Comanche Moon (34 page)

Her fear for Zack escalated in spite of Macklin’s intercession. Perhaps he would not be able to help. After all, if Don Francisco was determined to keep his land at all cost, then he would hardly listen to an outsider, even an attorney he’d had come all the way from Abilene.

“You must stay inside, señora,” one of the men at the door told her when Deborah paused at the threshold, and she flashed him a cool look.

“I have no intention of coming out. I merely wished to feel the breeze.

Are you staying here all night?’

“Sí.”

Irritable at the lack of privacy, Deborah turned away from the patio doors and went back to the chair where she’d sat waiting on Zack to arrive.

Dear God, she wished she knew what was happening to him. It was terrifying and agonizing, not to know anything.

By the time Don Francisco swung open her door, it was almost daylight.

Deborah’s nerves were raw, and she leaped up from the chair to face him.

“What have you done to Zack Banning?”

“He’s been taken care of,” was the smooth reply, and Deborah
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Comanche Moon

shuddered at the look of malice on Don Francisco’s face.

“You’ve killed him.” Her tone was flat, and she felt a dull ache begin in her chest. “Haven’t you?”

“No, no, I have been right here. I admit that I did question your gallant
caballero,
but that is all that
I
have done.” Deborah searched his face for a sign that he was lying, but saw nothing.

She wanted to believe him, but couldn’t. It would be so much easier, so much kinder, if he was telling the truth.

“Then where is he?”

“Ah, that I cannot tell you.” A faint smile still curved his mouth, and he leaned back against a heavy carved table and toyed with the sculpted figure on it. Deborah watched him silently. His long fingers smoothed over the bronze horseman and horse as if memorizing it, and she knew he was waiting on her to ask again. She inhaled sharply.

“I would like to know where he is now.”

“Would you?” Don Francisco lifted a brow, and his hooded eyes focused on her face. “I’m not at all certain about that.” Deborah fought the urge to leap forward and throttle him. It amazed her, that rush of blood through her veins, the sudden, fierce desire to choke the life from a man. She’d never thought she could feel such a horrifying emotion about a human being, had never thought she would truly wish to kill someone as much as she wished now she could destroy Don Francisco.

“You’re toying with me,” she said when she could speak without screaming. “If you wish me to beg you for information about him, I will do so. All you have to do is explain what you want.”

“Señora, you take all the fun out of this,” he complained with a shrug.

He shoved away from the table and stepped close to her, staring impassively at her face. “I do not know what Diamond sees in you. You have no fire, no passion to share. You are cold, too cool and collected to be a real woman.” His mouth twisted. “But there must be something, for your gallant
caballero
would not betray you with words. I did my best to get a confession from him, a confirmation that you were to run off with Diamond, or with him. But he refused. A brave man, if a bit stupid. Too bad.”

“So, now you’ve decided that it is my idea to leave? I thought you held to the theory that Dexter Diamond wished to kidnap me as a hostage.” Don Francisco shrugged again. “It does not matter, in the end, what the reasons are. They failed. You are still here and will be watched more carefully.

And I will not take another chance that you can be used in any way against me.” “Am I to fear for my life from you, Don Francisco?” She shook back the hair from her face, chin lifted defiantly. “If you kill me, then you lose the leverage you had to keep these lands.” 

“Perhaps. And perhaps the attorney will be able to take care of that for me. I do not wish to be saddled with you for the rest of my life,
chica.”

“Don’t you think the law will frown on murder?”

“Definitely.” His smile made her shiver. “But an accident would be so sad, once my claim has been established. I will grieve for you, have masses said for your soul, and on your feast day there will be candles lit in the chapel.”

“Why do I have the feeling that Mister Macklin is unaware of your—goal?”

“He has no foresight, and a singularly innocent nature in some ways. But that is of no matter, either. I expect you to stay in this room, and to speak with no one.”

“Not even Judith?”

“Ah, the lovely Judith. She thinks she has done the right thing. I do not wish for her to know differently.” His eyes almost glowed with unholy glee.

