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  Mike let out a sigh of exasperation. Sooner or later, he was determined to catch Shad Zuniga breaking the law and then he was going to put the man behind bars where he belonged.

  Loralee looked thoughtful. Zuniga did not sound like the sort of character she would want to associate with, but she was at her wit's end, and if Shad Zuniga could help get the children to school, she was desperate enough to let him try.

  "Perhaps I could persuade this boy, Zuniga, to come to school," Loralee mused aloud. "Perhaps if he would come, the other children would come, too."

  Mike laughed, genuinely amused at the idea of Shad Zuniga attending the white man's school, and then he grew sober. "Don't you go near Zuniga," he warned. "Shad Zuniga is not a kid. He's a man full grown and not one to mess with. Rumor has it he killed his own father in cold blood."

  "No!"

  "Yes. You stay away from him, Loralee." Mike shook his head, not wanting to think about Loralee even getting near Shad Zuniga. The man was no damn good.

  Mike gestured at a row of small square houses located on the outskirts of the reservation. "We are making some progress," he remarked as they rode by. "A few of the single women are willing to give our way of life a try. They seem to like living under a roof, and cooking on a stove instead of over an open fire. Some even sleep in a bed. It's the men who cause the most problems. They refuse to try farming, refuse to try raising cattle. They'd rather sit around and drink and talk about the good old days."

  Loralee nodded. She had seen the Apache men huddled around their lodges, their faces sullen and unfriendly. The old men wore only clouts and moccasins. They spent hours talking about the old days, the old ways. They refought old battles and talked about friends who had died long ago, victims of the white man's treachery. The old ones would never change, Loralee mused sadly. They would never forget the old hates, the old hurts.

  "I guess everything takes time," Loralee remarked. "And that's one thing I've plenty of."

  Mike grinned. He liked Loralee Warfield. She was bright and pretty, not easily discouraged. It took courage to take on a new job in a strange part of the country. Not many women liked living out West. There weren't many comforts on the reservation. The house she lived in was small and crudely furnished with just the bare essentials. She had only lived there for a few weeks, but already the place had changed, and he marveled at what a resourceful woman could accomplish with a few yards of cloth and a few strokes of paint. The place was still small and crudely furnished, but it had a homey quality about it now, a feeling of warmth and caring. He hoped Loralee would not give up her dream of teaching the children too quickly, for he dearly wanted to get to know her better. He planned to make the Army his career, and he thought Loralee Warfield would make a prime Army wife.

  "I'm glad you decided to come West," Mike said. "Life on the post was pretty dull until you showed up."

  "Why, thank you, Mike," Loralee replied, pleased by the compliment. "Tell me, what's it like, being in the Army?"

  "Pretty grim, sometimes. You know, reveille at five-thirty every morning. First drill at six-fifteen; fatigue duty at seven-thirty. Fatigue duty's the worst, especially for the enlisted men. They get stuck building roads, repairing telegraph lines, cutting firewood, hauling water, all the dirty jobs. Sometimes it's drill, drill, drill, until I think I can't stand it for another day."

  "Why do you stay if it's so bad?"

  "I don't know. I just decided to make a career of it. I'm not fit for much else."

  "Oh, Mike, I don't believe that. I'm sure you'd be a success at anything you put your mind to."

  Mike shrugged, but he was pleased by Loralee's confidence in him. "Maybe. But I really like the Army."

  "I hear the food is awful. Is it as bad as they say?"

  "Well, you know the old saying: Army cooks have killed more soldiers than Indians."

  Loralee laughed merrily. "You make Army life sound just wonderful," she remarked dryly.

  "It's not so bad, not when you're an officer."

  "Is that your goal, to be a general some day?"

  "Me, a general?" Mike chuckled, amused. "I don't think so, but I would like to make lieutenant, maybe even captain, before I retire."

  "You'll make it. I know you will."

  "I've got a pretty good chance of making lieutenant. Hoskins is being transferred back East in a month or two, and I'm next in line for a promotion."

