Sun Woman
Lindsay McKenna

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.

“What’s going on?” Melissa cooed, stepping up to McCoy, giving him a flirting smile.

“Nothing, ma’am. Just an Indian coming in,” he drawled. Now the worst busybody on the post was here along with Carter, who was acting as if he wanted to shoot the Indian.

Claudia rushed to her husband’s side. “Oh, my, Dodd! Look out there! Why, it’s our enemy.”

Gib clenched his teeth again. “Not all Indians are our enemies, Mrs. Carter.”

“If that buck’s off a reservation,” Carter said emphatically, “he’s our enemy.” He lifted his revolver and cocked it.

“Why, I do declare,” Melissa said, remaining next to McCoy, “we’re finally getting some excitement.” She looked up at the sergeant through her lashes. The unforgiving line of his mouth excited her. What made this man’s blood run hot? His face was glistening with sweat and there were deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His blue eyes were frigid and off-limits. Whatever the sergeant’s true thoughts, he kept them to himself.

McCoy calculated all the possible scenarios that could happen. Ladler was nervous because he knew so little about the Indians. Carter wanted to kill one just to brag about it to his fellow officers. Claudia was a romantic wanting to see her husband kill one of the dreaded Apaches. And Melissa stood there looking like a bloodthirsty wolf ready to pounce on the Indian herself for the sheer excitement of seeing one killed.

As the rider drew close, Gib was the first to realize it was a woman on the mustang. In his seven years in the Southwest, he had met a number of Apache women, but never one who wore the third braid of a warrior. Swallowing hard, Gib wondered how in the hell he was going to handle the situation. He was the only one who knew that Apache women could be warriors right alongside their men.

Tensing, McCoy took a few steps forward, separating himself from the group as the rider approached. Private Ladler would obey him, but Carter wouldn’t. He prayed that the officer, once he realized it was a woman, would put his weapon away.

Gib focused on the Apache woman. Her face was square, her features delicate, almost beautiful. She was Chiricahua, judging from her dress. She wore a faded red cotton headband that kept her long, waist-length black hair out of her face. A quiver of arrows was slung across her back. She wore a pale blue shirt and a leather belt around her small waist. A knife hung next to her long, curved thigh. Her dark green corduroy pants were faded and threadbare, and the distinctively tipped kabun boots fitted snugly to just below her knees.

As she came nearer, Gib recognized the shaft on the arrows as that belonging to Geronimo’s people. His heartbeat quickened as he met and held her weary brown eyes. The woman was near starvation, her flesh sunken against the bone. She held her chin high and rode with her shoulders proudly thrown back, although he knew she must be light-headed and hungry. There was a magnificent dignity about her, and Gib took a few more steps away from the group, toward her. Whoever she was, she was courageous, riding alone out in this terrifying heat and waterless country in the midst of many who would murder her on sight.

Maybe it was the slenderness of her hands and fingers that made Gib relax. He sensed somehow that she wasn’t going to try foolishly to kill him. His gaze moved to her lips, and he felt an immediate hardening within his body. There was a lushness to her mouth, coupled with a gentle upward curve at the corners. Despite the harshness that life had demanded of her, Gib knew there was a softer side to this woman.

He shook his head. What was she doing here? Was she an emissary from Geronimo? He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, not wanting to broadcast any movement that might make her think he was an enemy. In his seven years of working closely with the Apache people and scouts, he knew they read the silent body language of another with the sense of a wild animal.

“Oh, Lord!” shrieked Melissa hysterically. “It’s a woman!”

Chapter Two

Kuchana jerked Wind to a halt when the pindah woman in the pink dress shrieked. Her eyes went wide as a yellow-headed officer rushed forward brandishing his revolver at her. She froze, her gaze seeking out the other man, the one with black hair and startling blue eyes. Her instincts told her this was a man of honor.

Gib cursed as he reached out and jerked Carter’s arm down. “She’s unarmed,” he said at the officer, pulling him to a halt.

“Let go of me,” Carter snarled.

“Not until you promise to put that gun away—sir.”

Carter gestured at the woman. “She’s Apache.”

“And unarmed.” Gib’s fingers increased their pressure around Carter’s wrist. “Put the gun away before you shoot yourself in the foot.”

A dull red flush crawled across the lieutenant’s taut features. Yanking out of McCoy’s hold, he belligerently aimed the revolver at the woman.

“Who are you?” Carter demanded, his voice, high, off pitch.

Kuchana sucked in a breath of air, staring at the ugly muzzle of the revolver no more than fifty feet from where she sat astride her mare. Was Yellow Hair crazy?

“Come on. Tell me who you are and what you want,” Carter repeated.

The English words all tumbled together, and although Kuchana had an excellent grasp of pindah language from her time spent on the reservation, she hesitated. The revolver was threatening. She raised her hands above her head, looking desperately to the other soldier, pleading silently with him to intervene on her behalf.

“I come as friend…” she stumbled in their language.

“Dammit, Lieutenant, put that gun away,” McCoy roared. If Carter didn’t holster that weapon, he was going to do it for him. Melissa giggled behind him, and Gib wanted to turn around and put the spoiled brat of a woman over his knee.

Kuchana watched the angry words between the two men. Her heart was pounding without respite. Light-headed with hunger, she forced herself to keep her hands held high.

With a glare at McCoy, Carter holstered the revolver and turned back to the Indian. “Just who the hell are you?”

“I come as friend…” Kuchana repeated, directing her attention at the dark-haired man.

Gib held up his hand in a show of peace and walked toward her. He switched easily from English to her language. “I’m Sergeant Gib McCoy. Tell me who you are and what you want before that fool over there shoots all of us.”

A wry smile split Kuchana’s features and she lowered her hands. He spoke her people’s language. The fear she’d felt melted away beneath his husky tone. “I am Kuchana, of Geronimo’s party. I have come to offer myself as a scout for the army.” She couldn’t tear her gaze from his probing eyes, and a trickle of heat stirred in her, reminding her that she was a woman.

“What are you saying?” Carter snapped, striding up to McCoy. “Dammit, you speak English so that I can understand.”

McCoy struggled to compose his features. Carter was making a total ass of himself, but that was nothing new. He told the officer what Kuchana had said.

“She wants to be a scout?” Carter uttered in amazement, studying the Apache.

Gib kept his eyes on Kuchana. She was weak from hunger, if he was any judge of the situation. “She’s a warrior, Lieutenant.” But still a woman. An incredibly beautiful one with haunting brown eyes, which were warm and inviting.

“I didn’t know the Apaches had women who were warriors,” said Carter.

“There’re a few.” McCoy switched back to her language. “Kuchana, how many other women warriors ride with Geronimo?” Her name flowed from his lips like sweet honey. There was nothing masculine about her, not even her name. Again, he saw the wariness melt from her gaze as he held it. Something was happening between them.

“Three others.”

“Why did you leave?”

Lowering her lashes, Kuchana whispered, “I left because I want to save what is left of our people.” Despite the danger surrounding her, she couldn’t help the response McCoy pulled from her each time he held her gaze. Each look was charged with a heat and excitement she had never experienced before.

“I see—”

“No,” she said swiftly, her voice cracking with emotion, “you do not see. I once had ten members in my family. Now, only my sister is left. I watched her daughter die of starvation four days ago. Then I came here to help the army find Geronimo and take him back to San Carlos Reservation.” Tears marred her vision as she saw the soldier’s face melt with tenderness. He understood. “I—I must work for you. I must save what is left of my people. Please…help me…”

McCoy approached her horse, placing his hand on its mane. “Easy now. I’ll do what I can. The army isn’t used to having women as scouts. All we have are men.”

“You must take me,” she cried in desperation. “I am Geronimo’s best tracker. You must believe me. I will find them for you. I must save my sister.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he repeated, reaching out to touch her hand where it clenched the mustang’s mane.

Kuchana felt his hand momentarily on hers. His flesh was roughened and weather-worn. Drowning in the look she saw in his blue eyes, she nodded her head. “I will trust you.” It was more than that, but so much was happening, she didn’t have time to dwell on her awakening feelings.

“Good. Now, come on, get off the horse.” Gib forced a slight smile and stood back, watching her slip off the mustang. There was an effortless grace to her that underscored her femininity. Kuchana was weak, but she forced herself to stand straight and tall. There was pride in her carriage and in the golden blaze of her eyes as she fearlessly surveyed the group who stood openmouthed before her.

Gib gestured toward the tall, two-story adobe building that housed headquarters. “This way.”

Kuchana hesitated, placing a hand on her weary mare. “My horse…”

“Private Ladler,” Gib ordered, “take her horse over to the stable. Get one of the men to curry it down and give it a little hay and a bit of water, nothing more. Understand?”

Ladler picked up the jaw cord. “Yes, suh, sergeant.”

Kuchana looked closely at the dark-skinned soldier, then turned to McCoy. “This man’s skin is the color of the night. I have never seen such as him before.”

Nodding, Gib offered, “His people come from across a great sea.” He pointed toward the east.

Ladler hesitated, realizing Gib was speaking about him. His mouth split into a smile. “She’s wondering about my color, suh?”

McCoy smiled over at Ladler. “I told her you came from across the ocean.”

“That’s right, suh. My grandparents came from Africa.” He shouldered his rifle and tipped his hat respectfully toward Kuchana.

Unsure of what was being said, Kuchana made a slight bow toward Ladler. He appeared friendly enough, and that was all she cared about.

“You’re letting her come into the post?” Melissa demanded, stamping her foot haughtily. How dared they treat her like a white woman. After all, she was an Apache, and therefore, their enemy.

McCoy shot Melissa a hooded look. “She’s surrendering to us, Mrs. Polk. What would you have us do? Shoot her on the spot?”

Heat nettled Melissa’s cheeks. In that moment, she hated McCoy. He was laughing at her again. “Well, she’s wearing men’s pants, of all things.” She turned to the lieutenant, who had more authority than McCoy. “Surely, Dodd, you aren’t going to let this filthy woman on the post?”

Kuchana stood apart from the group, carefully listening to the conversation. She noticed McCoy watching her from beneath the brim of his hat. Looking down at herself, she realized her clothes were dusty from the four-day ride. But every morning she had brushed her hair and kept it neatly tied with the scarf around her head. Nightly, she had cut open cactus and used the juice to wash her face, neck, arms and hands, so that she was free of dirt and odor.

Gib watched the play of emotions cross Kuchana’s features. She had more dignity than all of them put together, standing there with her feet slightly apart for balance, shoulders back and chin lifted. Her lips were badly chapped and split. She weaved, but caught herself. Anger stirred in him as Dodd continued speaking at length with Melissa.

“Lieutenant, while you discuss army regulations with the ladies, I’ll get this woman some water.”

Gib reached out, wrapping his fingers around Kuchana’s arm and gently pulling her forward. “Come on,” he coaxed, “you look thirsty.” Her flesh was firm beneath the shirt, but still soft and inviting.

