Apache-Colton Series Read online

  The Apache-Colton Series

  Janis Reams Hudson

  Apache Magic

  Apache Promise

  Apache Temptation

  Apache Legacy

  Apache Heartsong

  Apache Flame

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © Janis Reams Hudson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  Diversion Books Omnibus Edition October 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-515-5

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1991 by Janis Reams Hudson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition October 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-456-1

  This book is dedicated to:

  Louise Babcock, who first encouraged me to read a romance novel. Actually, she got tired of listening to me complain about the office computer being down, slapped a copy of Johanna Lindsey’s A Pirate’s Love in my lap and said, “Shut up and read.” It was my first romance novel, my first historical, and I’ve been hooked ever since. Hooked to the point of writing my own stories. Thanks, Lu. (We miss you!) This one’s for you.

  and

  The Adamses, the Reamses, and the Hudsons, for all your encouragement and…well, for everything. Most especially to Ron, my own personal hero, for the freedom you gave me, your patience, your encouragement, and your unfailing support. (Thanks, too, for Chapter One!) I love you.

  Land of Magic

  Unnamed,

  Untamed.

  Treasure lies

  beneath the ground.

  Death

  and danger all around.

  Cool mountain streams,

  Dry desert sands.

  What magnificence!

  What splendor!

  Arizona—

  It lies there,

  waiting

  to test the strength

  and will of man.

  Prologue

  In early February, 1861, Cochise declared war on all Americans, vowing no white man would ever see his face and live to tell about it. Wednesday, February 20th, the four o'clock stage was an hour late at Apache Pass. Howard Blackwood, who expected his daughter, Daniella, on that stage, insisted the Butterfield agent inform the Army. The patrol from Fort Buchanan found what was left of the stage by following the buzzards.

  All that was left of Blackwood’s daughter was her luggage and one dainty, scuffed slipper. Daniella and two men were missing. The rest of the passengers and the driver were dead.

  In his mind and in his heart, Blackwood buried his daughter.

  If she was still alive, she wouldn't be for long.

  Three weeks later, Apaches struck another stage. This time there was a survivor. Travis Colton. But his ten-year-old son, Matt, was missing. Unlike Blackwood, Colton would search until he found his child. He would bargain with the devil himself, or even Cochise, to get Matt back.

  Chapter One

  March 22, 1861

  Self-Proclaimed Territory of Arizona

  Texas Canyon was a perfect place for an ambush. From his vantage point in the rocks, Travis Colton watched the Apaches approach. They were still too far away for him to tell if they had his son.

  That’s it, you bastards, just keep coming.

  It felt like years since he’d spotted the small group and positioned his men for ambush, but he knew from the shadow of the boulder beside him, it hadn’t been more than an hour.

  This wasn’t a raiding party—he damn sure knew what one of those looked like, he thought, fingering the half-healed scar on his cheek. He and his son both knew, too well. Travis wrenched his mind away, back to the group of Apaches.

  There were eight of them. Good. He and his men were an even match for them. If he could keep his element of surprise, he could finally accomplish what he hadn’t been able to do so far. He wanted to take one of those savages alive, like they took Matt. Then he’d find out where his son was.

  The Apaches wove their way through the scattered boulders below Travis’s hiding place. This way, you bastards. That’s it, turn this way and just keep coming.

  As if following his directions, the riders turned toward him, heading for the wide gap where he and his men lay hidden. He forced himself to relax. After crouching in one position for the last hour, the muscles in his legs ached. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his spine.

  Finally the Apaches got close enough so he could pick out individuals. Six of the eight looked almost identical, barechested, wearing nothing more than loin cloths and tall moccasins, straight black hair hanging down across coppery shoulders. The seventh one was smaller and wore a blue shirt and floppy brown hat, undoubtedly plucked from the body of some luckless victim.

  Travis wondered briefly where the smaller Apache had stolen that black horse with the white mane and tail and a white blaze between its eyes. It was finer than any range-bred mustang he’d ever seen.

  A quick glance at the last rider brought a bitter taste to his mouth. There was no small, blond head among them. No Matt. Travis closed his eyes against the dark surge of hopelessness that threatened to consume him. Matt, where are you? But as he opened his eyes again and his gaze rested on the last of the group, he stiffened. No Indian he’d ever heard of had a bushy, gray beard. It was a white man!

  A strange mixture of desolation and excitement flooded Travis. He might not get Matt back today, but he could free this white man from his Apache captors. For once, he could do something.

  Somewhere behind him in the rocks, a horse snorted. Travis flinched. In the clearing, one Apache raised his hand sharply. The others halted.

  Travis ground his teeth to keep from cursing aloud. Damn that Quint. His orders were to keep the horses under control. And quiet. It was the only thing the fool had been hired for.

