Her mouth opened, her throat pulsed. “Easy,ish’ tia’ nay,”he murmured. “Not too much.” He pulled the canteen away.
Her eyes flew open, and she made a choking protest.
He stared. Navy-blue eyes, tilted up at the corners, big and almond-shaped and thickly lashed in black. Then they drifted closed. He eased her back down, disturbed. He imagined, if she were cleaned up, that the girl would be a beauty. With eyes like that, a man was in jeopardy of having his entire soul drained away. What was she doing out here alone in the desert, on foot, without supplies, and in a man’s clothes?
He picked her up and carried her to his stallion, looking at her more thoroughly now. She was full-breasted, with long legs and slim hips. The kind of body that set up an instant hunger in a man, made his loins tight and full just by looking. He placed her carefully on his mount, then leapt up behind her.
Where was she from, and where was she going?
And—who was she?
They were a two-day ride from Tucson, the closest settlement. To the east and south, along the Santa Cruz River and Pantano Wash, there were a few ranches. Americans had been settling in the area since 1853—since the United States had acquired the strip of land containing Tucson from Mexico.
He set up camp by a trickling wash. She needed care, and that was his first priority. More water, and then an herbal tea that would help to rehydrate her. She was swallowing greedily now, although she didn’t open her eyes again. Her skin was dry and chapped like leather, and he found more ants on her right arm. He stripped her quickly and efficiently, tossing her clothes aside, trying to be impersonal about it—and failing.
He hadn’t had a woman in a while, and just touching her made his groin tight and heavy.
He bathed her, his hands shaking slightly, to his disgust, and forced more tea down her. He wrapped her in his bedroll—a sheet of buckskin that served as either spare blanket or loincloth. Then he made a small fire, watered and rubbed down and hobbled the stallion, then settled himself down with a tin mug of coffee.
A white man’s habit.
He smiled derisively, showing a glimmer of white, even teeth.
And he looked up at the Santa Catalina Mountains, feeling their pull—the pull of the people, the pull of the only home he’d ever known.
He sighed. It had been three long years since he had been back. The decision to leave hadn’t been easy—in fact, it had been the most pain-filled decision of his life.
His name was Jack. He didn’t know his real last name and wasn’t sure where he had been born. He didn’t even know much about his real mother, just that she had been a squaw and had died when he was very young—before he had any memories of her. His father was a big, strapping, blond giant of a man, and Jack knew he had gotten most of his physical attributes from him. His earliest memory was standing ankle-deep in a freezing, rushing mountain stream, his hands chapped and numb from the icy cold, the metal pan sticking to his flesh. His father was a miner.
He had never loved his father. He tried to do as he was told, to avoid getting hit. One slap from a man like that was enough to crack a bone. As long as he worked long and hard and occasionally had a few gold flakes to show, his father was pleased. When, upon occasion, his father sat down with a jug of whiskey, the little boy made sure to stay as far away from the cabin as possible. And that was probably what saved him.
He was six or seven, and he was hiding in the woods, afraid of his father, who had been drinking steadily for days. He heard them first—the thundering of horses’ hooves. It could only be Indians, because the Mexican troops never strayed far from the Presidio at Tucson. He crept closer to see.
He watched his father drunkenly antagonize the small group, then die defending his home. The little cabin went up in flames. The Indians proceeded to loot everything of value. Very, very afraid, the boy turned and ran.
He didn’t know how the leader saw him, but he knew the instant the Indian on the big bay horse came galloping after him. He ran frantically into the trees, weaving through thick stands of juniper and pinyon. He fell, skinning his hands and knees, and dared a look over his shoulder. The Indian, a tall young man with waist-length loose black hair, was leaping off his horse. He was clad only in thigh-high moccasins and a breechcloth, and he carried a knife. The boy got to his feet and started running.
He was grabbed from behind and swung into the air.
“Fucking savage!” Jack shouted, having learned the phrase from his father. “Let me go, damn fucking savage!”
The Indian slung him over his shoulder.
The boy sank his teeth as hard as he could into the man’s neck.
The Indian never made a sound. His hand closed over the boy’s jaw, fingers digging in painfully, forcing his mouth open. The boy tasted sweat and grease and blood. He was thrown onto the ground, where he lay stunned, nausea and bile welling up within him.
Laughter sounded.
The other Indians had gathered and were openly amused. The boy slowly, warily got to his knees, panting, his mouth ringed with the man’s Wood. His heart was thudding wildly in his ribs as he met the tall Indian’s gaze. It wasn’t black with anger, just dark and enigmatic.
Jack turned on his heels and fled He knew it was hopeless, but he would die before he quit.
More laughter.
He was caught instantly. This time the Indian was careful, holding Jack in front of him in his arms while the boy twisted and spat like a wildcat; trying to claw his adversary’s face. The man spoke sharply. Jack didn’t have to speak his language to know he was being told to be still. He didn’t listen.
He was thrown on the big bay horse, the greased man leaping up behind him. Even as the Indian’s body was touching down, the boy was sliding off. He was hauled unceremoniously back up by one ear—and it hurt.