Kuchana stared up at him. She saw the hard line of his mouth soften, and she surrendered to the tumult of feelings he had loosened by simply touching her. Grateful, she went with him. The pindah women gawked at her, disbelief and disgust clearly written in their eyes.

When he had escorted her through the gate, McCoy’s hand dropped from her arm. A part of her lamented the loss of contact. Wearily, she looked around. The post was huge, with rows of two-story barracks and nearly two hundred sun-bleached canvas tents. Kuchana was astounded by the number of blue-coated soldiers, as McCoy led her to a watering trough in front of headquarters.

Gib reached for a tin cup that was always kept on the trough. He filled it with water, then handed it to Kuchana. Her hands shook as she took the cup. Frowning, he studied her as she drank. Thin trickles of water escaped from the corners of her mouth, winding their way down her long, slender neck and soaking into the fabric of her shirt. An ache seized him, and he wondered how she would respond if he stroked her lovely neck, trailing his fingers down its length and tracing her collarbones hidden beneath the shirt she wore. The thought was jolting, completely unexpected. Gib placed a tight clamp on his fevered imaginings. What the hell was happening to him?

“Take it easy,” he cautioned. “A little goes a long way.” When he saw her frown, he added, “You’ll throw it up if you drink too much too fast.”

“I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.” For the first time, Kuchana had a chance to study the soldier. His raven hair was short and neatly cut. The dark blue hat he wore emphasized the intensity of his azure eyes. They were wide, intelligent eyes filled with wisdom. That was good. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and a thin, almost invisible white scar cut across one of his high-boned cheeks. His mouth was strong. When McCoy glanced up at her, one corner of his mouth curved upward, easing the rugged planes of his face.

“Call me Gib.” He took the cup from her fingers, placing it back on the trough.

“You speak our language.”

“I’ve been out here for seven years. Most of my duties have been with the Apache scouts. They taught me.”

“I’m glad,” Kuchana admitted in a lowered tone. She turned, steeling herself against the dizziness.

“How long have you been riding?”

“Four days.”

“Have you had any food?”

Kuchana shook her head. “No, I left what little I had.”

“How about sleep?” He knew most Apaches feared the night and would never ride, thinking that Owl Man would grab them.

“I slept each night.”

She was just this side of starvation, Gib realized. His protective side was working overtime. He tried to figure out why. At the reservation near Fort Apache, he had many dealings with Apache women. But this woman was different. He was curious about what kind of woman rode to war alongside the men.

He noticed a number of small scars on her fingers and a faint scar that ran the length of her neck. He wondered how she’d gotten it. He liked the idea of a woman being able to take care of herself. He always had. His French-and-Indian mother had owned her own millinery shop in New Orleans before marrying his father.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Kuchana said. “Yellow Hair would have killed me if you hadn’t been there.”

Gib said in English, “Yellow Hair is Lieutenant Carter. And he can’t hit the broad side of a barn, much less you.” He saw Carter and the two women hurrying toward them. “Whatever happens, just stay at my side and don’t say anything. Understand?”

She gave him a confused look. “You are more Apache than pindah.”

McCoy’s smile broadened. “Don’t let our lieutenant hear you say that. I’m already a pariah here at the post.”

Not knowing what “pariah” meant, Kuchana stood patiently. Carter strode up, his face flushed.

“Sergeant, strip her of her weapons. I want her taken in to see Colonel Polk for interrogation. Pronto.”

“Don’t you think,” Gib said, trying his best to sound reasonable, “that we ought to get her something to eat and some rest first? She’s half-starved.”

Melissa picked up her pale pink silk skirt and gingerly climbed the wooden steps, sweeping past them and into the building. She spotted Corporal Ryan McClusky sitting at his desk outside her husband’s office. Lifting her chin at a saucy angle, she sailed by him and went directly into Harvey’s office. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to, but when necessary, army etiquette was something to be bent to her will.

“Harvey, darling,” Melissa cooed, closing the door to the inner office. She smiled beguilingly over at her white-haired husband who sat behind the ponderous oak desk scattered with papers.

“Mellie. What a surprise.” Harvey beamed and put the papers aside. “What brings you here, pet?”

“Darling,” she began in a conspiratorial tone, rushing to his desk, “you won’t believe what just happened. There’s an Apache woman warrior from Geronimo’s party outside. She says she wants to be a scout.” Melissa wrinkled her nose. “She’s wearing men’s clothing. Why, she even has boots on. And stink. Lord save us all, but she smells to high heaven. I think it’s a trap. I think she’s lying.” Besides, Melissa didn’t like the way McCoy had treated the savage. She wanted McCoy to show interest in her, not in some heathen.

Scowling, Polk rose ponderously from behind his desk. “Mellie, what on earth did you just say? A woman warrior from Geronimo’s party?” His hopes rose. If he could capture Geronimo, he was sure that General Crook would give him an assignment back East, thereby salvaging what was left of his thirty-year military career.

“Oh, fluff,” Melissa muttered, fanning herself. The heat in the room was nearly intolerable. The wooden-frame building had one small window, and Harvey had it closed, probably to keep out the sand and the dust. “You didn’t hear what I just said. This…this woman, if you can call her that, is wearing men’s clothing. She’s carrying a knife, and a bow and arrow. Really, Harvey, she’s disgusting. I really don’t believe she’s a woman warrior. This may be a ruse. If it is, Sergeant McCoy has stupidly fallen for it. He’s outside with her right now.”

Moving as quickly as his bulk would allow, Harvey came around the desk. “Pet, there are women warriors among the Apaches. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that to you from time to time.” He headed toward the door.

“But,” Melissa wailed plaintively, “aren’t you going to make her stay down at the scout camp?”

Harvey turned, his hand on the brass doorknob. “My dear, you really ought not be here. This is army business. And I understand your disgust for this woman. They’re all savages in my opinion, too. Come, come.” He held out his hand toward her.

Pouting, Melissa moved slowly toward her husband. “What are you going to do, Harvey?”

“Well,” he said, raising his thick, white eyebrows, “if she was indeed with Geronimo, we’ll interrogate her on his whereabouts.”

“And then?”

Shrugging, he opened the door. “If she wants to be a scout and help hunt Geronimo down, I don’t care.”

“But, a woman in an all-male camp of scouts?”

“Tut, tut, pet. I know all this is a shock to your gentle sensibilities. These savages live differently than we do. If this redskin can lead us to Geronimo, I don’t care if she’s a woman dressed in men’s clothing or not.” He smiled and led her into the outer office. McClusky leaped to attention, straight and tall.

Melissa rested her gloved hand on her husband’s arm and he led her out onto the porch.

“Lieutenant Carter, what’s going on?” Polk demanded, sizing up the Apache woman as he spoke.

Sputtering, Carter told his commanding officer the series of events.

Kuchana stared up at the large, overweight man in the dark blue uniform trimmed with gold and rows of brass buttons. His hair was thick and white. A mustache partially hid his thin lips. His silver sideburns drooped, following the line of his jaw, making his face look fat and round. When the colonel came forward, she tensed.

Harvey peered into the woman’s face. Typical of all savages, she displayed no emotion except wariness. Looking her up and down, he muttered, “How can you be sure she’s from Geronimo’s party?” His question was directed to McCoy who had the most experience with the Apaches.

“The shaft on the arrows she carries, sir.” Gib brought one out for the officer to examine. Polk was a lazy bastard at best, he knew, shunning his duties as commanding officer except when necessary. Most of his work fell to the majors and captains below him. McCoy doubted if Polk knew one tribe’s shaft from another, but he said nothing.

“Hmph. Interesting.” Polk handed back the arrow to McCoy, his gaze settling again on Kuchana.

Bristling at his inspection, her lips tightened. She vividly recalled similar inspections by soldiers at the San Carlos Reservation.

Straightening, Polk turned and headed for his office. “Get her in here, Lieutenant Carter. I want to question her at length.”

“Sir,” McCoy said, “I think she needs to eat and rest first. She hasn’t had food for four days.”

Carter turned angrily on McCoy. “That’s enough, Sergeant. She looks perfectly fine to me. Now, get her in here.”

Polk smiled at his wife. “I’ll take care of this, Mellie. Why don’t you and Claudia visit Ellen? I understand she’s faint from this heat again. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”

Dismissed, Melissa stood there, glaring at Kuchana. She hated the woman. And McCoy’s protectiveness toward her nettled her even more. How dared he. “Come, Claudia,” she demanded, “I can’t stand the stench around here. My poor nose is about ready to fall off.”

McCoy gave the two white women a look that spoke volumes. In the army, the men were required to take a bath every third day. Clothes were washed once a week by the many laundresses. Everyone smelled at the post. Except for the officer’s wives, who went daily to Draper’s Pool, a secluded pond with a stream located two miles from the post at the end of a box canyon. They were the only ones with time for such a luxury.

Kuchana hesitantly followed McCoy into the large adobe building. Her eyes rounded as she studied the interior. Thirty rifles hung on one wall. Geronimo stood no chance against so many guns. Once in Polk’s office, she was forced to stand in front of the desk while the colonel sat down.

Polk looked at McCoy. “Sergeant, I understand she knows some English, but for the sake of speed, I want you to interpret.”

Gib stood next to the Indian woman, refusing to sit down. “Yes, sir.”

Kuchana noted the tightening of McCoy’s face. She wished mightily that the pindahs wouldn’t speak so quickly. If they slowed their speech, she’d be able to understand what they said. Dizziness assailed her. She planted her booted feet apart so as not to appear weak in front of them and waited for her inquisitors to begin their questioning.

* * *

Gib’s patience thinned. For the past two hours Polk and Carter had relentlessly questioned Kuchana. Polk seemed oblivious to the fact she was weak with hunger. If the fat bastard had gone one day without food, he’d be baying like a coyote. Their treatment of Kuchana was unconscionable.

Risking another blistering tirade from Carter, Gib came to attention. “Colonel Polk, I request this session end. The woman is obviously tired and in a weakened condition. I’d like permission to take her to the cook’s tent, feed her, and then find her quarters over at the scout area.”

Carter glared at the sergeant. “We’re not done interrogating her. After all, these Apaches are tough as nails.”

Polk chuckled in agreement. “I’ve never seen such endurance.”

Kuchana closed her eyes as another wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed her. She was dying of thirst and wanted to sit down. McCoy’s hand settled on her arm. She quickly opened her eyes and realized she was swaying. Heat flooded her face and she looked away from the concern in the sergeant’s eyes.

Gib glared at Polk. “You’ll get more out of her on a full stomach than an empty one, sir.” He hated putting it in that context, but Polk’s regard of Apaches as little more than animals was well-known.

“Very well,” Polk muttered. “Get her out of here, Sergeant.”

Carter leaped to his feet. “You’re in charge of her, McCoy. If she escapes, you’re responsible.”

