Frontier Woman (28 page)

Cricket didn’t want to be close to Creed because despite everything, her body still clamored for his. If he found out how much in his thrall she was, she’d lose herself to him forever. She couldn’t let that happen.

“All right. I’ll stay here with you,” she said. “But don’t touch me.”

“No deal, Brava. You’re my wife. I’ll touch you whenever I please. And it pleases me to sleep with you tonight.”

“You don’t own me.”

“You’re mine.”

They stood across from one another, eyes blazing, fists clenched. Cricket was torn between pleasure that he demanded to be near her and fury that he thought he could command her to obey his will.

As suddenly as he’d bristled, Creed relaxed his body. “All right, Brava. We’ll compromise.”

Cricket’s eyes narrowed, watching for a trick.

“How about if I sleep here because it’s what I want to do, and you sleep here because it’s what you want to do. We’ll be sleeping close not because it brings either of us pleasure, but because otherwise we’ll be cold. Will that satisfy your stubborn streak of independence?”

Cricket hated to admit how much sense Creed was making, but said, “That suits me fine.”

Creed heaved a silent sigh of relief and lay down among the bluebonnets. “Coming to bed anytime soon?”

Cricket heaved an equally silent sigh of disgust and lay down next to Creed. She held herself stiff when his arm circled round her waist but allowed him to pull her close so they could share the warmth of their bodies. She had no choice now, but as soon as the sun was up and the party guests had gone, she was going to put some distance between herself and Jarrett Creed.

Sometime during the night Cricket’s body forgot how angry she was with Creed. When she woke she was stuck to him like a fly to honey.

Creed grinned. “Good morning.”

Cricket grimaced. “What’s so good about it?”

“Sun’s shining. Birds are singing. The beautiful woman in my arms is my wife. All in all it looks like it could turn out to be a mighty fine day.”

“Let me go, Creed.”

“Or it might not.” Reluctantly, he released her. “What are your plans today?”

“I thought I’d take a ride around the plantation.” Cricket dared him to object. When he didn’t, she rose, biting her lip at the soreness between her legs when she stood.

Creed didn’t want to play the protective, possessive husband. It reminded him too much of puppets and strings. But Cricket should have known the Comanches weren’t a danger he could afford to ignore. There was no way he’d let her ride the bounds of Lion’s Dare alone. It was too dangerous. He had more to lose now than ever before. He’d given a part of himself to her last night he hadn’t thought to ever give again. He had no intention of losing this wife to fire, flood, famine, or Comanches. Perhaps if he were tactful enough in forbidding her to ride alone, he could avoid a full-blown feud.

“Why not wait a little later, and I’ll go with you,” he said.

“I want to go now.”

“Be reasonable, Brava. You’re in no condition to sit a horse.”

Cricket blushed. He was right about that, but she’d manage somehow. She had to get away. “I’m going.”

Creed could see he was going to have to come up with another plan. “Let’s go get some breakfast, then, if your mind’s made up.”

Cricket was surprised at Creed’s capitulation, but realized that unless he intended to hog-tie her, he didn’t have much choice. Creed suddenly seemed in an awful hurry, and Cricket followed him from the enchanted place at almost a run.

Creed was anxious to leave because he’d found Cricket even more irresistible this morning than he had last night. He’d woken hard as a rock at dawn, and his condition hadn’t improved since then. Under the circumstances the only solution he could see was to remove himself from Cricket’s company.

Fortunately, Amy and Tom’s overnight guests had left, and Creed and Cricket found the couple alone at the dining room table. Tom said nothing about their absence the night before, but as he picked a wilted bluebonnet from Cricket’s hair he gave her one of those knowing looks she was coming to recognize so well.

Amy tried not to look as distressed at the condition of Cricket’s dress as she felt, because it was apparent the dress had served its original purpose well. “You were a success last night,” she said. “There wasn’t a woman at the party who wouldn’t have killed to look as beautiful as you did, Cricket. And you were a perfect lady. Perfect.”

Cricket and Creed exchanged a look that said otherwise, but didn’t interrupt Amy’s effusive praise. They helped themselves to food from the sideboard and sat at the table to eat. Neither of them had much of an appetite.

Creed was busy worrying how he could keep Cricket safe.

Cricket was busy worrying whether she’d have Creed’s baby now.

“I’ve been trying to convince Cricket she should stay close to the house today,” Creed said.

“Oh? Where are you planning to go, Cricket?” Amy asked.

“I thought I’d take a ride.”

“Could I come along?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “With the Comanches—”

“Oh, Tom, you worry too much. We’d stay close to the house, and you know the Indians aren’t going to ride right up to us with the field hands all around. We wouldn’t go far, would we, Cricket?”

