The Half-Breed's Woman Read online

  Tildy Rienholdt glared at Callie from across the small space that separated them. No words were needed for Callie to know the older woman’s thoughts. But how, Callie wondered, could the bulky woman blame her for this?

  As the stagecoach topped the rise, Sam Briscoe let go a string of curses. The stage slowed, then stopped.

  Suddenly, from all around them came the sounds of shouts and whoops, mixed with raucous laughter and words formed in the guttural Apache dialect. The door was flung open, and rough, brown hands reached inside, pulling the unwilling passengers out, one by one.

  Callie’s leaden feet moved too slowly as they shoved her forward. She had jammed the little pepperbox derringer into one of Jax’s roomy coat pockets, and it gave her a feeling of security, even though she told herself that was foolish.

  She searched the surrounding grove of cottonwood trees with her eyes. She couldn’t see Jax anywhere. How could she bear to see him dead? To know he’d never touch her again? She’d never look into his eyes, or feel the warm safety of his body next to hers in the night.

  Then, she saw him, and her heart stood still. He was bare to the waist, despite the cold, his shirt and bandaging removed. Of course, his gunbelt was gone, but they had left him the knife he always carried. It was long, and wicked-looking, and he stood for a moment, testing the blade with his thumb.

  A rough hand clamped down hard on Callie’s shoulder.

  “Sit,” one of the Apaches said, gesturing to the ground. “Maybe you watch McCall die today,” he smirked before he left them.

  “We better hope to hell those ribs of his are mended,” Trey muttered softly to Sam. Sam gave a choked snort of despair, lowering himself to the ground.

  “What’s happening?” Callie asked Trey.

  Trey looked uncomfortable. “Miss—I—”

  Callie leaned forward urgently. “Please, Mr. Newell.” She swallowed hard, her dark eyes determined. “What—What will they do?”

  “It’s a contest,” Sam told her harshly. He glanced at Trey, then back at Callie once more. “A fight to the death. If he wins, we might get out of this alive.” He shrugged, then looked away momentarily. “If he don’t, well, we ain’t no worse off than we are right now, I guess.”

  Callie watched silently as three of the Apache warriors marked the perimeters of the battle ring. After a few minutes, two other warriors strode purposefully over to where the travelers sat on the ground. One of them motioned grimly for the little group to rise and follow him. The other Indian brought up the rear.

  They were marched down close to the circle where Jax and a stocky, muscular Apache were being tied together at the ankle with a rawhide thong, facing one another, knives in their hands.

  “My God…” Callie whispered. Impatient, one of the warriors pushed her to the ground. She found herself seated between Tildy Rienholdt and Cara Manley.

  “Don’t watch,” Cara advised in a whisper, keeping her eyes down.

  But there was something so mesmerizing about the scene unfolding a few feet away that Callie could not stop herself. She had to watch—no matter what the outcome was. She felt her stomach tense, her throat go tight and dry.

  The Apaches seemed to view this as a sport, something amusing. Even though one of their own warriors was likely to meet his death, they talked and laughed amongst themselves as if it meant nothing.

  Callie bit her lip, unable to understand. Life was precious. She wanted to live, and she wanted Jax to live. She bowed her head, and began to bargain with God.

  Suddenly, as if at some unseen signal, the tethered men leapt at one another. Jabbing and feinting, they moved together, yet apart. Callie’s eyes snapped up, prayers forgotten. She watched in horrified fascination, unable to look away.

  Jax made a sudden lunge, cutting the Apache across his chest from shoulder to waist. A bright line of red appeared, and instantly began to run. A roar of approval went up from the rest of the crowd, infuriating the wounded warrior. He gave a whoop and dove at Jax. Both men fell to the ground, still bound together. As they grappled in the dust, the Apache’s knife streaked upward, the blade disappearing.

  Callie sat forward with a gasp, unable to see if the Indian had drawn blood. She felt certain he could not have missed.