  The Apaches sat unmoving, searching the rocks and scrub—looking directly at him. He had to steel himself to keep from moving into deeper cover. His only chance was to remain as still as the hot, motionless air. He realized he hadn’t even breathed since the horse snorted. He forced himself to exhale slowly as he racked his brain for his next move.

  He had primed his men to hit the Apaches brutally, to rush them on his signal. They knew he only needed one alive. Only one to give him the information he must have. If Quint’s carelessness with the horses cost Travis this chance to discover his son’s whereabouts, Travis swore he’d strangle the son of a bitch. Slowly.

  But here was another white captive. Surely his men had seen him. How would they react? And now they might not get a chance to act at all. Damn it!

  The Apaches slowly but delibe
rately moved apart, making a more difficult target. Two of them stayed together, the white man and the smallest Apache. So, that was the one in charge of the captive. That was the one Travis wanted alive. The one who would tell him where Matt was.

  As Travis watched, the Apaches moved even farther apart. He had to act and act now or miss his chance.

  In one fluid motion he sprang to his feet, aimed his rifle, and opened his mouth to signal his men. A twig snapped beneath his feet with a crack as loud as a rifle shot. All that came out of his mouth was a gasp as a thousand needles of pain shot through him. One knee gave way, sending him crashing against the boulder. His legs had gone to sleep.

  Instantly, as one, the Apaches whirled their mustangs and whipped them into a gallop. The floppy hat flew off the smallest warrior. Travis froze, forgetting all about the pain in his legs and the Apaches slipping from his grasp. From underneath the hat tumbled waist-length tresses of pure ebony. And from one temple, streaming across those glorious black curls, a streak of white. Stunned, Travis lowered his rifle to point at the ground.

  My God, it’s a girl. A white girl!

  Chapter Two

  Two days later the six Apaches, the gray-bearded white man, and the white girl with the streak in her hair reached their destination. The black and white mare shifted and snorted impatiently as the girl reined in on the hill overlooking her father’s ranch. The girl, too, was impatient, but she curbed her eagerness and blinked back tears of relief in order to savor the scene before her. Home! Here she would be wrapped in her father’s strong arms and the outside world could go away.

  Daniella Blackwood closed her eyes and breathed in the sharp scent of sage. She felt like getting down and kissing the ground. Three years. She’d been gone a lifetime. Three years of freezing, snowy winters with bare-limbed trees. Three summers and springs of carefully tended lawns and parks in Boston’s better neighborhoods. Three years of rigid, controlled society. Of fancy clothes, fancy balls, and fancy carriages. Of maids and butlers, grooms and gardeners.

  A wry grin twisted her lips. Three years of corsets and petticoats and lace and ruffles. And Miss Whitfield’s School for Young Ladies.

  Three years. Three years and six weeks, counting the Apaches. She shivered in the warm afternoon sun.

  The soft, gentle breeze tossed her long black and white hair into her face. With a trembling hand she brushed the curls back and took in the welcome sights of home. The cattle looked fat as they grazed on the lush natural grasses of the valley, and from Daniella’s vantage point on the hill, she could see the herd had increased in size while she’d been gone.

  A pair of mallards flew overhead, angling toward the pond on the far side of the basin. Squawking and scolding, a blue jay chased a crow from the wild blueberry patch a few feet away. A squirrel skittered to a halt when it spied the horses, then ran back for cover, chattering all the way.

  Dear God, I’ve missed it.

  She almost pitied the people in Boston, crowded together in a noisy, smelly city. They thought this southern part of the Territory of New Mexico, particularly the area struggling to become the Territory of Arizona, was nothing but hot, dry desert, populated with snakes, lizards, and savage Indians.

  Here in her father’s valley there were no deserts, and not too many snakes and lizards. But savage Indians? She shivered again as she glanced at her companions on this last leg of her trip home—one crazy old prospector and six Apache warriors. She had invited Tucker, but not the Apaches. They were her escort—to make certain she got home safely.

  Safely. What irony.

  When the stage in which she had traveled from St. Louis had neared Apache Pass, where her father was to meet her, the Apaches swooped down and killed nearly everyone on board. Daniella and two wounded men were taken into the mountains to Cochise’s stronghold, leaving no survivors behind.

  Daniella wrenched her thoughts away from what happened after that. It might haunt her dreams at night, but she’d be damned if she’d let it ruin her homecoming.

  She’d been repeatedly assured that this last leg home would be easy and safe. Her escorts would see to it. But her escorts had been the problem. The six, fierce-looking Apache warriors had drawn attention—unwanted attention—like manure draws flies. They’d drawn fire from two separate Army patrols and a band of Mexican banditos. Then there was that business in Texas Canyon that first morning, when someone tried to ambush them.