“Sure she’d stay close,” Creed said, meeting Cricket’s obstinate stare with one of his own.

Cricket didn’t say anything. They’d already decided everything without letting her get a word in edgewise. She hadn’t asked for company, but she was going to get it, like it or not. She’d ride exactly where she pleased. If Amy wanted to join her, fine. If not, that was fine, too. She was going to make her own decisions. And that was that.

But once she and Amy were out riding together, Cricket discovered it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be to send Amy home and take off by herself.

“I want to be by myself for a little while, Amy,” she announced.

“You can’t go off by yourself, Cricket. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’ve brought my Patersons and I have a rifle and a knife, and I know how to use them all. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, Amy. There’s no reason for you to worry.”

“But I will worry. Please don’t go off by yourself. You promised Creed—”

“I didn’t promise Creed anything,” Cricket said. “Creed has himself convinced he can order me to do anything, and I’ll obey. He’s wrong. I won’t be broken to the bit like some docile mare. Go home, Amy. The house is just over that rise. I want to be alone.”

Cricket turned Valor and kicked him into a gallop. She was sure Amy wouldn’t follow her. She didn’t need anyone caring about her. She just wanted to be left alone.

“Cricket! Wait for me. Cricket!”

Cricket ignored Amy’s cries, riding away as fast as Valor could carry her. She closed her eyes and hid her face in the stallion’s white mane, letting him take her where he would. Valor passed the northern border of Lion’s Dare and kept on running.

Amy followed, falling farther and farther behind, but determined not to let Cricket out of her sight. She was scared, even more so when she saw where Cricket’s mad race was leading them. Surely when she caught up with Cricket she could convince her to turn around and go home.

It wasn’t until Valor had leapt several obstacles that Cricket opened her eyes. Once her gaze adjusted to the sun’s glare, Cricket realized the land they traveled now was uncleared wilderness. She pulled Valor to a halt and glanced around her. Far behind her a cloud of dust rose.

“Oh, Amy,” Cricket muttered. “Why couldn’t you go home?”

Then Cricket realized the cloud of dust she saw behind her was too large for one rider. Of course, there was a chance Amy had met up with some friends.
Not out here in this wilderness!
a frightened voice inside her screamed. Cricket’s stomach clenched, and her throat burned with the copper taste of fear. She pulled one of her Patersons from the saddle holster and checked to make sure it was loaded, then returned it and did the same with the other. She checked her rifle and looked around for cover, but there was none. The closest oak was almost a half mile away in the wrong direction. She wanted to run toward Lion’s Dare, not away from it. Besides, she’d never get there in time for it to do her any good.

If only she’d listened to Creed. Oh, dear God, what had happened to Amy? She was alone and unarmed! Cricket forced herself not to think about it. She had to concentrate on staying alive herself if she hoped to be any help at all to Amy.

Cricket’s worst fears were realized as the cloud of dust drew nearer. In the midst of the Comanches on their painted ponies she saw a bright splash of color. It looked like the same sky blue as the calico short gown Amy had worn that morning with the pair of Tom’s trousers she’d cut down to her size. Cricket prayed she was wrong but knew deep down inside she wasn’t mistaken. Her suspicion was confirmed when she saw Amy’s long blond hair lash out in the wind. The only thing she found the least bit encouraging was the fact the Comanches had taken Amy prisoner. At least they hadn’t killed and scalped her on the spot.

For a while it appeared the Indians hadn’t seen her. She remained still in the hope her dull buckskins and her pinto stallion would blend into the landscape. When the Indians turned in her direction, she knew that remaining undetected was a lost hope.

Only in the face of the twenty-odd Comanches riding toward her did Cricket see the true folly of her boasts to Creed that she could take care of herself. Perhaps if she were close to the plantation house her weapons would have delayed the Comanches long enough for her to ride for help. However, even if she killed a great many Indians—and she planned to try—she had ridden so far from Lion’s Dare she was bound to be caught in the end.

It never occurred to Cricket to give up—to kill herself to escape her fate. With her steady optimism, her belief in herself and the benevolence of the Creator, Cricket denied the reality of her circumstances. She couldn’t be captured by Comanches. They wouldn’t harm her. She’d save herself, or Creed would come to the rescue.

This simply couldn’t be happening.

As soon as the Comanches came into range, Cricket took careful aim with her Kentucky rifle and saw an Indian fall from his racing pony when she shot. They were coming much too fast for her to take the time to reload. She dropped the rifle and pulled the two Patersons from the saddle holsters, forcing herself to wait until the Comanches were close enough to be sure she didn’t miss.

