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.
