ChasetheLightning (18 page)

The black coffee he brewed was indeed strong enough to float
a bullet, which was apparently just the way he liked it. Her only recourse was
to dilute it with water from her canteen.

By the third day, she was dying for a Caesar salad, a
cappuccino, and a big bowl of chocolate ice cream

She urged her horse up alongside of Trey’s mount. “How much
longer until we get to Diablo Springs?”

“We’re not going there.”

“We’re not? Why not? Where are we going?”

“Bonita Canyon.”

“Where the heck is that? Why are we going there?”

“It’s about a two-day ride from Diablo Springs, and we’re
going there because it’s the only place I can think of where Langley won’t
follow us.”

“What’s in Bonita Canyon, I’m afraid to ask.”

“My people.”

She stared at him a moment. His people…

“You don’t mean…you can’t mean…Indians?”

“Yeah.”

She looked at him, speechless. Going to an Old West town had
been bad enough, but this… She reined her horse to a halt. She’d had enough.

“’Pago, whoa.” Trey reined the stallion around to face her.
“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Everything!”

He leaned forward, his forearms braced on the pommel. “Well,
I can’t argue with that.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No, I reckon not.”

“Let me take Relámpago and go back. You can take my horse.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? You can’t go
traipsing around out here by yourself.”

He was right, and she knew it. But she didn’t have to like
it.

Rob Langley parked his big Ford Expedition in front Amanda’s
porch. Switching off the engine, he climbed down and stood listening to the
engine tick in the silence. Instincts honed by years of bounty hunting were at
once alert; something wasn’t right. Not by a damn sight.

Opening the driver's door, he reached under the seat for his
9mm Beretta. He never wore a gun around Amanda because she seemed finicky about
it. But something wasn’t right, he could feel it in his gut.

He stood by the fender of the Expedition, which reached
halfway up his chest. Good cover in a firefight. He kept the Beretta down along
his leg, thumb on the safety.

Amanda and he hadn’t parted on the best terms the last time
he had been here. Since then, she hadn’t answered her phone or returned his
calls. Despite the tension that had come up between them, that just wasn't like
her. At first, he'd felt an unfamiliar jealousy take hold, thinking she was
spending all her time with that odd cowboy with the three-thousand-dollar
six-gun. But his annoyance had quickly turned to concern. What did she really
know about that half-breed, anyway? Knowing Amanda, she would have taken the
cowboy at his word without a second thought.

What if the half-breed was some kind of predator who knew
how to get next to lonely women? He’d certainly had the looks for it. That
hadn't been Rob's first impression of the man, but he had been man-hunting long
enough to know that appearances could be deceiving.

Eyes narrowed, he scanned the yard, focusing on details.
Days-old hoofprints left the yard, and returned—and then left again, deep-dug
and wide spaced. Running. That big white horse? There were also strange tire
tracks, a mud-and-snow tread, typical of trucks and SUVs like his Expedition.
Though several days old, the tracks were relatively easy to read: the truck had
come into the yard, parked over there, near the barn, and then left in a
jackrabbit start, digging deep furrows, slinging dirt far and wide.

The tire tracks overlay the running hoofprints.

Rob strode along beside the tire tracks, careful not to
disturb the scene. He was some distance from the house when he found where the
truck had skidded to a halt, going almost sideways. Sunlight glinted off a
scatter of bright fragments. Squatting down, he turned one over with his
finger. Safety glass from a shattered car window. Probably the truck window.

He saw where the truck had turned around, and then arced off
across the desert to go behind Amanda's house. He followed the tire tracks
back. The truck had stopped on the far side of the house, and one set of boot
tracks led away from the driver’s door—and back, followed by a pair of uneven
furrows which smeared the footprints. Irregular blotches glazed the dust here
and there between the furrows… Rob swore and backtracked the furrows to just in
front of the barn. A large blot of dried blood there had turned brown in the
sun’s heat.

Going around to the front of the house, he saw that the door
stood open. He didn’t like the looks of that. He pressed against the doorjamb
and peered through the screen door. Whatever had happened in the yard had
happened a day or more ago. Where was Amanda?

The house was quiet. Too quiet. She usually had the radio or
the TV on, sometimes both at the same time. To his straining senses, it felt
empty.

He slipped through the door way in one smooth move, and put
his back to the wall inside, his Beretta up, held rock solid in both hands.

Nothing moved.

With the caution born of too many close calls, he went from
room to room, always keeping the staircase in the periphery of his vision.

