Sun Woman

“Sergeant McCoy?”

Gib turned to the sentry standing by the opened gates, Private Lemuel Ladler, a Negro boy of eighteen. “What is it, Ladler?”

“I see something out there, suh. Take a look.” He pointed to beyond the wavering curtains of heat across the desert.

Squinting, Gib turned and directed his attention to the cactus-strewn desert. Sure enough, he saw a lone rider. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it was an Indian.

“Looks like an Apache,” he muttered.

Ladler’s eyes rounded, and he quickly pulled the rifle off his shoulder, holding it ready to fire.

Gib pushed the rifle barrel down toward the sand. “Take it easy, son. That’s one Indian, not a party of them.”

“B-but, sergeant—”

“At ease, Ladler. We don’t shoot Indians. For all we know, it could be a scout from one of the other forts. Relax.” Gib rested his hands on his hips, watching the progress of the rider. The Fourth Cavalry resided here, the only all-Negro outfit in the West. Ladler had recently come from the East after signing up and had never seen action. The few Indians he had met were scouts. Deciding to stay because Ladler was nervous and might shoot first and ask questions later, Gib waited with the sentry.

“What’s going on here?” Lieutenant Carter demanded, coming up to them.

McCoy kept his face neutral. The young shavetail lieutenant had recently graduated from West Point and was pushing his weight around the post. “Not much, sir. Just an Indian. Apache.” Gib could see the lean, black horse, its head hanging low with exhaustion, and its rider, who didn’t appear to be in much better shape.

Carter stared at the Indian who was still a good distance away. “A scout?”

“Dunno, sir.” McCoy disliked having to address Carter as “sir.” The young blond-haired officer hated the Negroes who served under him. The only thing Carter liked was white men of rank—and any white woman. Gib found himself wishing he had his commission back. The Fourth deserved better leadership than this tall, gangling officer from Georgia who went around with a lace handkerchief stuck under his aristocratic nose because he couldn’t stand the dust.

Carter glared at McCoy. Impudent bastard! He almost uttered the words, but hesitated. McCoy was a veteran of the West. His skin was deeply bronzed by years in the sun, his flesh tough and his body hard. The set of McCoy’s square jaw did nothing but annoy Carter. An ex-officer who still thought and acted like an officer. Even the enlisted coloreds worshiped the ground McCoy walked on, preferring to go to the sergeant instead of him.

“I think you do know, Sergeant,” Carter ground out, casting a furious look in McCoy’s direction.

Gib’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“You’ve got eyes like an eagle. Surely you can tell who it is by now.”

Clenching his teeth, McCoy watched the approaching horse and rider. “It isn’t a scout. He’s wearing Apache clothing, not our blue uniform.”

Excited, Carter withdrew his revolver from its holster. “Maybe it’s one of Geronimo’s people.”

Wanting to shake his head but deciding it wasn’t a wise idea, Gib muttered, “Don’t get trigger-happy, Lieutenant. That’s one Indian. I don’t see any weapons on him except a bow and arrow.” Gib looked significantly at Carter’s weapon. “I’d put it away, sir.”

“When I want your two cents’ worth, Sergeant, I’ll ask for it.”

Ladler glanced at McCoy, nervously fingering the rifle. “Sergeant?”

“Keep the rifle down,” Gib intoned coldly, glaring at Carter. The officer was such a dandy. His features were delicate, his skin white as an Englishman’s and easily sunburned. The white lace handkerchief his wife, Claudia, had made for him made him look effeminate, and three months in Arizona had baked him red as a beet.

“What’s going on?” Melissa cooed, stepping up to McCoy, giving him a flirting smile.

“Nothing, ma’am. Just an Indian coming in,” he drawled. Now the worst busybody on the post was here along with Carter, who was acting as if he wanted to shoot the Indian.

Claudia rushed to her husband’s side. “Oh, my, Dodd! Look out there! Why, it’s our enemy.”

Gib clenched his teeth again. “Not all Indians are our enemies, Mrs. Carter.”

“If that buck’s off a reservation,” Carter said emphatically, “he’s our enemy.” He lifted his revolver and cocked it.

