Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family)

Cayenne hesitated, afraid of the way Maverick looked down at her as if he wanted her, wanted her bad.
You’ve got to say whatever it will take, she thought. Papa Joe and the kids need you.

Her desperation made her more bold than she could ever have imagined. “I need to get home, Maverick.” She paused. “Suppose I offered to pay you with my . . . body?”

The big cowboy threw his head back and laughed.

Cayenne was enraged. “You don’t think I’ve got anything to offer?!” Before the startled trail boss could move, she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him awkwardly.

For a moment he stiffened, then his arms went around her. “No, Cee Cee,” he said softly. “Here’s the way it’s done.”

Then he lifted her off her feet, kissing her expertly and thoroughly in a way that both excited her and scared her. Her toes were off the ground so she could only cling to him, breathless at the way his mouth dominated hers, the hot, sweet taste of his lips. She gasped and closed her eyes, dizzy with the sensation. His wide chest was hard against her flesh and she could feel the heat of his lean body all the way down her legs through her thin dress. . . .

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Dedicated with deep love and affection to: Uncle Sam and Auntie Mama; mi madre de criaza,
(the mother who brought me up)

Oh, dear Auntie Mama! To think you will never read my dedication! I ache as I think of all the many chances I passed up to say words of love and appreciation to you. But I intended to say words of love and appreciation to you. But I intended to do something very grand and impressive like a book dedication so I waited. We both ran out of time. You died so suddenly
and unexpectedly just before this book went to press. For the words unsaid and dedication unread, it is my personal agony that it is now forever too late. . . .

It would go down in history as the Red River Indian Uprising of 1874-75. But it was really a final battle between encroaching white civilization and the way of life of the Southern Plains tribes.

This war spread across the prairie like a great out-of-control range fire, bringing terror to isolated settlers, cavalry, and luckless travelers. In many a lonesome place, only the coyotes heard those screams of the tortured and dying that drifted on relentless winds.

Most Cheyenne, Comanche, some Arapaho, and eventually the Kiowa would take up arms during the late spring of 1874 against white hunters slaughtering the great herds of buffalo. Only the Kiowa-Apache declined to ride the war trail. Others smeared themselves with scarlet paint, danced the scalp dances, and fanned out across the plains to leave death and destruction in their wake.

The Red River Uprising would ultimately become the biggest campaign in our young country’s history when President Grant ordered the army to move against thousands of the best and bravest of the warriors. For the space of twelve months, Kansas, the Indian Territory, and western Texas echoed the solemn prophecy: “There is no Sunday west of St. Louis-no God west of Fort Smith.”

Yet today almost no one remembers either this great, bloody outbreak or the names of the battles and the battlegrounds: Adobe Walls, Buffalo Wallow, Lost Valley, Palo Duro Canyon.

But the names of the combatants will live in western mythology forever: Bat Masterson, Colonel Ranald Mackenzie, greatest Indian fighter of them all, and Quanah Parker, the young half-breed leader of the uprising. Quanah’s mother was a captive white girl who became a Texas legend. But Quanah, last chief of the Comanche, chose his Indian heritage as the path that he would walk. As part of his destiny he would cross the trail of another half-breed Comanche who hated his Indian blood and had elected to follow the path of the whites—Maverick Durango.

The Civil War had ended and the North was hungry for Texas beef. So to the east of the Indian trouble, Lone Star cowboys drove cattle up the Chisholm Trail to railheads in Kansas. The cow towns were notorious: Abilene, Newton, Ellsworth, Wichita. Soon Dodge City would write its own tale of blood and bullets.

Now in the early summer of the year of the Red River Uprising, a big herd came up from the Texas Hill Country. That tough trail boss of the giant Triple D ranch, Maverick Durango, was glad to have made it through the Indian Territory without crossing any war party’s path.

A “Maverick” is an orphaned calf that carries no man’s brand; it was even more descriptive considering that the half-breed ramrod had chosen the name himself. He was a handsome
hombre,
with tragic eyes gray as the gun barrel of the Colt strapped low on his hip. A white knife scar down his dark cheek added to his menacing appearance, making other men greatly fear his wrath. But women yearned for his caress and sought to reach his lonely heart.

No one could say they knew him well, not even old Don Durango who had adopted him or Trace himself who had taught Maverick to handle a gun. Nevertheless, it was whispered about Maverick that he never forgot a friend . . . nor forgave an enemy. His hatred of the Comanche was legendary, although none knew why or dared to ask. Still, there was a white man he hated even more. Wherever he went, Maverick searched for this
hombre
. Cowboys said that whatever the man had done to deserve such hostility, it was connected somehow to Maverick’s mysterious past. All agreed a quick death was the most merciful thing the poor devil might hope for if the half-breed ever caught up with him.

