Comanche Moon (25 page)

He rose from the bed and fetched the canteen. She drank the water he poured for her, then returned the cup to him with a satisfied murmur.

‘‘You will drink more?’’

‘‘No, thank you.’’

She felt suddenly tired and wished he would leave so she could sleep. Instead he stoppered the canteen and sat back down on the bed. She drew up her knees and stared at him. He stared back. The silence grew heavy, and so did her eyelids.

‘‘You grow weary,’’ he said softly, bending forward to drop the canteen and cup onto the dirt floor. ‘‘You will lie on your back, eh?’’

The thought struck her that he might lie down beside her, as he had during their journey. ‘‘No, no, I’m fine—really.’’

He clasped her ankle. The heat of his grip shot up her leg. Her breath caught at the familiarity. As accustomed to his touch as she had become, she didn’t like it or easily accept it. At home a woman didn’t even show her ankles, let alone allow a man to touch them. And this man touched her anywhere he chose, with no hesitation. He tugged lightly.

‘‘You will lie on your back. No harm, eh? I will watch.’’

‘‘Must you?’’

Hein?
Loretta had no inkling what that meant. ‘‘Must you watch? It makes me nervous. I can’t run away.’’

‘‘Nuhr-vus?’’

‘‘Nervous.’’ She shrugged one shoulder and then tried to pry his leathery fingers from around her ankle. ‘‘Nervous . . . uneasy.’’ She gave her leg a shake. His hand moved with her foot, his grip unbreakable. ‘‘Would you let go? It’s indecent, you touching me like this.’’

‘‘In-dee-sent?’’

‘‘Indecent. Shameful. Would you
please
let go? It is my foot, you know.’’

‘‘And you are my woman.’’

She threw her head back and sighed. He had a grip like an iron vise and outweighed her by a good ninety pounds, every ounce muscle.
His woman.
For a moment she had lost sight of that and let him lull her into a false sense of security.

He pulled on her leg and slid her toward him until she lay on her back. Then he released her ankle to loom over her, planting a hand on each side of her. Loretta stared up at his dark face, her heart pounding, her mouth dry.

After struggling with him so many times, she knew how easily he could pin her beneath his weight, how quickly he could capture her hands and render her helpless. The gleam of lust in his eyes terrified her. What was to stop him from taking her? If she screamed, no one would intervene.

Where were his mother and her spoon when she needed them?

‘‘You will sleep.’’ The low timbre of his voice vibrated through her. ‘‘I will watch.’’

With that, he left her and sat on his pallet. She heard a rapping sound and glanced over to find that he was chipping flint with a bone punch. On closer inspection she saw two flint arrowheads lying next to him—arrowheads that he would one day use to kill white people, no doubt. She huddled on her side and stared at him. Even from across the lodge he intimidated her. Yet she was completely dependent upon him. She would never relax enough to sleep with him sitting there.

A few moments later a shadow fell across the room. Hunter’s cousin stood in the doorway. The sight of the man’s disfigured features made her heart leap. Dressed only in a breechcloth and moccasins, he was nearly naked.

Not acknowledging her presence by so much as a glance her way, he stepped inside, bringing with him a sense of evil, so tangible, so cold, that the air seemed thick with it. He looked at Hunter. To Loretta’s surprise, he spoke English. ‘‘Your father tells me you will take the woman back. Cousin, this is
boisa.
Kill her. If you cannot spill her blood, I can.’’

Loretta knotted her hand into a fist and pressed it against her waist.

Hunter glanced toward her, then stood. ‘‘You will make no talk of killing, Red Buffalo.’’

Red Buffalo snorted with disgust. ‘‘I will make more than talk. I demand you bring her to the central fire.’’

Central fire? Loretta’s breath stopped midway from her throat to her lungs. She could almost hear the flames sizzling.

Hunter spread his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘‘She is my woman. She stays in my lodge.’’

‘‘Yet you return her to her people? Beat her. She will eat. If you cannot make her, I will.’’

Red Buffalo advanced on the bed. Loretta threw Hunter a frightened glance. Captor or no, he was her only security, the one person who stood between her and death. His dark blue eyes met hers. Red Buffalo reached for her. His fingers were about to close on her arm. Loretta shrank away, her breath coming in shallow little gasps.