Gib nodded. “Yes, sir.” Carter would like to see him drummed out of the army for allowing one of Geronimo’s warriors to escape. Turning his attention to Kuchana, Carter released her, telling her to follow McCoy.

Relief fled through Kuchana once they were away from the building and walking across the arid parade ground. The sun was hot overhead, but it felt good. She noticed a number of tents to the left with women inside them scrubbing clothes on corrugated tin washboards.

“What’s that?”

“Our laundry facilities,” he explained.

“The dark ones are there, too.”

He smiled. “They’re called Negroes, Kuchana.”

“And these women come from across the great sea, too?”

“Yes.” And then Gib amended his statement. “They were brought here as slaves. Twenty years ago, they were set free and allowed to pursue whatever they wanted, just like white people.”

Kuchana noticed a large black woman in a yellow calico dress and a thinner, younger one in a dark green dress who were openly staring at her. Their stares weren’t like those of the pindah women, however. There was only curiosity in their eyes.

“They are different from the pindahs.”

“They’re good people,” said Gib. “The older one’s husband is a lance-corporal here at the post. I’m sure you’ll be meeting all of them sooner or later.”

“Then, I am to be a scout?”

He nodded, watching her eyes widen with happiness. “That’s what Colonel Polk said. I’m in charge of the scouts, so you’ll be working directly with me, not Carter.” Thank God. Gib saw her flush, and he realized that whatever he felt toward Kuchana, it was mutual.

Kuchana wanted to give a cry of triumph, but resisted the urge. Instead, she sent prayers of thanks to Painted Woman. “I will be a good scout. I will not shame you.”

“I’m not worried,” Gib said. He pointed to a large tent that had been bleached white by the burning sun. Its flaps were open at both ends to catch what little air moved sluggishly across the post. Inside were two big black kettles bubbling with beans, and a table filled with hardtack. “This is the enlisted men’s chow tent. Why don’t you go and sit down under that cottonwood and let me get you something to eat?” Gib pointed to one of the few trees that managed to survive on the post.

Not needing another invitation, Kuchana gladly headed toward the shade of the tree. She noticed the two men in the tent watching her. One, a big man with a black mustache and brown eyes, sent a shiver of warning up her spine.

“Who’s that, Sergeant?” Private Odie Faulkner asked, with a leer at Kuchana.

Scowling, Gib took a tin plate from the stack on the table. “Our newest scout,” he growled. Gib took the ladle and dished up the food from the kettle. Beans, moldy bacon and weevil-infested hardtack was the usual fare for a soldier or scout.

“That there’s a woman, ain’t it?” Odie asked, licking his full lower lip.

“That’s right. One of Geronimo’s warriors.”

“I’ll be go to hell,” Odie murmured. “I heard about them women warriors, but never saw one. She looks starvin’. That why she crawled into our post?”

Adding three hardtack biscuits, McCoy kept his anger at Faulkner in check. “She didn’t come here because she was starving. She came to offer her services as a scout.”

“Right purty,” Odie noted, craning his thick neck out the side of the tent, watching her.

“Mind your own business, Private.”

Faulkner’s bushy black brows drew up in surprise over his heavy German features. “Yes, sir.”

Kuchana watched McCoy saunter in her direction. He was dressed like most of the other soldiers: a pair of yellow suspenders holding up his dark blue trousers, and a dark blue shirt that was damp with sweat, clinging to his upper body. There was much to admire about McCoy. Everything about his demeanor claimed him to be a warrior. There was an economy to his movements, and he carried himself proudly. There was no doubt that he was a leader of men.

Her attention shifted to the food he handed her. Eagerly, Kuchana took the plate, amazed at how much was on it. In seconds, she was using her fingers, eating ravenously.

Gib crouched in front of her. “Take it easy,” he cautioned. Kuchana was wolfing down the food. Dammit, he shouldn’t have filled the plate so full. “Why don’t you eat the biscuits first,” he suggested, trying to get her to slow down. “Your stomach isn’t used to this kind of food….”

His husky warning came too late. Kuchana had eaten half the food when her stomach violently rebelled. With a cry, she leapt to her feet and turned away. Within seconds, everything she had eaten had been thrown up. Sweat covered her features as she knelt on the ground, her arms pressed against her stomach. Kuchana stayed that way, her head bowed with embarrassment and shame.

“Dammit,” Gib whispered, moving quickly to her side, “I should’ve known better.” Instinctively, he reached down, placing his hands on Kuchana’s shoulders. She was trembling badly. “Come on, let’s get you over to the tree.” He pulled Kuchana to her feet. Her face was flushed and she could barely walk. Anger at Polk’s and Carter’s insensitivity to her physical condition raged through him.

Gently, he settled her back against the trunk of the tree. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly, his hand remaining on her slumped shoulder.

Feeling dizzy and weak, Kuchana nodded. Just the touch of his hand on her shoulder stabilized her whirling world. She shut her eyes, feeling as if she would die.

Gib came back with a cup of tepid water. He knelt and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Here, take a swallow and then spit it out,” he ordered.

Kuchana opened her eyes, sipping the water from the cup he pressed to her lower lip. Following his instructions, she rinsed her mouth.

“Good,” Gib praised, setting the water aside. He picked up a biscuit from the plate and broke off a small portion of it. “Now, chew on this, and do it slowly.”

Her eyes never left his harsh features. McCoy had a face like the rugged mountains in Sonora, yet he was treating her as a mother would a sick child. Gratefully, she took the proffered piece of biscuit.

Despite her condition, Kuchana was a proud and independent warrior. Gib knew that to coddle her too much would make her look weak in the eyes of others. He removed his arm and sat back on his boot heels.

“Good,” he rasped unsteadily, watching her chew the biscuit thoroughly before swallowing it. He offered her the cup. “Now a little swallow of water.”

Kuchana managed a grimace, then sipped the water and put it aside. McCoy handed her another bit of biscuit.

“How’s your stomach feeling now?” he asked.

Placing her hand on it, she said, “Better.”

“Any rolling feeling?”

She shook her head.

“Just take your time,” Gib soothed. “A bite of biscuit and a sip of water. You’ve been without food a lot longer than four days, haven’t you?”

Kuchana avoided his piercing look. “Warriors must give their food to their families,” she said.

Relaxing, Gib placed his arms on his knees. “Looks like you’ve had more giveaways than most,” he teased gently. Indians believed in giving away all that they owned, especially food, to those who were poor or incapable of hunting for themselves. He saw the corners of her mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. Kuchana had a magical effect on him.

“The Old Ones and the children will not starve,” Kuchana said stubbornly. Her stomach was settling down, and the biscuit tasted good. “How do you know so much about my people?” she asked McCoy.

“I made a point of learning about them when I was assigned to Fort Apache,” Gib answered.

“Many pindahs know nothing of us.”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t have any prejudice against your people, Kuchana.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like a reverent prayer. Kuchana could feel the power of the emotions behind his words. She searched his face. “What is ‘prejudice’?”

“It’s when one person hates another because he might believe or look differently than himself.”

“Pindahs have prejudice against us because we are different?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head, watching a group of Negro soldiers marching off in the distance. She held up her hand, gesturing toward the soldiers. “The dark ones are also different. Do pindahs have prejudice against them, too?”

Pushing the hat back on his head, Gib mulled over his answer. “There are many pindahs who don’t like any other color except their own.”

“You are not like them.”

Gib shook his head. “Color means nothing to me. How a man or woman treats others is what’s important.”

“You are like an Apache!” she said excitedly. Touching her breast, Kuchana regarded him somberly. “You are a man who talks from his heart. That is good.”

“I try to, Kuchana.” Gib grimaced, his gaze restless. As a sergeant, his duties and responsibilities were many. There was a decided prejudice against the Negro enlisted soldiers. In the month he’d been at the fort, he’d realized that he was the only buffer between them and the white officers. The Civil War might be over, but the Negro was far from free. He felt it wise to keep his eyes and ears open, be alert at all times.

Aware that the sergeant surveyed the post, Kuchana remained silent, continuing to eat the biscuit. The strain of the past few hours was catching up with her. Her eyelids were becoming heavy, and she sighed, placing the rest of the biscuit back on the plate.

McCoy noticed the weariness in her eyes. “Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Feel like standing?”

Kuchana tested her legs carefully, finding new strength in them. Gib remained at a distance, allowing her to stand on her own. “Where do we go now?”

“The scout area,” Gib said. “I’ll show you where you’re going to live.” Silently, he wondered how she was going to fit in with the other Indians who worked for the army. Many tribes didn’t get along with one another. Even among the various Apache segments, some tribes were friendlier than others. The Chiricahua, Kuchana’s tribe, had few friends.

Chapter Three

The scout section sat behind the rows of laundry tents where the women washed the clothes and bedding for the entire post. Kuchana surveyed the bone-colored canvas tents that stood, with flaps open, in neat, orderly lines. Huge tin tubs filled with hot, soapy water sat on wooden tables. The dark-skinned women who toiled laboriously over their duties had sweaty faces and their dresses clung to them from the heat. These women reminded her of the diligent Apache women, who worked nonstop for their families.

Turning her gaze in another direction, Kuchana saw several Indian men crouched in a circle, speaking in low guttural tones. The hackles on the back of her neck raised as Chee, a huge Apache of Tonto ancestry, stood up at her approach.

Chee was dressed in a blue army jacket and dark brown twill pants along with his kabun boots. He was the chief scout, and judging from his deepening scowl, McCoy knew there were going to be fireworks. The other four scouts, wearing cotton shirts, army trousers and black leather boots, stood also. Their faces were wary, inspecting Kuchana behind a wall of formidable silence as she and Gib came to a halt. Chee stared down at the woman for a long moment. “You are Geronimo’s warrior,” he spat.

Girding herself, Kuchana stared at him defiantly. “I am Chiricahua. My name is Kuchana.”

Chee stuck out his chest and thumped it with his fist. “I am in charge. You Chiricahua think you are superior. Well, you are not. I am Tonto.”

Gib grimaced inwardly. There was little that could be done to settle the friction between the Tonto tribe and the Chiricahua. That was one reason the Apache hadn’t been able to push the whites out of Arizona; they’d fought too much among themselves and not presented a united front. Even here Gib was seeing evidence of the same hostility. And if he had any doubts about Kuchana’s bravery, now that she stood in front of the huge, huffing Indian, they disappeared.

Kuchana thumped her breast, thrusting out her chin in Chee’s direction. “You may be chief scout, but I’m Chiricahua, and we are better trackers.”

McCoy watched as Two Toes moved forward. The Yavapai’s face was lean in comparison to the fuller Apache face. He saw Kuchana’s anger turn to hatred as she noticed the scout’s approach.

“Yavapai,” she hissed. Glaring at Chee, she demanded, “How can you work with our enemy? This tribe sneaks onto our reservation and into our wickiups at night, killing our women and children with clubs.”

