Free Apache Flame by Madeline Baker Page A

shutting the door
behind her. Why had he left town so abruptly? Where had he gone? Was he coming
back?
    She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. Whatever they
had once shared, whatever tender feelings she had once felt for Mitch were dead
and buried years ago and could not be resurrected no matter how she might wish
it.
    And yet she couldn’t help but wonder what her life would
have been like if her father hadn’t interfered, if Mitch had sent for her, if
her baby had lived…
    Resolutely, she put such thought from her mind. There was no
point going over it again, no point wondering, wishing. It was over and done,
and she was glad he was gone again, apparently for good.
    “Still lying to yourself, aren’t you, Alisha Faraday?” she
muttered as she hurried toward home. And knew she would always wonder how her
life would have turned out if Mitch had ignored her father’s letter and come
back for her all those years ago.

Chapter Nine
     
    It was midafternoon four days later when Mitch reached the
entrance to the Apache stronghold. He had removed his hat and shirt, hoping
that any scouts who saw him would recognize him as one of their own.
    He rode easy in the saddle, his hands well away from his
guns. He had been riding up the mountainside about an hour when he felt a
tightening between his shoulder blades and knew he was being watched.
    Resisting the urge to look behind him, he kept riding. The
trail grew narrower, flanked by the mountain on one side, and a sheer drop on
the other. His horse snorted and shied as a rabbit sprang out from under a bush
and darted up the path ahead. Mitch felt a sudden sinking in the pit of his
stomach as the mare’s hindquarters came perilously close to the edge of the
trail.
    Winding upward, the trail widened a little, hemmed in on
both sides by the mountains.
    A short time later, he came to a fork in the trail. He was
pondering whether to turn to the left or the right when he heard the
unmistakable sound of several rifles being cocked.
    Slowly, he raised his hands to shoulder level. “ Ya a teh,
shila aash,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness.
Greetings, my friend .
    “We have no friends among the whites.” The voice, speaking
remarkably good English, came from behind him, high up and a little to his
right.
    “I am Otter, son of White Robe, daughter to Stalks the
Bear.” Mitch spoke the Indian name his mother had given him for the first time
since childhood. She had called him Otter because he loved the water, because
he tried to swim whenever she bathed him.
    There was a flurry of hushed whispers, and then the voice
said, “Go to the left. Wait for us at the cottonwood at the bottom of the
trail.”
    Releasing the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding,
Mitch took up the reins and followed the left fork in the trail, which snaked
back and forth for about a hundred yards.
    A few minutes later the narrow path opened onto a stretch of
flat ground and he saw a tall cottonwood standing like a sentinel at the head
of another trail. Four warriors clad in clouts and moccasins stood near the
tree. Three held rifles, one carried a bow and had a quiver of arrows slung
over his shoulder.
    Mitch reined his horse to a halt a few yards from the men.
He had never seen any of his mother’s people, but she had told him that the men
were fierce warriors, trained from infancy to be hunters and fighters. She had
told him that Apache men could go for miles without food or water and were
warriors without equal. Now, studying the four men in front of him, Mitch knew
she had not lied. They were stocky and barrel-chested, solid and muscular, with
dark copper skin, thick black hair, and suspicious black eyes.
    The warrior on the far right took a step forward. “Why have
you come here?”
    Mitch recognized the voice as the one who had spoken to him
earlier. “I was raised among the whites. I wish to learn the ways of my
mother’s people.”
    The warrior looked at Mitch