Summer Moon (6 page)

All her thoughts drifted away when Reed stirred. His eyes were still closed when he softly whispered, “I love you, wife.”

Tears smarted behind her eyes, though not the first she had shed on this glorious eve. As she let the words seep into her heart, she thought he had eased into sleep again.

Seconds passed. He gently nudged her calf with his knee. “Say it,” he murmured.

She realized what he wanted. The words caught in her throat when she joyously echoed, “I love you.”

It was the first time she had ever said the words aloud to anyone. The first time she had ever had anyone to truly love.

Reed settled into a deep sleep. The sheet was cool when she drew it over them, careful not to disturb him. She nestled beside him, unwilling to leave even though his seed and traces of her virgin blood were sticky between her thighs.

She thought again of what had passed between them, so different and yet the same as the acts she had witnessed as a child.

Kate could not imagine such a personal exchange occurring between two strangers. How had her mother done these intimate things night after night with men she did not know, even if it did keep Kate from starving?

Although she and Reed might not have exchanged more than a handful of words, he was no stranger to her. She knew his hopes and dreams from his letters. She had come to know every inch of him over the last few hours.

They were far from strangers. Legally, they were husband and wife. And now they were lovers, as well.

The moon crested. Its shimmering light poured over the bed, highlighting their bodies—Reed’s heavier, darker form pressed against her pale skin, the bandage on his shoulder showed beneath the long strands of her hair. A pleasant breeze billowed the lace curtains. She looked out toward the moon, a milk-white stain on the rippled surface of the windowpane.

Not even the glow of the moon could disturb her tonight. Heady with the mysterious power only a woman in love knows, Kate turned her back on the smiling moon-man’s face, curled against her husband’s side, and slept.

8

The gray light of dawn barely stained the room when Kate awoke beside Reed. Full of emotions she could not name, she lay there watching him sleep and then slowly, gently, rested her hand on his bare chest above his heart. He was still warm, but not feverish as before, so she was careful not to wake him. Closing her eyes, she imagined hearing his words again.

“I love you, wife.”

Wife. She was indeed his wife now. In every way.

Finally, he stirred, shifted slightly, and ran his tongue across his lips. “Hurts . . .” he whispered.

She immediately slipped out of bed, grabbed her gown off the floor, and slipped it over her head. His fever was down, but he was obviously in pain. The bottle of laudanum was on the bedside table. She had watched Sofia administer the dose before, had seen her give Reed no more than a spoonful. She decided not to wait for the housekeeper.

She opened the bottle, filled the spoon, and then gently slipped her free arm beneath his head to cradle it while she eased his lips open with the spoon. Reed opened his eyes for a moment, stared into hers and slowly smiled.

Kate’s heart took flight again.

He swallowed, closed his eyes. She tenderly lowered him to the pillow and drew back, smoothed a lock of his dark hair off his forehead.

She longed to sit beside him and watch him sleep, knowing that sleep would help him heal, but she needed to wash and change, uncomfortable with the idea of Sofia walking in and finding her in her nightgown. After pulling up the sheet and smoothing it across Reed’s chest, she reluctantly stood up and left him.

As she tiptoed across the hall to the room where she had unpacked and laid out her things, she noticed that Sofia’s door was still closed and was thankful that the woman was getting some much needed rest after all she had been through.

Within a quarter of an hour, Kate was dressed and brushing out her hair when she heard loud, rapid knocking on the door downstairs. Afraid the pounding would awaken Sofia and Reed, she raced through the house in the weak morning light.

The pounding came from the back of the house. She ran into the kitchen, opened the back door to Scrappy, who had a dark scowl on his face.

“The boy’s gone,” he barked.

“What?” She rushed past him, ran across the veranda, and headed toward the horse barn. The wrangler ran along behind her.

“I went to open up the barn and check on him, but he’s not there,” he explained.

“How did he get out?” Last night the boy hadn’t been able to stand, let alone walk. She half suspected Scrappy Parks of setting him free just to be rid of him.

“He tipped over the water bucket and climbed out.”

Kate recalled having seen a bucket of water in the stall, but had not thought anything of it at the time. The child needed water. She paused outside the barn doors.

“Did he take a horse?” Her mind raced as she scanned the prairie beyond the corral area. The land was bathed in morning light, the sky glowing pink.

