Cale didn't sleep well, haunted by Tess's revelations. Hank had often existed in a borderland of justice and vigilantism, and they'd clashed over it time and again. But why hadn't he held it in check for the sake of Tess? Why in the hell did he keep her with him, exposing her to the seedy and ugly underbelly that invariably existed when walking between the lawdogs and the outlaws?
How could Hank have allowed Saul to handle the situation? Hank knew what kind of man Miller was. Tess shouldn't have survived. It was a testament to her own will-to-live that she had. And now, to seek out the father who didn't deserve it—Cale couldn't fathom that depth of forgiveness.
He'd never been able to give it to his own pa.
Cale awakened to the fast-staccato of reveille playing on a bugle in the parade ground, but he immediately knew something was wrong. He bolted from his cot.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as Fitz came past him.
“Apache approaching.”
Cale dressed quickly and belted his gun rig around his waist. Placing his Stetson atop his head, he headed to the stables where a private saddled Bo. Cale joined approximately twenty men as they gathered on their horses in the parade area.
As it had been back in the days Cale was at Bowie, the regiment was a mix of uniforms. Most wore stable frocks—canvas suits meant for grooming their mounts. The simple coat that normally fell at the knees was tucked into their trousers, and while white initially, all were now sufficiently covered in dust, soot and grime to better blend into the surroundings. Others wore double-breasted miner’s shirts in dark blue and gray. And despite the impending heat of the day, several privates wore the dark four-button sack coats. Hats ran the gamut from civilian to forage caps to folding hats with the brims cut down.
It was a hodgepodge, to be certain.
Fitz signaled and they departed the camp.
Moving at a brisk pace, the contingent headed south into the Chiricahua Mountains, covering well-worn paths that Cale knew well, like a cougar staking its territory. When Fitz brought the brigade to a halt after two miles, Cale knew it was due to the potential trap of the narrow canyon beyond. It was the perfect place for Apache to pick them off from high perches.
Cale guided Bo to Fitz, who peered through a scope.
“Damn, it's Daniels, one of my men, ” Fitz said. “He disappeared five days ago. We searched for him but thought him dead, or that he’d run off. It happens.” He handed the scope to Cale.
Through the magnifying glass, he saw a man in a crumpled heap on the ground farther down into the canyon. He caught a glimpse of two Indians, but no doubt there were more.
“I recognize one,” Cale said. “Let me go.”
“They'll want something in return. If they don't kill you first.”
“What've you got?”
“Two boys we caught trying to steal horses.”
“Might explain why they have Daniels.”
“Most certainly so,” Fitz replied. “Tell them we'll release the boys at dusk if Daniels is freed. And any news about the Sonoita boy would be welcome. Arthurs and Manchester, go with him. And Lehi.” He indicated the Apache scout. “He can translate for you in case your Apache is rusty.”
“And my Spanish?”
“You really ought to have Tess tutor you.”
The thought had merit. Spending time with her was fast becoming a favorite activity. But reality settled upon his shoulders. There was always the chance he wouldn’t return. “You’ll look after her?” he asked.
“You have my word, but there’ll be no need. Be careful, my friend.”
Cale straightened and adjusted his hat, the weight of the two Colts on each hip bumping against his thighs. He pulled the Winchester from its scabbard and settled it crosswise before him, then kicked Bo into a trot.
As he neared the crumpled heap of Daniels, he slowed Bo, the two infantrymen and the scout following behind. Cale watched for movement among the shrubs. The two Apache on horseback revealed themselves. Cale reined his horse to a stop.
He acknowledged the warrior on the left with a nod. “Jack.” The young man was known as Jackrabbit, and during his time with the Apache, Cale had never gotten along with the youth. Jack had grown taller and thicker. A swath of blue cloth wrapped his forehead above eyes that spoke of the nickname bestowed on him—crafty and sly—and his straight black hair flowed over broad shoulders.
“Change of Heart,” Jack answered. “It has been a long time.”
“Your English has improved.”
Jack answered in Apache, but Cale didn’t understand. His mastery of the language had been lean at best.