“Why, I do declare,” Melissa said, remaining next to McCoy, “we’re finally getting some excitement.” She looked up at the sergeant through her lashes. The unforgiving line of his mouth excited her. What made this man’s blood run hot? His face was glistening with sweat and there were deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His blue eyes were frigid and off-limits. Whatever the sergeant’s true thoughts, he kept them to himself.

McCoy calculated all the possible scenarios that could happen. Ladler was nervous because he knew so little about the Indians. Carter wanted to kill one just to brag about it to his fellow officers. Claudia was a romantic wanting to see her husband kill one of the dreaded Apaches. And Melissa stood there looking like a bloodthirsty wolf ready to pounce on the Indian herself for the sheer excitement of seeing one killed.

As the rider drew close, Gib was the first to realize it was a woman on the mustang. In his seven years in the Southwest, he had met a number of Apache women, but never one who wore the third braid of a warrior. Swallowing hard, Gib wondered how in the hell he was going to handle the situation. He was the only one who knew that Apache women could be warriors right alongside their men.

Tensing, McCoy took a few steps forward, separating himself from the group as the rider approached. Private Ladler would obey him, but Carter wouldn’t. He prayed that the officer, once he realized it was a woman, would put his weapon away.

Gib focused on the Apache woman. Her face was square, her features delicate, almost beautiful. She was Chiricahua, judging from her dress. She wore a faded red cotton headband that kept her long, waist-length black hair out of her face. A quiver of arrows was slung across her back. She wore a pale blue shirt and a leather belt around her small waist. A knife hung next to her long, curved thigh. Her dark green corduroy pants were faded and threadbare, and the distinctively tipped kabun boots fitted snugly to just below her knees.

As she came nearer, Gib recognized the shaft on the arrows as that belonging to Geronimo’s people. His heartbeat quickened as he met and held her weary brown eyes. The woman was near starvation, her flesh sunken against the bone. She held her chin high and rode with her shoulders proudly thrown back, although he knew she must be light-headed and hungry. There was a magnificent dignity about her, and Gib took a few more steps away from the group, toward her. Whoever she was, she was courageous, riding alone out in this terrifying heat and waterless country in the midst of many who would murder her on sight.

Maybe it was the slenderness of her hands and fingers that made Gib relax. He sensed somehow that she wasn’t going to try foolishly to kill him. His gaze moved to her lips, and he felt an immediate hardening within his body. There was a lushness to her mouth, coupled with a gentle upward curve at the corners. Despite the harshness that life had demanded of her, Gib knew there was a softer side to this woman.

He shook his head. What was she doing here? Was she an emissary from Geronimo? He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, not wanting to broadcast any movement that might make her think he was an enemy. In his seven years of working closely with the Apache people and scouts, he knew they read the silent body language of another with the sense of a wild animal.

“Oh, Lord!” shrieked Melissa hysterically. “It’s a woman!”

Chapter Two

Kuchana jerked Wind to a halt when the pindah woman in the pink dress shrieked. Her eyes went wide as a yellow-headed officer rushed forward brandishing his revolver at her. She froze, her gaze seeking out the other man, the one with black hair and startling blue eyes. Her instincts told her this was a man of honor.

Gib cursed as he reached out and jerked Carter’s arm down. “She’s unarmed,” he said at the officer, pulling him to a halt.

“Let go of me,” Carter snarled.

“Not until you promise to put that gun away—sir.”

Carter gestured at the woman. “She’s Apache.”

“And unarmed.” Gib’s fingers increased their pressure around Carter’s wrist. “Put the gun away before you shoot yourself in the foot.”

A dull red flush crawled across the lieutenant’s taut features. Yanking out of McCoy’s hold, he belligerently aimed the revolver at the woman.

“Who are you?” Carter demanded, his voice, high, off pitch.

Kuchana sucked in a breath of air, staring at the ugly muzzle of the revolver no more than fifty feet from where she sat astride her mare. Was Yellow Hair crazy?

“Come on. Tell me who you are and what you want,” Carter repeated.

The English words all tumbled together, and although Kuchana had an excellent grasp of pindah language from her time spent on the reservation, she hesitated. The revolver was threatening. She raised her hands above her head, looking desperately to the other soldier, pleading silently with him to intervene on her behalf.

“I come as friend…” she stumbled in their language.