Apache Flame Read Free Page A

outgrew their clothes, the
ever-growing Indian problem. Alisha had promised herself she would never be
like them.
    They spent the day in the rain, running, exploring, swimming
in the deep part of the creek. Later, they took shelter in a cave Mitchy had
found the year before. He laid a fire and they huddled beside it, he clad only
in his clout, she in her chemise and drawers, while their clothing dried.
    They sat close together, one of the blankets Mitch kept in
the cave draped over their shoulders while they chewed on hunks of beef jerky.
He had told her he came here sometimes, to be alone. Though he had never said
so, she was sure he came here to get away from his father. She knew Mitch’s
father beat him. She had, on occasion, caught a glimpse of bruises on his arms
and back. She suspected that, on those occasions when she didn’t see him for a
day or two, it was because he was too badly hurt, or because the bruises were
where he couldn’t hide them and he was too ashamed to let her see. Knowing how
proud he was, she had never mentioned them.
    As always, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He fascinated
her, with his long unruly black hair, dark skin, and deep blue eyes. She had
always thought Indians had black eyes, but Mitch’s were dark blue, like his
father’s. She knew her father would have been horrified if he knew how much
time she spent with Mitch. He would have locked her in her room and thrown away
the key if he knew, if he even suspected. But she didn’t care. She would have
risked anything to be with Mitch. He made her life fun, exciting…
    Taking a deep breath, Alisha opened her umbrella and stepped
off the stoop into the rain. Her life wasn’t fun anymore. It was as cold and
dreary as the weather.
    And as for exciting…schoolteachers weren’t allowed any
excitement. She was expected to be the epitome of decorum at all times. She had
to be careful of what she said, what she did, what she wore. She must never
utter a cross word, never do anything that could be construed as unladylike,
never wear bright colors, never rouge her cheeks or paint her lips. The fact
that she was also the preacher’s daughter only made things worse. She must be
outgoing and friendly at all times so as not to offend anyone. She must never
gossip, or listen to gossip, be careful of the company she kept, avoid even the
breath of scandal.
    She heard the clock in the church tower chime the hour. Four
o’clock. She would have to hurry. Her father expected dinner on the table no
later than five.
    But she wasn’t thinking about what to fix for dinner when
she reached home a few minutes later. Instead her mind was filled with memories
of the man she had thought never to see again, and what she would say to him
when, inevitably, they met face to face.

Chapter Two
     
    Mitch Garret rode directly through the main part of town.
Canyon Creek had grown considerably in the years he’d been away. The old
mercantile owned by George Cox and his son was gone, and a new, two-story white
building with dark green shutters stood in its place. A new sign read HALSTEAD’S
MERCANTILE. Aaron Halstead, Proprietor. There was a new boardwalk, a new
hotel with a restaurant adjoining. Dixon’s Livery was wearing a new coat of
paint. He chuckled softly as he saw old Mr. West dozing in a rocker outside the
barber shop. Some things never changed.
    He was aware of the curious stares that followed him, the
whispers, the speculation. He didn’t stop, didn’t look to the right or the
left, just kept riding down Front Street until he reached the narrow dirt road
that led to the winding creek that clearly divided the town, with the leading
citizens residing on the north side and the riffraff on the south. The creek
ran deep here, screened from the town by an overgrown mass of shrubs, weeds,
and berry bushes.
    He had grown up in this town, held in derision not only
because of his Indian blood but because his father had worked in one of the
saloons, gambling