Chee’s massive features, lined with forty years of life, worked into a sneer. “We all work for the army against Geronimo. Yavapai are now our friends.”

Kuchana was the only Chiricahua present. The other scouts were also of Tonto heritage. With a sinking feeling, Kuchana realized that even as a scout, she was going to be an outcast. Although members of Chiricahua and Tonto were brothers, they did not get along. Often, there were blood feuds between the tribes.

Gib cleared his throat. “Chee, it’s up to you to make sure she is trained properly to take over scouting duties when called upon.”

Chee nodded, assuming an air of importance. “She is a scout, Sergeant. I’ll give her a tent and tell her the rules.”

“Good. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be back over here and issue her a kit and weapons.”

Kuchana moved uneasily. She had no choice but to trust Chee. All her weapons had been taken earlier, but no warrior, even without weapons, was defenseless. She had courage and strength born of the knowledge that she would survive where others had died.

Gib glanced at her. “If Chee can’t help you, or answer a question, you come and see me over at the barracks. Understand?”

She nodded, moistening her lips, looking in the direction he pointed. The two-story barracks stood in rows several hundred feet from the scout area.

Pointing to the building closest to the scout area, Gib added, “I have a small office in there. The scouts are free to come and go to the laundry, chow tent, or to the enlisted barracks, but that’s all. Don’t be caught unescorted up by headquarters or on the parade ground.”

“I will stay here,” Kuchana said, pointing to the ground.

“Get some rest. I’ll come for you tomorrow morning and we’ll fill out the rest of your billet.”

Kuchana gave him a small smile of appreciation and whispered, “A-co-’d.” The word meant ‘thank you.’ And it wasn’t often that an Apache spoke it. Gib’s face changed and softened for a moment.

“You’re welcome,” he acknowledged.

Without any further word, he turned and left. Kuchana’s pleasant features wavered in his mind’s eye as he crossed the parade ground, dodging a troop of cavalry coming back in from an assignment. She stirred his senses and feelings as no other woman ever had. He wondered if Polk would allow her to continue as a scout, or send her back to the reservation. If she was going to stay, Kuchana was going to have to prove herself to everyone, and quickly.

Lieutenant Carter hated anyone who wasn’t white or an officer. He didn’t care one whit if a scout was killed in the line of duty. Too often, while on assignment, the scouts were fired upon by civilians who thought they were Geronimo’s people. Carter wasn’t cautious enough about protecting the scouts in that kind of situation. Gib was damned if Kuchana was going to be gunned down by a jumpy silver miner just because Carter chose to ignore certain directives that would keep her safe. He’d have to remain vigilant.

Wiping the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand, Gib climbed the wooden stairs. All his life, he’d protected the underdog. That’s what had gotten him in trouble in Fort Apache. With a sigh, he took off his hat and entered headquarters.

Kuchana presented some potentially damaging problems to his own floundering career. The last time he’d placed himself in jeopardy for a woman he’d lost his officer’s commission. Many felt he should have left with his tail between his legs, but he hadn’t. In his heart, he knew what he had done had been right. Instead of retiring, he’d forced the army to give him sergeant’s stripes and retain his services for the duration of his twenty-year enlistment.

Stopping at Corporal McClusky’s desk, Gib picked up several sets of orders that would involve his scouts on future expeditions. Once a month, Polk set out riding assignments for the Fourth, and McCoy was responsible for assigning scouts to the Negro columns.

As he perused the orders, his mind dwelled on Kuchana. He wondered if she was going to get along with the other scouts. With a mental shrug, Gib swung his focus back to his duties. He couldn’t afford to keep thinking about Kuchana. But whether he wanted to admit it or not, his heart was still lingering on her sweet, soft smile.

* * *

The sky was crimson with the rising of the sun. Gib settled the hat on his head and gingerly touched the spot on his chin where he’d cut himself with the razor this morning. Swinging off the barracks steps, he headed for the scout area. The mountains to the north were dark, rugged shapes carved with deep ravines. Juniper and piñon clung to the lower reaches of the slopes like a scraggly green skirt above the sandy-yellow reaches of the desert floor.

Sentries on horseback rode slowly around the huge rectangular area that comprised the buildings and grounds of the fort. As he passed the bustling laundry facilities, he saw Poppy and waved.

“Sergeant McCoy, come over here!” she called out in her booming voice.

Gib smiled and changed direction. As he approached she wrung out a shirt and handed it to her daughter, Nettie, to rinse.

“Why, you look fit as a fiddle this morning, Sergeant McCoy.”

Tipping his hat, Gib halted at the front of the huge tent, now open to the breeze. “Thanks, Poppy. Looks like you’re hard at work.” Most of the laundresses washed from dawn until noon, and then pressed and folded the clothes throughout the hottest part of the day.

Poppy’s hair was wrapped in a bright blue turban, and sweat streaked her face. “Word’s flying around here that the army hired a woman Apache scout.”

Nettie looked up from her tub. The girl’s hair hung in two neat pigtails and she was rail-thin compared to her mother. “I saw her, Sergeant McCoy, yesterday when I took some clothes back to the enlisted barracks.” Her eyes grew merry. “She’s a purty thing, ain’t she? I never knew Apaches to have gold-colored eyes.”

“Some do,” Gib said.

“Lordy me,” Poppy gushed, “what’s this gonna do to the post? Why, I heard from Clarissa, that Miz Melissa is livid about this woman being here. Is that so?”

Gib kept his face neutral. The laundresses were a gossipy bunch. Anytime he wanted to know what was really going on at the post, he came to Poppy. He wasn’t surprised Melissa Polk was throwing a fit over Kuchana’s presence. Melissa was jealous, that was all; Kuchana was a hell of a lot prettier than the snobbish banker’s daughter.

“Ladies, you know I don’t have much to do with the officers or their wives. I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person.”

Poppy pushed her lips together, eyeing him with laughter in her eyes. “You’re a wolf among sheep, Sergeant McCoy.” She made a jab with one thick finger toward the officer’s quarters in the distance. “And they all know it, too. You might be wearing sergeant’s stripes, but the men of the Fourth trust you.”

That was part of the problem, Gib thought. He hadn’t let color dissuade him from becoming a protective buffer between the men of the Fourth and the likes of Lieutenant Carter. “Poppy, have you got a couple of cups of coffee hidden somewhere in that tent of yours?” She always had some forbidden officers’ supplies stashed away.

She grinned, placing her hands on her ample hips. “Two cups, Sergeant? Usually, you only want one. By any chance, you heading for the scout tents?”

Gib rubbed his jaw. “Can’t fool you, can I, Poppy?” The laundress didn’t miss much, but then, Poppy could be trusted with knowing things like this and keeping it secret.

Cackling, Poppy asked Nettie to fetch the coffee. “Ain’t like you to take the scouts coffee. They know they can come here and get it from me.”

“The second cup is for Kuchana,” he said, trying hard not to smile.

“I thought so.”

“Mind if I bring her over here and introduce her to you ladies later? I think she could use some friends.”

Nettie handed Gib the tin cups filled with steaming coffee and clapped her palms together. “Oh, would you? Why, Clarissa is just dying to get a look at her.”

“Ladies, she needs some friends, not curiosity seekers.” Gib held Poppy’s knowing gaze. “Kuchana isn’t liked by the scouts because she’s Chiricahua. And I know the officers’ wives will snub her.”

“Just stop your worrying, Sergeant McCoy. You send that purty little thing over here and we’ll take good care of her.” Poppy beamed. “She’s scrawny…”

Gib nodded grimly. “Yeah, she hasn’t had enough to eat for a long time.”

“Well, you just never mind, Poppy will fix her up. I’ll take care of that poor chile. She’ll be a part of our family, just like you are, Sergeant McCoy.”

“Thanks, it means a lot to me.”

The laundress grinned. “I know it does. I can see she’s something special to you.”

Gib nodded and turned away, heading for the scout area. The scouts on duty that day were usually up by this time, working on their weapons. Today, it was Two Toes and Jemez who had the duty.

Chee had assigned the last tent nearest the horse line to Kuchana. Gib came to a halt at the head of the tent where the flap had been drawn aside and saw that Kuchana was still soundly asleep, clutching a fist-size rock.

It bothered him that she felt she had to have some kind of weapon to protect herself even here, but he couldn’t blame her. The Yavapai hated the Apache and had a reputation for slitting the throats of their enemy under the cover of darkness.

As he crouched down, Gib eyed Kuchana’s sleeping features. Her flesh wasn’t as taut, and there was some color in her cheeks. Her thick, black hair, no longer bound by the cotton headband, lay about her shoulders like a blanket. She reminded him of a finely bred horse—lean, proud and delicate. Her lips were parted in sleep, and he wondered what it would be like to kiss her, to explore the texture of her mouth beneath his.

Chee had issued her only one blanket, and he frowned, knowing she should have been given at least three. Kuchana had placed the blanket on the ground and curled up in a fetal position to remain warm during the cool night. Today, he would make sure she was issued a full billet.

He was about to awaken Kuchana when he saw tears bead and form on her lashes. Putting the mugs aside, he reached down and gave her shoulder a shake.

Kuchana hissed, jerking upright, rock poised in hand. Her eyes widened when she realized it was McCoy. “I—I’m sorry,” she rasped, her voice thick with sleep. She dropped the rock. Tears trailed down her cheeks and she tried to wipe them away before the sergeant saw them.

“Hold on,” he ordered quietly. “What’s the reason for the tears?”

Embarrassed, Kuchana kept her eyes on the ground between them. “It was a dream.”

Gib took one of the cups and handed it to her. “Here’s some chicory coffee. Go on, take it.” The high color in her cheeks told him that she was shamed by her tears. Gib picked up the second cup and sipped the liquid, remaining in his crouched position.

Chicory coffee was a rare treat for Kuchana. She managed a nod of thanks, holding the cup with both hands. Why hadn’t she heard the sergeant approach? Had her sleep been so profound that Two Toes could have sneaked into her tent and killed her? Usually, her sleep was light and watchful.

“Looks like you were sleeping hard,” Gib said conversationally. He had an urge to reach out and tunnel his fingers through her shining ebony hair.

“Too hard,” she muttered unhappily, drinking the coffee with relish.

“You were tired.” Tired from months of running, he thought. The army and the Mexican soldatos had been pursuing Geronimo and his people without rest for nearly six months. And Kuchana was proof of that.

“It is no excuse. I should not sleep like that. It could get me killed.” In the distance Kuchana heard the soft snort of horses, the clank of bits, the creak of saddles. A number of soldiers were up and about performing their daily duties. Chee and one of the other scouts came up to the horse line, saddling their mounts. There wasn’t much to like about Chee, Kuchana had decided. He was a swaggering, bragging male, more wind than courage, in her estimation. Chee was not a warrior. In fact, none of the scouts wore the third braid.

