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,