In the guest bedroom he found where the cowboy had been
sleeping. Well, that answered one thing he’d wondered about. There was a ratty
pair of clean jeans folded on a chair, and a rough flannel shirt hanging over
its back. That was it for clothing. The man clearly traveled light.

Going back down the hallway, Rob moved quietly up the stairs
and went through the rooms on the second floor.

Amanda's bedroom smelled of her perfumes and shampoos,
peaceful, ordinary, as if she had just stepped out for a moment.

Returning to the first floor, he called her name.

“Amanda? Amanda?”

Silence answered.

Leaving the house, he headed for the barn. Her Jag was in
the garage. She never left this place except in her car.

The doors to the barn were open, but there was no one
inside. The horse was gone, too. He grunted softly.

He could be overreacting. It could be that she had just gone
riding with the cowboy. Riding double. Cozy. His jealousy returned at the
image, but it was forced out by everything he’d seen in the yard. Violence had
been done here. He could read that much. And he could read enough to know
experts were called for.

He went back into the house and picked up the phone, dialing
the county sheriff’s number from memory. When dispatch came on the line, he
mentioned the name of a detective in Crimes Against Persons that he had worked
with on several occasions. He was patched through, identified himself, and told
the deputy what he’d found.

The deputy promised a car shortly. And a crime-scene team.

Trey found himself looking forward to seeing his grandfather
again, though he wondered if he would still be welcomed by the People. He had
been away a long time; he was afraid he had forgotten much of what he had
learned as a child. He had promised he would return to the People when he had avenged
his father’s death. How could he face Walker on the Wind and tell him he had
failed? And yet, everything within him urged him to go home.

He was aware of Amanda riding behind him, could almost feel
her scowl on his back. He should have left her behind, but he felt responsible
for her being here, in his time. But, more than that, he wanted her here, with
him, even though he was pretty sure she wouldn’t like living with his people.
She was used to the ease and comfort of her own time. By her standards, Walker’s
Well had been primitive. What would she think of the People’s lifestyle? He
shook his head. Maybe it was a mistake, bringing her here. The threat of war
was something the Apache lived with constantly, war with the Comanche, war with
the Army. Not long ago, he had been in a saloon in California where he had
overheard a couple of troopers talking about orders issued by General Ord, who
had succeeded General McDowell as Commander of the Department of California.
Ord’s instructions had been to destroy the Apaches by any means, to hunt them
down like he would any wild animal. According to the troopers, those orders had
been carried out vigorously. Over two hundred Apaches had been killed by
soldiers who had trailed them for days and weeks, burning villages, clothing
and provisions. Twenty-eight women, two men, and twenty-four children were
reported captured. The troopers had noted that the Indians had killed more than
fifty whites.

Things hadn’t been much better in Arizona. Under the
direction of General Thomas C. Devin, the cavalry had invaded the very heart of
the Apache homeland, scouting south of the Mogollons, north of the Gila, where
they were now, and throughout the region of the Salt River. Devin had broken
new trails and made maps leading to some of the Apache’s almost inaccessible
strongholds. Trey frowned, wondering if his grandfather’s band had been one of
those attacked.

But it was too late for second thoughts, Trey mused. Too
late to turn back now.

Amanda rode up alongside him. “How much farther?”

“We should be there tomorrow morning.”

She groaned softly. “I guess that means spending another
night on the ground.”

“Get used to it, sweetheart. There aren’t any beds like
you’re used to where we’re going.”

“I didn’t think there were. But you do have tipis or
something, don’t you? We can at least sleep inside.”

“Sure.” Apache lodges were warm in winter and cool in
summer. He’d never had any trouble sleeping on a bed of soft furs, and looked
forward to it now.

His grandfather would be surprised to be see him, he
thought, and then again, maybe not. They were in Apache territory now. Walker
on the Wind might have already received word that his grandson and a white
woman were on their way. If he was even still alive…

Trey pushed the thought aside, refusing to consider the
possibility that his grandfather might have passed on. Walker on the Wind had
always been as strong as the Chiricahua Mountains, reliable as the sunrise.

His gaze roamed the countryside; it was a harsh land with a
beauty all its own. The Whites saw only desolation and barrenness in the
desert, but the Apache knew every stream, every river, every waterhole, every
mile of sand and cactus. He had not been here in five years, yet the very air
seemed to welcome him home.