Jack switched to English. “But you are no longer Apache.” He laughed, his disdain clear. “And your name still fits you. Do you sell your allegiance to the highest bidder like a woman who spreads her legs for money?”
“How is Mohan?” The chief of the band had accepted Cale’s presence grudgingly, but after a time they’d forged a friendship.
“He is careful.” Jack narrowed his gaze, frustration pulsating from him. “So I left him to his peace-loving ways. I ride my own trail now.”
“What do you want?” Cale asked, glancing at Daniels who appeared ragged but still conscious. His eyes skimmed the Indians’ weapons—lances, hatchets, a bow and arrow, and each with a pistol tucked into the waistband of their breeches. They didn’t appear on the ready for a fight, which eased the tension running along Cale’s spine, if only slightly. There was still the matter of the other Indians, the ones Cale knew were hidden and waiting, the ones with rifles sighted on them as they spoke.
“We want our boys returned to us,” Jack said. “We offer this coward in exchange.”
“Done.”
“Am I to take your word?”
Cale’s silence was his answer.
“So be it.” Jack flicked his head in Daniels’ direction.
Arthurs and Manchester dismounted and helped the injured man to his feet, his face beaten and bloody, and guided him to one of the horses, then departed. Cale remained. He sensed the Apache scout, Lehi, still behind him, despite the nasty glare the warrior beside Jack kept throwing his way. One thing Cale had come to know during his time fighting the Apache and then living with them—they weren’t cowards. They fought to the end and stood their ground, even in the face of insurmountable odds. Cale’s respect for them ran deep, but at the same time, he knew never to underestimate one.
“There was a boy taken in the Sonoita region,” Cale said. “His uncle would like him back. Would you know of this?”
Jack grinned, and shot a glance to a rocky escarpment to his right. It was brief, but enough. Cale knew where the snipers sat.
“And why should I help with this?” Jack asked.
“We have two Apache boys. You’ve only returned one White Eyes. You owe us one more.”
Jack watched him, contemplating. Finally, he said, “But I have you. And if I let you live, then that would make even our deal.”
“You know I’m not your enemy,” Cale said. “I’ve walked with the Apache spirits. Even today, I still carry ha-dintin with me.” Although he sometimes wore the pouch of sacred corn pollen around his neck, he usually kept it in his saddlebags. In his hurry to depart this morning, he’d left it back at the fort. He hoped Jack wouldn’t demand proof.
Jack sighed in a huff. “Cocheta always believed in your connection to our people.” He shook his head. “But it is difficult to trust a pindah when so many have betrayed us.”
“Cocheta was merciful,” Cale responded. “And mercy is not easily forgotten.” The elderly Apache woman had saved his life, not once but twice. She healed him after the mountain lion attack, and later, she protected him from the tribe itself, staunchly supporting his bond to something stronger than this world because of the attack.
“She stood up for you when the Irishman came,” Jack said.
“Hank?” Alarm coursed through him. Would his mentor have returned to slaughter even more Apache? His gut clenched. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, but that was the coward’s way out. And living in that shadow slowly destroyed a man’s soul. No matter the pain, Cale desired to exist in the light.
“Is Mohan’s band still alive?” he asked, his throat tightening around the words.
“Yes.”
Cale expelled a breath and tried to hide his overwhelming relief, but he wasn’t successful.
“You care so much for them?” Jack asked.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“The Irishman spoke of you over and over.”
“Do you know where he is?” Cale asked.
“Why?”
“I have his daughter with me. She searches for him.”
Jack paused, then answered, “He is in the Dragoons.”
“My thanks.”
“The boys?” Jack asked.
“They’ll be released at sundown. You have my word. You can call off your sharpshooters.”
Jack nodded. “I will inquire after the White Eyes boy.”
“I’m grateful again.”
“You weren’t this full of gratitude when you were with the People.”
“Of course I was. I was all but a dead man when I arrived.”
Jack gave a sound of acceptance. “Maybe you are still dead. Maybe you have returned to find your Apache spirit. It calls to you still.”
Cale couldn’t deny the truth in Jack’s words.
* * * *
Tess stared at the entrance to the fort once again, just visible from the Fitzgerald's porch where she sat alone drinking a glass of lemonade. When she'd heard this morning that a group rode out to confront several Apache, and that Cale was with them, a mounting anxiety had afflicted her ever since.
