Apache Fire. Elizabeth Lane
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word sprang without thought to Rose’s lips.
His glare cut her off like the flash of a blade. “Not Apaches. Not unless Apaches are sporting store-bought Stetsons, Springfield rifles and fifty-dollar saddles these days. They were as white as you are, Mrs. Colby, and I saw them murder two federal agents. That’s why they can’t afford to let me live.”
Rose stared at his sharp Apache features, struggling against the nightmare that lurked in the shadows of her mind. She smelled the smoke, heard the screams…
“That sounds like a wild tale if I ever heard one!” she heard her own voice saying. “What if I choose not to believe you?”
Latigo’s eyes hardened. “That’s your choice.”
“But it doesn’t make sense! One might expect it of Apaches, but why would white men do such a thing?”
The question caught in her throat as the clatter of galloping hoofbeats and the snort of a horse echoed across the front yard. Rose’s head swung toward the window as the long night’s strain crashed in on her. She was so tired, so scared, and now, at last, somebody was here.
“Turn around, Mrs. Colby—slow and easy, now. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Rose’s heart plummeted as she realized what had happened. All the while Latigo was talking, his hands had been busy beneath the blanket, stretching and loosening the yarn that held his wrists. She had glanced away for the barest instant, but he had struck with a rattler’s quickness to seize the pistol from beside her on the bench. Now the weapon was in his right hand, its muzzle thrusting up at her. Instinctively she shifted her body to shield her son.
“Who’s that outside?” he demanded in a low voice. “You said you sent for the sheriff.”
“No.” Rose blurted out the truth. “I had no one to send. I lied to you because I was afraid.”
“Then who’s outside?” He was struggling to sit up, his jaw clenched against the pain.
“I don’t know. But if you’re telling the truth about the murders, why are you holding a gun on me now? Why didn’t you go to the sheriff and report those men?”
Latigo’s free hand yanked the yarn from around his ankles. He gripped the edge of the table and hauled his way to his knees, then to his feet. The heavy Colt quivered unsteadily in his hand.
“What makes you think the sheriff would believe me?” His black eyes glittered with irony. “After all, you didn’t.”
Rose could only stare at him as a sharp rap sounded on the front door. The hour was far too early for a social call. Maybe it was one of the vaqueros. Maybe something had gone wrong in the mountains.
The rap on the door became an insistent pounding. Latigo’s eyes met Rose’s in terse confirmation that the visitor was not about to give up and go away.
“Go on,” he ordered. “Put your baby down. Then, whoever’s out there, get rid of him.”
Heart pounding, Rose fumbled swiftly beneath the blanket to tug her robe over her breast. With the gun following her every move, she crossed the kitchen to the flannel-lined basket that served as her son’s downstairs cradle. Half-asleep, Mason whimpered as Rose eased him away from her body and, with trembling hands, lowered him to the soft padding and tucked the blanket around him. He sucked one tiny rosebud fist, his helplessness tearing at her heart.
With imploring eyes, she turned on the tall stranger. “Don’t make me leave him here.”
Latigo’s expression hardened. Then he paused, torn by a conflict that Rose could read in his bloodless face. He was wounded and desperate. Keeping the baby in the kitchen would insure her cooperation and his own safety. Surely he realized that. Still, he hesitated, a muscle in his cheek twitching subtly as the pounding on the door grew louder and more urgent.
“Please,” Rose whispered, “let me take him. He’s all I have.”
Latigo’s sinewy body tensed, then his shoulders slackened as he exhaled. “I don’t hide behind children,” he growled. “Take him. But no tricks, Mrs. Colby. I’ve got the gun, and I’ll be watching every move you—”
His words ended in a groan as his knees buckled and he crashed unconscious to the floor.
Rose crouched beside him and pried his long, brown fingers from around the pistol grip. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow but regular. Even in repose, there was a hawklike ferocity about the man, but surprisingly, she was no longer afraid of him.
“I don’t hide behind children.”
The words echoed in Rose’s mind as she gazed down at the dark face, with its straight, black brows and cleanchiseled features. An Apache’s face, to be sure, but what thoughts and motives lay behind it?
If Latigo had truly saved her husband, she owed the man a great debt—
“Rose! Blast it, Rose, are you in there?” The shout from outside was muffled by the walls of the house, but Rose had no trouble recognizing the voice. Scrambling to her feet, she seized the baby’s basket under one arm and fled from the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
She hurried across the dining room, and moved toward the small anteroom that had served as her husband’s office. There she placed the basket in the hollow beneath John’s massive walnut desk. If more trouble broke out, she wanted her son safely out of harm’s way.
“Rose!” The pounding from outside would have cracked a less substantial door. Rose hesitated again, then slipped the pistol into a desk drawer and hurried out of the room.
In the front hallway she paused to wrap her robe tightly about her body and knot the sash. Taking a deep breath, she slid back the heavy bolt, lifted the latch and opened the door.
“Rose! Thank heaven!”
The man on the threshold was tall and barrel-chested, with ruddy, handsome features and ginger hair that curled over the collar of his starched, white shirt. A longtime friend of John Colby’s, though twenty years his junior, Bayard Hudson had been a regular visitor to the ranch— even more regular, Rose had come to realize, since John’s death.
“Bayard?” She feigned a sleepy yawn, her gaze darting to his gun belt. “What on earth are you doing here? You must have ridden most of the night to arrive at this hour.”
“Are you all right?” His windburned eyes were laced with red. “I saw blood outside, a trail of it across the porch. And your robe, Rose, there’s blood on that, too!”
“Blood?” A picture flashed into Rose’s mind—Latigo, helpless on the kitchen floor. Bayard had no more love for Apaches than John had. He would likely shoot first and ask questions later.
“Oh—” She laughed nervously. “One of the vaqueros, he—uh—slipped and cut himself on his own knife last night. A silly accident. I patched him up and sent him back to the herd.” She was chattering, talking too fast. “It was nothing serious, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I—I’m afraid I’m not very presentable this morning.”
“Nonsense, you always look beautiful.” His gaze wandered up and down her body, lingering where the neck of her robe had loosened to reveal a hint of shadow between her breasts. “But can’t you get someone else to doctor those Mexicans of yours? I can’t say I fancy the idea of you touching those swarthy little heathens.” His thick hand settled onto her shoulder, its weight too warm, too heavy. “You ought to send them packing and hire yourself a bunch of real American cowboys. That’s what I’d do if I was running this spread.”
“My vaqueros are good workers.” Rose squirmed away from his clasp and edged out of reach. “They know horses and cattle, and they send their pay home to their families instead of throwing it away on liquor and women in town.” She swung back to face him, arms folded across her chest. “And now, Bayard, suppose you tell me what you’re doing here. You didn’t ride thirty miles just to tell