Comanche Moon (19 page)

The grin set her off balance, and again she averted her face. He shoved a piece of the meat under her nose.

‘‘The rabbit, he is not
to-ho-ba-ka,
the enemy. He is
tao-yo-cha,
a child of Mother Earth, eh? You can eat him. It is not surrender when we eat the gifts of Mother Earth.’’

The smell of the rabbit wafted up Loretta’s nostrils and set her mouth to watering. Against her will, her gaze riveted on the pink, juicy meat. Hunger pains knotted her middle. She felt her resolve slipping. What did she hope to prove, anyway? That she would fight to the dying end? Even if she did, who would know? She would, of course, but pride wouldn’t fill her belly.

Hunter pressed the offering closer. ‘‘You will take him? He belongs to no one.’’

The smell was nearly too much to resist. But, wincing as her sore buttocks touched the pallet, she sat up and once again refused the meat. He grunted in disapproval and sat beside her on the fur. In the ensuing silence she could hear his jaw popping as he chewed. Nothing on God’s earth had ever smelled as good as that rabbit.

‘‘You will eat nuts and berries?’’

Loretta shot him a look and then glanced toward his collection of leather bags, recalling the mixture he had poured onto her palm earlier. Pride rose like gorge in her throat.

‘‘You will walk backward in your footprints, eh, and go forward again a different way? My
ner-be-ahr,
mother, gathered the berries and pecans. Warrior, my brother, found the honey tree. Gifts from Mother Earth, eh? Like the rabbit.’’

The smell of the meat wafted to her nose. She stared straight ahead. She couldn’t afford to give in.

As if he sensed how fragile her willpower had become, Hunter pushed to his feet and went over to his bags to get the pouch and a gourd canteen. When he returned he loosened the drawstring and set the bag on the fur between them. After scooping out a handful of the fruit-nut mixture for himself, he gestured for her to do the same.

When she made no move to acquiesce, he said, ‘‘Hm, it is good, eh? You will take a little. It will not sicken your gut.’’

Tears welled in Loretta’s eyes. Who had said the flesh was weak? Not true. Needs of the flesh dictated. The thirsty drank. The cold sought warmth. And the starving ate.

She could almost taste the bittersweet pecans filling her mouth. She wished she could devour everything in the bag. He offered her the canteen of water. She hesitated, then declined. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he realized she didn’t intend to eat or drink. Not this morning, not ever. There would be a show-down. She dreaded that. But there were some things even he couldn’t force her to do.

While he finished his meal, Loretta consoled herself by hugging her knees, acutely aware that he watched her. A meadowlark warbled nearby, its clear voice ringing sweetly. She focused on the sound and tried to pretend the Comanche didn’t exist. It was an impossible feat. Leaves above them danced in the sunlight, casting flickering splashes of gold upon the ground. She studied the patterns, wishing he would leave. Wishing she were someplace else. Anyplace else.

When she could bear his silent perusal no longer, Loretta forced herself to turn her head. His indigo eyes met hers, reflecting the shadows and sunlight, shifting, elusive, impossible to read. His features, carved in burnished copper, offered no clues. The wind caught his hair and draped it in dark wisps across his face, catching it in his long lashes, but still he studied her with an unblinking intensity. No trace of laughter showed in his expression, but she had the feeling he was amused by her.

Her heart leaped when he suddenly stood up. He went to his saddle packs to put away the food pouch. A moment later he returned with a long rope. With deft hands he looped one end of it into a slip knot and lowered the noose over her head.

As he shoved the knot snugly against her throat, he said, ‘‘We will make a walk.’’

Loretta cast a horrified look at the leash.

‘‘You do not surrender so good, Blue Eyes. The tether is wisdom. No fighting the big fight in the bushes, no honey talk, no lies, no happy crows, and no dead ponies.’’ He gave a light tug. ‘‘
Keemah,
come.’’

Loretta wondered if he would strangle her if she sat tight. Peering up at his harsh countenance, she found she didn’t have the courage to find out. She pushed to her feet and walked meekly beside him toward the brush.

Except for closely guarded walks into the bushes, Loretta spent the remainder of the day sitting in the shade of the oak, under the constant supervision of her captor. She suffered his ministrations to her sunburn with hopeless passivity, the possibility of escape gone from her mind. He was unfailingly kind, which, instead of soothing her, served to increase her trepidation. He had to be toying with her. She didn’t know what to expect of him from one moment to the next.

