He lived for four months, if you could call it life. He was bedridden. He couldn’t stand or speak, and he didn’t seem to know anyone, not even me.”

“And you took care of him?”

“I was his wife.”

Latigo gazed at Rose Colby’s delicate face through the soft veil of twilight. Pampered, he had called her. Spoiled. Lord, how could a man be so wrong?

“Of course, I couldn’t have cared for John all alone,” she added swiftly. “I had Esperanza to help with the housework and cooking, and Miguel to keep the ranch running. And there was Bayard, of course.”

“Bayard?” The name triggered a taste as bitter as creosote in Latigo’s mouth.

“Bayard rode out from Tucson as soon as he got word of John’s accident.” She paused, head tilted, lost in thought. “You know, I truly can’t imagine what got into him this morning. Bayard was wonderful the whole time John was dying—sitting with him by the hour, bringing us things from town…”

“If he was so wonderful, maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to run him off!” Latigo growled.

He regretted the remark instantly, but it was too late to call it back. He saw her body stiffen and, even in the darkened room, caught the fire, like flecks of Mexican opal, in her splendid eyes.

“My relationship with Bayard Hudson is none of your concern!” she retorted sharply. “You asked me how my husband died, and I was telling you. That’s all you need to know!”

Silence hung between them. Then, deliberately, Latigo allowed himself to laugh. “You have a fine way of slapping a man’s face without touching him, Rose Colby,” he said.

“If that’s true, maybe I should do it more often!”

“It is true, Rose. Everything I’ve told you is true.”

“How can I be sure of that?” The anguish in her voice was real. She wanted to trust him, Latigo sensed, but she was still fearful.

“Would it be easier if I were a white man?” he dared to ask.

“That’s not a fair question,” she answered. “There are different kinds of white men and, I suppose, different kinds of Apaches.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Latigo said dryly. “So, what kind of Apache am I? Have you decided?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

She made a move to rise, then settled uneasily back onto the chair as if she’d changed her mind. Once more the darkness lay heavy and still between them.

Latigo battled the urge to reach out and demand to know what she was doing here. Her husband’s clothes had only provided her with an excuse to come to him—she could just as easily have delivered them in the morning. If she were a different sort of woman, he might have construed it as an invitation. But Rose Colby was not bent on seduction. Her modest, distant manner and the presence of her child were enough to tell him that.

“Light the lamp,” he said. “I want to see your face. And I want you to see mine.”

She hesitated in the darkness, then rose from the chair with her son in her arms. “The lamp’s in the kitchen. Wait here. I’ll go and light it.”

“You’ll need both hands,” Latigo heard himself saying. “Give me the baby. I’ll hold him for you.”

Her lips parted as her arms tightened around the blanketed bundle. Only then did Latigo realize what he had done. In his readiness to be helpful, he had demanded the ultimate token of her trust, a trust he had yet to earn.

“It’s all right, Rose. I would never harm your son.”

“I know.”

Despite her words, she did not move, and Latigo knew better than to push her. “Never mind about the lamp, then,” he said. “Darkness makes it harder for each of us to know what the other is thinking. Maybe that’s not so bad after all.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the tiny room was the soft rush of her breathing. Then she took a step toward him and very carefully held out her baby.

Latigo’s heart jumped as she thrust the small, squirming bundle toward him. His outstretched hands received the precious weight like a blessing.

“I’ll get the lamp,” she said, and walked swiftly into the kitchen.

The baby whimpered, then relaxed, gurgling contentedly as Latigo settled the tiny body awkwardly against his chest. In all of his adult life, he could not remember having held an infant.

An alien sweetness, frighteningly close to tears, stole through him as he cradled Rose Colby’s son in his arms. Most men his age had sons of their own. Daughters, too, and wives and homes. But a family had no place in the life of a man caught between two worlds. He was alone and destined to remain so, a fugitive spirit, tied to no place, bound to no other human soul.

Light flickered in the kitchen as Rose struck a match and touched it to the lamp wick. The glow moved with her as she crossed the tiles to stand in the doorway.

“Mason seems to have taken to you,” she said as she placed the lamp on the dresser. “He’s settled right down. You should be flattered, he doesn’t do that with everyone.”

“Well, let’s hope the boy acquires better sense as he gets older,” Latigo remarked dryly.

A wan smile flickered across her face. “I can hold him now.”

“He’s fine where he is.”

She settled back onto the chair, making no move to take the baby from him. Latigo watched her, savoring her gentle beauty and the fragile warmth of her child against his heart.

This was foolhardy, his instincts shrieked in the stillness. John Colby’s widow had lost her family to the Apaches and he could not afford to trust her. True, she had not given away his presence this morning. But under different conditions, she could easily betray him. Lovely, brave and gentle she might be, but he could not allow himself to fall under her spell.

“What are you doing in here, Rose?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly rough. “You could be taking an awful chance, you know. I could overpower you, force you to get me the gun, take you and your baby hostage to use against that posse.”

“You don’t hide behind children, or women, either, I take it. At least that’s what you said.”