The tears were drying on her cheeks, and Gib searched for a way to find out more about their cause. “You said there wasn’t much of your family left since Geronimo escaped the reservation.”

A pain stabbed deeply into her heart at his words, and Kuchana bowed her head. “I have only one sister left.” The words came out low and strained.

“Was that what you were dreaming about?”

The question was gently put, and Kuchana lifted her chin, holding his gaze. McCoy had harsh features, but he was truly sensitive to others’ feelings. “I…it was of her daughter that I dreamed.”

“Oh?”

“Her daughter went to the Big Sleep just before I left.”

“And that’s the reason you came here?”

“Yes. There was not enough food…” She sniffed, taking her sleeve and wiping the tears off her face. Kuchana prayed that none of the other scouts saw her behaving like this. Looking at McCoy, she wondered at the tenderness she saw burning in the depths of his blue eyes. His look gave her a sense of safety she had never known. With a wry grimace, she muttered, “You pull my feelings out of me, Sergeant. I am not used to a man doing this.”

“I’m sorry the child died, Kuchana.” He held her wavering gaze. “As for drawing feelings out of you, all I can say is that’s good, as far as I’m concerned. I want to know how my scouts feel.” When he saw her nod, he added, “When we’re alone like this, call me Gib. I don’t like a lot of formality.”

The compassion in his voice told her much. “Does your name mean something?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. My mother named me after my grandfather and great-grandfather.”

Just talking with Gib eased the pain and anxiety she carried for her people. The warmth of his husky voice was balm to her grieving heart. “Tell me your family name.”

“Gibson Justin McCoy.”

“You carry the spirit of your family with you?”

“Yes, I guess I do.” He paused. “Kuchana has something to do with water.”

She felt heat flood her cheeks and she lowered her lashes. The warmth Gib established with her was profound and new. He made her heart open like a blossom in the spring. “It means ‘woman of the waters.‘”

“Then you must feel things strongly and deeply, like water.”

With a little laugh, Kuchana said, “Too deep.”

She was beautiful when she laughed. Her eyes, dark brown with gold flecks in their depths, sparkled. And her mouth…Gib took a deep, steadying breath. When her lips curved upward, she reminded him of a sunrise.

“I don’t think it’s wrong to feel things deeply,” he countered thickly.

The burning light in his eyes made Kuchana vividly aware of herself as a woman. Just the way Gib looked at her, she felt special—and beautiful.

“Well,” he said, straightening, “you’re a woman of the waters. I think it’s a good thing. Feelings are not a sign of weakness.”

She shook her head. How odd, a man who approved of feelings.

“We’ve got plenty of things to do this morning,” Gib began. “Why don’t you get something to eat over at the chow tent and then meet me at the stables? I’m having your mare shod and then we’ll find a saddle that fits her.”

“I’ll see you at the stables,” Kuchana agreed.

Wind had already been shod with her first set of shoes by the time Kuchana made her way to the massive stabling area. There were buildings housing dried hay and grain for the hundreds of horses that milled in the huge corrals at the rear of the buildings. She found Gib with a red-haired giant of a man who had a worn leather apron draped around his thick middle.

“This is Kuchana,” McCoy told the farrier, Kelly McManus.

McManus thrust his big meaty hand in her direction. “Right nice to meet you.”

Kuchana hesitantly placed her hand in the farrier’s, unfamiliar with the greeting. She’d seen pindahs do this before on the reservation. McManus had dancing green eyes, a red mustache that drooped like twisted ropes down the sides of his mouth. As she reclaimed her hand, his smile made her relax.

“Your mare is over there,” the farrier said, pointing down the aisle of the open building where at least twenty horses were tethered.

The black mare wore a halter, and the rope was tied to an iron ring that hung from a stout wall. She pricked up her ears as Kuchana thanked the farrier and walked down the well-swept aisle.

Gib escorted her down the center of the building, walking at her shoulder. On either side were roomy box stalls, and other rooms at the rear that held tack and barrels of grain. He noticed that Kuchana had washed and neatly combed her hair. The faint scent of soap lingered around her. Memory of Melissa’s cutting remarks yesterday that Kuchana smelled came back to him. It was obvious she had tried her best to look neat and clean under the circumstances. The clothes she wore were threadbare and would have to be replaced. It crossed his mind that he would like to give her a pretty dress to wear, instead. He laughed at himself. It was the first time in his life he’d ever wanted to give a woman gifts. Kuchana invited that kind of response.

“Has your horse ever worn a saddle?”

“Yes, I had a cottonwood saddle for many years until the culo-gordos attacked our camp and I had to leave it behind.”

Wind nickered as Kuchana walked up to her. She patted the mare fondly as she inspected the new iron shoes on her hooves.

McCoy took a blue wool blanket edged with yellow and threw it across the mare’s back. “From now on, you’ve got to ride with army gear.” He pulled a black, bull-hide-covered McClellan saddle off the rack and settled it on the animal’s back. In no time, he showed Kuchana how to cinch the double girth. Next came the military-issue bridle. Wind wasn’t very happy about having a metal bit in her mouth, but she accepted it with grace after attempting to chew on it.

Kuchana stood back, amazed at all the items that McCoy had piled in front of the pommel and behind the cantle of the saddle. There were canteens, pouches for ammunition, a blanket, and containers to carry food and even grain for Wind.

“When you’re assigned to ride with a column, you’ll come over here and saddle the mare up just like this.” He saw the stunned expression in Kuchana’s eyes. “Something wrong?”

“No.” She stepped up to Wind, placing her hand on the mare’s neck. “There is so much.”

“When a column goes out, we usually patrol for five to ten days at a time.” Gib gestured to the saddle that had been created for endurance riding. “We have a saying in the army. We ride forty miles a day on beans and hay. The pack mules carry the hay and most of the food, but sometimes, on a forced march, we have to rely on what we can carry on our saddle.”

“Pindah horses can never keep up with our horses,” Kuchana noted proudly. She pointed to a bay gelding tied next to Wind. “Look at him. He is grain fed. I have seen many army horses unable to stand the heat or the distance.”

“You’re right. I told the officers here they shouldn’t feed our animals grain.” He grinned, giving the mare a pat on the shoulder. “We ought to train our horses to eat cactus like you do yours.”

“Wind will not die on a march. She knows to eat cactus for food and also water in order to stay alive.”

“The Apache know how to survive,” Gib agreed with a smile. “Come on, let’s go over to Supply. We’ll be coming back to do some hunting, so leave Wind saddled.”

Kuchana’s eyes shone with excitement as she walked with Gib toward another large two-story adobe building. “We hunt four-leggeds?”

“Yep. I figure the only way to get Chee and the colonel to believe in you is to prove your worth as a tracker. Lieutenant Carter ordered Chee to send someone out to the mountains over there—” he pointed to the north “—and kill some deer or bighorn for the officers’ families.”

“I will prove myself worthy.”

Gib saw the challenging fire in her eyes. “Well, whatever we kill, some of it is going to be dropped off to Poppy so she can distribute it among the laundry families.”

“Who is Poppy?”

“One of the women who washes clothes.”

“A dark-skinned one?”

Gib smiled “Yes.”

As they climbed the steps of Supply, Gib noticed the soldiers giving Kuchana discreet looks. He led her inside the building where clothing, weapons and tack were kept. Sergeant Mulrooney, head of Supply, nodded a good-morning to them.

“Kuchana needs a scout’s issue, Sergeant,” Gib told the gray-haired man.

“Right away, Gib.”

Kuchana turned around, looking at the columns of boxes stacked around the room. There were huge piles of green wool blankets, canteens, saddles and row upon row of rifles.

McCoy was sure that she’d never seen so many new things. Her face glowed with excitement when Mulrooney led her to the clothing section.

A blue wool uniform jacket was finally found to fit her slender build. When she gently ran her fingers reverently over the brass buttons, Gib found himself wondering what her touch would feel like on his skin. The unexpected thought was inviting.

Mulrooney gave her a set of blue kersey pants to replace the thin ones she wore. When he tried to give her a set of black boots, she adamantly refused them, saying that her hardy kabun boots were better. The distinctive curled toes on the boots were good for picking up and moving poisonous snakes or Gila monsters out of her path with ease and safety. The black boots had a rounded toe and were, in her opinion, worthless.

Gib watched Mulrooney’s reaction to Kuchana. The old supply sergeant couldn’t seem to do enough for her. Crossing his arms on his chest, Gib leaned against a rough beam and watched them with pleasure. He was sure it was Kuchana’s winsome smile and her bubbling gasps of delight that spurred Mulrooney to hunt for just the right items.

When Mulrooney brought out five brightly colored cotton shirts, Kuchana gasped. Her fingers moved lovingly across the shirts. The supply sergeant blushed fiercely when he gave them to her.

“These are all mine, Sergeant?” she whispered in disbelief, holding them in her arms as if they were a babe.

“Why, sure, Kuchana. Every scout gets five of ’em. Don’t look like I just gave ya the world, girl. Go on, take ‘em!” he ordered gruffly with a wave of his hand.

Gib suppressed a smile as Mulrooney colored even more deeply when Kuchana gave him a smile.

“A-co-‘d,” Kuchana whispered, hugging the beautiful shirts to her breast.

“Ahh, don’t get sentimental on me, girl.” Mulrooney slanted a glance at McCoy. “Git her outa here before she cries.”

Smiling, Gib nodded and, picking up the rest of Kuchana’s issue, walked to the door. She came to his side, marveling at the cotton shirts.

“Come on, let’s get this gear back to your tent,” he told her.

Chapter Four

Melissa was just coming out of her quarters in the officers’ building when she spotted Sergeant McCoy and Kuchana. This morning Clarissa had fashioned her blond hair in a cascade of curls that grazed her shoulders. With her straw bonnet decorated with brightly colored ribbons and her apple-green dress, she knew that she presented a comely picture. She’d brushed her bangs, making sure they were in place across her wing-shaped brows.

A beautiful woman was a rarity at any post, and Melissa reveled in the wishful and admiring glances the hard-bitten army men gave her. Why hadn’t the sergeant looked at her that way, too? He acted as if she didn’t exist, and that made her angry. Her gaze followed McCoy. If her eyes didn’t deceive her, he looked almost happy. And he was carrying most of the Apache’s issue for her. Envy of Kuchana rippled through her. Tapping her fan furiously in her opened palm, Melissa fixed a smile on her face as they approached.

“I declare, Sergeant, you look more like a pack animal than a man beneath that load.”

McCoy halted. Normally, he’d have tipped his hat to the wife of any man, but both arms were full. “Good morning, Mrs. Polk.”

Melissa hated the impervious look he gave her. The Indian woman halted at his side, gawking up at her like a child, obviously enthralled with the dress she wore. “Why, Kuchana—that is your name, isn’t it?”

Kuchana nodded. “Yes, it is.”

