Sun Woman

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

September 1, 1885, Sonora Desert, Mexico

It is a good day to die, Kuchana thought, standing at one end of the Apache encampment at Rio Aros. She listened to the women wailing out their grief. Hot, blinding tears filled her eyes, and she shut them, hanging her head so that no one would see her weep. Her sister’s last child had died minutes ago from starvation. The Mexican soldiers, soldatos, had been hunting Geronimo’s group relentlessly for the past two weeks. There had been no time to hunt. Although the warriors, twenty in all, had given their families what little food they could find along the trail, it hadn’t been enough. Ealae’s four-year-old daughter had now gone to the Big Sleep.

Sniffing, Kuchana wiped away the tears with the back of her thin cotton sleeve. She was a warrior. Warriors showed only bravery and fearlessness in the face of their enemies. Opening her eyes, she raised her head again. Holos, the sun, was about to brim the craggy mountains that stood in silent testimony to the scene before them. For his people, Holos was the symbol of life. Just as he greeted them, without fail, each morning, so would the Apache continue to survive. Kuchana’s heart felt torn, and she placed her hand against her breast.

So many of her people had died as the soldatos and U.S. Army had mercilessly hunted them down after they’d escaped the reservation near Fort Apache. As she knelt on the dry, arid ground, Kuchana’s black hair fell across her shoulders, acting as a curtain to hide the haunted expression on her face. If Geronimo caught her shedding tears, he would be disgusted with her. After all, she was his best tracker, and one of four women riding with him who wore the third braid of a warrior.

What could she do to stop the slaughter of her people? There were few Chiricahua left. Why couldn’t Geronimo see the wisdom of going back to the reservation? The screeching wail of her sister, Ealae, made Kuchana flinch. In her eighteen years of life, all she could recall was the continued death and murder of her people.

It is a good day to die. The words cartwheeled through her grief-stricken mind. Her people were being slowly starved to death. They were being pursued and cold-bloodedly murdered. Lifting her chin, Kuchana stared out across the sparse encampment. Groups of families huddled here and there, the horses weary, their heads hanging. She saw Geronimo walking to each family, giving encouragement to those who had chosen to flee into the desert with him.

Something must be done. Kuchana raised her face to the sun, watching the first brilliant rays top the rocky, desolate crags to the east. Just as the rays struck her, she heard the shrill cry of a golden eagle. Looking up, she saw the huge bird circling high above them. A cold shiver wound up her spine. Painted Woman had answered her prayers. Slowly, she got to her feet, singling out Geronimo. Her hand clutching the butt of the knife she carried at her waist, Kuchana moved grimly toward the Apache leader. It didn’t matter if Geronimo killed her or not, she must speak her heart regarding the plight of her people.

“Geronimo?”

“Eh?” He turned, his flinty black eyes settling on the woman warrior. “Kuchana? What is it?”

She came to a halt, realizing they stood in the center of the encampment. Did it matter? Within minutes her people would know of her decision. “I’ve prayed long and hard on what I should do,” Kuchana croaked, her mouth dry.

Geronimo scowled. “What do you say?”

Her hand tightening on the knife, Kuchana knew she must be strong. “I have lost another cousin. My sister lost her husband and now, she has no more children left.”

“We have all lost family,” Geronimo said hoarsely. “My own wife and children were murdered by the culo-gordos. Those Mexican bandits would kill us all if they were given the chance.”

Kuchana nodded. “I’ve made a decision. I cannot watch our people being slowly starved to death or murdered any longer. Please, stop this fight.”

“Surrender?” Geronimo exploded. “And let them send us to Florida where we will sicken and die like the others? Has Owl Man rattled your brain? You are a warrior! You have taken an oath to protect the people. Surrender for us means to give over to a power stronger than ourselves. The white eyes and culo-gordos are not stronger than we are! I will not surrender to them!”

Her heart was pounding like a water drum in her breast. Kuchana wondered if Geronimo could hear it. She feared this medicine man, for he had the power to turn her into a donkey if he chose. But the plight of her people drove her beyond regard for her own safety. Moistening her chapped lips, Kuchana said slowly, “Then I must leave.”

