Comanche Moon (14 page)

He folded his arms across his chest. In his hunting shirt, she looked no bigger than a child, her narrow shoulders extending only inches beyond each side of the neckline, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate her much shorter arms. She was as helpless against him as a fledgling in its nest, unable to take flight, too small to fight back.

‘‘We will take a walk now, to find some shade.
Keemah.
’’

The girl didn’t move.

He snapped his fingers.
‘‘Keemah! Namiso!’’

The corner of her mouth twitched, but otherwise she sat motionless, her gaze leveled on his knees. He knew she heard him and that she understood. A hot band of anger tightened around his chest. It was bad enough that he had been saddled with her. He wouldn’t put up with her obstinacy. Leaning forward, he made a fist in the front of the hunting shirt and hauled her to her feet so roughly that her head snapped back.

The softness of her breasts pressed against his knuckles. She tried to shrink away, but all the slack in the shirt was bunched in his fist, making retreat impossible. She grabbed for his wrist, her pupils flaring, her already flushed cheeks turning a deeper scarlet. He gave her a shake. ‘‘You will obey me.’’

Her eyes darkened to slate gray, as turbulent as a storm-swept sky. In that tension-packed instant, only for an instant, Hunter had to admire her. She would kill him if she could.

That thought no sooner registered than he saw her arm coming up, but until her fist connected with his cheek, he didn’t believe what he was seeing. She had little strength and even less weight to give the blow force, but her pointed knuckles hit their mark with a treachery all their own.

A frightened
tosi
captive never struck her captor. She cringed, she wept, she groveled, but never did she attack. He couldn’t have been more shocked if the earth and sky had switched places. He blinked, but when his vision cleared, his cheek still smarted and his woman’s blue eyes were still talking murder.

‘‘You dare to strike me?’’ The words hung between them, lending credence to the impossible. He tightened his grip on the shirt and jerked her off the ground. ‘‘You—’’

Before he could repeat the accusation, she threw another punch, this time at the corner of his mouth. Then she knifed upward with one knee, catching him at the apex of his thighs. His gut contracted on a dizzying surge of pain and shoved all the air from his lungs. Rage obscured his vision, painting her and everything around them in glowing red.

Emitting a snarl, he tossed her from him. She tumbled backward onto the fur. He followed her down, vising her slender hips between his thighs while he captured both her wrists in one hand. Bracing his other hand on the fur, he leaned forward. Her eyes widened. Then she twisted onto her side and threw back her head. With a feeling of unreality, Hunter watched as she sank her teeth into his arm. Pain shot clear to his shoulder.

His knife cleared its sheath before he realized he had drawn it. He held the razor-sharp blade to her throat, his body atremble with the effort it took not to kill her.

She had her eyes squeezed closed, awaiting death. Her fear clung to the air he breathed, so intense he could smell it, taste it. Yet she was biting his arm? Another tremor shook him. He wasn’t sure whose body convulsed, his with rage or hers with terror.

And then realization hit him. She
wanted
him to kill her. The Comanches called it
habbe we-ich-ket,
seeking death. His little fledgling had found a way to fight back.

As the truth dawned on him, he began to tremble even more, his knuckles turning white around the hilt of the knife. With one flick of his wrist, he could grant her wish and be forever free of her. Sweat beaded on his face and chest. His breath whined down the restricted passage of his windpipe.

Slowly, the brittle tension flowed out of his body, bringing in its wake a muscle-draining wave of defeat. With great reluctance, he withdrew the knife from her throat. As if she sensed the ebb of his anger, she bit down harder, a final, valiant attempt to goad him into killing her. Maybe the
tosi tivo
weren’t so stupid, after all. He would be wise to remember that the blade of his temper had a double edge, one that could be turned against him.

Steeling himself against the pain she was inflicting, Hunter stared down her, not quite sure how to get his arm away without knocking her loose with his fist. Suddenly it struck him how absurd the situation was— a Comanche warrior, kneeling over a white woman and doing nothing while she sank her teeth into him. Hunter, the fierce warrior and merciless killer, unable to control a girl half his size?