Kitty came onto the porch.
“How can you stand this?” Tess asked, glancing up from her book of Tennyson. She'd only been pretending to read anyhow.
“You mean waiting while the men do their job?” Kitty planted hands on ample hips. “It comes with the territory, Tess. I could live in town, far from here and the dangers present, but then I'd never see Reed. And he could still die anyway. When the good Lord comes knocking, there's not much that can be done. I won't squander my time with my husband. And I look out for these boys—bake them a cake when it's their birthday, hold their hand and wipe their brow when they're injured. Why, I even read to them on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.” Her face brightened, changing back to the Kitty Tess knew. “Say, I hear you like to tell stories. Would you do that tonight? For all the men? I know they’d sure appreciate it. And you're a sight prettier than I am.”
Nervousness gripped Tess—she'd never practiced her storytelling skills for such a large crowd.
“Don't look so scared, Tessie. I'll be right there with you. It'll be fine.” Kitty patted her shoulder.
“I suppose I can try. Let me find una buena historia.”
At that moment, a group of riders returned, and Tess caught sight of Cale atop Bo. His tall frame was easy to find, partially because he wasn't in uniform, but also because he stood out anyway. Tess willed herself not to run to him, which she could hardly do with her injured leg anyway.
Awhile later, Cale found her.
“Is everything alright?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I was...concerned.” She remained in the rocking chair.
“No need for that. I can take care of myself.”
Silently, she agreed.
“I have a lead on Hank,” Cale added. “I think, first thing tomorrow, we should ride out.”
“To where?”
“The Dragoons. Hank is with the Apache.”
* * * *
That evening, Tess sat in a corner of the mess hall while men gathered around, some standing, others sitting. Kitty sat in a chair with Fitz to her left, and Cale leaned nearby against a post. A full moon hung brightly in the sky, illuminating the parade area just outside the window.
Tess sought to quiet the pounding of her heart, and smoothed her skirt with her palms. It didn’t help that she’d decided to share a story that h er padre—the Irishman—had told her. She took a deep breath and pushed thoughts of him aside.
“Long ago, the mighty Vikings came to Ireland to conquer. There was a boy named Brian, a warrior from a tribe called Dal Cais. He was the son of a great king. His father had been the King of Munster. Now, Brian's brother, Mahon, was King. But Brian held a secret in his heart—a fortune-teller had told him that he would one day be the greatest King of Ireland.
“Brian sat atop his horse, a spear in hand, and listened to the cries of battle. The Vikings charged, and Brian nervously awaited the clash. The Vikings were many—too many—and Brian couldn't see his brother Mahon in the fighting beyond. The Vikings were strong, driving them back to the gates of their fort and overrunning the settlement.
“The following day dawned, and the grim outcome was tallied. Houses were ruined, and Brian's mother had been killed. Brian went to his brother, shaken, and spoke, at first unsure, but then driven more and more by a purpose. ‘I pledge today that I will avenge the death of my mother and will not rest until these Norsemen have been driven from Ireland forever!’
“Mahon recognized that his brother, while still young, had changed. The tragedy of that day had made him a man, filled with a cold rage. ‘Bravely spoken, my brother. We will fight side by side.’
“As the years passed, they fought many fierce battles. Brian grew tall and brawny, even more so than Mahon. One day, Mahon proposed a treaty with the Vikings. They were too strong, and he didn't want to see any more of his countrymen killed.
“But Brian's hatred still burned bright. He would never forgive the Vikings for taking the life of his mother. He broke from Mahon and took many men with him. Brian had become very skilled in warfare and bided his time to fight the Vikings once again.
“At last, a great battle occurred at Munster between the Irish and Viking warriors led by a ruler called Ivar. Brian's brother, Mahon, was killed. As soon as Brian was declared King of Munster, he challenged Ivar to a fight and slayed him. Brian became the ruler of almost all of Ireland, as the fortune-teller had predicted.
“But one man challenged him yet—Malachy, King of Meath. Finally, although both were very stubborn, the men agreed to a truce, and Malachy supported Brian's claim. In the year 1002 Brian Borumha, Brian of the Tributes, became the High King of Ireland.”
