The Barefoot Bride (51 page)

Eve invented troublemaking in the garden of Eden, and her daughters had been perfecting the art for centuries, Sterling thought as he urged his galloping stallion toward the thick grove of pinon trees ahead. Just beyond the trees were the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains. If he could reach them he could lose the posse following him. He didn't much like being smack in the middle of Chiricahua Apache territory, but if he had to choose between fierce Indians and that overripe, scheming woman he'd found clinging to him in bed that morning, he'd choose the lesser of the two evils—the Indians.

Once in the dark thicket, he dodged low branches and skillfully guided his horse through the maze of pinons. He felt sure he would soon lose his hunters, but when he heard the men enter the forest, he whispered a string of profanities. The trees were too thick to race through, and any noise he made would alert the posse to his whereabouts. Damning all females, he halted his mount and bade him remain still and quiet in the cool shadows.

"We can't go any further, Otis," he heard a man say.

"The hell we can't!" another man, whom Sterling assumed was Otis, insisted. "That hot-blooded buck ruined my daughter, and dammit, there's gonna be a weddin'!"

"There's gonna be a
funeral
if we don't get outta here," a third ventured. "We were crazy to follow that young fella this far into Cochise kingdom."

"Yeah, Otis," still another said. "We been chasin' that Mexican for almost five hours already, and we ain't got him. I ain't never seen a man ride like he does, and I ain't never seen a horse as smart as that stallion neither. I swear that animal reads his master's mind."

"I was in the street this mornin' when I heard the fella whistle from his room," one man said. "That horse come flyin' out from nowhere, and when he heard his master holler somethin' in Spanish, he stopped right under that window. And when I saw the fella jump out and land right on the horse's back... well, I had to grab the hitchin' post to keep from fallin' down."

"He's led us on a merry chase, that's for sure, but wadin' in quicksand over hell would be safer than followin' him into the foothills," the first man warned. "Cochise—"

"But—"

"Otis, if a nice little chitchat with them Apache is what you got a hankerin' for, stay," another man cut in. "But we're leavin'. Martha throws herself at anything that wears pants, and I reckon when she set eyes on that handsome young buck, she'd have done anything to get him."

"Now see here!" Otis yelled. "My sweet, innocent Martha—"

"Maybe he was tellin' the truth when he told you he'd never seen her before," one of the men ventured. "With looks like he's got, what the hell would he set his sights on Martha for? It ain't that Martha's ugly, Otis, but she ain't no young thing. That fella could have lured any one of the younger gals into his bed."

"Yeah, Otis," another agreed. "It's real fatherly of you to try and get him for her, but it's likely Martha snuck into his room, got nekkid, joined him in bed, and then started hollerin' just like that fella swore she done. She's desperate for a man, Otis. And when females get desperate, even them Mexicans start lookin' good to 'em."

"Especially one who looks like that one," another added.

"If you all believe that ruttin' bastard's lies, then why'd you join up with me in chasin' him?" Otis demanded.

"It's Sunday, Otis," one man explained. "And what man's missus ain't gonna drag him to hear that visitin' Reverend Fire and Brimstone carry on and on? A manhunt's a helluva lot more eye-openin'. And catchin' a man who rides like that young fella does... it was a challenge too great to resist. But we've gotta turn back now. Cochise'll probably get him anyway. He don't stand no chance out here, and—"

The sharp crack of a brittle twig broke off all conversation. There was a moment of silence, then one man whispered, "It's that young fella... or Cochise."

Sterling's tense body relaxed when he heard his hunters' horses thunder out of the woods. "
Pendejos
," he cursed to his horse. "Martha, they said her name was. All of a sudden there she was, Gus, lying beside me and wearing nothing but her wrinkled skin.
Que cabrona!
I didn't even have time to figure out what she was doing before her father burst into the room, shotgun in hand.

"If you hadn't come so quick, Gus, I'd be a married man by now. Tied down forever to some conniving female." Anger boiled. He yanked his hat off and swabbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Dammit, Gus," he swore, and began leading the stallion deeper into the forest. "How many times has this happened since we left
las monjitas,
the good sisters?"

