in the aftermath of violence.
“May you die a slow death for betraying the Apache,” he jeered as he watched the bloody stains spread across John’s shirt. “It seems your white heritage has failed you, John Wolfe, for no white man can outsmart a true Apache.”
Raven walked his pinto over the top of his onetime blood brother. “My father has only one son now,” he sneered down at him. “May you burn in your white man’s hell for your treachery!”
The clatter of hooves hammered in John’s ears as the world tilted sideways, then darkened like the coming of night. John closed his eyes and fought against the wave of nausea that crested over him.
Maybe this was a good day for him to die, he thought. And what better place to find his way to the hereafter than on this sacred ground that had once been part of the Apacheria. The People called this panoramic valley the Canyon of the Sun. Reverent chants were sung to the great spirits who communicated with them on this hallowed ground. In days gone by, sacrifices were laid at the base of the triple stone spires called the Altar of the Gods. The towering pillars of sandstone that rose like gigantic sentinels from the canyon floor were the Earth Mother’s eternal monuments to the omnipotent Apache gods.
With great effort, John opened his eyes once more to stare at the conical stone peaks that rose majestically toward the sun. This valley, three-quarters of a mile wide and more than a mile long, was the most spectacular and awe-inspiring place he’d ever seen in all his treks across the territory. If he had to breathe his last breath here, he figured he could do a lot worse.
Vaguely, John sensed a presence in the near distance and wondered which spirits—white man’s or Apache’s—had been sent to witness his death.
He didn’t know which deity would preside over his personal judgment day. Didn’t really matter, he reckoned. Evil spirits would attend him, because of his betrayal to the tribe that had raised and trained him. Indian or white, evil spirits were probably pretty much the same, he figured. He existed in a realm a few miles this side of hell. He supposed he was destined to spend eternity doing penance for being a white man by birth and an Apache at heart.
John closed his eyes for what he expected to be the final time. To his dying day—and he was positively certain this was it—he wasn’t sure if he was considered white or Apache. He didn’t know which god to pray to, so he didn’t pray at all. He just lay there, struggling to breathe, and wondering how many breaths he had left.
Since John had heard every excuse under the sun, heard the wild claims of innocence from the worst sinners the world had to offer, he decided he’d just keep his mouth shut and not ask for forgiveness or mercy. He was simply going to lie here and die with what little dignity he had left.
Tara Flannigan scrambled down the rock-strewn slopes of the canyon with more speed than caution. Twice she tripped, skidded and skinned both knees. She ignored the discomfort and scurried toward the man who lay sprawled beside the stream, wondering if she’d arrived too late to revive him.
Tara had been drawn to this remote area of the valley by unidentified voices, and she’d hunkered down by a cedar tree to prevent being spotted. Although the white man and Indian had been speaking a foreign tongue, she’d witnessed the tragic results of their confrontation. One man lay dead—or dying—and the other man had picked his way up the narrow trail and thundered off into the gathering darkness.
Grimacing from the pain in her knees, Tara squatted down beside the wounded man. She pressed her hand against his throat and felt a weak pulse. Alive, but not for long, she predicted. Her mediocre lifesaving skills were about to be tested to their very limits.
Hurriedly, she ripped open the man’s shirt, then blinked in surprise when she saw the strange bone-and-metal breastplate that covered his chest. She’d never seen such unusual body armor. It was an odd combination that resembled an Indian war shield and medieval chain mail.
On closer inspection, Tara realized the bullet had ricocheted off a fragment of metal, shattered the bleached bone ornament and become embedded in the man’s rib. Quickly, she ripped off the hem of his dark shirt and pressed it against the seeping wound.
Her gaze dropped to the pulsing wound on his thigh, and she tore the hem from her own tattered shirt to control the bleeding. When she tied the fabric tightly around his leg, the man’s eyes fluttered open momentarily.
Tara’s breath clogged in her throat when eyes so blue that they appeared silver stared up at her. In addition to those spellbinding eyes, with their fan of lashes, the man had a crop of raven hair, a swarthy physique and an incredibly handsome face.
This was, unquestionably, the most attractive man she’d ever encountered. His effect on her was startling. When their gazes met, time screeched to a halt and she got lost in the intensity of his unusual blue eyes.
She was still staring at him in trancelike fascination when he whispered, “An angel. Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I only wish I were a miracle-working angel, mister,” she murmured.
When he slipped back into unconsciousness, Tara gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on the grim task at hand. “Angel indeed,” she muttered. “From the look of your wounds, you could use an angel right now.”
Tara glanced this way and that, trying to figure out how to transport this injured man to the farmhouse, when he likely outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. She guessed him to be about six feet three inches—maybe four—of solid muscle. There was no conceivable way for her to drag or lift him. Though she hated to leave him, Tara had no choice but to return to the ranch for help.
She took off like a shot to retrieve the horse she’d tethered in the distance. She rode hell-for-leather through the valley, knowing every second counted. She prayed for all she was worth that the wounded man with hypnotic silver-blue eyes would still be alive and breathing when she returned.
John lifted heavy-lidded eyes to see that lovely face, surrounded by a mass of curly, reddish blond-hair, hovering over him a second time. Now, as before, the light shimmered around her golden head like a glorious halo. When she shifted, the angle of light intensified the color of her hair. It seemed as if the curlicue strands caught fire and burned with amber flames.
Long ago, in a nearly forgotten lifetime, John remembered his white mother telling him that angels were the essence of all that was pure and sweet in heaven. Who would’ve thought heaven was where he’d end up when he had so much blood on his hands and a trainload of guilt weighing down his conscience? With his white man’s soul and his Apache heart, he’d sort of figured he’d be trapped in some eternal way station—or delivered straight to hell because he’d turned out to be a traitor to both civilizations.
While John was contemplating the hereafter, five more heads appeared above him. He studied the three male and two female faces—varying in age, but all younger than his angel of mercy.
“He’s awake.” This from the smallest female cherub with dark, hollow eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair.
“Reckon we must’ve saved him, after all.”
John shifted his attention to the adolescent male face to his right, then frowned dubiously when he realized what the kid had said. He was alive? He thought about that for a moment, then decided the aches and pains that were becoming more intense with each passing moment probably indicated that he did indeed live and breathe—but just barely.
His chest hurt like a son of a bitch. His leg throbbed like hell. Breathing was definitely an effort because pain was shooting through his ribs like an assault of poison darts.
“Medicine pouch,” he wheezed, amazed that it took so much effort to speak.
A befuddled frown settled on his angel of mercy’s enchanting features. “Medicine pouch?” she repeated in such a soft, wispy voice that John sighed at the soothing sound.
“On my belt,” he managed to croak, in a voice that reminded him of a bullfrog.
The six faces hovering over him disappeared