“He didn’t take a horse. I guess he couldn’t work the bolts on the stalls or he would have.”

Instantly, Kate calmed. “He couldn’t have gotten very far on foot,” she thought aloud. “Have you looked for him?”

“Ma’am, I just woke up, saw he was gone, and went to the house. It was dark until a few minutes ago.”

She started around the side of the barn, not knowing where to begin. Scrappy shouted a second later, and she backtracked.

“He went this way.” He pointed at an impression in the dirt. The boy had dragged himself along, crawling, trailing his bad leg, headed northwest, away from the rising sun.

Kate’s heart went out to him, trying to imagine the strength of will and endurance for the pain the child must surely be suffering.

They found him far beyond the open corral area, sound asleep where the grass was thick, high, and beaten down where he had passed. He lay stretched out with his cheek cradled on his arm.

“What now?”

At the sound of Scrappy’s voice, the boy came awake and pushed himself up. When he turned to face them, there was sullen resignation on his face. His eyes were swollen and red from crying, his hair matted and littered with grass and straw.

He looked like a pitiful, broken little scarecrow. “We’re going to have to splint that ankle,” Kate said half to herself.

“Hell.” Behind her, Scrappy spat.

“Please, refrain from cursing, Mr. Parks.”

“Shit. There ain’t no way to get near him.”

She turned on him, hands on hips. “Would you
please
try to be just a bit more positive, Mr. Parks?”

“I’m pos-a-tively certain he ain’t gonna let us get near enough to touch him, let alone set that busted leg—even if I hold a gun on him.”

“You will do nothing of the kind.” Kate frowned down at the boy, thinking as she twisted a stray lock of her hair. She watched the child’s eyes dart from her to Scrappy and back again.

“Surely he’s exhausted. We have to get him to the house.”

Scrappy merely laughed at the idea.

“Go get Sofia,” she said, unwilling to be swayed. “Tell her to bring the laudanum.”

“You thinking of puttin’ him out?”

“Please, Mr. Parks. Just go.”

“You keep clear of him,” he warned. “I won’t be here to hit him on the conk if he jumps you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Just to make certain, Kate took a step back. As long as the boy could not leap in her direction, she would be safe enough.

Once Scrappy was gone, Kate gathered her skirt and sat down in the grass. The boy seemed to relax a bit after the cowhand left and Kate retreated, but his expression remained wary. His huge eyes never left her.

“I am Kate,” she said slowly. Then she pointed to her chest and said a bit louder,
“Kaaaate.”

Then she pointed at him and waited. When he made no response, she went through the motions again, pointing and repeating her name over and over.

From the look on his face, she knew that if the boy could curse, he was silently damning her to Comanche hell.

Next she tried eating motions. “Are you hungry? We’ll take you inside and get you something to eat.”

No response. The child merely stared back with blank, expressionless eyes and scratched his thin neck with grubby fingers.

Within minutes, Sofia came running with Scrappy lumbering beside her. Kate breathed a sigh of relief.

“I brought the laudanum.” While Sofia paused to catch her breath, Scrappy shoved his hands on his hips and chewed on his bottom lip, staring down at the boy.

“He tried to escape,” Kate told Sofia. “His ankle is either broken or very badly sprained. We have to get him cleaned up, but I’m afraid he’s as wild as a barn kitten. I can’t think of any way to get near him other than to drug him. Then we can move him to the house.”

“You sure you want to take him
inside
?” Scrappy shook his head as if Kate had lost her mind.

“He’s only a child, Mr. Parks.”

“You don’t understand the Comanche,” the wrangler said.

“
Look
at him,” Kate pleaded. “He’s very young. And he’s
not
Comanche. Even so, even if he was, I’m afraid I would have to insist on giving him the best of care.”

Sofia, who had been concentrating on Kate, whirled around to look at the child. Her breath caught on a gasp. The sun had risen higher in the last few minutes. Full daylight now shone on the boy’s face.

Despite the dirt, perhaps because of it, his eyes appeared more brilliant blue, wide and definitely full of loathing as he stared back at them. His hair was dark, faded by the sun to red-brown in places, not unlike Kate’s own. His lips were full and pouting, his chin tipped defiantly toward them.