Geronimo hissed a curse. “If you leave, we lose our best animal tracker. I need you here to help supply food for us.”

Tears stung her eyes but Kuchana stood her ground. “I will go to my enemy and help him track you down and bring you back to the reservation. At least, what few of our people are left will then be protected. I have lost all of my family. Only my sister remains. If nothing is done, she will also die. At least on the reservation, there was food.”

Geronimo stood thunderstruck. He stared up at the tall, thin warrior. Her brown eyes watered with tears, but her voice was low and strong with feeling. “Surely you remember the food we received from our so-called pindah friends. The white men promised us beef, and we got none. They promised us blankets to warm our people, and we received none. All we were given were beans and hard, dry biscuits.” He punched his finger into Kuchana’s chest. “You,” he rattled, “of all people, know what happened. You were there. That was why we stole off the reservation and came to hide in Mexico.”

Kuchana was vaguely aware that people were gathering around them, standing blank-faced, watching. She refused to back down from his tirade. “I would rather eat biscuits than starve to death,” she answered, gesturing at the inhospitable mountains. “I would rather my sister survive than be murdered by culo-gordos!”

“Your memory is short,” Geronimo snarled, his lips lifting away from his teeth. “You think the pindah army is going to keep us alive? They were the ones slowly starving us to death. Don’t make the mistake of thinking the pindah soldiers are your friends. They are not. They have lied to us. They have stolen what was rightfully ours and broken the treaty.” He looked around. “I would rather die out here, like a warrior, than sit on a reservation accepting my fate like a stupid donkey. Think this through, Kuchana. Stay here with us. We need you.”

Kuchana’s breath came in heaving gulps, all her carefully closeted emotions unraveling. “I will not change my mind. I am leaving, Geronimo. If you want to kill me, then do so. I will join the army as a scout and hunt you down. Our only hope is the pindah reservation.”

The flinty anger in Geronimo’s eyes grew. “Get out of my sight, Kuchana. You are a coward. I would not stain my knife with your traitorous blood.” He raised his arm, jabbing a finger toward the northwest. “Go. From this moment on, you are no longer one of the people.”

Kuchana gulped, a sharp breath issuing from between her lips. Geronimo had just delivered a sentence worse than death. Even if she was able to save the last of her band, they would all consider her dead. No one would ever speak to her again, not even Ealae, her sister. Her stomach knotted, and she longed to sob out her grief.

“Go!” Geronimo roared. “In your next life, you will turn into a donkey. You have deserted us. Take your horse and leave.”

Kuchana whirled on the heel of her boot, blindly moving toward the hobbled horses just outside the camp. The crowd parted, their faces long and saddened. None of them understood her actions. It didn’t matter.

“Kuchana!” Ealae reached out, gripping her sister’s arm. “Do not do this…”

Halting, Kuchana looked down at her older sister. Ealae had cut off her hair and painted her face black over the death of her daughter. There were tears streaking down her features. Choking back a sob, Kuchana whispered, “Let me go, sister. You will be punished for speaking to me. I no longer exist to the people.”

Her hand tightening on Kuchana’s arm, Ealae sobbed. “You cannot do this. If you go, I have no one. No one.”

Kuchana groaned as her sister flung herself into her arms. She must not show her feelings. No matter what, she was a warrior, and a warrior must face life with courage. “Hush, Ealae, hush. You will be all right.” Gripping her sister, she gave Ealae a long, hard embrace.

“I will lose you, too. Oh, think, Kuchana. Think of what you have chosen to do. The army will kill us if we are recaptured.”

“No.” Fiercely, Kuchana gripped her sister, giving her a small shake. “Listen to me, Ealae. Geronimo will watch our people dwindle away until we are only a memory on the wind. This is our only chance to survive.”

Her cheeks glistening with spent tears, Ealae stared at her sister. “But to go to our enemy for help? You will be a traitor.”

She must go—now. Kuchana reluctantly released Ealae. “I must do what I feel is right. My heart is broken over the loss of your daughter. I will not see you go to the Big Sleep because of Geronimo.”