Gus whickered.

"Ha! Don't let those nuns fool you, Gus. Kind as they are, beneath those black and white penguin costumes they're all female, and they're no less manipulative than women who wear necklaces instead of rosary beads."

Yes, the sisters had their own special wiles, he recalled, and they'd used them to get him to rebuild almost every confounded building at the orphanage before he'd finally escaped.

Then he'd come into intimate contact with the lay women.
Their
wiles were infinitely more agreeable than the sober sisters', nor did they want him for the back-breaking work for which the nuns needed him. Their interest was of a completely different nature. But it didn't matter who or what they were,
all
women brought trouble.

And the problems he had with them had started early in his life. Along with his first real whisker had also appeared his uncommon effect upon the fair sex. As he'd approached full manhood, his unusual appeal grew stronger, right along with his body, and in the ten years he'd been away from the orphanage it had become a rare magic.

But his magnetism was often a curse too. "The girls scheme to get me to the altar, Gus," he muttered, and swatted a branch. "The more experienced women scheme to get me into their beds. The matrons scheme by spoiling me to death, which, of course, works to shame me into giving them what they want. And Gus, they
all
want something."

He reined his horse to a halt, sighed, and dragged his fingers through his hair. It was only his strange charisma that inspired female fascination, and no woman had ever bothered to look beyond it. Nor did they attempt to show him what lay beneath
their
outer charms, either.

It made him feel empty. Oh, he was a master at hiding the emptiness, but he couldn't hide it from himself.

And unless he reached Tucson it would always be so, he reminded himself, and urged Gus into a smart trot. He had vital business with a certain woman there, and the thought of her lifted his spirits. When he finally found her, he would use all the charm he possessed to captivate her. She'd succumb, but she would quickly sense the hungry void inside him.
She'd
be different than other women.
She'd
be the one woman who would make him feel whole.

He'd spent almost eighteen years in the orphanage imagining her. Then he'd left and spent ten more years looking for her, never finding her. He'd given up after that and returned to the orphanage to visit Father Tom, the American priest who'd helped raise him.

Father Tom had put the key to the lady's whereabouts into his hands. The woman for whom he'd yearned his entire life was in Tucson. Father Tom had actually
seen
her there. He, Sterling, was on his way there now, and dammit, nothing, no one was going to prevent him from getting there! "Tucson, boy," he told his horse. "Get me there, and do it fast. As fast—"

A sound came from ahead. He knew it wasn't the posse; it was long gone. He listened intently, his nerves sharpening, while he waited to hear the noise again. When he did, he realized it was a human voice.

Even worse, it was a female voice. He remembered the kind of morning he'd already had because of a woman, and every instinct roared for him to turn and leave right then and there. He reined Gus to the right, fully intending to disappear into the woods before the woman saw him.

But before she saw him, he saw her.

She was an Indian, and because of his location he knew her to be Chiricahua Apache. She caught sight of him and staggered toward him. He dismounted immediately, his annoyance at women forgotten in the face of her obvious suffering.

She was doubled over, bleeding profusely from a chest wound, each step she took apparently causing her tremendous pain. When Sterling reached her, she collapsed in his arms. Gently, he laid her on the ground, his eyes widening with consternation.

"Oh, hell! You're pregnant!" He sat back on his haunches and drew his hands away from her. "Who did this to you?" He touched the stab wound near her left breast. "Who did this?"

She didn't answer. He knew she couldn't understand him. But he didn't really need an answer. White men had done this horrible thing. Cochise had been plaguing this area around the Chiricahua and Dragoon Mountains forever, or so it seemed. It stood to reason that white men had attacked and left this girl for dead out of revenge for whatever Cochise had recently done. Many settlers frequently resorted to this sort of vengeful violence. Sterling was sickened by it all.