  "That's wonderful, Mike."

  They rode in silence for a while, and Loralee thought about Army men. They were a special breed, willing to live where they were sent, putting up with orders and drills day after day, ready to fight at a moment's notice. Back in 1871, an enlisted man drew a mere thirteen dollars a month and lived on beans, hardtack, bread, coffee, and meat when he could get it. They had been a hardy bunch of men, Loralee mused, and surely their wives and sweethearts must have been just as tough, just as resilient. She tried to imagine herself back in those days, married to Mike, waving goodbye as he rode out on patrol while the band played "The Girl I Left Behind Me," never knowing if she would ever see him again. Of course, life out West was different now. The men didn't ride out to fight the Apaches or the Comanches any more, and living conditions were greatly improved, but it was still a dangerous way of life, fraught with peril. There were still outlaws and rattlesnakes. A man could be killed falling from his horse, or by a crazed Indian who'd had too much firewater and wanted to take a scalp. Such incidents were rare, but they happened.

  Mike was humming under his breath, and Loralee grinned at him. "I know that song," she said. "I read it in a book."

  "You're kidding," Mike replied. "Let me hear you sing it."

  "No, I can't," Loralee said.

  "Come on, I'll sing it with you."

  "Well . . . all right."

  And together they began to sing:

  "I'd love to be a packer,

  And pack with George F. Crook,

  And dressed up in my canvas suit,

  To be for him mistook.

  I'd braid my beard in two forked tails,

  And idle all the day

  In whittling sticks and wondering

  What the New York papers say."

  They were laughing when they finished, and Mike thought what a rare girl Loralee was. Imagine her knowing that old Army ballad!

  "You've been awfully good to me," Loralee said when they returned to the schoolhouse. "Thanks for the ride. It was just what I needed to cheer me up."

  "Any time," Mike said. Dismounting, he placed his hands around Loralee's trim waist and helped her to the ground. "See you tomorrow?"

  "I'll be here," Loralee answered cheerfully.

  "I hope you'll always be here," Mike said, his bantering tone at odds with the serious expression in his dark blue eyes.

  "Mike? Could I keep the horse for a few days?"

  "It's yours," Mike answered, grinning at her.

  "Really?" Loralee looked at the horse, her horse, and smiled as she stroked the mare's neck. It was a beautiful animal, with a sleek black coat and expressive brown eyes. "You mean it?" Loralee asked, unable to believe her ears. "She's truly mine?"

  "Truly," Mike said, pleased because Loralee was pleased. "It's a long ride to the fort, and I don't want you to be too tired to spend time with me."

  "Thanks, Mike," Loralee said sincerely. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "You can count on it."

  As soon as Mike was out of sight, Loralee climbed back into the saddle and set out for the hills, determined to find Shad Zuniga and convince him to help her. He must be made to understand that the Apaches had to go forward or perish. Civilization was coming, bringing electricity and telephones, phonographs and indoor plumbing. Granted, it would be a long time before any of those things arrived on the reservation, but the Indians needed to be aware of the great strides being made in science and industry and medicine. They needed to be prepared to meet the future, prepared for the many changes that were coming their way.

  Some
of Loralee's enthusiasm waned as her horse picked its way up the brush-covered slope. Trees and shrubs grew close together, making the going difficult. Thorny cactus and low hanging branches snagged her clothing, scratching her arms and face, but she went doggedly onward until she saw it: a single brush-covered wickiup set in a small clearing at the top of a flat-topped rise. A thin spiral of blue-gray smoke rose from the blackened smokehole at the top of the lodge. A rough peeled-pole corral held a big dun stallion and a small bay gelding. A fresh deer hide was stretched on a rack beside the wickiup, an ancient buffalo skull, bleached white by the sun, sat on a log near the rear of the lodge.

  For a moment, Loralee remained on her horse, letting her eyes wander over her surroundings. It was a lovely setting. Tall trees grew a short distance from the wickiup, flowering shrubs grew in scattered clumps. The air was dry and clear, the sky a peaceful blue.