Ealae sniffed and took a step back, her dark chocolate-colored eyes mirroring her misery and confusion. “Kuchana, you shame me. You shame us just like the other Apache warriors who have gone to the army to become scouts to track us down. My own sister…”

Kuchana swallowed against the lump that was forming in her chest. “Ealae, I love you. Always know that. May Usen protect you.”

Kuchana turned away. She spotted her black mustang, Wind, among the herd. Moving between the horses, she knelt down by the mare and released her hobbles.

Patting the hardy pony, Kuchana slipped the leather jaw cord into her mouth. Looking back toward the camp, she saw that everyone had returned to their duties. Even now, she was a ghost. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Kuchana swung up onto the horse’s back.

Kuchana walked the mare into the camp and dismounted. The only item she owned beside her weapons was a ragged wool blanket. Picking it up, she laid it near Ealae, who was quietly sobbing. Then she placed her quiver of arrows on her back and picked up her bow. It was done. She was now an outcast. Mounting, Kuchana walked the mare through the camp and down a narrow, rocky path that would take her out into the flat, arid Sonora Desert.

Holos burned hot and bright against her back. Though it was early morning, the heat was beginning to build. Her mind was clogged with grief, but Kuchana knew she had to think clearly. There were few watering holes, and in order to make the long trek across the Mexican desert, she would have to remember their location, or die of thirst. Her mind turned northward.

Geronimo had raided many ranches along the Arizona border, and a number of military forts had been built there. Praying to Painted Woman, she asked to be guided to a fort that would give her protection and allow her to become a scout.

There was much danger between Rio Aros and the nearest army outpost. The culo-gordos could capture her. If they did, they would murder her and take her scalp. The possibility of running into an army patrol could also claim her life. Many of the pindah would shoot her on sight. She would have to find the right man to help her. A man who would not raise his revolver in hatred. Painted Woman was the spirit of all women among the Apache. Kuchana’s faith in her power helped allay some of her fears. Within four days she would reach a U.S. Army fort. What waited for her at the end of her journey?

* * *

“Look,” Claudia Carter whispered behind her fan, “there’s that rogue officer, Sergeant Gib McCoy!”

“I declare,” Melissa Polk, wife of the commander of Fort Huachuca, “I can see why that colonel’s wife at Fort Apache ran off with him.”

Both women giggled beneath their gloved hands. They stood on the wooden walkway of the headquarters building. Though it was barely ten in the morning, they carried parasols to protect their skin from the blazing Arizona sun. Melissa’s green eyes narrowed as she watched Sergeant Gib McCoy walk across the flat and dusty parade ground in front of them.

Barely twenty-one, Claudia was the wife of Lieutenant Dodd Carter. She leaned over to question her friend. “Melissa, do you really think he lost his commission?”

“Of course he did!” Melissa’s blond curls moved with her bobbing head. She delicately touched the bow and ribbon at the side of her neck, making sure her straw bonnet was in place. “Why, I overheard my husband talking about Sergeant McCoy.”

“What did he say? What did he say?”

Melissa smiled, fanning herself rapidly, hating the heat. Having to wear a corset, all those petticoats, plus a long-sleeved cotton dress, was simply too much. “According to my husband, Sergeant McCoy was a lieutenant up at Fort Apache. He ran off with Juliet Harper, wife of the commandant.”

“Did he love her?” Claudia asked, batting her eyelashes.

“It was something,” Melissa agreed coyly. And judging from McCoy’s lean, powerful build, she could see why Juliet Harper had wanted to run off with him. So would she. Yes, McCoy was definitely a stallion. She kept her thoughts to herself, realizing Claudia, who had been gently reared in Boston, would faint if she voiced them out loud. She was like any other brass-button bride: naive. And having come to the West only three months before, she was still adjusting to post life.

“He’s positively handsome, don’t you think?”

“He’ll do in a pinch,” Melissa said with a shrug. Beneath the surface, she seethed with anger. A week after arriving at the fort, she had purposely caught McCoy alone in the stable. When she’d approached him and ran her hand along his sweaty bronzed arm, his eyes had turned a glacial blue. And when she’d pressed herself to his hard, tense body, McCoy had stepped back. Murmuring something about enlisted men not fraternizing with officers or their wives, he’d turned on his heel, leaving her humiliated.

