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,