“And I will tell her, of course, that you are so angry at her treachery you do not wish to see her again. Ever.” Deborah stared at him hopelessly. “It won’t do you any good. None of this will. Do you think Dexter Diamond will stop his efforts to force you to sell to him? I don’t. And if you think I won’t be missed, you’re wrong.”

“But my dear—haven’t you heard? You met with a very unpleasant time at the hands of the gunman sent to take you. You are so unwell in light of your recent experience, that you have become unhinged. Until it is convenient for me to hasten your demise, you will be kept under guard and away from everyone else.” Drawing herself up into what she hoped looked like a dignified, unworried pose, Deborah said slowly, “I hope that you are so confident when the authorities are brought in. But I do not think you will be.”

“There will be no authorities. Señor Macklin has been told of your—infirmity—and so has my tenderhearted sister. Of course, the final blow to your poor, bruised mind was discovering the death of your latest lover.”

“Latest lover?” Deborah stared at him blankly, unable to comprehend what he must mean. It simply would not penetrate the haze of confusion that rose up in her.

“Sí—oh, I forget. I have not yet told you. Señor Banning has met with an unfortunate accident. He is dead.” Deborah did not speak. A rush filled her ears, like the sound of the sea.

She heard someone screaming, saw through a blur Don Francisco’s shocked face, then, mercifully, fainted for the first time in her life.

Summer had melded
into a dry autumn. The glorious flowers on the hillside were gone. The sky was still a bright burning blue that reminded her sometimes of Zack’s eyes, and how deep a blue they could be, with gold flecks dusting them. She thought of him often in the long, lonely hours.

No one came.

She was alone, locked in the small, cheerless room where Don Francisco had imprisoned her. She saw no one but the rigid, taciturn guards who brought her meals, and a Mexican woman who was mute. It wouldn’t have been so bad, she supposed, if not for her memories.

For a while, she’d not wanted to see anyone. Then, as the days passed and the pain eased enough for her to bear, she knew everyone must believe the story Don Francisco had put about. That he had been so close to being right, no longer had the power to distress her.

Nothing distressed her. She was beyond emotion.

Emotions were for the living. She, for all practical purposes, had died the day Zack had. Perhaps her body still functioned, but the essence of her, the spirit that had kept her alive during the aftermath of the Civil War, that had changed her life, kept her alive during the arranged marriage to a stranger, kept her alive during a Comanche raid, then kept her alive when she’d been terrified and alone in a village of hostile strangers, had deserted her. She was adrift now, uncaring.

She read sometimes, but mostly she sat in a chair and stared out over the high walls of the hacienda at the sky and ridged hills. And tried not to think at all. It had been almost six weeks. Six weeks since the dam had been destroyed and along with it, her illusions about the future. She’d dared to hope for love, when she should have realized that it was too dangerous.

Zack had tried to tell her.

He’d said no promises, and she should have listened to him. He’d known how it could shatter a soul to lose someone beloved, and she had been too stubborn to listen. She’d thought that it would be different, that she could somehow make a difference in his life.

And in the end, that stubbornness had cost her the man she loved.

If she’d only been strong enough to refuse his offer to protect her, he would still be alive. She should have. And she should have listened to his reservations about Judith. Poor Judith. Tortured soul, trying to save Deborah, but in the end she’d destroyed her. She should have seen that too.

So now she just sat and waited, and she didn’t know if she would recognize her fate when it came.

In the Hueco hills high above
the Velazquez hacienda, light touched the rocky rim of a cave. It lingered, warming the mouth, not reaching the shadowed interior. Inside, it was cool and dank. Water seeped down the sides in a slow trickle and formed a small pool in a cleft, cool and clear.

Below, stretching for miles, the flat plains yielded an infinite variety of edible plants for someone who knew how to find them. In the rocks, the dry weather had withered the vegetation dependent upon infrequent rains.

Hunger was a constant; water could not fill the void. It was that dull, empty ache that finally lured Zack Banning from the safety of the cave.

