McCoy struggled to compose his features. Carter was making a total ass of himself, but that was nothing new. He told the officer what Kuchana had said.
“She wants to be a scout?” Carter uttered in amazement, studying the Apache.
Gib kept his eyes on Kuchana. She was weak from hunger, if he was any judge of the situation. “She’s a warrior, Lieutenant.” But still a woman. An incredibly beautiful one with haunting brown eyes, which were warm and inviting.
“I didn’t know the Apaches had women who were warriors,” said Carter.
“There’re a few.” McCoy switched back to her language. “Kuchana, how many other women warriors ride with Geronimo?” Her name flowed from his lips like sweet honey. There was nothing masculine about her, not even her name. Again, he saw the wariness melt from her gaze as he held it. Something was happening between them.
“Three others.”
“Why did you leave?”
Lowering her lashes, Kuchana whispered, “I left because I want to save what is left of our people.” Despite the danger surrounding her, she couldn’t help the response McCoy pulled from her each time he held her gaze. Each look was charged with a heat and excitement she had never experienced before.
“I see—”
“No,” she said swiftly, her voice cracking with emotion, “you do not see. I once had ten members in my family. Now, only my sister is left. I watched her daughter die of starvation four days ago. Then I came here to help the army find Geronimo and take him back to San Carlos Reservation.” Tears marred her vision as she saw the soldier’s face melt with tenderness. He understood. “I—I must work for you. I must save what is left of my people. Please…help me…”
McCoy approached her horse, placing his hand on its mane. “Easy now. I’ll do what I can. The army isn’t used to having women as scouts. All we have are men.”
“You must take me,” she cried in desperation. “I am Geronimo’s best tracker. You must believe me. I will find them for you. I must save my sister.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he repeated, reaching out to touch her hand where it clenched the mustang’s mane.
Kuchana felt his hand momentarily on hers. His flesh was roughened and weather-worn. Drowning in the look she saw in his blue eyes, she nodded her head. “I will trust you.” It was more than that, but so much was happening, she didn’t have time to dwell on her awakening feelings.
“Good. Now, come on, get off the horse.” Gib forced a slight smile and stood back, watching her slip off the mustang. There was an effortless grace to her that underscored her femininity. Kuchana was weak, but she forced herself to stand straight and tall. There was pride in her carriage and in the golden blaze of her eyes as she fearlessly surveyed the group who stood openmouthed before her.
Gib gestured toward the tall, two-story adobe building that housed headquarters. “This way.”
Kuchana hesitated, placing a hand on her weary mare. “My horse…”
“Private Ladler,” Gib ordered, “take her horse over to the stable. Get one of the men to curry it down and give it a little hay and a bit of water, nothing more. Understand?”
Ladler picked up the jaw cord. “Yes, suh, sergeant.”
Kuchana looked closely at the dark-skinned soldier, then turned to McCoy. “This man’s skin is the color of the night. I have never seen such as him before.”
Nodding, Gib offered, “His people come from across a great sea.” He pointed toward the east.
Ladler hesitated, realizing Gib was speaking about him. His mouth split into a smile. “She’s wondering about my color, suh?”
McCoy smiled over at Ladler. “I told her you came from across the ocean.”
“That’s right, suh. My grandparents came from Africa.” He shouldered his rifle and tipped his hat respectfully toward Kuchana.
Unsure of what was being said, Kuchana made a slight bow toward Ladler. He appeared friendly enough, and that was all she cared about.
“You’re letting her come into the post?” Melissa demanded, stamping her foot haughtily. How dared they treat her like a white woman. After all, she was an Apache, and therefore, their enemy.
McCoy shot Melissa a hooded look. “She’s surrendering to us, Mrs. Polk. What would you have us do? Shoot her on the spot?”
Heat nettled Melissa’s cheeks. In that moment, she hated McCoy. He was laughing at her again. “Well, she’s wearing men’s pants, of all things.” She turned to the lieutenant, who had more authority than McCoy. “Surely, Dodd, you aren’t going to let this filthy woman on the post?”
Kuchana stood apart from the group, carefully listening to the conversation. She noticed McCoy watching her from beneath the brim of his hat. Looking down at herself, she realized her clothes were dusty from the four-day ride. But every morning she had brushed her hair and kept it neatly tied with the scarf around her head. Nightly, she had cut open cactus and used the juice to wash her face, neck, arms and hands, so that she was free of dirt and odor.
Gib watched the play of emotions cross Kuchana’s features. She had more dignity than all of them put together, standing there with her feet slightly apart for balance, shoulders back and chin lifted. Her lips were badly chapped and split. She weaved, but caught herself. Anger stirred in him as Dodd continued speaking at length with Melissa.
“Lieutenant, while you discuss army regulations with the ladies, I’ll get this woman some water.”
Gib reached out, wrapping his fingers around Kuchana’s arm and gently pulling her forward. “Come on,” he coaxed, “you look thirsty.” Her flesh was firm beneath the shirt, but still soft and inviting.
Kuchana stared up at him. She saw the hard line of his mouth soften, and she surrendered to the tumult of feelings he had loosened by simply touching her. Grateful, she went with him. The pindah women gawked at her, disbelief and disgust clearly written in their eyes.
When he had escorted her through the gate, McCoy’s hand dropped from her arm. A part of her lamented the loss of contact. Wearily, she looked around. The post was huge, with rows of two-story barracks and nearly two hundred sun-bleached canvas tents. Kuchana was astounded by the number of blue-coated soldiers, as McCoy led her to a watering trough in front of headquarters.
Gib reached for a tin cup that was always kept on the trough. He filled it with water, then handed it to Kuchana. Her hands shook as she took the cup. Frowning, he studied her as she drank. Thin trickles of water escaped from the corners of her mouth, winding their way down her long, slender neck and soaking into the fabric of her shirt. An ache seized him, and he wondered how she would respond if he stroked her lovely neck, trailing his fingers down its length and tracing her collarbones hidden beneath the shirt she wore. The thought was jolting, completely unexpected. Gib placed a tight clamp on his fevered imaginings. What the hell was happening to him?
“Take it easy,” he cautioned. “A little goes a long way.” When he saw her frown, he added, “You’ll throw it up if you drink too much too fast.”
“I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.” For the first time, Kuchana had a chance to study the soldier. His raven hair was short and neatly cut. The dark blue hat he wore emphasized the intensity of his azure eyes. They were wide, intelligent eyes filled with wisdom. That was good. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and a thin, almost invisible white scar cut across one of his high-boned cheeks. His mouth was strong. When McCoy glanced up at her, one corner of his mouth curved upward, easing the rugged planes of his face.
“Call me Gib.” He took the cup from her fingers, placing it back on the trough.
“You speak our language.”
“I’ve