Melissa snorted. Any time she approached Claudia’s husband, Dodd, he was more than willing to meet her in the hay mow. And so was any other man at the post she wanted. She hated the fact that McCoy had snubbed her advance. No man ever had before. One way or another, Melissa promised herself that he would come begging to bed her.

Giggling, Claudia added, “Pinch, my foot! My husband tells me that McCoy has been out in the Southwest for seven years. He’s rough-looking.”

“Probably every laundress on the post is ogling him,” Melissa stated, pretending not to be watching McCoy. He had been busted because he’d tried to help Juliet Harper escape and return to her home in the East. Melissa had heard about McCoy from time to time, because he’d been an officer at Fort Apache and responsible for the Apache reservation nearby.

Studying McCoy, Melissa decided he was ten times the man that her flabby, fifty-five-year-old husband was. She smiled to herself. Harvey was such a dolt. He never realized she hadn’t been a virgin when she’d married him. Of course, she’d made him think otherwise. After having young men who were truly studs in comparison to Harvey, she ached to find a man to match her hungry desire. Harvey certainly couldn’t. Dodd wasn’t bad, but was unexciting in comparison to McCoy. She fumed, fanning herself more rapidly. She was utterly frustrated by the fact her husband made love to her once a month and treated her like delicate porcelain, afraid she’d break beneath his weight.

McCoy had been at the post for three months now. Most of the cavalry soldiers were unmarried. The only way these men relieved their urges was with some of the single laundresses or white women who posed as such, but were on their backs day and night. According to the colored laundress, Poppy, McCoy stayed to himself.

“Outcast,” she muttered.

“What?” Claudia asked.

“Oh…nothing.”

Claudia, who had red hair and dancing gray eyes, pouted. She stood restlessly on the squeaky wooden expanse, tapping her fingers against her lavender gingham gown. “Oh, pshaw. I wish there was something to do. Post life is so boring, Mellie. The men are always gone, hunting those dreadful Apaches. We’ve nothing but sand and heat to keep us company. I can’t keep our quarters clean for the sand. How I long for some green trees and hills.”

Melissa shrugged her shapely shoulders. “There’s no use complaining about it, Claudia. You know they only stick men out West that the army has no use for. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Ohhh,” Claudia whined, “don’t say that. Why, Dodd dreams of getting orders to go back East.”

With a grimace, Melissa flicked a fly away from her face. “You’re new here, Claudia. Believe me, the only men the army sends West are those they consider misfits, and of no potential use to the military system.”

Moaning, Claudia rolled her eyes upward. “You’ve only been married for five years and already you know so much about the army.”

Too bad I didn’t learn it sooner, Melissa thought. Harvey Polk had presented a bold and swaggering picture in uniform at a ball in Washington, D.C. He had been a hero coming out of the Civil War, and was an attaché to the Secretary of War. How could she have known he was such a loser about to be sent West and forgotten? Her marriage was one scheme that had fallen through.

She had married Harvey thinking that he was in line for a much more prestigious job in Washington. Instead, four days after the ceremony, he’d received orders to Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Melissa knitted her fine, thin eyebrows in vexation. There was nothing but sand, scorpions, heat and loneliness at the post. At first, she’d been one of three wives. Over the years, colored laundresses had moved West to escape the South and married the Negro cavalrymen of the Fourth stationed here. What few white laundresses there were, were nothing but soiled doves, as far as she was concerned. No self-respecting white woman would wash laundry like a colored. Of course, laundresses, and their families were considered little more than just necessities to post life, but they were certainly not included in it. They were animals of toil, in Melissa’s opinion.

Still, she held out hope that Harvey would leave the army and run for governor or senator. There was power in either of those positions. Melissa’s wandering gaze moved back to McCoy, who was now checking with the guards at the main gate of the post.