Tess fell silent, to the let the story rest, to sink into the ears, into the mind, and into the hearts of the listeners. Her abuela had always emphasized the silences as much as the telling.
A story will leave your mouth, and fly to those listening. You must give it a chance to land. Tess still remembered the reverence she felt when her abuela told a tale. She knew she'd never master the skill as well as her grandmother, but she would continue to try. In so doing, she honored everything Dolores Rios Campos had been.
“Brava, Tess!” Kitty clapped.
The men stood, and some approached to give thanks. Tess lost sight of Cale.
The infantry and cavalry men were solicitous and respectful. Tess had to admit that she enjoyed conversing with several of them. Maybe she could exist in the world of men again.
Cale made his way to her at last and took her elbow, a sign that the evening had come to an end. Was it her imagination that the men gave Cale a wide berth as they withdrew?
He matched his pace to her slower one as they made their way to Gideon waiting outside. Mounting from the opposite side as she always did, her stronger right leg gained purchase in the stirrup as Cale’s hands gripped her waist and boosted her atop the horse with an easy burst of strength. He guided Gideon by foot to the Fitzgerald home.
“The men dispersed quickly once you appeared at my side,” she said. “Are they afraid of you?”
“If they’re smart, they are.”
“Why?”
“They know they’ll have to get through me to get to you.”
The statement surprised her. “They were all very polite. I didn’t feel threatened.”
“They’re not threatening you, Tess. I imagine several of them would like to court you.”
“Do you court women?”
“Can’t say I’d be very good at it, but for the right lady I’d give it my best effort.” Despite the darkness, she caught a hint of amusement on his face.
Warmth enveloped her and suffused her face, not altogether an unwelcome sensation.
She fancied Cale. There was no denying it.
On the heels of that thought, whispers of panic took residence, tightening her chest.
Cale glanced back at her. “Did Hank tell you that story?”
She grabbed the chance to shift her focus from the fear she couldn’t seem to control. “Yes. He spoke often of Ireland. I don't think he ever recovered from leaving when he was young.”
“It reminds me of the Apache fighting for their homeland. It’s a never-ending dilemma.”
“I suppose.”
“You're very eloquent, Tess. You had all the men spellbound.”
“Even you?”
“I can hardly claim to be immune to your charms.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat, her heart hammering a rapid beat. An overwhelming urge to flee slammed into her. She wished the nervous terror would leave her be, dammit.
Having reached their destination, Cale halted Gideon and easily lifted Tess from the saddle, setting her gently to the ground.
“I'd like to leave at dawn tomorrow,” he said, his hands lingering at her waist before he released her.
“I'll be ready,” she murmured, then moved swiftly past him to the Fitzgerald’s porch, the steady pounding of her cane filling the silence that blanketed them.
“Tess.”
His voice caught her like a hook. She turned back to him.
“You could stay here. It would be safer than entering the Dragoons. Apache could be anywhere, and there could be other dangers as well.”
Like you?
“I understand.”
With no hat, moonlight caressed his face, and his blue eyes caught her gaze. He really was a very handsome man. The desire for him made her breath catch.
“How’s the leg?” he asked.
“I've been using the oil you gave me, and walking more each day without my cane. The tea has helped me to sleep. I promise not to slow you down.”
“Well, you best get a good night’s rest.”
“And you.”
He paused.
What would it be like to kiss him? The thought set her heart to pounding again.
He left her with a nod and departed with Gideon, headed toward the stables. Was his slow departure a sign of reluctance? Did he want to stay? Did she want him to stay?
Tess entered the Fitzgerald’s quarters.
A short time later, Kitty returned. “I hear you and Cale are leaving in the morning. I can help you collect food and organize your clothing, if you like.”
“Thank you. How can I ever repay you, Kitty?”
“Oh, pshaw.” She waved it off. “You just take care of Cale, you hear?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that man is coming to care for you, and I fear what unnecessary risks he'll take to see your past put to rest.”
Tess’s heart swelled, but on its heels, a new concern crept in.
What if something did happen to Cale?