Apache Flame

Apache Flame

Madeline Baker

Chapter One

Canyon Creek, New Mexico

1869

He was back.

Alisha Faraday heard the news at least a dozen times in as
many minutes. It seemed everyone who saw Mitch Garrett ride into town that
rainy Friday in late April felt duty-bound to stop by the schoolhouse and tell
her the news. Her first instinct was to run away just as fast and as far as she
could.

Hands shaking, she tried to concentrate on the test papers
she had been grading, but it was no use. The words, whether neatly printed by
Betsy Hazelwood or haphazardly scrawled by Bobby Moss, made no sense. How could
she be expected to think about nouns and verbs and proper sentence structure
when
he
was back?

Oh, Lord, what would her father say?

If only she could crawl under her desk and hide, from Mitch,
from the prying eyes of the town, from herself.

She folded her hands on top of her desk to still their
trembling. Funny, she had never known she was a coward, until now. She glanced
around the schoolroom. Nothing had changed. The chalkboard was still covered
with the multiplication tables she had written out for the class earlier. The
empty desks stood in neat rows, like soldiers at attention. The books were
neatly stacked on the shelves; the world globe was in its proper place. Heat
rose from the big old black cast-iron stove in the corner. Her old winter coat
and hat hung on a peg near the door, along with her umbrella.

Taking a deep breath, Alisha looked out the west window,
staring at the rugged snow-capped mountains that loomed in the distance. She
was worrying needlessly. Mitch had ridden out of her life five years ago. She
had been little more than a child then, barely seventeen. No doubt he had
forgotten all about her by now.

She hadn’t forgotten him, though. Not for a day, not for a
minute.

And now he was back.

Putting her head down on her folded arms, she closed her
eyes, and lifted the lid on the Pandora’s box of memories she had kept tightly
closed for so long…

* * * * *

Alisha sat in her chair, eyes wide, while the schoolmaster
meted out punishment to the boy who had stolen her lunch out of her pail. Mitch
Garret, the town bad boy, stood in front of the class, his head high, one arm
outstretched, while Mr. Fontaine struck his palm with a ruler. The usual
punishment for breaking one of the school rules was ten whacks, but Mr.
Fontaine hadn’t stopped at ten.

Mitch stared at the back wall, his face an impassive mask, his
eyes dark and angry as Mr. Fontaine meted out an additional ten blows. Mitch
hadn’t flinched, nor had he cried out. He just stood there, his body rigid,
looking old beyond his years as he counted the blows out loud.

Tears stung her eyes and dripped down her cheeks as she
imagined his pain and humiliation. She had told Mr. Fontaine she didn’t care
that Mitch had taken her lunch, but Mr. Fontaine hadn’t paid any attention to
her.

“The boy is no better than a common thief,” the schoolmaster
had replied brusquely, “and he must be punished.”

Cringing in her seat, she listened as Mitch counted out the
remaining blows. She thought Mr. Fontaine looked as though he was enjoying it
far too much.

“Eighteen.”

Smack!

“Nineteen.”

Smack!

“Twenty.”

Smack!

“You will stand there and contemplate your sinful behavior
until class is dismissed,” Mr. Fontaine said curtly.

And Mitch had stood there, his gaze still fixed on the back
wall. She had the feeling he wasn’t really there at all, that his spirit had
somehow slipped out of the classroom, leaving them all behind.

When school was dismissed an hour later, he trailed behind
her as she walked home.

Wondering if he meant to do her harm because of what had
happened, she whirled around, her heart pounding. “Why are you following me?”

“I want to know why you were crying,” he said, his voice and
expression sullen.

She looked up at him. He was eleven and tall for his age. A
lock of unruly black hair fell across his forehead. His black cotton trousers
were worn and faded. His shirt was tight across the shoulders; the sleeves were
too short. She risked a glance at his hand and he shoved it into his pocket,
but not before she saw that his palm was still red and swollen.

“Go ‘way,” she said. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Her
mother and father had both warned her to have nothing to do with “that boy”.
Her mother thought it was shocking that a bastard of mixed blood should be
allowed to go to school with the children of the town’s leading citizens.
Alisha didn’t know what the word “bastard” meant, but she had known it was
something bad by the tone of her mother’s voice.

“Why did you cry for me?” Mitch demanded.

Alisha shrugged, embarrassed that he had seen her tears.

“Tell me!”

“I felt sorry for you,” she mumbled. “That’s all.”

“Well, don’t ever do it again. I don’t need no little girls
crying for me.”

“I’m not a little girl,” she retorted, even though it was
true. She was short and petite, like her mother, and very sensitive about the
fact that people thought she was no more than six when she was actually eight
and a half. “Why did you steal my lunch?”

He glared at her as if he hated her. “Cause I was hungry,
that’s why.”

“You should have told me you forgot your lunch. I would have
shared mine with you.”

He looked away, and she saw a flood of red climb up his
neck. “I didn’t forget it,” he muttered, and before she could ask any more
questions, he turned and ran away, splashing across the creek to where the
town’s poor people lived.

He hadn’t come to school the next day, and then it was Saturday,
and there was no school.

She had wandered through the house, looking for something to
do. Mama was ironing her Sunday-go-to-meeting dress; Papa was working on his
sermon. Usually, she loved to read, but that day her books and her games and
her dolls held no interest, so she had left the house and walked down to the
creek. She wasn’t supposed to go down by the creek alone, but she told herself
it would be okay to go down there just this once. She wouldn’t go in the water;
she would just sit on the edge of the creek and maybe put her feet in the
water.

She walked along the bank until she came to the big flat
rock that jutted out over the creek. Sitting down, she took off her shoes and
stockings, then, her legs dangling over the edge of the rock, she swished her
feet back and forth in the cool water.

“This is my spot.”

Her head jerked up and she saw Mitch Garret standing on the
far side of the creek, his hands fisted on his lean hips. “Is not,” she
retorted. “Besides, it’s on my side of the creek.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said imperiously. “Go away.”

“Make me.”

He glared at her a moment, then waded across the creek. Her
heart began to pound wildly as he scrambled up the slippery bank. Every
instinct she possessed urged her to run away as fast as she could, but before
she could stand up, he was there, towering over her. He wasn’t wearing a shirt,
just some funny-looking thing that tied around his waist. A long flap covered
his privates. He was so skinny, she could count his ribs.

“Go away,” he said. “This is my place.”

“Why are you so mean?”

“Take after my old man, I guess.”

She looked up at him, then reached into her pocket and
withdrew a shiny red apple. “Want a bite?”

“No,” he said, but she could almost see his mouth water.

“I’ll give you the whole thing if you let me stay.”

He regarded her for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay.” He took
the apple from her hand and devoured it, core and all, in a few quick bites,
making her wish she had brought two.