Texans prefer their women the way they like their Mexican food-hot and spicy. So they favored a hot little pepper called Cayenne. If Maverick’s name was descriptive of his personality, it was more so for the fiery girl. No wonder sparks flew when the troubled trail boss tangled with the flame-haired, green-eyed Cayenne. Maverick only wanted to bed her, tame her . . . until he discovered he could use her, too, for his revenge. How was he to know she was desperate enough to use her innocence, her beauty, to lure him?

When cowboys tell the legend, they say it was
her trouble
and
his past
that started them on a journey right through the heart of the bloody plains war. As it has been told around the campfires ever since, the scorching summer of ’74 turned into an adventure of love, loyalty, passion, vengeance, and bloodshed. . . .

Wichita, Kansas. Late June, 1874

This called for drastic action.
Cayenne paused in the middle of the dusty street to study the scrawling handwriting of the letter she’d just opened.

Wrinkling her freckled nose unconsciously, she reread the plea, thinking tenderly about Papa. It wasn’t fair that she always had to shoulder every family crisis and problem just because she was the oldest.
But if not her, who? And if she went back, just what could she do about it?

Cayenne stroked a wisp of red hair out of her eyes, squinted, and looked up and down the deserted street. In the late afternoon heat, only a sleepy hound ambled by. Even the horses tied to the hitching rail in front of the Red Garter Saloon across the river bridge seemed to doze, while inside their owners gambled and cleared their throats of trail dust.

Curious, she looked up at the second-story windows above the saloon. One of the lace curtains moved slightly.
Was it only the breeze? Or was someone watching her?
The prying of some dancing girl was the least of her worries right now. Cayenne stuffed the letter into the pocket of the green cotton dress and tried to decide how to proceed.

My stars, Cayenne,
she thought a little desperately as she looked around,
you can’t handle this alone. Just what are you going to do?

Old Mr. Winston limped out of his general store, stirring the dust up on the wooden sidewalk with a ragged broom. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he nodded. “Sorry the job only lasted three months, but we did tell you it was only temporary ’til our schoolmaster got back from seein’ about his sick Ma. . . .”

“I couldn’t have stayed anyway.” She ran her tongue across the dust on her lips. “Something’s come up, a . . . family problem. I’ve got to get back to west Texas soon as I can.”

Maybe Mr. Winston could suggest someone.
She squared her small shoulders, lifted her hem to keep it out of the dust, and strode over to face him. Off-key music from the saloons across the Arkansas drifted on the sweltering air. “Now that Aunt Ella’s died, I’ve got no reason to be in Kansas anyhow.” Cayenne felt the crumpled letter in her pocket. “Mr. Winston, I—I’m in need of a special man, a man who can handle himself with his fists or in a gunfight.” She hesitated at the look of shock and curiosity on his wrinkled face. “Now where do you suppose I’d find a man like that?”

“A gunfighter?” He paused, leaning on his broom. “I suppose you’re funnin’ me, ain’t you, miss? A lady like you shouldn’t be gettin’ mixed up with trash and saddle tramps.”

“Now that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” She fixed him with a calm green gaze. “Would you know someone like that?”

“Lord, no! Hope I never do!” His rheumy eyes were wide with curiosity. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, ma’am, the sheriff’ll be back in town in a couple of days. . . .”

“But he wouldn’t have any jurisdiction anyway down in Texas and this is a . . . private matter.”
Now just why hadn’t Papa Joe called in the law himself? There was more to this than met the eye.

A woman’s raucous laughter floated through the batwing doors of the Red Garter. The shopkeeper frowned and gestured with his broom. “That’s where the trail herds come in, where the gamblers and such hang out. That why we keep that street of iniquity across the river, away from decent folks! And that Red Garter is the worst!”

She turned, looking up again at the distant upstairs windows, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Maverick Durango looked out at the pretty fiery-haired girl through the lace curtain in Goodtime Molly’s room. Without thinking, he whistled low.

The pretty whore sitting on the bed laughed as she paused in unbuttoning her yellow satin dress. “That whistle of appreciation for me, cowboy?” she laughed. “I know you been a long time on the trail, but just hold your horses ’til I get my clothes off! I’ll fix you a drink. Bourbon and branch, same as always?”