Cricket saw a bullet hit one brave in the chest. She was dispassionate about his death. Comanches were cruel, inhuman animals. As she watched the young man clutch his wound in agony, she aimed at another. Her hands were amazingly steady, but she still missed the next shot—and the next. Cricket almost cried in frustration. She was a crack shot. How could she be missing? The next bullet found its mark, but by then the Indians were within range for their bows and arrows to be put into action.

When the first arrow whizzed past her head Cricket knew she could no longer stay where she was. She turned Valor and ran, but the stallion was tired, and the Comanches gained on her. Cricket spent the last bullets in her Patersons by firing over her shoulder. It kept the Comanches at bay but didn’t diminish their number.

The Colt Paterson had to be broken into three parts to be reloaded, and while Cricket was desperate enough to try such a feat at a full gallop, she wasn’t successful. She dropped the butt of one gun when Valor jumped a cactus and never had a chance to break the other apart because by then the Comanches had surrounded her.

The Indians closed the circle of horses around her until she sat atop the heaving stallion, her back proud and straight, her teeth bared, her knife in her clenched fist. She hadn’t stopped to think why the Indians didn’t kill her with their bows and arrows or great, long lances when they had the chance. The reason became clear when she saw who’d captured her.

“Do with the yellow-haired one as you will,” Tall Bear said. “The Woman of the Wolf belongs to me.”

Chapter 19

CRICKET WAS FULLY PREPARED TO FIGHT TO THE death. However, when the Comanches held a knife to Amy’s throat and gestured to the one in Cricket’s fist, she saw how very naive she’d been when she’d bragged to Creed that she could defend herself. She had no choice but to surrender. It was a particularly ignominious defeat for Cricket because she could see Amy expected her to resist capture, or die trying. But Cricket couldn’t take the risk that the Comanches would kill Tom’s wife, and she wouldn’t help to make Seth a motherless child, even if it was what Amy clearly wanted at the moment.

Cricket’s hands were laced cruelly tight to her saddle horn and her feet were tied uncomfortably under Valor’s belly. The band of Indians rode straight for
Comanchería
, never stopping for more than a short rest to water the horses or to attend to the call of nature. She wouldn’t have believed their endurance if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. When the horses were too tired to carry the Comanches, they paced along beside them. They ate pemmican on horseback and drank water sparingly from gourds they’d brought along. Cricket was never allowed near Amy, though she could see her friend was exhausted and terrified.

Dried blood had crusted on the edges of Amy’s swollen mouth where she’d been hit, and there was a large blue bruise on her beautiful cheekbone. The fair skin she’d always protected with a bonnet was sunburned, as were her shoulders, where the sleeves had been torn from her short gown. Her yellow hair had been freed from its neat bun and whipped around her in the wild Texas wind. The Indians rode by and touched the golden crown at will, cuffing Amy when she cringed away from them.

As long as they were still traveling Cricket could hope they’d be rescued. But as the terrain became increasingly unfamiliar, and the rolling plains became rolling hills, Cricket’s hope gave way to despair with disturbing frequency. She clutched the memory of her encounter with the Mexican bandits, where Creed had saved her in the nick of time. The Ranger couldn’t be far behind. He and Tom would rescue them. Nothing bad would happen. It just couldn’t. It was her fault Amy was here. It was her fault Amy had been hurt, and she’d bear the responsibility if anything worse happened.

At sunset on the second day the Indians crossed a river Cricket guessed was the Colorado, then followed along its banks until they reached a fragrant grove of cedars. There, with the setting of the orange-red sun, they stopped their long, grueling flight. She and Amy were forced to gather wood for a campfire and then to carry water from the river. Cricket tried to talk to Amy but was slapped for her efforts. They communicated with their eyes, but the horror each foresaw for the other was too painful to contemplate.

Cricket’s heart was in her throat. She searched frantically through the deepening darkness for shadows that moved. Nothing beyond the Indians’ campfire could be as frightening as what awaited her and Amy in its cheery light. The Indians talked and laughed among themselves as they cooked several rabbits and ate them. The very fact they were so relaxed brought a knot to Cricket’s stomach. They no longer feared pursuit. They could enjoy tormenting their captives at their leisure.

Cricket and Amy had been bound hand and foot with rawhide ropes while the Indians enjoyed their repast, but at least they hadn’t been gagged. It was the first time they’d been allowed to remain close enough to converse, and Cricket took advantage of the opportunity to find out how Amy had survived the endless trek across the wilderness.