At the last second Hunter said, ‘‘Do not touch her, cousin. My heart will be laid upon the ground if I must lift my hand against you.’’

Loretta closed her eyes on a wave of relief, then quickly opened them again.

‘‘You challenge me?’’ Red Buffalo straightened and whirled. ‘‘For a yellow-hair? I am your blood! You would forsake me for she who hates you?’’

The veins along Hunter’s neck stood out, the only outward sign of his anger. ‘‘I forsake you? You think my eyes are blind? That I do not know how the snake came into her bed?’’

Loretta scooted back against the taut leather wall, her attention shifting from one man to the other. Red Buffalo had begun to tremble, hands clenched at his sides.

‘‘You say I put the snake there?’’

‘‘The words whisper in my heart.
Mea,
go. Until your loyalty to me is greater than your hatred.’’

‘‘I have stepped between you and enemy rifles!’’

‘‘And now you make war on my woman. Do not test me again, cousin.’’

The muscles across Red Buffalo’s back knotted and twitched. He stood there a moment, quivering with rage, then spun and spat in Loretta’s direction, his black eyes livid with hatred. ‘‘Your woman,’’ he sneered. ‘‘She sickens my gut. You forget your wife who died for a yellow-hair?’’

With that, he stormed out.

A brittle silence settled over the lodge. A tremor shook Loretta as the aftershock set in. The snake had been planted? She stared at Hunter; he stared at the doorway. When at last he looked at her, his eyes churned darkly with emotion. He returned to his pallet and sat down, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him. With a sigh, he reclaimed his flint and bone punch, bending over the flat rock he used as a base for his work.

‘‘You will sleep. I will watch.’’

The stony mask of anger that hooded his face did a poor job of concealing his pain. He loved his cousin, yet he had defended her against him. Loretta lay down, but sleep was beyond her. Seconds dragged by, mounting into minutes, and still the silence rang out, broken only by the report of bone against flint.

Loretta swallowed. ‘‘Hunter?’’

His indigo gaze met hers.

‘‘Thank you. For—defending me.’’

Almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head. ‘‘Sleep, Blue Eyes. It is well.’’

‘‘I—I’m sorry for causing a rift—a big fight— between you. I truly am sorry.’’ Afraid he might not understand, she placed a hand on her chest. ‘‘My heart is on the ground.’’

His mouth thinned, and he glanced outside. ‘‘Let your heart be glad again. The hatred came upon him long ago.’’

Something deep within Loretta knotted, twisted. She hugged her middle and tried desperately not to think, to deny the reality she could not accept, that Hunter, the legendary killer, was a man who thought, and felt, and loved—just like any other. He even mourned a dead wife.

He was also a man true to his word. He had promised to defend her, and he had.

The next three days passed in a blur. Most of the time Loretta slept, while Hunter watched over her. When she awoke he was always nearby, either inside the lodge or within sight beyond the doorway. Instead of feeling nervous, she drew comfort from his presence. When she thirsted he brought her water. When she hungered he provided her food. When the night grew chill it was his buffalo robes she huddled under. On those occasions when she needed to use the bushes, he accompanied her, and despite the hostile glances she received from other Indians in the village, none dared approach because he was beside her. She came to depend on him for everything.

Late the third day, Hunter took her for a walk. She had no idea why and began to feel uneasy when they had gone quite some distance from camp. The pale blue of the sky had already turned steely and pressed closer to the earth. To her left, down along the river, she could hear the birds twittering as they settled to roost for the night. Soon it would be dark.

Her imagination ran rampant. Had he changed his mind about taking her home? Had his cousin talked him into killing her? He was a man of few words, and when he did condescend to speak, his simplistic English often left her with more questions than answers.

‘‘Where are we going?’’ she asked.

‘‘You will see.’’

She cast an uneasy glance at the knife on his belt. Then her eyes trailed up his muscular torso to his face. The breeze caught his hair, pulling it back so she had an unimpeded view of his features.

She had grown so accustomed to the slash on his cheek, she scarcely noticed it now. Instead she saw the proud lift of his squared chin, the high line of his cheekbones, the chiseled profile of his nose and forehead. As she studied him, the conviction grew within her that for all his many faults, lying was not among them.

