Apache Fire. Elizabeth Lane

brought you some clothes,” she said, stepping into the room. “You can have your boots in the morning.”

      “Are you that determined to keep me prisoner?” he asked, half-amused.

      “It’s for your own good. You’re still very weak.”

      “For my own good, I should be leaving right now. I don’t fancy the idea of playing tag with that posse in broad daylight.”

      “Then stay until nightfall tomorrow.” She tossed the bundle of clothes onto the foot of the bed. A wry smile tugged at Latigo’s lips as he noticed the union suit—one trapping of white civilization he had stubbornly rejected.

      “Your husband’s?” he asked.

      “Yes.” Taut and expectant, she lowered herself to the edge of the chair. Nested in the crook of her arm, the baby gazed at him with innocent, violet-blue eyes. Her eyes.

      “You never told me how your husband died,” he said.

      “You didn’t ask. It was an accident.”

      “An accident?” He stared at her.

      “Why should that be so surprising?” she asked.

      “You’d mentioned hand-feeding him. From that, I assumed it was an illness, maybe a stroke.”

      She shook her head. “It happened last summer. John had ridden out alone to check on the herd—something he often did. When his horse came back with an empty saddle, I sent the vaqueros out to look for him. They brought him back in the wagon just before nightfall, unconscious. Evidently he’d fallen, or been thrown, and struck the back of his head on a rock.”

      “I’m sorry,” Latigo said, reminding himself to be gentle with her. “If it’s too painful—”

      “No, it helps me to talk about it. Most people don’t seem to understand that.” Rose sat in near darkness now, her beautiful, sad face obscured by shadows. “At first we didn’t expect him to last through the night. But John was a strong man. He lived for four months, if you could call it life. He was bedridden. He couldn’t stand or speak, and he didn’t seem to know anyone, not even me.”

      “And you took care of him?”

      “I was his wife.”

      Latigo gazed at Rose Colby’s delicate face through the soft veil of twilight. Pampered, he had called her. Spoiled. Lord, how could a man be so wrong?

      “Of course, I couldn’t have cared for John all alone,” she added swiftly. “I had Esperanza to help with the housework and cooking, and Miguel to keep the ranch running. And there was Bayard, of course.”

      “Bayard?” The name triggered a taste as bitter as creosote in Latigo’s mouth.

      “Bayard rode out from Tucson as soon as he got word of John’s accident.” She paused, head tilted, lost in thought. “You know, I truly can’t imagine what got into him this morning. Bayard was wonderful the whole time John was dying—sitting with him by the hour, bringing us things from town…”

      “If he was so wonderful, maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to run him off!” Latigo growled.

      He regretted the remark instantly, but it was too late to call it back. He saw her body stiffen and, even in the darkened room, caught the fire, like flecks of Mexican opal, in her splendid eyes.

      “My relationship with Bayard Hudson is none of your concern!” she retorted sharply. “You asked me how my husband died, and I was telling you. That’s all you need to know!”

      Silence hung between them. Then, deliberately, Latigo allowed himself to laugh. “You have a fine way of slapping a man’s face without touching him, Rose Colby,” he said.

      “If that’s true, maybe I should do it more often!”

      “It is true, Rose. Everything I’ve told you is true.”

      “How can I be sure of that?” The anguish in her voice was real. She wanted to trust him, Latigo sensed, but she was still fearful.

      “Would it be easier if I were a white man?” he dared to ask.

      “That’s not a fair question,” she answered. “There are different kinds of white men and, I suppose, different kinds of Apaches.”

      “That’s very generous of you,” Latigo said dryly. “So, what kind of Apache am I? Have you decided?”

      “I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

      She made a move to rise, then settled uneasily back onto the chair as if she’d changed her mind. Once more the darkness lay heavy and still between them.

      Latigo battled the urge to reach out and demand to know what she was doing here. Her husband’s clothes had only provided her with an excuse to come to him—she could just as easily have delivered them in the morning. If she were a different sort of woman, he might have construed it as an invitation. But Rose Colby was not bent on seduction. Her modest, distant manner and the presence of her child were enough to tell him that.

      “Light the lamp,” he said. “I want to see your face. And I want you to see mine.”

      She hesitated in the darkness, then rose from the chair with her son in her arms. “The lamp’s in the kitchen. Wait here. I’ll go and light it.”

      “You’ll need both hands,” Latigo heard himself saying. “Give me the baby. I’ll hold him for you.”

      Her lips parted as her arms tightened around the blanketed bundle. Only then did Latigo realize what he had done. In his readiness to be helpful, he had demanded the ultimate token of her trust, a trust he had yet to earn.

      “It’s all right, Rose. I would never harm your son.”

      “I know.”

      Despite her words, she did not move, and Latigo knew better than to push her. “Never mind about the lamp, then,” he said. “Darkness makes it harder for each of us to know what the other is thinking. Maybe that’s not so bad after all.”

      For a long moment, the only sound in the tiny room was the soft rush of her breathing. Then she took a step toward him and very carefully held out her baby.

      Latigo’s heart jumped as she thrust the small, squirming bundle toward him. His outstretched hands received the precious weight like a blessing.

      “I’ll get the lamp,” she said, and walked swiftly into the kitchen.

      The baby whimpered, then relaxed, gurgling contentedly as Latigo settled the tiny body awkwardly against his chest. In all of his adult life, he could not remember having held an infant.

      An alien sweetness, frighteningly close to tears, stole through him as he cradled Rose Colby’s son in his arms. Most men his age had sons of their own. Daughters, too, and wives and homes. But a family had no place in the life of a man caught between two worlds. He was alone and destined to remain so, a fugitive spirit, tied to no place, bound to no other human soul.

      Light flickered in the kitchen as Rose struck a match and touched it to the lamp wick. The glow moved with her as she crossed the tiles to stand in the doorway.

      “Mason seems to have taken to you,” she said as she placed the lamp on the dresser. “He’s settled right down. You should be flattered, he doesn’t do that with everyone.”

      “Well, let’s hope the boy acquires better sense as he gets older,” Latigo remarked dryly.

      A wan smile flickered across her face. “I can hold him now.”

      “He’s fine where he is.”

      She settled back onto the chair, making no move to take the baby from him. Latigo watched her, savoring her gentle beauty and the fragile warmth of her child against his heart.

      This was foolhardy, his instincts shrieked in the stillness.