McCoy scowled, sensing the coldness behind Melissa’s smile. “Mrs. Polk, as you can see, we’re loaded down. I’ve got—”

“Nonsense, Sergeant.” She smiled warmly at Kuchana and stepped off the wooden porch. With her fan, she tapped the variety of cotton shirts Kuchana held in her arms. “My, my, what do we have here?”

Eagerly holding up the shirts for inspection, Kuchana said, “Look, the army has given me the colors of the rainbow.”

Wrinkling her nose, Melissa leaned over. “Why, I believe they have, Kuchana.” She giggled. “A rainbow of colors. First time I’ve ever heard that expression applied to army issue.”

Gib gritted his teeth. Kuchana was too trusting of others. Honesty and truth were the Apache way of life. Greed, envy and jealousy were not tolerated, because they threatened the existence of the tribe as a unit. Kuchana had no experience identifying or dealing with Melissa’s type of woman. She needed to be protected. She was being led to slaughter. “Mrs. Polk—” he began.

Melissa glared at him. “Sergeant, why don’t you just toddle on over to your favorite place, the scouting area? You seem to enjoy the savages much more than your own kind. I insist upon talking with Kuchana.”

Holding on to very real anger, Gib studied the officer’s wife. “I’m sure you’re aware that if Kuchana is caught in a restricted area without the regulation escort, she can be punished.”

“Oh, my!” Melissa shrugged delicately. “Of course, you’re right, Sergeant. Well, just a few more minutes, then. You look brawny enough to carry that load. You’re such a gentleman, after all.” She swung her attention back to Kuchana, hating McCoy for his accurate appraisal of the situation. If he had left, Melissa would have made sure Kuchana was placed on report for being in the officers’ area unescorted. Harvey didn’t stand still for such infractions by coloreds or savages. Damn McCoy, anyway!

“So, you like colors?” Melissa asked the Indian sweetly.

Kuchana nodded, not understanding the tension between McCoy and the pindah. “You also wear rainbow-colored clothes.”

Melissa tilted her head and gestured to the frock she wore. “I just knew that beneath that Apache skin of yours, there was a woman. I’m delighted to know you like dresses. But I’d use these rags to dry off my horse after a long run.”

The insult was lost on Kuchana, but Gib tensed. “Mrs. Polk, I’ve never seen you rub down a horse after you’ve run it into the ground. Matter of fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around the stabling area. Josh always brings your mount to your front door.” Melissa was known to ride hell-bent-for-leather, purposely losing her army escort to gallop freely off the post whenever she pleased. The only problem with that was that someday, if she wasn’t careful, she could get killed or captured by marauding Indians or comancheros. All that, however, was lost on Melissa, who viewed the world as one dramatic and exciting event after another.

Fire flashed in Melissa’s eyes. “That will be all, Sergeant.” She smiled coldly at him, noting the tight, angry lines in his sweaty features. “Or are you planning on running off with this helpless female, too?” She whipped the fan outward, hiding her lower face, batting her lashes, and moved with slow, measured steps toward headquarters.

“That brat,” Gib whispered under his breath after she was out of earshot. He turned to assess the damage Melissa had done to Kuchana. Her face was free of any anger or upset. Instead, he saw confusion in the depths of her eyes.

“Come on,” Gib ordered tightly.

Kuchana had long legs and was able to keep up with his striding pace. Frowning, she asked, “What does she mean, running off?”

“I’ll tell you on the trail, Kuchana. Right now, all I want to do is get away from this post.” Specifically, away from the scheming Melissa Polk. Why Melissa had him earmarked as a target for her cutting tongue was beyond him. She flirted outrageously with him whenever she got the chance. Gib knew his actions at Fort Apache had been carried here along with his transfer. He didn’t dare openly challenge Melissa, because she’d run to that spineless husband of hers and complain. And then he could be brought up on charges again. Women were definitely a problem in his life.

The mountains above the valley were sitting silent, waiting for the sun to rise over their peaks. Once she was in the rolling hills above the fort, Kuchana trotted her mare abreast of McCoy’s bay gelding. Gib had a rope in his gloved hand and two brown mules in tow behind his horse. If he and Kuchana made a kill, the mules would carry it back.

As Holos’s first rays tipped the mountains, Kuchana nudged Wind closer to Gib’s mount, not wanting her voice to carry and frighten off any wild animals in the vicinity. “You said you would speak of running off.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Kuchana rode as if born to the animal. Apaches, however, were equally at ease on foot, covering up to thirty or forty miles a day. Sometimes, when being pursued by the army, they would run their horses until they died, and then continue on foot, handily outdistancing the cavalry.

He cleared his throat, his gaze scanning the juniper and piñon coming into view as they climbed higher out of the desert.

“Juliet Harper is the wife of the commander of Fort Apache,” he began. “Her husband, Colonel Phillip Harper, drinks too much alcohol.” When he saw that Kuchana didn’t understand the term, he used the term “firewater,” instead.

Kuchana wrinkled her nose. “I saw what firewater did to our people when we were on the reservation. Men go heyoke, crazy.”

“Yes, and that’s what Harper did. Almost every day,” Gib added grimly.

“And Juliet was upset?” She knew how irritated the wives of the warriors became after their men stumbled around drunk and incoherent for days on end.

“It was worse than that, Kuchana. Harper would drink at night in his home, and then he’d beat his wife.”

Her eyes widened. “Beat her?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “A warrior does not hurt women and children. They are bound by the laws of Usen to protect them.”

“I wish we had such laws, but we don’t,” Gib muttered. “Juliet was taking a beating almost every night. One time, she ran from her home and I happened to be out checking sentry posts. I heard someone sobbing and found her hiding in a dark corner with her hands covering her head. I held her until she quieted. That was when I found out about the beatings and Harper’s drinking problem. Anyway, after that, Juliet would confide in me. I was the only one on the post who knew that she was slowly being beaten to death.”

“If you knew, didn’t you challenge Harper?”

“Kuchana, it’s different in the army than in your world. I was a lieutenant, and Harvey was a colonel. If I tried to interfere, he’d have crucified me.” Gib laughed derisively. “A month later, Juliet came to me, begging me to help her run away. She wanted an escort to the stage line thirty miles away. She planned on running away from her husband and going back East to her parents.” He lifted his hat, wiping the sweat on his brow with the back of his sleeve, then settled it back on his head. “It would have ruined Harper’s career, but Juliet was desperate.”

“To see a woman hurt by a man must have bothered you greatly,” said Kuchana. “You’re not the kind of warrior to stand aside and allow it to happen.”

“You’re right, I couldn’t.”

“You helped this woman?”

“I finally agreed to escort her to the stage. We worked out the plan, and one night, a week later, we made our escape. Halfway to the stage, Harvey intercepted us with a troop of cavalry. Apparently he’d overheard Juliet talking with one of the other officers’ wives. That woman turned Juliet in to her husband. He knew all along of Juliet’s plan of escape.”

Her eyes rounded. Gib was grim. “You’re a man of bravery.”

“In pindah society, you’re not rewarded for trying to help in a situation like that. I got hauled up on charges and busted from officer to enlisted status.” Gib managed a thin smile. The wind played with strands of Kuchana’s ebony hair, lifting and settling them back on her shoulder. Her red cotton shirt brought out the smooth planes of her high cheekbones.

“They punished you? How could they?” Kuchana’s indignation was impassioned. “What you did was good and right.”

“Not in the army’s eyes. Things are different between pindahs and your people, Kuchana.”

“You are more like an Apache than a pindah.”

Laughing, Gib placed his hand on her shoulder. “Maybe I am.” Her eyes widened at his gesture and he cursed himself. What the hell had gotten into him? Withdrawing his hand, he tried to break the bond of warmth that existed between them. No woman had reached inside him as she had. It was disconcerting. “Up there,” he said gruffly, pointing to the top of a hill, “is where the deer and bighorn have a trail. There’s a watering hole down on the other side where we can put your tracking skills to use.”

Kuchana nodded. She saw that Gib was embarrassed by his gesture. Trying to ease his discomfort, she asked, “Why does Melissa dislike you?”

Kuchana hadn’t missed a thing. Gib wasn’t really surprised. “Some pindah women,” he said, “think they are better than other people, Kuchana.”

“She wears very beautiful dresses.” Kuchana sighed and then smiled.

A grin edged Gib’s mouth. “Yes, she does. But be careful of her—her friendship is not sincere.”

Shrugging, Kuchana began to look for animal trails at the crest of the hill. “She wasn’t unkind to me.” The area was dotted with small, scraggly piñon, which were good food for her people, when they could get to them. In the month of Many Leaves, the sticky green cones were filled with delicious nuts. “She liked the shirts the army gave me,” she added with a smile.

Halting his horse, Gib watched her study the ground. Her mouth became pursed, her eyes hooded. “Look, Melissa wasn’t being complimentary about your shirts,” he warned.

Looking in his direction, Kuchana said, “She was smiling.”

Uncomfortable, Gib chose not to pursue the topic. Kuchana was naive to the wiles of women like Melissa. “Well,” he muttered, “just try and stay as far away from her as you can.” He knew from experience that the backbiting that went on among white females did not exist within the Apache community. And if it did occur, the guilty woman was pressured to resume a more humble demeanor in order to get along with the other people of the tribe.

Kuchana had no idea how wicked Melissa could be. Gib realized that the colonel’s wife was going to continue to snub and insult her. He didn’t care if she went after him, but Kuchana was innocent. As Gib studied the fresh tracks on the ground, he realized that Juliet Harper had been innocent, too. Damn. Kuchana was too trusting. She had no reason not to be. Pindah women hadn’t made war on her, the men had.

“Come,” Kuchana said, moving Wind down the ridge line, “I see bighorn tracks.” She flashed him a triumphant look. “They are nearby. Four of them. I think young bucks.”

Rousing himself from his worry, McCoy nodded. “You lead the way, and I’ll bring the mules.”

* * *

Dodd Carter’s day got worse when he saw the female scout and Sergeant McCoy return late in the afternoon with the mules laden with bighorn kills. He stood on the porch of headquarters, hands on his hips, watching as they slowly rode by in the direction of the chow tents.

He fumed and raised his arm. “Halt, Sergeant.” Stepping off the porch, he hurried out and intercepted them. Dodd was sure that McCoy had shot all the bighorn with a rifle. This female savage was worthless. No woman could track, much less scout.

“How many?” Carter demanded.

“Four bighorn, sir.” Gib saw the displeasure in Carter’s red face. The officer glared up at Kuchana.

“Who killed them?”

Gib settled in a comfortable slouch on the saddle. “Kuchana not only tracked the herd, but killed two with arrows. I got the other two with my rifle.”

Scowling, Carter muttered, “Impossible,” and walked up to the mules.

Sure enough, there were arrows in two of the bighorn. Angrily, Carter strode back, noting that Kuchana seemed unconcerned about his fury. She was just like the rest of those savages: no emotion registered on her face. As he rounded the horses, he saw laughter in McCoy’s eyes, although the man’s face was like granite.