  A scrawny yellow hound dog growled at her as she dismounted near the corral. Loralee hesitated, wondering if the dog would attack her, but apparently the growl was just for show. Lowering its head, the hound closed its eyes and went back to sleep.

  With renewed resolve, Loralee tethered her horse to one of the fence posts and made her way toward the wickiup, her eyes darting warily from side to side. She was a foreigner here, she mused, an outsider. Some primal instinct warned her that she was treading where few white people had gone before, and she was suddenly afraid.

  Her steps slowed as doubts began to crowd her mind. What was she doing up here, alone and uninvited? What made her think she could persuade this man, this stranger, to encourage the Indian children to attend school? Mike had warned her that Shad Zuniga was not a man to cross, that he had killed his own father in cold blood. What made her think such a man would even listen to what she had to say? Perhaps he would shoot her on sight for trespassing!

  Loralee came to an abrupt halt some ten feet from the wickiup, about to abandon the whole plan. She would just have to find some other means of persuading the Apache children to come to school. She had always prided herself on her inventiveness. Surely she could think of something less dangerous than coming here to speak to a man she had never met.

  Quite unexpectedly, her mind filled with pictures of howling Indians, their faces painted for war, their lances decorated with bloody scalps. At the same time, she imagined what Shad Zuniga would look like: short, with greasy black hair, a barrel chest, and ominous eyes. Mike had said Zuniga stayed to himself and did not welcome intruders. Suddenly certain he would not be pleased to see her, Loralee decided to forget the whole thing. She was about to return to her horse when a man stepped out of the wickiup.

  He was tall for an Apache, standing several inches over six feet. His hair was as black as pitch; parted in the middle, it fell past his shoulders. His eyes were like shards of black glass, piercing and sharp. His skin was reddish-brown, like the earth at his feet. He wore a pair of stained buckskin trousers and a sleeveless buckskin vest. Knee-high moccasins, folded over at the top, hugged his calves and feet. There was a knife sheathed on his belt, and her eyes lingered on it a moment before returning to his face. His mouth was wide, turned down in a frown as he stared at her. His nose was slightly crooked, and she wondered if it had been broken, and how. He appeared to be in his early thirties. He was, she decided, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  She flushed under his probing gaze. His eyes, so dark and intense, seemed to see right through her.

  ''What do you want?" His voice was deep, rich, and unfriendly.

  Loralee coughed nervously. Why hadn't she listened to Mike? Why hadn't she stayed home where she belonged?

  "Are you Shad Zuniga?"

  "Maybe." He stood with his long legs spread apart, his thumbs hooked over the waistband of his trousers, his head cocked to one side.

  "Maybe?"

  "What do you want him for?"

  "I. . . ." Loralee straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She had come here for a purpose, and she wasn't going to let this man scare her off now. "I'm the school mistress. From the reservation."

  "I know."

  With a start, Loralee realized he was the Indian who had been watching her for the past several weeks. The thought brought a rosy flush to her cheeks.

  "Well?" he asked gruffly.

  "I'm . . . that is, the children won't come to school, and I was wondering if" Her voice trailed off. She could not speak, could not think clearly, not with those dark eyes staring into her own. His eyelashes were thick and sooty, ridiculously long. A thin white scar zigzagged down the left side of his nose, a tiny flaw in a face that was close to perfection.

  "You were wondering what?" he asked impatiently.

  Loralee swallowed hard. This man was a warrior. Only a few years ago, he had been making war against her people, raiding and killing and God knew what else. She glanced at the knife on his belt again and imagined it in his hand, dripping blood. He was watching her intently, waiting for her to speak, and she took a deep breath. Might as well say what she had come to say and get it over with.

  "I was wondering if you could persuade the children to come to school." She spoke the words in a rush, felt her cheeks grow hot as he threw back his head and began to laugh. It was a deep throaty laugh, filled with genuine amusement.