He was wobbly, almost too wobbly. His injuries had left him unable to do more the first two days than drag himself into the rocks to hide. They’d left him for dead after two more bullets had been put into him, but he had survived. He wasn’t quite certain why, except that it had been dark and they had been careless. Another man would have died.

The man taught to survive as a Comanche, had not.

No, he had survived, but barely. It had taken him long, painful hours to crawl from that burning desert up into the shelter of the rocks. Longer still to find the cave. He’d been disoriented by his injuries, weakness, and the pain that he’d kept at bay only with a fierce concentration. He had not given in to it until he’d curled up on the cool rock floor of the cave and dipped his hand into the tiny pool of water. His reflection had startled him into awareness, and he’d begun to feel it then.

He wasn’t certain how long he’d drifted in and out of consciousness. It could have been days, or weeks. His wounds had begun to heal slowly, but the bullets were still in him. He was surprised he wasn’t dead or crippled; as it was, he could barely move his left arm, and the fleshy part of his right side bore an angry red streak.

If he had his knife, he would cut the bullet out himself, but they had taken it. And they had taken his pistol, as well. Left him to die, left him for the buzzards to finish, and his bones to bleach in the sear of the sun. When he was whole again, they would pay for that. As would Don Francisco.

But now he had to concentrate on living to see justice done, to go back for Deborah.

That drive took him from the safety of the cave and down into the desert, a distance that should have been easy but was torturous and slow. Yet when he returned to the cave, he had gathered enough edible plants to give him some strength. Roots, yucca stalks, wild prairie turnips—raw but life-sustaining. He ate, and then he slept. And when he woke, he ate some more. His dreams were feverish and restless, and there were times he woke in a sweat, certain he’d heard Deborah call his name. He didn’t think about Diamond or the struggle between the ranchers; he thought about Deborah, about her soft, cultured voice and the graceful sway of her hips when she walked. And sometimes, as he lay between sleep and awareness, he got Deborah mixed up with his mother.

It was Amelia Banning Miles’s voice he heard, soft and smooth with the clipped accent of her heritage. And it was his mother’s hand on his brow, coolly efficient, her touch loving and gentle.

He was burning up, even lying in the cool gloom of the cave. The fever scored through his body like a flame, making him feel as if he was standing over an open fire. In his delirium he saw the wagon train driver again, chained to a wagon tongue and being roasted over a fire, and he thought he was beside him, chained next to him with the flames licking his flesh.

And then he saw the cavalry riding down, shooting and yelling and riding their horses over fleeing women and children, swords slashing high in the sunlight and coming down in swift, lethal slices to kill and maim. They had killed many before White Eagle could rally his warriors into a line and fend off the attack. After the cavalry rode away with their dead, the air was shrill with the songs of mourning for the dead.

He kept seeing them, faces he’d known, people familiar to him, and his father’s grim sorrow. Sunflower had wept and helped to bury Old Grandmother, slashing her young arms with grief. Blood flowed red, swirling around him in a tide that he’d never be able to wash away.

And Spirit Talker’s warning rose above all the keening sounds of sorrow, reminding them how he’d predicted what would happen if Hawk kept the white woman. His own sorrow was not eased by knowing he was right, that the soldiers had found their camp because of Deborah’s flight and his pursuit of her.

He was alone again, with that empty, hollow feeling that had always been such a part of his life. Until he’d found Deborah again, had seen the joy in her eyes at seeing him and dared to hope against all reason that he would find a welcome somewhere. He’d dared too much.

Pain made his body spasm, and he tried to focus on something else. He remembered his name dream, and how he had spent time alone in the hills to wait for the vision that would give him his Comanche name. He had come late to the People, and his father had said he must find his own path. He had done so, and had followed the instructions of the old shaman and suffered deprivation to prepare himself, to make himself worthy.

At the end of three days, he had watched as a full-grown hawk landed on a fallen tree only a few feet away. It had sat there, looking at him, and when he had spoken to the bird, it had not flown away. He’d known, then, that this was a sign. This was his name. And when the bird had finally darted up into the air, three feathers had floated back to earth near him, and he had put them into a pouch and taken them back with him.