Even Relámpago seemed to know where they were headed. The
stallion’s pace quickened and he tugged against the reins, eager to run.
Finally, tired of holding him in, Trey gave the stallion its head and the horse
broke into a gallop.

Trey glanced over his shoulder to make sure Amanda was with
him, and then he lost himself in the sheer pleasure of racing across the
desert.

Amanda grinned as the gelding gave chase. She loved her Jag,
loved driving fast along an open stretch of highway, but there was nothing
quite as exhilarating as a wild gallop across open ground, nothing to compare
with feeling the power of the horse beneath her, or the wind’s fingers flying
through her hair. Caught up in the sheer joy of the ride, she laughed out loud
as the gelding jumped across a dry stream bed.

How had she gone so long without riding? How could she have
forgotten how much she had once loved it, how much fun it could be?

She urged the gelding on in a vain attempt to catch Trey and
Relámpago. Trey rode with an ease she supposed was inborn, rode as though he
were a part of the horse. Man and horse made a beautiful sight as they raced
across the desert—the man leaning low over the stallion’s neck, his long black
hair whipped by the wind; the horse moving like some mystical creature, its
hooves hardly seeming to touch the earth, its mane and tail flying like battle
flags.

Trey let the stallion run until it slowed of its own accord.
Reining the stud to a halt, he turned the horse and waited for Amanda to catch
up. She rode well, her body moving in rhythm with the gelding’s, her hands
light upon the reins, her skin glowing. The late afternoon sunlight cast golden
shadows in the wealth of her auburn hair. He knew a sudden urge to run his
fingers through her hair, to feel her body writhing beneath his, to bury
himself in her warmth.

“That was wonderful!” she exclaimed as she reined her horse
to a stop beside his. Leaning forward, she patted the gelding’s neck
exuberantly.

He had never seen anything more desirable in his life, Trey
thought, than Amanda the way she looked just then, with her hair falling about
her shoulders in wild disarray and her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“It is beautiful out here, in a wild, rugged sort of way,”
she said breathlessly. “I used to wonder why the Indians loved it so much, why
they fought for it so hard, but now…” She shook her head. “I guess I
understand, at least a little.”

“It’s home,” Trey said. “That’s why they fight for it, why
they love it.”

Amanda nodded. “Of course,” she said wistfully. “Home.”

He heard the longing in her voice, the yearning to return to
her own home, her own time, and knew it was the one thing he would deny her,
even if he’d had the means to give it to her.

They rode until dusk, then made camp near a shallow
waterhole. In what had become routine, Trey looked after the horses and Amanda
spread their blankets; when that was done, she gathered what fuel she could
find for a fire while Trey went hunting.

Taking the box of matches from the saddlebags, she lit the
fire, her apprehension growing as it grew darker and darker and he didn’t
return. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of. After all, there
was nothing in the desert but sand and lizards. And rattlesnakes. But snakes
didn’t like the cold, did they? Wouldn’t they all be holed up somewhere for the
night?

Without her watch, she had no way of knowing how long Trey
had been gone, but it seemed like well over an hour. He wasn’t usually gone so
long. No doubt he would be back soon. Feeling suddenly fidgety, she went to
stand beside Relámpago.

“He’ll be right back,” she told the horse, even though she
knew she was really trying to reassure herself.

The stallion shook his head, as if in disagreement.

“You’ll see.” No doubt he was just having more trouble than
usual finding a rabbit. Of course, that was it.

She glanced into the distance, but, beyond the light cast by
the fire, there was nothing to see.

She stood there, stroking the stallion’s neck, growing more
and more afraid that something had happened to Trey. He could have fallen, she
thought, broken an arm or a leg or something. He might have gotten lost, though
she found that hard to believe. That was her thing, she thought, grimacing. She
had no sense of direction at all, but Trey seemed to find his way around the
desert with no trouble at all.

How long had he been gone? An hour? Two?

Something was definitely wrong. She knew it, could feel it
in her bones. She should go after him, she thought. Or maybe not… After several
minutes of indecision, she saddled the stallion, mounted, and headed in the direction
Trey had gone. She had better find him, she thought ruefully, because she would
probably never find her way back to camp on her own.

The gelding snorted and pulled against its tether as she
rode away on Relámpago.

In no time at all, the faint glow of the campfire was gone,
swallowed up by the darkness.

“Trey?” She called his name softly, some inner voice warning
her not to shout.

She reined Relámpago to a halt, having no idea which way
Trey might have gone from here. She was about to call Trey’s name again when
the stallion tugged on the reins.