  ****

  Jax rolled atop the muscular brave, gasping as he felt Blue Feather’s knife part his skin, sliding into his side with a jolt. The pain was excruciating, but rather than debilitating him, it only made him angry. It had been a while since Jax had done this—fought in the ring, as they were doing now. He’d always been able to use a knife well, but Blue Feather’s reputation for the talent of wielding a blade was not exaggerated. And he wasn’t fighting with cracked ribs.

  Jax had to end it quickly. He was tiring, and could feel it. If Blue Feather bested him, seven people would die. He couldn’t allow himself to think of losing. They all depended on him, now.

  ****

  Callie squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch any longer. If the Apache was stronger than Jax, there would be no mercy given—to any of them. She couldn’t bear to watch him die right before her eyes. Jax slowly brought his knife hand toward the other man’s throat. The look in the Apache’s eyes turned to one of fear as Jax held the Indian’s knife arm pinned to the earth. Callie watched, amazed at the seemingly effortless way Jax held him, his own weaponed hand moving ever closer to the Apache’s throat. The Apache began to speak in his guttural language, spewing his hatred. Callie was riveted, unable to tear her gaze away. The Indian wasted precious strength on words. Though the shorter man used every ounce of his strength to try and hold his opponent at bay, Jax eventually touched the quivering knife to the man’s skin just under his Adam’s apple. Jax muttered something in the Apache tongue, and reluctantly, the Indian nodded.

  Slowly, he released his grip on the warrior, and the two men warily came to their feet, facing one another. Callie let out a sigh of relief, her hands fisting in the deep pockets of the coat.

  Jax took his knife and made a quick, deliberate cut across his left hand. He spoke to the Apache quietly, his expression serious. The Indian raised his own knife and made a similar cut in his palm. He reached to clasp it against Jax’s.

  Trey and Sam both seemed to relax, and Talmadge Manley gave a ghost of a smile.

  MayBell peered from under her mousy brown hair. “What are they doing?”

  “Making an agreement,” Reverend Manley said. He gave a self-effacing grin. “I speak a bit of the language. A hobby of mine. They are blood brothers now. We will pass through this land, protected, because of Marshal McCall’s bravery.”

  Tildy Rienholdt snorted. Now that the immediate danger was over, she was back to her former disagreeable attitude, Callie thought. Tildy had been so consumed with fear earlier that Callie had found herself almost feeling sorry for the woman.

  The preacher’s cool midnight stare came to rest on the heavy woman, and Callie saw, for an instant, an ill-concealed flicker of disgust in his eyes. When he spoke, she understood fully what she’d seen written in his look.

  “Miss Rienholdt,” he murmured softly. “It might be of interest to you to know that Mr. McCall took special care in your protection. He has claimed you for his aunt, the sister of his mother. A very important place in the world of the Apache.”

  Tildy had the good grace to begin to stammer an apology, the blood rushing to her face.

  Talmadge Manley ignored her and turned away. His gaze traveled and fell kindly on MayBell. “He told them you are his cousin, my dear. Cara and I are his esteemed grandparents.” He patted Cara’s hand fondly, then looked steadily at Callie. “And I suppose congratulations are in order for you, Mrs. McCall.”

  Callie raised shocked eyes to his, and he gave her a slow smile. “It seems you’re expecting a bundle of joy, due to arrive mid-summer.”

  Chapter 11

  Callie forced herself to uncurl her fingers from around the derringer, fisting her hands even deeper into the pockets of the warm lea
ther. Her knuckle touched something that, at first felt like a seam of the leather, but as she ran her fingertip over it, she felt it move. A chain. A necklace. She folded it into her palm and put it in the pocket of her dress, followed by the small gun. She couldn’t help wondering why Jax would have a woman’s necklace in his coat pocket. A stab of jealousy coursed through her. She would examine the necklace later, when there was time. She couldn’t think of what that necklace might mean right now, and Jax would be needing his coat again soon.

  MayBell lowered her head, only daring to look up with quick glances every few minutes. Her hands were trembling, Callie saw, and Sam Briscoe reached over and took them in his big paws. “It’s almost over, Ma’am,” he told her softly.

  “Can we go now?” she whispered.

  Sam smiled. “Not yet. Not til the marshal settles it all with these red devils.” He squeezed her hands gently. “He’ll do it soon enough, looks like.”

