Meade understood that only too well. When he was a child, Libby had been his salvation. Their father had been away pursuing his military career most of the time, and their mother had cared more for the social whirl than for her two children. Libby and Meade had felt isolated and alone long before their parents died. They had taken care of each other, forging a bond that could never be broken. If Rayna loved her sister half as much as he loved his, she was most certainly in agony now; and one thing Meade knew positively about Rayna Templeton was that she loved her sister.
“What happened to Skylar’s Apache parents?” he asked.
“We’re not completely certain,” Rayna replied. “Skylar has very few memories of that time, and the Mexican slavers Papa bought her from were understandably loath to explain how she came to be in their possession. We do know that her entire village was massacred. Papa believed it was the slavers who committed the crime, but Skylar has a vague memory of other Apaches being on the scene.”
Given Meade’s knowledge of the history of the southwest territories, either version seemed completely plausible. Even before the arrival of the first white settlers, the Apaches had been preying on one another, and the hostilities between them and the Mexicans were legendary. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the culprits could have been a contingent of Americans, either. Senseless massacres of peaceful Apaches were still being committed by groups of “concerned citizens.”
“She’s very fortunate to have encountered your father,” Meade commented.
“I know. I shudder to think what might have happened to her otherwise.”
The sadness in her voice tugged at Meade’s heart. “And what’s happening to her now?”
Rayna nodded and looked away from him. “Yes.”
“Why don’t we go back to my original question?” Meade suggested, wishing he could banish her sadness. He liked it much better when she was prickly and obnoxious, because it was easier for him to erect barriers against her.
“What have I done to alienate everyone in Santa Fe? That question?” she asked with a hint of a smile.
“Yes.”
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Rayna thought back over the last two weeks. “To the best of my knowledge, the only people I’ve insulted were wearing uniforms similar to yours, give or take a few stripes and gewgaws.”
Meade glanced down at the gold-rimmed stripe on the shoulder of his tunic. “I’ve never heard gold oak leaves described as gewgaws.”
“Forgive me if I fail to show the proper degree of respect, but I don’t have much respect for anything military these days.”
“Perfectly understandable. Have you been able to gain access to anyone in the territorial government?” he asked, getting back on track.
“Of course. Believe it or not, I’m welcome in many of the best homes in the city.”
“That makes sense. You have a wealthy and probably somewhat powerful father.”
“Thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt,” she said dryly.
Meade grinned. “You’re welcome. All right, go on.”
Rayna shrugged. “I’ve spoken to every friend of my father’s who might be even remotely able to help, but so far all I can boast of is a rather limited letter-writing campaign. Correspondence has been sent from several sources to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, senators, congressmen, the War Department, even the President himself. So far no one has responded.”
“Letters take time, especially when you’re dealing with the government.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t be glum, Miss Templeton. We’ll get Skylar back.”
Rayna appreciated his confidence and his support. She was curious about one thing, though. “Why is it, Major, that you call my sister Skylar but refer to me as Miss Templeton?”
The question surprised him, and it took a moment to find an answer. “I suppose it’s less confusing than referring to both of you as Miss Templeton, and addressing you thus is a form of courtesy and respect.”
“Grudging respect,” she reminded him.
Meade cleared his throat. Apparently she was never going to let him forget that comment. “Yes.”
Rayna thought it over. “It’s odd. Earlier you called me a foul-mouthed, unladylike spinster. Addressing me as Rayna seems almost deferential in comparison.”
“Is that your roundabout way of inviting me to call you Rayna?”
“You did it once before and it didn’t choke you to death,” she reminded him, and was surprised when he began chuckling. “What’s so funny? My comment was meant to be a clever barb, not a joke.”
“It’s not you,” Meade assured her. “I was remembering something your sister—the other Miss Templeton—said to me.”
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“What?”
The laughter still sparkled in Meade’s eyes as he informed her, “She told me that you are such a horrendous cook that your biscuits had been known to choke a mule.”
Rayna glowered at him. “What else did she tell you about me?”
“That you’re terrible at needlework.”
Rayna threw up her hands. “Well, there you have it. All my dirty little secrets. You might as well take me out and shoot me now. I don’t deserve to live.”
Her rapid-fire delivery had Meade buckled in half with laughter that carried far across the plaza and caused passersby to stop and look. “You are a caution, Miss Templeton,” he said, still chuckling as he straightened.
“A foul-mouthed—”
“Enough! Enough! I surrender,” he said, straightening up and extending his hand to her. “Come on, I’ll take you to lunch at the Palace and apologize.”
Rayna looked at his hand, then directly into his eyes. “I don’t want an apology unless you mean it sincerely.”
“Do you want lunch?” he asked, raising one dark eyebrow.
She hesitated a moment. “Yes.”
“Then take my arm, and we’ll go. If you can manage to get through the meal without questioning anyone’s parentage, I’ll apologize sincerely over dessert.”
“I should warn you, Major. I’ve never lost a dare,” she informed him, slipping her hand into his as she rose. The innocent contact suddenly seemed very intimate to them both. Their eyes met, questioning the odd sensation, and several seconds passed before Meade found the presence of mind to release her hand.
They began strolling toward the Palace Hotel, and neither of them could think of a single thing to say.
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7
Skylar was accustomed to hard work, but her daily chores at Rancho Verde had not prepared her for the harsh realities of her new life. After a simple exchange of gifts with Naka’yen, the old chief had helped the Verde Mescaleros find a suitable location for a permanent camp, and since then the work had been unending. Alongside the other women, Skylar had cleared brush and helped erect sturdy lodges. From dawn to dusk she cooked, carried water, collected firewood, tended the livestock . . . and in her spare time she made clothes for herself from scraps of cloth and blankets given to her by her friends. Having had so little time to prepare for their journey, no one had much to spare. Mary Long Horn had given some of her clothing to Skylar, but her dress from the maiden ceremony and the calico skirt and overblouse Mary had given her wouldn’t last long. It wasn’t surprising to her that nearly everyone she saw on the reservation was dressed in oft-mended clothing that amounted to little more than rags.