“Easy, boy.” A shiver went down Amanda’s spine as she peered
into the darkness. “Do you see something out there?” she whispered. “Do you
know where Trey is?”

The stallion pawed the earth, then tugged on the reins
again.

“All right,” she said, giving the stallion his head. “But I
hope you know where you’re going.”

* * * * *

The hulking, red-bearded man backhanded Trey with a huge
hairy paw. The force of the blow spun him to the ground, almost knocking the
wind out of him. Furious anger surged through him and he tugged against the
ropes that held him, his concern for his own life paling when he thought of
Amanda back at their camp, waiting for him.

He stifled a groan when the blunt toe of the second miner’s
boot exploded against his ribs.

“Where’s your camp, half-breed?” Redbeard demanded, kicking
him again. “Where’s your horse and outfit?”

Trey glared at the man. He’d die before he told them a damn
thing, but there was always a chance they might be trail wise enough to
backtrack him to Amanda. His mind refused to contemplate what would happen
then. Alone and unarmed, she’d be helpless

“That’s enough for now," the second man said, going to
the fire. “Meat’s about ready.”

“I could shore eat,” Redbeard said. He gave Trey a
halfhearted kick. “We’ll finish with you later.”

With his cheek ground into the dust, Trey watched the other
man turn a slab of venison over the fire. His venison. The deer he had killed
so Amanda could eat.

He had let her down. Of all the times to be careless in the
desert… He ground his teeth in frustration, as Redbeard joined his partner at
the fire. The aroma of cooking meat was maddening. He had been so intent on
stalking the little Coues whitetail at the desert waterhole that he had failed
to see the dull blur of two hunters seated below the skyline of that little
ridge, rifles ready for whatever came down to water.

Trey had made the shot cleanly. The hunters had waited until
he had both hands in the buck’s body cavity, cleaning it, before singing out
for him to grab some sky. They had him in the open, both of his hands too slick
with blood and gore to reach for his gun. Both men had rifles. On top of
everything else, one of the men had recognized him. They’d only been thinking
about stealing his horse and rig until then.

Of all the rotten luck, his had to be the worst. Nothing but
desert for miles around, and he had to run into a two-bit drifter who memorized
wanted posters.

Damn. What a predicament. He tugged on the ropes that bound
his wrists again, wincing as the movement cut off his circulation.

To add insult to injury, the two men were hunkered over a
small campfire, enjoying
his
venison, rubbing their greasy hands on
their pants.

There was a shift in the wind as what had been a gentle
breeze began to gust. Surprisingly, the campfire guttered and went out. The two
men who had captured him scrambled to their feet, glancing at each other
uneasily as a low keening rode the coattails of the wind.

“Look!”

Trey turned his head, his gaze following the direction of
Redbeard’s finger.

A gray mist swirled up out of the ground, and a horse
appeared out of the mist, its long white mane and tail flowing like fingers of
cold lightning, its snowy coat shimmering in the moon light.

The horse paused near Trey. Rose up on its hind legs,
forelegs pawing the air.

“Damn,” whispered the other man. “Look at that.”

Trey watched as the stallion dropped to all fours, then
reared again. Moonlight glinted off its flashing hooves. Dropping to all fours
again, the stallion paced back and forth between Trey and the men.

“What the hell?” Redbeard exclaimed.

“It’s a ghost horse!” his partner said, an unmistakable
quiver in his voice.

Trey sensed movement in the darkness behind him and tensed,
then caught a whiff of a familiar fragrance, dimmed by days on the trail.
Amanda.

“Hold still,” she whispered urgently.

He felt her hands fumbling with the rope that bound his
wrists. Moments later, he was free.

Relámpago reared again and as the stallion came down, Trey
grabbed a handful of its mane and swung onto the stallion’s back, ignoring the
jolt of pain in his ribs and the tingling in his arms.

One of the men swore, then shouted, “Shoot him!” as Trey
wheeled the stallion around and bent low, scooping Amanda up in front of him,
all in one motion. He slammed his heels into Relámpago’s flanks, and the big
horse launched into a dead run, the flat whip crack of futile rifle fire fading
behind them.

Trey didn’t rein the stallion to a halt until they were back
at camp.

Her gelding whinnied softly as they rode up.

Trey eased Amanda to the ground, then slid off the
stallion’s back. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

He sat down carefully, one arm wrapped around his
midsection. “How’d you find me?”