A reluctant laugh erupted from his chest. Then another. And the next thing he knew, he was laughing and couldn’t, didn’t want to, stop.

His guffaws startled her so badly that she forgot to keep her jaws clenched. He freed his arm and rolled off her onto his back. For days Hunter had kept his emotions under tight rein. Now all those feelings, the constant and ever-building tension, the anger, the resentment, and the burning hatred, poured out of him, interlaced in such a confusing tangle that they were as difficult to separate and control as dogs fighting over a bone.

The girl jackknifed to a sitting position. He knew it wasn’t funny, and yet it was. A great joke on both of them. He draped his forearm over his brow. He heard her drag in a breath. And then, with a grunt that could only be born of fury, she flew at him. Her blows weren’t well placed and rained upon parts of his body that were steely with muscle and impervious to something as harmless as a woman’s fist. Her small face was twisted, her teeth bared, her eyes sparkling with tears. Hunter sheathed his knife, chuckling as he sat up to ward her off.

He felt her fingers graze his belt. Then honed metal flashed, arcing like blue death in the sunlight. She had his knife!

For just an instant he thought she meant to stab him. Then he saw the path of her thrust. She aimed for her own belly. With the same quickness that served him so well in battle, Hunter drew back his arm and knocked the knife from her hands. The weapon tumbled harmlessly to the dirt a few feet away.

Breathing heavily, he gaped at her. Until that instant he hadn’t realized the depth of her hatred for him or the strength of her fear. She sank to her knees, her arms vised around her waist, her head hanging. Great, racking sobs tore from her chest. If there was one thing he understood, it was the importance of honor, even for his enemies. There was no shame in waging fierce war and losing.

He started to speak, but no words would come. The sound of her sobs worked their way down inside him. He had heard sobs like these before . . . on a night long ago and yet not so long ago.

For an instant he was swept back to that moment, and the pain of remembering nearly bent him double. An image of Willow swam through his mind, her innocence destroyed, her life’s blood pouring from her body.
Don’t leave me, Hunter. The Blue Coats might return. Please, don’t leave me.
The ache inside his chest became more acute. He had vowed that night never to make war on the helpless. Until now, it was a vow he had kept.

The past shifted into shadows and melded with the present. Hunter studied the girl’s golden head, still hung low. Were she and Willow so different? If it were Willow here now, she would seek death to escape. And she would tremble in fear at the thought of being raped. Had hatred hardened his heart so much that he could no longer see as their eyes saw? Had he become like Red Buffalo?

When Hunter reached out to touch the girl’s hair, trying in the only way he knew to make amends, he was reaching back through the years to another. Reaching out with gentleness, as he wished the Blue Coats had reached for Willow.

Hunter’s hand quivered as he touched his fingertips to the wisps of gold atop the girl’s head. When she felt the weight of his palm, she struck out at him and shrank away. Hunter rose to his feet and retrieved his knife, shoving it angrily into its sheath. This time, though, his anger was directed at himself.

‘‘Come, Blue Eyes, we must take a walk and get out of the sun,’’ he said softly.

She ignored him. Hunter settled the matter by tossing her over his shoulder as he had before. As a precaution, he slid his belt around so the hilt of his knife pressed against his belly. She didn’t struggle. Her sobbing had quieted. But her tears trickled down his back and burned into his skin as he carried her. He was relieved that the fight had drained out of her. If she defied him again within sight of his men, he would be left with no choice but to chastise her.

A grim scowl settled on his brow.
Habbe we-ich-ket,
seeking death. It was a black wish that she had in her heart. And it was one he could not grant her. Surrendering to him was the only choice she had, the only choice he could offer her.

The evening air was as thick as syrup, hot and sweet with smells of summer, not a breath of breeze to stir the trees. Loretta sat with her sensitive back pressed to the silvered trunk of a stunted oak and stared into the twilight, murky with smoke from the Indians’ cooking fires. Though hours had passed since her confrontation with Hunter, she still shook when she thought of it. She realized now that she would never succeed in making him kill her.