“Amy,” Cricket whispered, “are you all right?”

Amy’s blue eyes were vacant when she turned them toward Cricket. Both of them were aware of their probable fate. Amy had already accepted it.

“I’ll never be all right again,” Amy said.

“Don’t say that,” Cricket hissed. “Tom and Creed will—”

“They’ll never find us, Cricket. How long do you think it took before Tom and Jarrett realized we were missing? How much longer before they could find our trail? The Comanches never stopped once. Even if they do find us . . . it’ll be too late.”

“It’s not too late until we’re dead.”

Amy met Cricket’s eyes and her lips turned up in a sad smile. “Do you remember the sunrise this morning, Cricket? It was mostly pink, with some orange along the horizon. I watched it because I kept thinking,
This will be the last sunrise I will ever see.
And . . .” Amy glanced significantly at the circle of Indians. “I was right.” As Cricket’s expression became horrorstruck, Amy added, “I don’t blame you, Cricket. I want you to know that. I knew the risk I was taking when I followed you. I’m only sorry for Tom and Seth.”

Amy didn’t say “and the baby,” but when her eyes lowered to her slightly mounded abdomen, Cricket heard the words anyway.

Cricket was furious with Amy. “How can you just give up like this? How can you be so resigned to dying? You have a husband and a son. They need you.”

“Cricket, do you know what’s in store for us when these savages have finished filling their bellies?”

Cricket swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Do you think Creed will have you back when the Comanches are done with you?”

Cricket opened her mouth to reply, but Amy interrupted, “I love Tom, Cricket. He’s my life. I don’t think I could live if he ever turned away from me. I hope the Comanches kill me.”

“Don’t say that, Amy. Tom loves you. He’d never give you up no matter what the Comanches do to you.”

Amy pondered Cricket’s argument seriously before she asked, “Do you really think so, Cricket?”

Cricket didn’t think even Tom really knew his feelings on the subject, but Amy’s wistful question had brought the first spark of hope to her worried eyes, and Cricket wasn’t about to put it out. “I know so,” she said with conviction. “Just stay alive, Amy. That’s what counts now. Stay alive as long as you can. They’ll come and get us. I know they will.”

When the Indian Cricket knew as Tall Bear rose and came toward them, along with several of the other braves, Cricket had to admit, at last, that Tom and Creed were not going to come in time to prevent the atrocities planned for them on this cool, early summer evening.

It irked Tall Bear to see that the journey hadn’t broken the spirit of the Woman of the Wolf. That same feral gleam which he’d seen when they’d captured her—and which he’d observed in Wolf’s eyes on more than one occasion—shone from her eyes. The Yellow-Haired Woman was another story altogether. She crouched in a fearful ball and stared at his feet, rather than confronting him.

Tall Bear had spent the whole trip into
Comanchería
contemplating how best to have his revenge on Wolf. It was not enough to simply kill his woman. He could rape her, of course, and then burn off her nose and ears, but even that would not be enough to make up for the theft of Summer Wind. He wanted this too-proud woman cowering at his feet when Wolf came to fetch her—and he had no doubt Wolf would come—perhaps even as soon as the rising of the next sun. He’d set an extra watch in the darkness to be safe, but he’d make sure tonight that Wolf came too late to help his woman.

He eyed the Yellow-Haired Woman thoughtfully. Perhaps if the Woman of the Wolf saw the fate in store for her she would fear it more. Yes, she would scream for mercy before he was through with her. But Tall Bear would be merciless. Since he’d lost Summer Wind, he had no heart to be moved by the pitiful wails of a dying woman.

“Bring me the Yellow-Haired Woman. We will leave a message to show the White-eyes in San Antonio what happens when we do
not
come in peace, so they will know the difference next time.”

Cricket had a second’s regret that she’d given Amy hope, because when the Comanches hauled her to her feet she emitted a heartbreaking scream and began biting and thrashing, which seemed to please the Indians, who subdued her with little effort. Cricket’s voice caught in her throat when she was grabbed and yanked toward the campfire, or she might have screamed herself, so frightened was she.

“I want the Woman of the Wolf to watch. Do not let her look away,” Tall Bear said.

Cricket couldn’t understand Tall Bear’s orders, but it soon became clear she’d be forced to witness Amy’s terror and pain at the hands of the Comanches.

When Amy continued screaming, the Indians stuffed a dirty piece of rawhide into her mouth. Her hands and legs were freed and her clothes were ripped from her body. Once she was naked, two Indians held her shoulders to the ground, while two spread-eagled her legs. Then the first Comanche mounted her and thrust his manroot deep inside where only Tom had been before.