“Ay, Dios mio.”
Sofia nearly dropped the amber bottle and spoon as she pressed one hand to her heart and reeled back a step. “This can’t be. . . .”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Kate put her hand beneath the woman’s elbow to steady her and watched, startled and uncomprehending, as the housekeeper’s eyes flooded with tears.

“There has been so much . . . I have not been thinking clearly or I would have suspected, but . . . it
can’t
be!” She began to whisper what sounded like a prayer in Spanish and then, in a show of anger, she turned on Scrappy. “You never told me that he was white!”

“What’s wrong?” Kate looked down at the boy who appeared more frightened by Sofia’s dramatic reaction than by either her or Scrappy. The housekeeper was staring at the child, openly crying now.

“Daniel?”
Emotion choked Sofia’s voice. “Is it you?”

“Daniel?”
Scrappy was visibly shaken. His eyes went huge and then scrunched into a frown as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Who’s Daniel?” Kate asked.

“Reed Junior’s son.” Sofia was trembling uncontrollably now. The silver teaspoon clicked against the glass medicine bottle in her hand.

“What are you talking about? How can this be Reed’s son? Reed’s son is
dead
.”

Sofia shook her head and wiped her eyes as she fought to collect herself.

“His son was either killed or
stolen
by Comanches the night his mother died. We never knew for certain. Reed Junior . . . ,” Sofia could not take her eyes off the child. “I believe he preferred to think of him as . . . dead.”

“He preferred to think of him as dead?”

Sofia nodded slightly. “The Rangers must have found him.”

Kate shook her head. Was the woman trying to tell her that Reed had found his long-lost son and purposely left the injured boy tied to a hitching post?

How could Reed, wounded himself, have handled the boy on horseback? Had the child been hurt before Reed found him, or could
he
have injured the boy?

Scrappy was mumbling something dark and unthinkable.

“
What
did you say?” Kate hoped she had not heard him right.

“I said this is worse than him dyin’.” He sounded grave and thoroughly convinced the boy would be better off dead than turned Comanche.

Sofia looked at Scrappy in disdain. “Didn’t you even suspect? Who else could this be?”

“Lil’ Daniel’s just a baby. This ain’t him.” Scrappy was horrified by the possibility that this wild boy could be Reed’s son.

“He is not a baby now.” Sofia indicated the boy on the ground with a wave of her hand. “He was three back then. He would be eight, nearly nine now.”

Kate listened to their exchange. More than anything else, she wondered what kind of world she had walked into. More determined than ever to help the boy, she took the sedative and spoon from Sofia, who was still dealing with her own shock and doubt and was in no condition to help. Then Kate motioned Scrappy forward and kept her voice low and even as she issued instructions to Scrappy.

“You’ll have to hold him down while I give him the laudanum. Try not to hurt him.” Then she looked into the boy’s eyes and said, “I wish there was some other way.”

Fast Pony wished that his shame and humiliation would kill him. Maybe if he had gotten to one of the horses, his escape would have succeeded, but after he climbed out of the stall and hit the ground, he could not raise himself high enough to open a stall and steal one.

He wanted to scream at the pain in his ankle. It was swollen twice its size and had turned a dark, ugly color. Instead, he fought to ignore the pain so that he could concentrate on the three white people staring at him.

He studied them carefully—the younger woman with fire in her hair—the one who talked to him the most and called herself Kaaaate; Hairy Face, the old man with hate and distrust in his eyes; and the newcomer, the tall, berry-eyed woman who cried when she looked at him.

What did the older woman see? Did she see more than he knew? Had she visions of his Comanche mother’s death? Or maybe all the hurt he held inside caused her pain.

Was his fear and sadness a living thing that his eyes betrayed?

Afraid to see his own fear reflected in her dark eyes, he wanted to look away, but he had to watch all of them now, these whites who would soon pay for holding him here like a dog. The big, hollow house for horses was made of wood and full of dry grass. If they put him back in there, he would find a way to burn it down.

Burn it to ashes when they were all inside.

Soon he would do his part to drive the whites from Comanche lands and make his father proud. He would become a true warrior among The People, the Nermernuh.

The boy bit his lip to keep from crying out as the man with the rough white hairs growing out of his cheeks crouched low and began shuffling toward him. Hairy Face’s mouth was set straight as an arrow shaft. Cold determination iced his eyes.

The younger woman looked about to cry. She started whispering to him.

Fast Pony knew he was about to die.