“But what if you’re wrong about me?” he persisted. “What do you want so much that you’d take this kind of chance?”

“The truth.” Her eyes, reflecting the lamplight, held tiny gold flames. “I want to know exactly how you came to be on this ranch, and I want to hear everything you know about my husband.”

“Even if you don’t like my answers?”

Her pale throat moved as she swallowed, then nodded. “I need to know for my own sake, and for Mason’s one day, when he’s old enough to understand.”

Latigo shifted his body higher on the pillows. The baby stirred in his arms, turning to gaze up at him with wide indigo eyes, and he knew that whatever he said, it would be for both of them. And whatever he said, it would be true.

But would it be the whole truth? Could he trust her with everything he knew?

Gazing at her through the amber haze of lamplight, he cleared his throat and began with a question.

“Rose, how much do you know about the so-called Indian Ring?”

Chapter Five

The Indian Ring?

Rose stared at the man in the shadows. She had never heard of the Indian Ring, but something about the name, or perhaps the way Latigo had said it, sounded so sinister that it triggered cold prickles along the flesh of her forearms.

“Your husband never mentioned the Ring to you?” he pressed her. “You never overheard him talking about it with his friends?”

“My husband believed women should keep still and tend to their knitting. His friends did come to the ranch sometimes, but I was never invited to join them.” Rose twisted the hem of her apron, her eyes on her son lying contentedly in the cradle of Latigo’s bare brown arms. In the dancing lamplight, Latigo’s lean Apache face had softened to tenderness, which tore at her defenses. She forced herself to meet his calm gaze. “If you want to talk about the Indian Ring, you’ll have to start by explaining what it is,” she said.

Latigo’s eyes narrowed. Cool evening air drifted in through the barred window, smelling of dust and rain. Thunder rumbled faintly from beyond the horizon.

“Most people would say the Ring never existed,” he said. “But I know better.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not following you!” Rose broke in impatiently. “Are you implying the Indian Ring had something to do with John?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.”

“I know.” Pain rippled across Latigo’s face as he shifted his weight against the pillow. Seeing his discomfort, Rose leaned forward and lifted Mason out of his arms. His eyes watched her guardedly, their black depths whispering unspoken secrets, and suddenly she was afraid.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, taking an emotional step backward.

He shook his head.

“This is taxing your strength,” she persisted.

“I’m all right.”

Rose held her son close, seeking comfort in his small, warm nearness. “Tell me about the Indian Ring,” she said softly.

“The Ring is secret, and powerful.” Latigo bit back pain as he spoke. “It’s made up of white men who’ve profited from the Apache wars, legally by selling beef and supplies to the army, illegally by smuggling guns and whiskey to the Apaches.”

“And you think John was involved?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s certainly no secret that this ranch has furnished beef to the army for years.”

“Let me finish.” His eyes warned her to listen. “The men in the Ring got rich off the Apache wars during the sixties. It suits them to keep things stirred up, especially with all the talk of the railroad coming in. That’s the last thing the Ring wants to see because most of them would be ruined. They’re banking on the hope that nobody will want to lay track through hostile Indian territory.”

Rose stared at him in disbelief. “You’re saying that the Ring deliberately causes trouble with the Apaches? That sounds awfully farfetched to me.”

“Not as farfetched as you might think. You remember the Camp Grant massacre in ‘71?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Rose’s flesh went cold as she spoke. No one in the territory could have missed hearing about the slaughter of 125 peaceful Arivaipa Apaches by an armed mob of Tucson citizens.

“But John wasn’t there!” she protested, springing once more to her husband’s defense. “He was out on the range with the herd! And you know as well as I do there were only five white men involved in the massacre—the rest were Mexicans and Papago Indians.”

“All true.” Latigo’s eyes glittered like sharp black flints. “But I worked as translator for the army commission that investigated the massacre. The five whites all had connections to the Ring—as hirelings, most likely. The Ring’s leaders are prominent men. They call the shots and pay the money, but they don’t get their hands dirty.”

Thunder rolled dimly, echoing along the fringe of Rose’s awareness as she stared at him, horrified. “You’re saying John could have been involved in the Ring and in the massacre?”

“Rose, there’s no proof either way.”

“And Bayard?”

“Again, there’s no proof. When you get right down to it, there’s no proof the Ring even exists. Any such proof could be a very dangerous thing to possess.”

Rose sank back into the chair, feeling strangely light, as if the marrow had been drained from her bones. “Your wound,” she said, forcing the words out of her right throat. “The murder of the two government agents—you’re saying that was the work of the Ring, too?”

“Again, there’s no proof. But I know what I saw. And I know that the two federal men were looking into smuggling activities on the San Carlos, which could also have been the work of the Ring. If I hadn’t escaped the ambush, it would have been natural for the authorities to blame the murders on the Apaches and call in more troops. As it was—”

“They had to blame you.” Rose closed her eyes for a moment as she struggled to make sense of the things she had just heard. She had asked Latigo for the truth and resolved to accept it, but he had shown her a glimpse of something so large and dark that it defied belief.

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