  Loralee bit her lower lip. Why had she come here? What had made her think this . . . this savage would help her?"

  I'm sorry I bothered you," she said stiffly. Pivoting on her heel, she started toward her horse. Discouragement sat heavy on her shoulder. He had been her last hope.

  "Wait." His voice reached out to stop her.

  Slowly, Loralee turned around to face him. He was not laughing now.

  "What makes you think the children will listen to me?"

  "I was told they admire and respect you."

  One black eyebrow arched in sardonic amusement. "Who told you that?"

  "A friend."

  Zuniga grunted. The children did admire him. He had not been conquered. He had not been captured. He had not been defeated in battle. He had come to the reservation voluntarily. After months of hiding out in the hills, he had surrendered his freedom because his grandfather was ill and needed him. And that was the only reason he stayed here, in a place he despised.

  "The Apache do not need the white man or his teachings," he said at length.

  "I think they do," Loralee retorted boldly.

  "Why do you want to teach us?"

  "I want to help your people."

  "Why?"

  "I admire and respect them."

  "What do you know about my people?" Zuniga asked with a sneer. "What do you know of our ways, our beliefs?"

  "Quite a bit, actually. I've read and studied and"

  "You cannot learn about people from books."

  "Is that so?" Loralee snapped, irritated by his rudeness. "And just how many books have you read?"

  "None."

  "Can you read?"

  "No."

  Loralee took a deep breath. She could not afford to offend Shad Zuniga. He was a proud man, a warrior. One wrong word could ruin everything. "Would you like to learn?"

  Shad Zuniga frowned. He did not have any interest in learning the teachings of the white man, but he was interested in learning more about the schoolteacher. She had the courage of a she-wolf, to come to see him alone, and he admired her for that, and for the way she stood up to him. She was looking at him expectantly, her luminous brown eyes hopeful as she waited for his answer, her rosy lips slightly parted. He wondered what she would do if he swept her into his arms and plundered her mouth with his own.

  "I would be glad to teach you to read and write," Loralee offered. She licked her lips nervously, wondering if he could hear the rapid beating of her heart as she waited for his answer.

  "I am a warrior," Zuniga replied proudly. "I cannot go to your school with children."

  "Of course not," Loralee agreed quickly. She swallowed hard, overwhelmed by what she was about to suggest.
"I . . . I could teach you at night. I'm sure the children would agree to attend class if they knew you were also learning to read and write."

  "We would be alone, just the two of us?" Zuniga queried. "No one else would be there?"

  Loralee pondered that for a moment. No decent woman ever met a man alone at night. It was scandalous to even consider such an arrangement, but then, she wasn't "meeting" him at all. She was going to teach him to read and write.

  "Just the two of us," she agreed.

  Zuniga nodded. Perhaps it would be wise to learn the teachings of the white man. It was always a good idea to learn as much about your enemy as possible. A wise man learned his opponent's strengths and weaknesses . . . he was lying to himself and he knew it. The only reason he was even considering going to school was to learn more about Loralee Warfield. Her strengths. Her weaknesses . . .

  "I will come to the school tomorrow night," Zuniga decided. "After the evening meal."

  It was done. There could be no turning back now.

  "I'll be there," Loralee said. "Thank you."

  Had she been alone, she would have shouted with triumph. He was coming to school! He would learn, and the children would learn. She longed to jump up and down and kick up her heels. Instead, she offered him her hand, unprepared for the sudden rush of heat that suffused her whole body as his strong brown hand closed over hers. He held her hand for just a moment longer than was necessary, his fathomless black eyes intent upon her face, his steady gaze making her insides melt like butter over an open flame. A queer little tremor started deep in the pit of her stomach and radiated outward like the ripples on a pond.

  Frightened by the unexpected sensations he had aroused within her by a single touch of his hand, she jerked her hand free of his and ran toward her horse, very much aware that he was watching her every move.

  Mounted, she felt safer and she slid a glance in his direction. He was standing where she had left him, his dark eyes alight with amusement.