“Get this meat over to the officers’ mess, Sergeant,” he snapped, spinning on his heel and making his way back to headquarters.

Gib clucked to his horse, chuckling to himself. Word of Kuchana’s ability would spread quickly through the post, and that was good. He aimed his horse between the city of tents. The laundresses looked up, smiling and greeting him. Their eyes widened with envy when they saw the fresh meat on the mules. Only the officers got such food.

Kuchana followed Gib as he led them from the officers’ area toward the enlisted men’s chow tent. Stopping behind the largest tent, Gib ordered two of the cooks to untie the largest bighorn from the mules. Eagerly, the men took the carcass into the tent. Then Gib continued toward the officers’ mess.

Kuchana waited patiently as the other three bucks were delivered. They were heading back to the stabling area before she spoke.

“You said only officers got the meat. Why did you give a buck to the dark-skinned ones?”

“Just between you and me, Kuchana, I’ve always sneaked some of the fresh kills I’ve made to the Negro families. They don’t get any fresh meat otherwise.”

Her brows arched. “A giveaway.” That she understood. Giveaways were always a sign of generosity on the part of those who had much to those who had little. “I will give away every time I make kills.”

He threw her a warning glance. “Don’t get caught doing it, Kuchana. You’d lose your scout status and have to go back to the reservation. Understand?”

Frowning, Kuchana pulled her mare to a halt in front of the stable. It was a busy place in midafternoon. A large group of horses waited to be shod by Kelly McManus. The huge farrier worked beneath an open shed, his anvil ringing with the sound of the striking hammer clenched in his massive fist.

“Then why do you do it if you will get in trouble?” she asked, dismounting.

Gib got off his own horse and strode around to face Kuchana. She stood there, hands on her hips. “I do it,” he said, “because those people deserve better food than what they’re given. They aren’t animals. They’re human beings.”

Kuchana admired him for taking such a risk. “I will do the same.” When she saw Gib’s darkening expression, she added, “I will not get caught.”

That worried him. “The enlisted people will never tell on you, but if an officer or one of their wives catches you, you’ll be in more trouble than you ever thought possible.”

Her smile was wry. “No one is as clever as an Apache, Gib. No one.”

The challenging fire in her eyes made him ache. There was such courage in her tall, proud body. “I know that better than most. Let’s unsaddle our horses, rub them down, and get back to work. Colonel Polk wants you to study the maps we have in headquarters so we can track Geronimo down.”

Kuchana’s triumph over the bighorn kills ebbed. For a few hours, she’d forgotten about Geronimo and the plight of her people. She went about unsaddling Wind, feeling the pain of separation from those she loved.

“What’s wrong?” Gib prompted. He had seen darkness cloud her eyes at the mention of Geronimo’s name.

With a sigh, Kuchana rested her hands on Wind’s back and looked at Gib. “My heart is breaking,” she admitted softly.

“You’ve a right to feel that way,” Gib said. “Leaving your tribe to become a scout wasn’t easy for you.”

His understanding made tears rush to Kuchana’s eyes. She forced back the reaction, managing a shrug. “I—yes, I miss them.”

“One of these days, you’ll be reunited,” Gib told her, wishing he could comfort her. The tears in Kuchana’s eyes tore at him.

“No,” she whispered, “that will never be.”

“Sure it will. Geronimo can’t keep running forever. There’re just too many people after him.”

“You do not understand,” Kuchana said, pausing to gather her emotions. “Before I left, Geronimo pronounced me dead.” Her voice cracked. “I no longer exist to them—not even to my sister, Ealae.”

“What?” Gib stared at her suffering features. Kuchana couldn’t be more than eighteen, her skin was so flawless and unlined. Yet, he knew her life had been a harsh one. To be an outcast was worse than being killed. Without thinking, Gib gripped her arm and gently pulled her around to face him.

Tears beaded her thick lashes. “Look at me,” he whispered thickly. When she bowed her head, he placed a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him. As her lashes lifted, he saw for the first time the full extent of the terrible pain she carried.

“I can never go back,” she murmured. “I am dead. No one will ever speak to me again, Gib. I am a ghost…” A sob caught in her throat, and with a little cry, she turned away from him burying her face in her hands.

Gib stood there helplessly. He didn’t dare touch Kuchana again or take her into his arms to comfort her as he wanted to. Searching, he tried to find words that would heal her, but it was impossible. “I didn’t realize any of this.” Kuchana would never fit into white society, either. Once Geronimo surrendered, he’d be sent back to the reservation. And most probably, so would Kuchana. Her own people would ignore her. That would gradually kill her. Gib had seen it happen before.

“You’ve paid a hell of a price to come here.”

Kuchana turned toward him. She longed to lean against Gib, instinctively realizing that she would find solace in his arms. The fierce blue fire in his eyes told her he understood. “I believe in what I did, Gib. I have watched my family dying for the past two years. I have only one sister left. What else could I do? Geronimo has filled the heads of my people with impossible dreams.” With a trembling hand, she touched her brow. “I had no choice but to offer myself to the army. Geronimo must be brought in to save those who blindly follow him.”

Studying Kuchana in the silence that followed, Gib held her softened gaze. She was incredibly vulnerable in ways that most women would never be. The desire to slide his fingers across her smooth cheeks, frame her face and kiss away the pain he saw there was unbearable. “Such courage,” he whispered, managing an unsteady smile. “You’ve got more than any ten men I know.”

Kuchana took a ragged breath. “I do not see myself as courageous. I see only my people slowly dying of starvation.”

The urge to comfort Kuchana was overwhelming. If Gib didn’t move to break the spell between them, he’d do something he’d regret. She confronted too much adversity to be humiliated by him in front of all these men. Knowing the truth of her decision to become a scout only served to make him that much more protective of her.

“Somehow, things will work out for you,” he told her. “I don’t know how yet, but I’ve got a feeling they will.” When he saw her rally, he smiled. “Come on, let’s get to work. First things first. Let’s go study those maps. Afterward, I need to go over to Laundry and pick up my clothes.”

Never had a woman held his heart as gently in her hands as Kuchana. Gib wrestled with his feelings toward her. He’d been in love before, but never had such an intense or all-consuming emotion taken him so completely. He studied her closely. Love? Impossible. Forcing himself to shove his discovery aside until later, when he could think straight, Gib headed toward headquarters with Kuchana at his side.

Grateful for his unspoken support, she looked up at him. “I want to see your maps. Geronimo must be caught soon.”

* * *

“Look, she’s coming!” Nettie squealed, up to her skinny elbows in hot water and suds. She stood just outside one of the many laundry tents, washing clothes. “Mama!”

“I’m coming,” Poppy grunted, bent over a pot in the tent. One of the cooks had just made a delivery of fresh bighorn meat to the rear of their tent. Poppy had thanked the soldier and promptly dropped the meat into a large black kettle with onions and beans. She rubbed her hands together and straightened.

“Mama!” Nettie’s high, excited voice warbled again.

Wiping her hands on a worn towel, Poppy trundled forward. She saw Sergeant McCoy and Kuchana walking her way. Beaming, she stepped outside and into their path.

Kuchana had never seen such a huge woman in all her life. There was warmth in the woman’s big brown eyes and an even warmer smile on her thick lips. She heard Gib chuckle.

“Poppy, you look like a sly fox.”

“Sergeant McCoy, I just wanted to thank you.”

Gib glanced at Kuchana who was politely trying not to stare at the Negro woman. “Better thank Kuchana, then. That was her kill we dropped off.”

Picking up her blue calico skirts, Poppy barreled toward the Apache woman. She grinned broadly and gripped Kuchana’s hand. “My name is Poppy, chile. We just got the meat and wanted to thank you.”

Kuchana was overwhelmed by Poppy’s gushing warmth. She stared down at the woman’s ebony skin, amazed at how pink her palms were in comparison. “The food is for all,” she said. Poppy’s callused palms dwarfed her own slender hands.

“And we’ll use it, chile.” Poppy released her hands and grinned at her. “You’re a purty thing. Isn’t she, Sergeant McCoy?”

“Yes she is,” he agreed.

Poppy saw a dull red color creep into Kuchana’s cheeks. “The girl’s blushing.”

Gib grinned. “She’s not used to such personal remarks from strangers, Poppy. Her people are very reserved in comparison to us.”

Nettie leaned forward then, gingerly touching Kuchana’s outstretched hand.

“And I thought Apaches were tough as nails,” Nettie said.

“They’re people just like us,” Gib said with a chuckle.

“They’ve got heart,” Poppy corrected her daughter, relinquishing Kuchana’s hand. “They ain’t got thick skin, Nettie.” A rumbling laugh erupted from her. “I know some officers that are thick-headed as mules, though.”

Gib laughed as he watched the rapport between the three women grow. He saw the glow in Kuchana’s features and her eyes sparkling with new life. Poppy’s motherly nature was making her feel at ease for the first time.

“Nettie, fetch Sergeant McCoy’s pressed clothes. And Kuchana, you come with me, chile.” She grabbed her hand again and led her into the tent.

Poppy opened one of the large, battered leather trunks. “Now, you just stand there, chile. I’ve got something for you.”

Kuchana strained to look over Poppy’s shoulder—difficult, for the woman was as large as a mountain. And Poppy’s friendliness was genuine. She came from the heart.

Poppy threw several pieces of clothing to one side, digging deeper in the trunk. “Now, I know I’ve got them here. Unless Nettie gave them away to the children…”

Kuchana saw Gib saunter to the front of the tent. Nettie came rushing back from another tent, his pressed and folded clothes in her arms. Gib took them and thanked her. He dug out some coins from his pocket and gave them to her.

“Sergeant McCoy, you always pay us too much.”

“Keep it, Nettie.” Ten cents was a lot of money. It could buy a pound of food, and Gib knew that Poppy would put it to good use. The woman was forever feeding the scouts and the other enlisted men who couldn’t afford to buy enough food for themselves. Malnutrition was a real problem within the cavalry. Poppy was always making deals with men who hawked fresh food at the post. She kept it on hand in her large trunks to dole out to the men.

“I found it!” Poppy crowed. She brandished a stick of candy she’d pulled from the trunk. Turning, she gave it to Kuchana. “Here, chile, you suck on this. I bet you never had peppermint before.” Her eyes danced as she watched Kuchana stare at the candy. “Go on, now, eat it.”

Sniffing it cautiously, Kuchana noted it smelled wonderful. Poppy stood there, grinning, as Kuchana put the stick in her mouth. It was pleasantly minty and sweet. Surprised, Kuchana took it out of her mouth and studied it more closely.

“It is sweet, but it is not honey.”

Chuckling, Poppy clapped her on the back. “Chile, you just come around once a day, and Poppy here will fatten you up.”