He turned to accept the smudged glass and sipped the raw, cheap whiskey. Up until he’d looked out the window, Goodtime Molly had seemed exciting and desirable. Now he frowned at her with eyes as gray as the barrel of the Colt strapped low on his hip. The whore was not as pretty as she’d once been, even though she had magnificent hair. But her hair was dark, not red.

Maverick peered out at the girl in the street. The hot breeze brought him a light scent he couldn’t quite identify.
Sugar cookies?
No, not quite that either
. Whatever it was, he liked it. He took a deep breath as he leaned against the window and sipped the whiskey and water.

“Molly, come take a look,” he muttered. “Who’s that girl standing just across the bridge?”

The smile faded on her painted mouth as she sauntered over to the window, looked out, and snorted with derision. “Me and the new little schoolmarm don’t exactly travel in the same social circles. Her name’s Cayenne, never heard no last name. That’s all I know about her.” Molly’s tone sounded cold, jealous. “You can get your sights off that one, you big Injun. I doubt she’s even been kissed, much less—”

“Don’t call me
Injun,
you hear me?” His dark-skinned hand reached out, grabbed her throat.

“Sure, Maverick, sure.” Her painted eyes widened with fear as she shook his hand off her dirty neck. “Forgot how touchy you was about that Comanche blood. . . .”

“Sorry I was rough. I got no respect for any
hombre
who’d hurt a woman.” He leaned against the window frame, looking down, studying the creamy-skinned girl standing in the middle of the dusty street. Her hair reflected the light like a prairie fire.

“Cayenne?” His Texas drawl turned it into
Kii’ anne
. He thought about the cayenne peppers used in the fiery Mexican food around San Antone. “Wonder if her disposition matches her hair?”

Molly frowned down at the girl and back at him, her stained dress half open, revealing her dirty chemise. “That one couldn’t satisfy you, Maverick honey. She probably ain’t never had a man between her legs, wouldn’t know what to do with one if she did!”

He took a good look at Molly. The whore must be pushing forty and looked every day of it. The urge he’d had all these long weeks on the trail faded. As she leaned toward him, that mysterious scent on the breeze was overpowered by Molly’s strong perfume. But even then he smelled the reek of men on her skin, wondered suddenly how many had already taken Molly today. He turned away from her and back to the window.

Probably ain’t never had a man between her legs.
He had a sudden vision of the redhead’s long, silken legs wrapped around his dark, hard-driving hips. He imagined her warm and yielding in his arms, the soft mouth opening to his probing tongue.
I’d like to be the one to teach her. That one wouldn’t take on a man for money. No, not that one. He hadn’t known many women like that.

Absently he ran his finger down the white knife scar on his high-boned cheek while he admired the pert girl in the green dress in the street. She turned and looked at him, her flame-colored hair cascading around her small face. “Now there’s a real lady,” he nodded. “A
real
lady!”

The pretty whore swore under her breath. “By God, you want me or not, cowboy?” She pulled her dirty chemise down and thrust her big breasts at him provocatively. “I figured after all those weeks on the trail, you needed what I got to offer.” Molly scowled. “Or you gonna keep lookin’ out the window at Miss Purity?”

His calloused hand reached out and cupped the whore’s sweating breast, wondering how many men’s mouths had tasted those nipples. The noise of laughter, music, and whirling roulette wheels drifted through the closed door. All these weeks on the cattle drive from Texas, his body aching for the relief of a woman, and now . . .

“Here, Molly.” He reached in his vest, took out two silver dollars, and stuffed them in the front of her soiled lace underwear, smiling at the way she started at the touch of the cold metal. “I’ve just changed my mind, but I wouldn’t want you telling everyone the trail boss of the Triple D didn’t pay for taking up your time.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked over his tall frame. “Aw, come on, Maverick, don’t disappoint me! I ain’t had such a stud since you was in town last year.” She reached up and put her arms around his neck.

But he turned his face away from her smeared painted mouth, recoiling from the rank scent of dirt and men’s seed on her sweating body in spite of the strong perfume. “Maybe next time, Molly. The crew’s waitin’ for me to get back. I’ve made the deal, just waiting for the bank to finish the paperwork.”

She rubbed her breasts against his wide chest. “Come on, you sweet half-breed,” she purred. “You know how to make a woman like it! Every trail drive I look forward to you gettin’ here. Tell you what, I’ll even give you your money back. Quick and free, how’s that?”