The two braves who held Amy’s shoulders neglected their duties in their enjoyment of her rape. Cricket watched in awe as Amy wrenched herself free and clawed the face of the Comanche who violated her. The Indians brutally ended her brave resistance by putting a Comanche war lance through her shoulder, pinning her to the ground.

Cricket screeched out her rage and horror and had her mouth gagged as a result with a strip of rawhide. Tears streamed down her face. She was almost grateful to the Indian who’d speared Amy, because she’d fainted, and was not witness to the next five braves who used her so pitilessly. Cricket tried to turn her face away, but the two Indians on either side of her held it viselike, so she could look nowhere else. When she squeezed her eyes closed one of them held a knife to her throat and pressed until she could feel the warm blood oozing beneath its cold point.

It would have been easy to let him kill her, but Cricket loved life and couldn’t give it up so easily. She opened her eyes again, but they were sightless. She simply refused to see what was happening on the ground before her. Nevertheless, she experienced Amy’s agony. The grunts of the Indians, and the slap of their skin against Amy’s as they raped her, could not be shut out.

She knew when Amy regained consciousness because the abused woman’s garbled groans came in rhythm with the thrusts that tore at her insides and the bursts of laughter from the Comanches, when one or another was particularly exuberant at his task. Still more Indians took turns torturing their captive while pleasuring themselves, until the odors of blood and sweat blended with the musk of sexually sated males. Cricket was never going to forget that smell. She felt the gorge rising in her throat and concentrated on holding it back, knowing that if she vomited now she’d choke to death beneath the gag.

Cricket couldn’t have imagined the next hour in her worst nightmares. Nearly every Indian in the camp, including the two who held her captive, took their turn at Amy’s torn flesh. Amy had long since ceased to make any sounds at all, and the disgruntled Indians voiced their displeasure at her lack of response.

Cricket’s body quivered with tension. Her chest ached and her belly spasmed as though she’d been the one assaulted. She had no more tears left to cry. She was empty, barren, hollow . . . but she wasn’t dead . . . and Amy was. Cricket didn’t know how she was so sure Amy was dead, except no woman could have survived such an onslaught, especially not one as fragile, as delicate, as Amy Creed. Guilt and remorse tightened Cricket’s throat until it hurt when she swallowed.

If only she’d heeded Creed’s warnings. If only she’d listened when Amy wanted to turn back. If only she’d shot Amy when she had the chance, or let the Indians slit her throat. Cricket retreated to a world inside herself where she turned back the calendar and relived the past days’ events. She didn’t argue with Creed. She didn’t go for a ride with Amy. She and Amy weren’t captured by Comanches, and Amy wasn’t repeatedly raped.

An Indian rose from Amy’s body and adjusted his loin-cloth. Suddenly, he sank to his knees, clutching his groin, as a bloodcurdling war whoop came out of nowhere and gunshots exploded around them. The two Comanches holding Cricket simply fell away from her, dead with bullet holes between their eyes, as Jarrett and Tom Creed came galloping pell-mell through the camp, killing Comanches like rats in a barn. Cricket saw it all as part of her dream, where she changed the way things happened. This, of course, was the rescue, where Tom and Creed came in the nick of time.

Tall Bear cursed Wolf. How had he found them so soon? The Comanche war chief was nowhere near his weapons, and there was no chance he could reach the Woman of the Wolf to kill her now. It was better to make good his escape and save his revenge for another day. As he slipped into the shadows he saw that Wolf had dismounted and was scalping the dead and the dying. He must be truly crazy with grief and anger. Wolf did not usually take scalps.

Tall Bear smiled maliciously and shouted from his hiding place, “You may have your woman back for now, Wolf. But look well at the Yellow-Haired Woman and remember. For that will be your woman the next time.”

“Come and fight me, you woman killer!” Creed bellowed in Comanche as he brandished a bloody scalp.

“Another day, Wolf,” Tall Bear shouted back. “When you have no woman left to mourn your death.”

Creed’s urge to follow his enemy was strong, but he wouldn’t leave Cricket now that he’d found her. He clenched the grisly object in his hand, furious at his impotence. It was the utter quiet of the camp that drew Creed’s attention back to it. The cedar brake was littered with the mutilated bodies of dead Comanches. Cricket was alive, but she was still standing frozen exactly where she’d been when he and Tom had attacked. Creed’s berserk rage left him as suddenly as it had come. He shuddered when he recognized what he held in his hand and threw the scalp to the ground near the Comanche he’d taken it from. He crossed to Cricket, feeling a surge of guilty relief that she hadn’t suffered Amy’s fate.