  As they watched, the Apache that Jax had fought held up his hands for quiet. He spoke in a loud voice, looking at Jax from time to time. When he was done, Jax began to speak, then bent and cut the thong that bound them together at the ankle.

  The reverend let go a deep sigh of relief.

  “What’re they sayin’, preacher?” Trey whispered.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Reverend Manley assured the rest of them. “We’re going to be spared by the grace of God—and Marshal McCall’s abilities.”

  One of the warriors brought Jax’s gunbelt and shirt to him. He shrugged into the shirt quickly, but not before Callie had seen the blood trailing red down his side. She started forward instinctively, but the preacher put a staying hand on her arm.

  “You mustn’t do that, Miss Callie,” he cautioned quickly.

  “But, he’s hurt—”

  Manley nodded. “I saw it, too. But he’ll be all right until we get to the next stage station, or even a few miles down the road. There must be no sign of weakness, now.”

  Callie looked back to where Jax stood talking with the Apache, surrounded by several of the other warriors.

  “A gift would be a good idea,” Manley murmured.

  “They can take anything they want. They have us dead to rights, Reverend,” Sam said in a low voice.

  Manley did not look at him. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

  Callie’s fingers curled around the necklace. Would it be an appropriate gift?

  Just then, Jax and the Indian broke through the circle and walked over to where the others sat on the ground.

  Jax reached down and helped Callie to her feet. The Apache watched her with an appreciative stare as Jax spoke to him in Apache. He grunted, and made a dismissive gesture. “Let us speak in the tongue common to the whites.”

  If Jax was surprised at the Indian’s ability to speak English, he didn’t show it. He nodded. “Let it be so, my brother.”

  “I am Blue Feather,” the stocky Indian announced proudly.

  Callie saw that by the other white men’s reactions, they had heard of Blue Feather. And judging by their looks, what they had heard had not been good.

  She delved into her dress pocket, her fingers brushing the necklace. It was a locket, in the shape of a heart. Painfully familiar. It couldn’t be. That locket had been buried with her mother! She thumbed it open, and looked down slowly, as Blue Feather and Jax spoke together in low tones once again. A gift would be good.

  The face looking up at her was her own, the locket she’d never expected to see again clutched in her tight grip. The last time she’d seen it was two years ago—in the casket on the pillow beside her dear mother’s face. How did Jax happen to have it? How?

  “Do you belong to this man?” Blue Feather was asking her. Callie looked up, dropping the locket back into the pocket. She glanced at Jax, who watched her warily, as if he wasn’t sure she’d answer correctly.

  Callie took a deep breath and met Blue Feather’s eyes, not daring to look at Jax.

  “I bear his child. A child made of our love. Can there be a doubt that—that I am his—” she started to say ‘wife’ but thought of Jax’s words to her that day in Fort Smith, a lifetime ago, it seemed now.

  They’ll remember the half-breed’s woman.

  She lifted her chin a notch. “I am his woman.”

  Blue Feather’s black eyes searched Callie’s, for any sign of untruth. She did not look away, but met his stare boldly with an air of defiance that he seemed to appreciate. After a moment, he laughed softly and stepped forward, reaching for her hair. She flinched, but held his gaze with her own. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jax inch closer.

  “You are—different,” Blue Feather said after a long moment. He lifted the strand of copper hair between his fingers. “It is like living sunlight. Like golden flame.”

  “Jaxson, may I borrow your knife?” Callie’s voice was surprisingly steady, though her knees were ready to buckle.

  Blue Feather’s eyes snapped to Callie’s unwavering look. She held out her hand and Jax laid the knife handle in her palm, his face impassive. Raising the blade, she cut a wide, long lock of her hair. She handed it to Blue Feather, then returned Jax’s knife to him. By now, several of the other warriors had gathered round, all watching enviously as Blue Feather solemnly tucked the hair into his medicine pouch.

  Callie took her hand from the pocket of Jaxson’s coat, letting the locket swing before Blue Feather’s eyes. He reached for it. She took his rough brown hand in hers. She hesitated only a moment, then laid the locket into his open palm and closed his fingers around it.