“Sorry, Molly,” he laughed easily as he picked up his hat and brushed back his straight black hair. The boys’ll be wonderin’ what happened to me. Shouldn’t even have stopped for a quick drink.”

The ache in his groin intensified and he was tempted to take Molly up on her offer. He wouldn’t even undress for a quick one. With his eyes shut, could he imagine the cheap whore was that small redhead?

Never even been kissed.
He felt abruptly annoyed and angry with the sassy girl for disrupting his thoughts. Molly had looked as tasty as sugar candy when he’d first entered her room. Damn that little schoolteacher anyhow!

But the whore came back to the window, looking down through the torn lace curtain. “Miss Innocent keeps lookin’ over here like she’s seen us, like she might be thinking of coming in the saloon.”

He shook his head, set his glass down, and began rebuttoning the shirt he’d been taking off at the moment he’d seen the flame-haired beauty from the window. “Naw. That kind don’t come in saloons.”

He watched the girl march over to the old storekeeper. “Feisty as a fox terrier,” he muttered, liking the way her fiery hair bounced on her neck as she walked. The slim teacher paused again, looked his direction.
Her eyes were probably green like her dress. No, green like new spring pasture, like shimmering dragonfly wings . . .

Molly said something and he started. He had forgotten she was even in the room. But one thing was certain: He’d completely lost his appetite for the pretty whore.

Molly sauntered over to her mirror, checking her dark hair as she always did. “Do I look older to you, Maverick?” She searched, found one gray hair, and pulled it.

“No, Molly,” he said automatically, because he knew what she wanted to hear although he knew she lied about her age. She did have a magnificent mane of ebony hair, he thought. But truth was, her mileage was starting to show. In another five years her wrinkles would deepen until her face looked like a rutted country road. “You’re pretty, just like always. Quit lookin’ for gray hairs.”

“You didn’t say nothin’ about my new combs.” She preened before the cracked mirror, readjusting the pearl combs in her dark locks. “I got an admirer who’s sweet on me, wants to marry me. He had these sent all the way from St. Joe.”

“Uh huh.” He wasn’t really listening or looking at her.
Feisty as a fox terrier.
The redhead walked through his mind. “I think I better get back to my crew.” Maverick buttoned most of his shirt before his hand reached for reassurance to his holster and the loop of rawhide hung on his gun belt. “Keep the money,” he said. “There’s other men downstairs waitin’ for you to show ’em a good time.”

“Well, I got to make a livin’,” she huffed, rearranging her dress and buttoning it. “There’s only been one other man besides you I’d have left this life for, but that was almost twenty-five years ago when I was as young and innocent as that redhead. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and then she glared at him. “But the fact I’m loco over you don’t mean nothin’ to you. No woman means nothin’ to you. Someday, Maverick, some woman’s gonna cause you heartache. I hope I live to see it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he snapped.
Some woman already had. But not in the way Molly thought.
Maverick frowned and shook his head, the old guilt coming back. It never quite left him, really, always burning like a slow fire in his soul.

She adjusted her corset and looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I knew what makes you tick, handsome. What the key is to your dark, brooding heart.”

He winked at her, laughing a little too lightly. “They say I never forget a friend and I never, never forgive an enemy.”

The whore shook her head. “It’s the Injun in you, I reckon. Jesus! I hope you never get a grudge against me! I bet if you was after a man, you’d keep lookin’ no matter what.” She brushed wisps of hair back and caught them up with the fine combs.

How had she stumbled on that bit of truth?

“You’ll never know how right you are, Molly,” he muttered, thinking about Joe McBride.
More than ten years. But he’d keep looking if it took a lifetime.

A frown crossed his rugged, dark face. Someday he would find that man. Maverick intended to kill him slowly, painfully. Very slowly and painfully as only a man raised by the Comanche knew how. The Kentuckian would beg for the mercy of death before the trail boss finished with him.

Molly gave him a long look. “You’re a hard man, Maverick Durango. I almost feel sorry for the poor devil, whoever he is.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, reaching for the doorknob. “He was mean, low-down—”

“Naw, I knew the meanest, rottenest man in the world-Bill Slade.”

Maverick frowned. “But if you knew what this bastard did—”

“Must have been over a woman.” She sauntered over to the bureau, picked up her drink, and sipped it.

He kept his face a cold, hard mask. “What makes you think so?”

Molly smiled knowingly. “No man hates another that passionately over money or cattle. Naw, it had to be a woman. Was she pretty?”

Only when she smiled,
he thought, and winced at the memory of Annie’s delicate features.
Only when she smiled.