Free Apache Flame by Madeline Baker

town,
ostensibly to visit family in the east. She had, on several occasions,
considered asking Chloe for advice. Chloe had married Sylvester Quimby,
publisher of the Canyon Creek Gazette , and moved into her own home the
year Alisha turned eighteen.
    “Alisha? Don’t you like it?”
    “It’s lovely,” she replied quickly. “I was just…just
decorating it. In my head, you know? What would you think of doing the bedroom
in blue? I saw a lovely spread at the mercantile…”
    Roger stepped up behind her, close enough that she could
feel his breath moving in her hair.
    “Alisha.” She didn’t resist when he placed his hands on her
shoulders and turned her to face him. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “Is it all
right?”
    “Of course.”
    He drew her into his arms and kissed her and Alisha closed
her eyes, remembering another man’s arms, another man’s lips. Mitch had never
asked if he could kiss her. There had been nothing hesitant in his manner, no
uncertainty in his voice or his kiss. Mitch had always known what he wanted.
What she needed. She remembered the nights she had met him down by the
creek—starlit summer nights when the air was soft and warm and the crickets and
tree frogs serenaded them, rainy winter nights when storm clouds hid the moon
and the heat between them drove away the cold.
    Guilt rose up within her. She had no business thinking of
Mitch, especially now, when she was in Roger’s arms. She had pledged her heart
to Roger when she agreed to marry him. He deserved her affection and her
loyalty.
    “I’ll try to make you happy, Alisha,” Roger whispered.
    “I know you will.”
    “I told Mr. Halstead over to the mercantile you’d be coming
by to look at curtain material and the like.” Roger draped his arm around her
shoulder as they left the house. “Buy whatever you want for our house, Alisha,
whatever you think we need. Mr. Halstead will put it on my account.”
    “That’s very generous of you, Roger.”
    “I just want you to be happy.”
    “I am.” The lie pricked her conscience. She seemed to be
telling a lot of untruths these days—to her father, to Roger, to Mitch. To
herself. “We should go,” she said. “Father will be wondering what happened to
us.”
    With a nod, Roger brushed a kiss across her forehead and
released her. Hand in hand, they left the house.
    * * * * *
    It wasn’t until the next night that Alisha heard that Mitch
had left town.
    She stared at Roger, unable to believe the news. “Left? How
do you know? Where did he go? When’s he coming back?”
    “I don’t know,” Roger replied with a shrug. “What difference
does it make?”
    “None, of course. I was just curious.”
    The next day, after school, she went by the Sheriff’s
Office. The shades were drawn, the door was locked. A sign in the window
advised anyone needing help to contact Casey Waller or Fred Plumber.
    She couldn’t believe he would leave town without telling
her. Unable to help herself, she made the long walk up to the Garret house.
    She was breathless when she reached the top of the rise.
With one hand pressed to her side, she studied the place. In all the years she
had known Mitch, she had never come here.
    She knew the house was empty even before she climbed the
steps and knocked on the door. She wondered what she would have said if he had
come to the door. Moving to the left, she peered in the window, but it was too
dark inside for her to see anything.
    Overcome with curiosity, she tried the front door. It opened
with a squeak. She battled her conscience for a moment, then stepped inside.
The interior was dark and quiet. Her footsteps sounded extraordinarily loud as
she walked down the short hallway to the parlor. The room was dark and
oppressive. The air smelled musty, tinged with stale tobacco.
    Leaving the parlor, she walked slowly from room to room. He
was gone, there was no doubt about that. The house felt empty, abandoned.
    Feeling heavy-hearted, she left the house,