Kuchana needed some care, Gib thought. And he couldn’t give it to her without being accused of favoritism. Poppy gave him a knowing look, and Gib breathed a sigh of relief. Kuchana might not have a place among the Apaches or the white world, but if he was any judge of the situation, Poppy had just adopted her as part of her own family.

Chapter Five

“Sergeant, I want you to go pick up the food supplies from Jacobsen’s Mine,” Carter ordered, triumph blazing in his eyes. During the two weeks since that woman savage arrived, Dodd had been giving her every detail he could think of. Although she had brought in fresh meat twice, he still didn’t believe she could track. McCoy must have brought down the game and lied for her, he was certain. He saw the disgust in the sergeant’s eyes at his command.

“And take Kuchana with you. You’ll need help with that string of mules to and from the mine. Go get a voucher over at Supply to pay for it.”

What was Carter trying to do? Get Kuchana shot? Gib had watched a pattern develop the past couple of weeks. Carter was trying to get Kuchana in trouble. If Gib hadn’t been as alert as he was with his enlisted men, Carter might have gotten his way. Kuchana was rapidly learning about army and post life, but her naiveté could be her downfall.

Holding on to his temper, Gib drilled the officer with a scathing look. “Sir, it isn’t wise to send a scout up to Jacobsen’s. Those miners are constantly getting raided by Apaches. If I take Kuchana along, there could be real trouble.”

Carter shrugged. The day was just beginning and the sun was already sending hot streamers across the arid land. “Sergeant, just do as you’re ordered. Pick up the ten mules and get up to Jacobsen’s.”

“Sir, those miners hate Apaches.”

“I don’t care,” he said irritably.

“You’ve never ordered one of our scouts along on this supply trip before. Why now?” Sweat was forming on McCoy’s upper lip. He longed to wipe it away with the back of his hand. Carter stiffened, his eyes blazing with anger.

“Sergeant, are you questioning my orders?” he snarled.

“Sir,” McCoy said evenly, “I’m not questioning your orders, just your choice of who should go with me. Normally, one of the cooks goes along to help pick up the officers’ supplies.”

Setting his mouth, Dodd glared up at the tall sergeant. He hated McCoy. The Negroes jumped to carry out the sergeant’s orders. While, when he gave orders, the men were sullen and slow about obeying them. “You may have been considered a brilliant Indian campaigner at Fort Apache, Sergeant, and you may have more medals than I’ll ever get, but you’re not an officer any longer. What you think isn’t important. It’s my responsibility to give orders.” He punched McCoy in the chest. “It’s your job to carry them out. Or do you want to be drawn up on charges of disobeying a direct order?”

The urge to reach out and pin Carter against the headquarters building was very strong. West Point had swelled Carter’s already arrogant head. Worse, McCoy realized, was that Carter had been in the Southwest less than a year and didn’t have a flea’s intelligence about Indians. Nor did he care.

“For the record,” McCoy ground out, “I protest Kuchana being chosen to go along. She’s an Apache, and the miners aren’t going to like her presence in their camp.”

With a wave of his hand, Carter turned away. “Go file your protest, Sergeant. Those miners know we have scouts. Nothing’s going to happen.” He turned on his heel, stalking off toward the stabling area.

With a curse, Gib stood there, mulling over the options. Kuchana was going to be in danger. Over the years, the miners had killed a lot of Apaches. They were trigger-happy and liked to collect black-haired Indian scalps for the twenty-five dollars apiece they got from scalpers. Turning, McCoy went into the office to file his protest. If anything did happen, he’d at least be able to protect Kuchana and himself from any further charges by Carter. The snot-nosed officer was out to get him, and was using Kuchana as a lever to do it.

Kuchana was visiting Poppy’s tent when Gib located her. The laundress and her daughter were hard at work, scrubbing clothes on the corrugated tin washerboards set in tubs filled with hot, soapy water. He hid his worry and anxiety over the forthcoming trip to the mine as he approached. Kuchana was helping out by hanging clothes on a line.

“Morning, Sergeant McCoy,” Poppy greeted, her features shiny with perspiration. She wore a bright red scarf around her head, and a voluminous red dress. The sleeves were folded up to her elbows but the material was soaked, anyway.

Gib tipped his hat. “Morning, Poppy. I see you have Kuchana hard at work.”

“No-o-o, Sergeant McCoy. Why, I told that chile she didn’t have to help us, but she got it in her head to do just that.”

Kuchana smiled and waved to Gib. Hanging the last two items of clothes on the line, she brought the woven basket over to the laundress and set it down.

Every time Kuchana smiled, an ache shot through Gib. The past two weeks had wrought a miracle of sorts in her. With Poppy’s feeding her three times a day and making her feel at home, Kuchana had blossomed from a silent, suspicious woman into one with a ready smile.

And every night, he dreamed of her in his arms. Gib tried to tell himself it was infatuation, not love, that he was feeling for Kuchana. It was agony to be with her and not reach out and make contact with her. This urge to touch her was a hunger he was barely able to control. Kuchana was in his blood and he was helpless to do anything about it.

Gib nodded in her direction. “We’ve got orders to get up to Jacobsen’s,” he told Kuchana.

Poppy gasped. “You aren’t going to take this chile up there! Why, that’s plumb stupid, Sergeant McCoy.”

Kuchana frowned at the alarm in Poppy’s voice. “Who is Jacobsen?”

Uncomfortable, and wishing he could express his anger and concern just as the laundress had, Gib explained, “It’s a mining community about five miles from here. Lieutenant Carter usually sends the cooks up with the mules to get supplies for the officers and their wives once a month.” Trying to hide his worry, he added, “Carter has ordered us to do it this time.”

“Oh, Sergeant McCoy,” Poppy pleaded, “you know that’s foolish. Kuchana’s Apache. Oh, Lordy, something awful could happen.”

“It won’t,” Gib answered tightly. He could see Kuchana becoming upset over Poppy’s dramatic display. Taking Kuchana by the arm, he gently pulled her to his side. “Come on, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. I’m sure Lieutenant Carter expects us to be back in time for the officers to get fresh food for dinner tonight.”

Poppy gave him a helpless look. “You be careful,” she warned.

Kuchana remained at Gib’s side. The time spent with him had been rare. If she saw him once a day, that was a lot. To be able to spend a day in his company answered her prayers. She looked at Poppy’s distraught features.

“Painted Woman will protect us, Poppy.”

“Somebody better,” Nettie wailed. She wrung her hands, giving Gib an anxious look.

“We’ll see you late this afternoon,” he promised the ladies. Kuchana’s gold eyes shone with happiness. He’d wanted time alone with her, but not like this. Not under these circumstances. “Come on, Kuchana, let’s get our horses saddled.”

In no time, the pack-mule train was assembled. Kuchana sat on Wind, watching as McCoy checked the long string of harnessed brown mules carrying a huge canvas sheet on their strong backs. Each mule’s halter rope was tied to the next mule’s tail.

Holos was barely above the horizon, and excitement thrummed through Kuchana. A whole day with Gib. True, he’d be at the head of the mule train and she’d be bringing up the rear, but that didn’t matter.

They left the post, working their way slowly up and out of the valley. The breeze was warm and the only sour note to the day was that Gib had insisted that Kuchana wear the heavy wool army jacket to identify her as a scout. The blue jacket was cumbersome. Gib had never made her wear it before, although the other scouts proudly walked around wearing their jackets all day long.

Kuchana felt happiness sing through her as she watched Gib up ahead of her. Ealae had once confided in her that love made her feel like a cloud—light and happy. That was how she felt toward Gib. She’d had no experience with the wonderful feelings that lived within her heart since meeting him.

Frowning, Kuchana wondered if it was the love Ealae had spoken of. Her vow to bring her people to safety must override such a personal need. And yet, every time Gib looked at her, she felt like warm honey. Confused, she refused to hide her feelings from herself. Perhaps she was wrong. In time, this beautiful emotion toward Gib would dim. Perhaps…

* * *

Jacobsen’s Mine was a thriving mining community comprising fifty silver mines in the rugged mountains north of the fort. Gib went on internal guard as the city of gray tents and spindly wooden shacks came into view. Bearded miners with floppy, sweat-stained hats and small gray donkeys moved in tow up and down the main street.

Kuchana’s joy over the beauty of the mountains and being with Gib disappeared. She watched his back become ramrod straight, his hand resting across the flap of the pistol holster at his side. As she brought up the rear of the mule train, she saw her presence in the mining community ripple like wind across the water.

Several miners halted, gawking at her as the mule train swung down the street. She saw surprise and then hatred in their accusing eyes.

Gib looked over his shoulder and saw Kuchana’s face become expressionless. A number of miners had stopped to stare at her. Damn! Turning, he kicked his horse into a trot, forcing the train to amble along a little more quickly. The butcher shop was at the other end of the town.

There was a long hitching rail at the butcher shop. Gib dismounted, giving orders to Kuchana to start tying the mules to it. Ordinarily, he’d have gone straight into the butcher shop, but he didn’t trust the gathering miners who had followed them down the dusty street. He and Kuchana tied the mules, one after another, to the rail.

Kuchana met Gib at the center rail. She saw the hardness in his eyes, his attention directed to a small group of miners who were approaching them.

“Whatever happens, you stay behind me,” he warned her.

“But—”

Gib pushed her behind him as a big miner with a long, scraggly black beard stopped a few feet away, his face plum-colored with anger.

“My name is Barstow. What the hell’s going on here?” he rumbled. “That’s a redskin.”

“She’s a scout for our post,” Gib said, keeping his voice low and calm.

“Right nice scalp she’s got,” a second miner crowed, his eyes shining with excitement. “Why, I could get thirty dollars for it.”

Gib’s hand moved to the pistol. “Don’t even think about it, men,” he warned them. “She’s been hired by the army.”

The black-bearded miner spat to one side. “Don’t make no difference. Who the hell do you think you are, bringing one of those bastards up here?” He waved his hairy arm at Kuchana. “You boys in blue think you can rub our noses in it. Hell, you don’t get up here often enough. Just two days ago a bunch of renegade Apaches robbed Bob King’s mine of two mules.”

The murmurs of the gathering miners joined the confrontation. McCoy turned to Kuchana. In Apache he told her, “Get in that building and stay there. These men aren’t going to listen to reason.”

Her eyes narrowed on the miner with the black beard. “I will not run like a coward and leave you here to fight alone.”

Gib wanted to strangle her. “I said, get the hell in there and don’t give me an argument. These men mean business.”

“No.”

Frustrated, Gib returned his attention to the ten miners who stood in a small, tense group in front of them. Damn Kuchana for disobeying his orders. But what had he expected? She was a warrior, and he’d never seen one run yet from a battle. It was then, in those seconds before Barstow lifted his rifle, that Gib realized just how very much Kuchana meant to him. The festering situation had ripped away all his defenses against his feelings toward her. He loved her. God, how could it have happened so quickly?

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