Chapter 6

Naked, Lily emerged from the wickiup, blinking at the noon glare. Sunlight was beating down, suffocating heat filling the canyon. Squinting, she glanced around, taking in changes in the clearing. Some leaves had been stripped from cottonwoods and oaks but the hollow was still hidden from the eastern rim. Concho was sitting with his back against one oak, diligently cleaning her pistol. The saddles and blankets were there, wiped down and already nearly dry. Her chaps, doeskin jacket, riding boots and shoulder bag were hanging from ropes strung between trees. Shirt, denim jeans, dainty undergarments and stockings were already dry. Horse blankets and washed towels were steaming. Pack frames were empty. Large canvas sacks, slickers and tarps also hung to dry in patches of sunlight. Oilskin packages and tin containers, canned goods, crocks and jars were spread out everywhere.

There were new stones around a crackling, nearly smokeless fire. She recognized things she had taken from the ranch kitchen and a storage room. A new saucepan, a large canning pot and a Dutch oven were sitting on flat rocks, surrounded by popping embers, cups, tin plates and bowls arranged near the fire.

“Hello,” she said, stretching, relishing the sensation of hot desert sunlight as it caused a prickling over her naked torso.

“All rested and warm now?” he asked, not even glancing up as he rubbed gun oil off her Russian with a cotton cloth.

“Yes, thanks,” she said, yawning, giving him a sidelong glance, realizing Concho didn’t appear to be giving her the slightest bit of attention. Miffed, Lily knew she was being shameless. She blushed but took delight in this new liberty. She had intended to shock him, but he wasn’t rising to the bait.

Ducking back inside the shelter, she found the bag she had left with him, pulling out the change of dry, clean clothing. Forsaking panties, she pulled on a cotton skirt, leaving her chest bare. Finding items which had been in her purse, she untied hair, taking up the silver brush. After working out tangles and knots, she gave herself a hundred long strokes, put a dab of perfume behind each ear, under her arms and beneath each breast. Studying her reflection in the hand mirror, she worried her bottom lip. When that looked a little swollen, she pinched her cheeks, put down the mirror and ducked outside.

Crossing to the campfire, she crouched, took a glazed mug and poured out fresh, steaming coffee. Rising, posing, she sipped the strong brew. Swaying hips, making the skirt swish, she ambled across to the saddles. Another sidelong glance caught Concho staring at her. She turned and gave him a smile. “You’ve been busy.”

“You should put on one of your dry shirts,” he said, distractedly wrapping her revolver in the oily rag, laying it on a white canvas tarp where several dozen spread out cartridges looked freshly greased. “Sun will be overhead for another two hours. You don’t want to get burned.”

“I don’t burn easily. I’ll just get dark like you,” she said, taking another sip of coffee, wondering that he wasn’t even staring. “My Spanish blood. I’m already tanned golden brown.” After a few moments, she said petulantly, “You might at least look! don’t you even want to kiss me?”

He rose, flashing a wide grin, saying, “I’ll never stop wanting to kiss you, and a lot more than that. You are too lovely to resist.” Pushing aside her coffee mug, he stepped in, folded her into his arms, then kissed her long and deep. Lily felt heat abruptly surge, flooding out through her belly, coursing through breasts crushed flat against hard muscles of a naked, barrel chest. He drew back, one arm still about her as he took the coffee mug from her hand.

After gulping down a mouthful, he said, “I could make love to you all day and all night. Thing is, there’s work to get done, problems to discuss, and you should probably eat a bowl of hot stew.”

“I could just nibble on you?” she murmured, biting his throat, inhaling his scent, licking up a trace of Smokey, salty sweat. “What problems?”

“Well, there is your father, who is probably already having men tear up the country looking for you, and there’s the res police hunting me, and then there’s all that raw gold.”

“The grotto?” she said, puzzling, straightening to meet his eyes, recovering her mug. Taking a swallow. Cocking her head, she said, “it’s not exactly raw gold, and I don’t want it touched.”

Concho reached up, stroked her cheek, then kissed her ear. “Trouble is, lightning split the cliff. Melted gold right out of the rock. The grotto ceiling now has gold stalactites. There’s big puddles of native gold on the floor. A bit too obvious. Eventually somebody will find this canyon, come down here for water and find a fortune in gold icicles.” He gestured towards the spring. “Powers are at work. There’s a change happening. You may have to give up your sacred grove.”