Sweat pooled in her palms. She averted her face and trudged along beside him, picking her path carefully so she wouldn’t step on prickly grass or a drooping bull thistle with her bare feet. The bright pink blossoms on a stalk of crazyweed brushed against her calf, their scent wafting to her nose like delicate perfume.

He caught her arm to help her across a rocky wash that zigzagged toward the river. The unexpected weight of his hand would have taken her breath a week ago. What was happening to her? How had she come to regard a Comanche as someone she could trust? It was insane.

It was also undeniable.

Oh, she didn’t trust him completely. That would have been foolish. They came from two different worlds, and his definition of harm was probably far looser than hers. She knew he still might force himself on her and that he would be brutal in the taking. If she angered him, he might beat her. But her life wasn’t in danger. Not from his hand.

The whinnying of a horse gave Loretta her first clue to where they were going. As they crested a grassy knoll, her eyes widened. A broad meadow of yellow-green grass stretched before them, and it was chock-full of horses—sorrels, roans, paints, grays, and every other conceivable color. Hunter motioned for her to stay put while he walked into the herd. A few minutes later he returned, loosely holding a black stallion’s line. The horse strongly resembled the one whose leg she had broken.

Hunter slowed as he drew near and held out the line to her, his dark eyes gleaming in that way she had once found so unsettling. Now she realized the gleam was only a smile that had not yet touched his lips. As her fingers curled around the rope, she looked up. ‘‘He’s beautiful.’’

‘‘When the sun rises, we will ride for your wooden walls. He will carry you.’’ Taking her hand, Hunter stepped to the stallion’s head and lifted her palm to his velvety muzzle. ‘‘Give him your smell.’’

The stallion snuffled and nibbled her fingers, grunting a greeting.

‘‘He’s so beautiful, but after what happened to . . . I can’t ride him. I’d never forgive myself if something went wrong. I felt so—’’ She broke off and licked her lips. It hit her that she had never apologized to him for killing his horse. She should now, but so much time had passed, and she wasn’t sure what to say. ‘‘My heart is still sad about your stallion. I wouldn’t want something to happen to this one.’’

‘‘It is finished.’’ His face tightened as he spoke.

‘‘This stallion says
hi, hites,
how are you, my friend.’’ He ran a muscular arm around the black’s neck, moving in close to his shoulder. ‘‘He is son to my friend who is dead. Breathe into him so he will know your smell and remember with no horizon.’’

The thought of kissing a horse wasn’t particularly appealing, but after witnessing the Comanche’s rapport with his other stallion, she couldn’t argue that he knew better than she how to communicate with them. She bent over and exhaled close to the black’s muzzle. The horse sniffed and nibbled her face, nickering and blowing. Loretta gave a startled laugh and reared back, scrubbing her mouth with her sleeve. She glanced up to find the Comanche smiling. Her laughter trailed away, and she felt suddenly self-conscious. His large, sandpapery palm still enfolded hers, and the contact made her heart skitter.

His fingers tightened. ‘‘You like?’’

‘‘I—um, yes, he’s wonderful. His left ear isn’t notched like so many of the others. Why is that?’’

‘‘The notched ear says a horse is gentled. He is not. If another puts hands upon him, he fights the big fight.’’

‘‘Then how can I ride him?’’

‘‘You will be his good friend. Come close.’’

Loretta stepped back instead. ‘‘But he’s wild.’’

Tightening his hold on her hand, Hunter tugged her forward. ‘‘He is friend to me and no other, eh? He carries me because he wishes it. Now, he will carry you.’’

With that explanation, which fell far short of reassuring her, he reclaimed the line and lifted her onto the stallion’s back.

Loretta looked down. ‘‘I—I’m not too sure this is a good idea.’’

‘‘It is good. You will trust, eh? I have said words to him. He accepts. Lie forward along his neck and whisper your heart into his ear. Run your hands over him. Tighten your legs around him.’’

Heart in her throat, Loretta did as he told her. She whispered, ‘‘Please, horse, don’t get mad and kill me.’’ The stallion nickered and sniffed her bare foot, the whites of his eyes rolling. Hunter chuckled. ‘‘He smells your fear and asks if there is danger, eh? He should run like the wind? He should stand? He is sure enough nuhr-vus, like the little blue-eyes is nuhr-vus when she thinks I will eat her and pick my teeth with her bones. You will say to him as I say to you—it is well.’’