Since that day she had flaunted herself in front of him, Melissa’s further plans to meet him again had failed miserably. He was always polite when he had to confront her on occasion, but she’d seen the amusement in his icy blue eyes. It was as if he could read her mind. With an unladylike snort, Melissa decided that was impossible. A man’s brains hung between his legs. She stepped off the porch, her feet sinking into an inch of dust. She intended to intercept the sergeant and force him to take notice of her.

“Come, Claudia. Let’s walk around the parade ground. I need my morning exercise.”

Picking up her skirt, Claudia scrambled to catch up with the older woman as she glided across the parade ground. “Dear me, Mellie! Why are you in such a hurry?”

* * *

“Sergeant McCoy?”

Gib turned to the sentry standing by the opened gates, Private Lemuel Ladler, a Negro boy of eighteen. “What is it, Ladler?”

“I see something out there, suh. Take a look.” He pointed to beyond the wavering curtains of heat across the desert.

Squinting, Gib turned and directed his attention to the cactus-strewn desert. Sure enough, he saw a lone rider. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it was an Indian.

“Looks like an Apache,” he muttered.

Ladler’s eyes rounded, and he quickly pulled the rifle off his shoulder, holding it ready to fire.

Gib pushed the rifle barrel down toward the sand. “Take it easy, son. That’s one Indian, not a party of them.”

“B-but, sergeant—”

“At ease, Ladler. We don’t shoot Indians. For all we know, it could be a scout from one of the other forts. Relax.” Gib rested his hands on his hips, watching the progress of the rider. The Fourth Cavalry resided here, the only all-Negro outfit in the West. Ladler had recently come from the East after signing up and had never seen action. The few Indians he had met were scouts. Deciding to stay because Ladler was nervous and might shoot first and ask questions later, Gib waited with the sentry.

“What’s going on here?” Lieutenant Carter demanded, coming up to them.

McCoy kept his face neutral. The young shavetail lieutenant had recently graduated from West Point and was pushing his weight around the post. “Not much, sir. Just an Indian. Apache.” Gib could see the lean, black horse, its head hanging low with exhaustion, and its rider, who didn’t appear to be in much better shape.

Carter stared at the Indian who was still a good distance away. “A scout?”

“Dunno, sir.” McCoy disliked having to address Carter as “sir.” The young blond-haired officer hated the Negroes who served under him. The only thing Carter liked was white men of rank—and any white woman. Gib found himself wishing he had his commission back. The Fourth deserved better leadership than this tall, gangling officer from Georgia who went around with a lace handkerchief stuck under his aristocratic nose because he couldn’t stand the dust.

Carter glared at McCoy. Impudent bastard! He almost uttered the words, but hesitated. McCoy was a veteran of the West. His skin was deeply bronzed by years in the sun, his flesh tough and his body hard. The set of McCoy’s square jaw did nothing but annoy Carter. An ex-officer who still thought and acted like an officer. Even the enlisted coloreds worshiped the ground McCoy walked on, preferring to go to the sergeant instead of him.

“I think you do know, Sergeant,” Carter ground out, casting a furious look in McCoy’s direction.

Gib’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“You’ve got eyes like an eagle. Surely you can tell who it is by now.”

Clenching his teeth, McCoy watched the approaching horse and rider. “It isn’t a scout. He’s wearing Apache clothing, not our blue uniform.”

Excited, Carter withdrew his revolver from its holster. “Maybe it’s one of Geronimo’s people.”

Wanting to shake his head but deciding it wasn’t a wise idea, Gib muttered, “Don’t get trigger-happy, Lieutenant. That’s one Indian. I don’t see any weapons on him except a bow and arrow.” Gib looked significantly at Carter’s weapon. “I’d put it away, sir.”

“When I want your two cents’ worth, Sergeant, I’ll ask for it.”

Ladler glanced at McCoy, nervously fingering the rifle. “Sergeant?”

“Keep the rifle down,” Gib intoned coldly, glaring at Carter. The officer was such a dandy. His features were delicate, his skin white as an Englishman’s and easily sunburned. The white lace handkerchief his wife, Claudia, had made for him made him look effeminate, and three months in Arizona had baked him red as a beet.