  It was insurance, Callie told herself, feeling the keen loss of her mother all over again as she parted with the locket a second time.

  Blue Feather slowly opened the silver heart, looking at the picture inside.

  “It is good,” he said judiciously, returning his obsidian gaze to Callie. He snapped the locket shut and put it in the medicine bag along with the strand of hair. Then, he turned to the rest of the Apaches. “Let no one harm these white men and their women. The men are strong fighters.” He looked from Jax back to Callie. “The women are…generous. They are protected by Blue Feather. It is said, now let it be done.”

  He turned to Jax. “You are free to go, my brother. You fought well.”

  Jax gave him a wry smile and looked down at where the blood still freshly stained his own shirt. “We both fought well, Blue Feather.”

  Chapter 12

  “Let’s get the hell out of here, Trey,” Jax muttered quietly. “Some of Blue Feather’s men don’t look too agreeable to us leaving. We need to get out while we can.”

  “You got it, boss.” Newell closed the stage door behind the reverend, and for a man of his considerable size, nimbly climbed up to the driver’s seat.

  Callie had wanted to speak to Jax alone, but there was no time. She’d read the wariness in Trey’s eyes as he’d handed her up into the stage.

  Despite the chill of the day, MayBell had asked to ride up top for a while, citing an upset stomach. Sam had quickly made room for her between himself and Trey.

  As the stage lurched into motion, Callie felt the valise bump her feet from behind. She’d forgotten all about it during the ordeal. What good would the money, or even the jewels, do her if Jax had lost the battle? Or if he hadn’t spoken the language, known their customs—

  He had saved all of them; had kept them safe. Just the way she felt at night—safe. Protected. And warm in his bed—just as Tildy Rienholdt had predicted. She smiled and settled into the comfort of his coat. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright.

  “His coat! He forgot—”

  Cara Manley patted her arm soothingly. “He’ll be all right, dear. The stage station is only ten miles from here. You can give it to him there—if he’ll take it.” The older woman gave Callie a searching look. “Did it ever occur to you that he meant for you to keep it?” She lowered her voice. “In your condition—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Manley, that was just something he told Blue Feather to
protect me! I’m not really—”

  But Mrs. Manley smiled and shook her head. “Are you sure?”

  No. She hadn’t even thought of such a thing…hoped for such a thing. But evidently, Jax had. The lie he had concocted for her protection had seemed natural enough, and perhaps had, in some small way, protected him as well, as the “baby’s” father.

  Callie slumped back in her seat. Her thoughts and emotions careened and tumbled over one another. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to make sense of it all. The locket. The Apaches. Jax protecting them all; protecting her with a lie that might not be a lie—

  “We’re here, my dear,” Cara’s gentle voice sounded, calling Callie out of her thoughts. She looked up at the other woman, and gave her a wan smile. Cara leaned near her, whispering, “From the looks of you, it just might be true! I’m going to speak to the driver about staying here for the night.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Manley—”

  But Cara had already turned to climb out of the stage.

  Following the older woman, Callie reached for her valise as Jax stood waiting for her by the bottom step. She put her hand out and he took it, helping her to the ground. He pulled her to him, and her arm went around his waist, careful of his side. The bleeding had stopped, Callie noted. She looked up at him, and he chuckled.

  “Worried?”

  Callie bit her lip before she answered. She was sick with it. But instead of telling him so, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

  They walked toward the station door, following the others inside.

  “No, not so much now.” He winked at her. “Dolly’ll fix me up. Seein’ me bleed’ll send her into a fit.”

  No sooner had they entered, than he was proven right. “Dolly”, Callie soon learned, was Dolly Ames, a small woman who ran the station. She stood beside the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips, her lively eyes an unusual shade of blue, almost the color of turquoise. She clucked over the rest of the passengers until she spotted Jax, dusty and bloody from his fight with Blue Feather. Immediately, her hands spread in dismay. “Jaxson McCall, what happened to you?” The wiry older woman came to him, her lips thinning at the sight of fresh blood. “Take your shirt off, boy, and let me see how bad you’re hurt.”