  But she was home now—safe. Papa would take care of her.

  He’d make the nightmares go away; he’d help her forget. She couldn’t wait to see him!

  “This is it, Tucker. We’re home.” She urged her mare down the hill, and the old man followed. The Apaches didn’t.

  All the way down the hill she worried about her appearance. Her father might not even recognize her, her skin was so brown and dry from a month in the sun. Her full red skirt, a gift from the Apaches, was hitched up so she could ride astride. It showed knee-high moccasins and a scandalous amount of tanned, bare thigh. Even the horse, another gift from the Apaches, would cause comment.

  Then there was her hair. Lord, how will I ever explain this damn streak? She ground her teeth and wished desperately for her lost hat.

  Her father and stepmother had sent her east to become a lady, but she didn’t feel or look like one now, and doubted she ever would again. There were more important things in life than being a lady, she’d learned. Like surviving.

  At the bottom of the hill she had to squint against the last rays of sunlight sinking below the dark purple silhouette of the Santa Catalina Mountains. The house, a sprawling whitewashed adobe with a red tiled roof, sat in cool shadow on the crest of a low rise.

  As she drew close enough to recognize the two people out front, she read stunned disbelief on both faces. They’d probably given her up for dead after so much time. White women didn’t survive long with Apaches.

  She gripped the reins tighter. Terrible little images crept forward from the dark recesses of her mind, crawling, wriggling into her consciousness. Tears welled up in her eyes. She slammed the door on the terrifying memories of that first night with the Apaches. She couldn’t let those thoughts get the upper hand. If they ever broke loose, she’d go crazy.

  But she couldn’t stop the tears.

  “Papa!” she cried. She kicked her heels against the sides of her mare and raced past the barn to the house. The horse skidded to a halt on the hard-packed earth. Daniella jumped off, a cloud of dust swirling around her. She cried harder now, unable to control her sobs.

  “Ella?” her father questioned tentatively. “Ella? My God, it can’t be!” He took a hesitant step forward, his wide, disbelieving eyes locked on her hair.

  Daniella threw herself at his broad chest and sobbed. “Papa! Papa!” She clung to him desperately, waiting for his loving arms to wrap around her and make her feel safe again.

  Warm, strong hands grasped her shoulders, then thrust her backwards, away from the comfort she craved.

  “Ella!” Her father stared at her in disbelief.

  She cried so hard she could only nod her head in response.

  When she did, she heard a high-pitched shriek from behind and turned in time to see her stepmother, Sylvia, collapse to the ground in a dead faint.

  Howard Blackwood shoved his daughter aside and knelt to see to his wife. With tender, loving hands, he picked the woman up and carried her indoors.

  Daniella was left standing in the dirt, alone.

  Bewildered, crushed, Daniella quietly followed them into the house. Her father bellowed for the servants, and they came running from every direction to fuss over their mistress. As Daniella looked on, the ache in her chest threatening to suffocate her, she realized that aside from her father and stepmother, there wasn’t a familiar face to be seen. Nor was there a single friendly smile in the group. Those few who looked at her at all did so with ill-disguised disgust.

  Not caring in the least about the fate of her stepmother, Daniella let out a
strangled cry and ran stumbling down the hall to her old room.

  Even there things were different. None of her personal belongings were in evidence. The treasured dolls from her childhood, the colorful blanket her mother had helped her weave, the miniature portrait of her mother, all the personal things she’d left behind three years ago were gone.

  Oh God, why is this happening? Where was her loving father? Where were the servants who’d been her friends? Where were the arms she needed to hold her, the shoulder she needed to cry on, the love she needed to surround her and help her forget her shame?

  In misery, Daniella Blackwood curled herself up into a tight little ball in the middle of the bed that used to be hers and quietly, painfully, cried herself to sleep.

  Sometime later, Daniella woke to a knock on her door. “Senorita?” a girl’s voice called from the hall.

  Daniella climbed stiffly from the bed and stumbled through the darkness to open the door. In the light from the hallway lantern a young, pretty, Mexican girl stared at her with wide eyes and gaping mouth.

  One thing Daniella learned at Miss Whitfield’s School for Young Ladies was if a servant didn’t know her place, the servant should be put in her place, and swiftly. Daniella had scoffed at the attitude—the servants in her father’s house were her friends. But none of the old servants had ever stared at her so rudely. She took Miss Whitfield’s advice in hand.

  “Don’t stand there gawking. What do you want?” She bit back a laugh when the girl jumped as though burned.

  But the young girl recovered quickly. She raised her chin and tried to look down her nose at Daniella, which, from her lesser height, left her staring at the floor. “Señor Blackwood says you are to join him in his study immediatamente.”