She felt hollowed out, sucked dry, exhausted. Except for the fear, building pressure within her like steam caught under a kettle lid. The Indian with the burned face—Hunter’s cousin—had been hovering at a distance all afternoon, a vulture waiting to feed on carrion. Every time Hunter left her alone, he watched her, an unholy gleam in his eyes as his gaze traveled slowly over her body. Once, he had unsheathed his knife, smiling at her as he tested the blade with his thumb. She had known what he was thinking. Driving
him
to murder would be easy enough. The problem was, she wanted to die quickly, not inch by inch.

For seven years Loretta had struggled to stay one step ahead of the memories. Seven years of running. Seven years of terror every time she saw dust on the horizon. Now, what she had dreaded most had happened. This was reality, and somehow she had to deal with it. No more running. No way to escape.

A blink away from tears, Loretta hugged her knees more tightly, determined not to cry. She wouldn’t give Hunter the satisfaction. The miserable bastard. He had laughed at her. It had taken all her courage to hit him. Never in her life had she been so scared. Surrender with dignity, he had told her. Why wouldn’t he let her die with dignity?

Comanches didn’t have feelings like white people did. No compassion. They were subhuman, and even that was being kind. They disemboweled people. They bashed babies’ heads on rocks. They stole and raped little girls, slowly burning off their noses and ears with hot coals. Only monsters did such things.

She and Hunter were enemies; that she understood. He hated her. She understood that even better. But deadly enemy or not, hated or not, Loretta never would have laughed at him if their roles had been reversed. She might have obliged him and slit his throat, dad-blame him, but she wouldn’t have laughed.

She hated him more than she had ever hated anyone—so much that during the course of the afternoon, she had imagined murdering him in a dozen inventive ways. Not that she’d get a chance or that she would do it even if the opportunity presented itself.
Make no grief behind you.
She had her family to think of. Nothing could induce her to jeopardize Amy and Aunt Rachel.

At the moment, Hunter was gone, probably down at the river getting more water. As before, the others watched her during his absence. Some were preparing their evening meals. Others visited or tossed dice. But regardless of what they were doing, they kept her under constant surveillance. Guarding captives was routine to them, she supposed. The few they didn’t butcher were traded to the Comanchero for goods and rifles. The Comanchero either sold the poor souls across the border or ransomed them back to their families for a tidy profit.

Loretta sighed. Though her luck couldn’t last, she had to admit she had received far better treatment than she had expected. The Comanche’s repeated applications of grease and mullein juice had made her sunburn feel better. Now, instead of burning everywhere, she itched. Probably from fleas.

She looped her arms around her knees again and shivered, a sure sign that her fever wasn’t completely gone. Laughter floated through the air, falling softly around her. The sound made her feel so lonely. She missed Amy and Aunt Rachel. Had they gone for help? Or was Uncle Henry just waiting for a border patrol to happen by?

If a border patrol was out searching for her, it was probably en route to the Colorado River, following the false trail the Comanches had laid. Hunter knew the border patrol would think he had gone west or northwest, deep into Comancheria. So instead he was on the Brazos, almost in their laps.

A shadow moved to Loretta’s left, and she leaped with a start. As the Comanche walked toward her, she let her gaze trail the length of him. The cut on his shoulder from Aunt Rachel’s bullet looked almost healed, maybe because his skin was so burnished. His flat nipples were as dark as his hair. And she had never seen so much muscle.

He hunkered down and extended a cup to her. Having him so close made her feel claustrophobic—made him seem larger. She pressed her knees together. Looking at the water sharpened the ache in her belly. She couldn’t drink another drop. But how could she tell him? She raised her left hand and, using the fore and middle fingers of her right hand, made a walking motion across her left palm. Then she pointed to the bushes.

Hunter watched her and grunted,
‘‘Hein?’’

Stupid Comanche.
She jabbed a finger at the cup, then placed a hand over her stomach and shook her head, trying to look pained, which wasn’t too great a task. On top of her physical discomfort was the nagging realization that this savage ruled her every move.

‘‘You would like to make a walk?’’ He lifted one shoulder in an eloquent shrug and shoved the cup toward her. ‘‘You will drink first.’’