"Vamanos,
" he whispered down to her. "Somehow we've got to find a doctor who hates human suffering worse than he does Apaches." He began to pick her up, but she groaned and clawed at his arms, her eyes beseeching him to leave her on the ground. "I'm only trying to help you, miss. A doctor—"

Her actions silenced him. His open mouth popped closed when she gripped her belly and bore down. "No! Dammit, lady, if you don't stop pushing like that, you're going to send your baby sailing over the mountaintops!"

His own statement made him gasp. Baby? Here? Now?

Oh,
hell
no! He rose and turned to leave. He'd never delivered anything newborn and damned if he was going to start learning with a
human.
He started back toward Gus. He'd heard Indian women knew how to do this sort of thing by themselves and didn't need men around, which suited him just fine.

But before he reached Gus, he stopped and pondered the situation.
This
Indian woman was injured badly. She might not even live long enough to give birth. And even if she did, she was in no shape to care for the babe.

He turned slowly and saw she was on her hands and knees, crawling toward a tree. When she reached it, she pulled the bottom of her buckskin skirt up to her mouth and held it between her teeth. Still on her knees, she hugged the tree trunk and groaned, her face tight with exertion.

Sterling saw blood everywhere. It flowed from her breast down to her legs, mingling with what he assumed to be birthing blood. His trepidation immediately gave way to compassion, and he charged back toward her. "I don't know what to do! Your wound—What if you don't live long enough to show me what to do?
Que hago?"

Even if she had understood, he knew she couldn't have answered him. As she was bringing a new life into the world, her own was slipping away from her. Her eyes were dazed, her breath was becoming shallow, and her skin was paling rapidly. Sterling knew then that this day would be her last.

The knowledge spurred him into action. If he couldn't keep her alive, he'd do everything he could for the child. "God, don't take her yet," he half-implored, half-commanded. "Let me save the baby. Let her see her baby!"

He threw a beseeching look at the sky, and then, kneeling beside the woman, he reached out and spread her knees further apart, encouraging her loudly when she bore down with a contraction. She seemed to understand what he was trying to do for her and smiled at him weakly before another pain gripped her. Sterling wiped his hands on his shirt in an effort to clean them just before the crown of the infant's head appeared.

He experienced a moment of panic when he wondered just how fast the baby would be born. After all, the mother was in an upright position on her knees, and she was pushing with every ounce of strength she possessed. To Sterling's way of thinking, the infant might very well be expelled as fast as a bullet. The muscles in his arms hardened with readiness. No matter how fast this baby came shooting out, he wasn't going to let it hit the ground.

But the baby's head slipped slowly and gently into his warm palms. Sterling stared in awe at the tiny, wrinkled face cradled in his hands and then tensed again when the Indian woman moaned with another pain. Briefly, he wondered if he was supposed to pull on the infant's head a bit. It made sense. The mother would push, he'd pull, and out would pop the baby.

He gave a token tug. No sooner had he done it when a surge of panic tore through him. What if he pulled the head off? The thought horrified him. "You've got to do this by yourself, lady. Just slow down some.
Dios mio,
don't push too hard."

In answer, she groaned louder and squeezed out her baby's shoulders. Immediately afterward, the rest of the infant slipped into Sterling's strong arms. He held the newborn girl and shuddered in amazement that such a tiny thing could scream so loudly. One arm holding the baby, he used his other to help the mother lie on the ground, and then laid the infant on her bloody breast. The child quieted immediately. Sterling watched in confusion as the woman began tugging at a leather string around her neck. Realizing she wished to remove it, he assisted her with the task and noticed the rawhide string held some sort of strange wooden amulet. Her fingers shaking, the woman slipped the necklace around her daughter and then pulled the baby closer to her face.

"She's real pretty," Sterling said lamely, and felt a great tug at his heart when he saw how much closer to death the woman was. "Real little and soft... she's got a lot of hair. She's real pretty." He tried to smile but couldn't get his lips to do much more than quiver.

The woman reached up and placed her trembling hand against his cheek. She kept it there for as long as her strength would allow and returned his smile with a weak one of her own. Then, a tear at the corner of her eye, her pale lips pressed against her daughter's tiny ear, she sighed her last breath.