She laid a hand against his cheek and chewed at her lower lip. After a minute, she looked into his eyes, hers a dark azure. “What are we to do?”

“Nothing, right now,” he said, “except to eat and do some chores. I’ve got to build some kind of shelter for the horses and mules. There isn’t enough shade by the creek. Come night, they would be easy prey for a cougar. Another problem is our location. If a range rider didn’t topple over the edge, he couldn’t help but see the animals. you’re father’s people would recognize them.”

He moved around her, crossing to the fire. Picking up a tin plate, he lifted the pot lid and ladled out stew. Opening the Dutch oven, he plucked out two warmed bread rolls that were already buttered. When Lily settled beside him, he put the plate into her hands. “Pronghorn stew,” he said, dishing himself a plate.

“Antelope? Around here?” she said, picking up a silver service soup spoon. “You kill it while I was sleeping? I didn’t hear a shot.” She took a careful taste and raised her brows, giving a smile. “Tastes very good.”

“I have a bow and some arrows,” he said, adding, “it helped that you brought sacks of onions, potatoes, turnips and garlic. Used a can of stewed tomatoes and a few wild herbs, some of the flour, pepper and a little salt.”

“This is wonderful, having a man that can cook, seeing that I’m almost useless in the kitchen,” Lily dipped in a bread roll, wiping up gravy. Nibbling, she studied his profile, then twisted around, following his gaze towards eastern rimrock.

Hardly visible through a canopy of leaves and evergreen boughs, a tangle of brush choked the rim,. “Will we have to keep watch all day, every day?”

Scooping down another mouthful of the hot stew, he shook his head. “Just morning and evenings.” He gestured with his spoon. “This time of day the desert basin is too hot for man or beast. Any riders would be travelling early morning or late afternoon. No tracks up there. Most of the rim is choked with cholla, creosote bush and mesquite. From out on the bald rock, you can’t even see there’s a hole here. Course somebody might accidentally tumble over the edge, like I nearly did a few days back. Would have bounced down that spill of boulders right into your lap. Only then I’d have been dead.”

Lily shuddered. “That would have been horrible.” She spooned up more stew, eating a little faster, all but wolfing down the second bread roll. Reaching into the crock, Concho handed her another. Taking it, she cocked her head quizzically. “You took the time to warm and butter them?”

“Living in Baltimore almost ruined me. I got to like buttered rolls. Jam too.”

“You only told me a little yesterday,” she said, wiping up more juice, taking a large bite. “You lived with The Worthington’s for six years?”

“They took me in just before I turned twelve. Left when I was seventeen.” Momentarily distant, he considered what to tell, eating what remained in his plate, wiping up every trace of gravy with another roll. “When a group of Bostonian do-good, zealous missionaries discovered I had Spanish and French names, and that I was part white, they tried to make out I was a captive. They arranged to have me taken from my mother. After all, she was just a dirty Apache squaw without a husband, probably a drunkard who lived in sin. They took me to Boston, then a town called Ipswich. I was only eight, but I was already Apache. I knew to be patient, to study my enemy, learn and then strike. They kept me prisoner for months, finally sending me to a special school for the ‘children of noble savages’ ... It was a nightmare. Of course, I didn’t appreciate their brand of Christian charity. Especially when they kept trying to beat heathen beliefs and demons out of me.” He barked out a vicious laugh. “Hypocrisy. They couldn’t whip the Apache out of me, or break my spirit. They wanted to make me white, but Yusen was with me. At the age of nine, I escaped and jumped a freight train south. I avoided the worst of New York City, and then an understanding black community helped me, passing me from family to family until I ended up further south, in Baltimore. That’s when Judge Worthington heard about my situation. He and his wife spoke with me. Asked many questions. Then, they offered to take me in, and promised that if I would stay a year, they would pay to send me back to my mother. I agreed, and ended up staying for six years. Judge Worthington was quite wealthy, a lawyer with several business interests and political connections. He became an important judge. Their eldest son was studying medicine in college, his next youngest brother studying the law. I found them interesting, and I learned much from them. Their other children wanted to learn all about the Apache. Then, as I told you, I got Annabelle with child. The judge sent me away with money and a train ticket. That was over two years ago.”