Along about dusk the monotony was broken by a thunder of horses’ hooves. Another dozen warriors rode into camp, dismounting in a cloud of dust. Loretta watched them with detachment. Surrounded as she was by so many savages, a few more or less didn’t make much difference to her. One rider had remained on his horse. She focused on him, then straightened, her pulse accelerating.
Tom Weaver?
She threw a startled glance at Hunter, who had been feeding the fire. After returning her regard a moment with those unreadable eyes of his, he strode to greet the newcomers.

A dozen questions sprang to Loretta’s mind. Why hadn’t Tom been killed? If those other Indians had been holding him prisoner all this time, where had they been keeping him? And why had they brought him here? To kill him? She clasped her knees and dug her fingernails into her skin. She couldn’t bear it if they tortured him in front of her. Yet what could she do to stop them? She couldn’t even save herself.

After conversing with the other Indians, Hunter seized Tom’s horse’s bridle and led both horse and rider back to his camp. Loretta studied Tom. A livid bruise slashed his cheekbone above his beard. An angry red rope burn encircled his throat. His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, the edges of the rent soaked with blood. He looked terrified—a weak, quivery terror that she understood all too well.

Hunter cut Tom’s feet free and hauled him off the horse. Tom staggered and nearly fell. Hunter steadied him, then steered him to the fire, where he pressed down on his shoulder to make him sit. Tom fastened his attention on Loretta.

‘‘You okay, girl? Have they—’’

Hunter thumped Tom low on the back with the inside of his moccasined foot. Tom bit off the words, his blue eyes searching hers. Loretta knew what he was wondering. She started to signal a reply, but Hunter watched her. Even though she knew Tom would think the worst, she bent her head. If she angered the Comanche, he might retaliate by harming Tom.

‘‘You filthy, slimy bastards!’’ Tom cried.

Scarcely able to believe her ears, Loretta looked up just in time to see metal flash. Hunter pressed his knife to Tom’s throat and crouched next to him. Words weren’t necessary. One more sound out of Tom, and Hunter would kill him.

She rose to her knees. The sound she made, slight though it was, drew the Comanche’s attention. She lifted her hands in silent supplication. The air thrummed with tension. Then, very slowly and deliberately, Hunter withdrew the knife from Tom’s larynx and returned it to its sheath.

Relief sapped the strength from Loretta’s limbs, and she sank back onto the pallet. Hunter tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, sending up a spray of live coals, a few of which fell in Tom’s lap. Tom scrambled backward and tried to shake them off, no easy feat with his hands tied behind him. In the process he lost his balance and toppled sideways.

Hunter squatted by the fire and draped his arms over his knees, his gaze fixed on the feeble flames while Tom struggled to sit back up. The Comanche’s eyes shone with that peculiar light Loretta was coming to recognize as laughter. After a long while he said, ‘‘When the sun rises, we will leave. You will be set free, old man.’’

Tom didn’t look as if he believed that.

His eyes still glowing with that somber amusement she hated so much, Hunter glanced at her. ‘‘I make no grief behind me.’’

The muscles along Tom’s throat stood out as he struggled to speak. When he finally did, the words came out in a squeak. ‘‘And what about her?’’

‘‘She goes with me.’’

‘‘I’ll b-buy her from ya. R-rifles, I can get rifles. And cartridges.’’

There was no mistaking the interest that bit of information sparked in the Comanche. Loretta’s heart soared with sudden hope. ‘‘You have rifles?’’

‘‘I—um, no. B-but I can git ’em.’’

Hunter studied Tom at length, then slid his gaze to Loretta.

‘‘Please,’’ Tom whispered. ‘‘There’s other gals you can steal. Don’t take this one. Let her go home to her family.’’ Breaking off, he licked his lips. ‘‘She ain’t done you no harm.’’

After a long while, Hunter returned his attention to the fire. ‘‘This Comanche does not sell his women. Not even for rifles. She goes with me.’’

‘‘Why this girl?’’

Hunter tossed a sliver of wood onto the flames. ‘‘Another will not do.’’

Silence fell over the three of them, as heavy as the darkness that soon descended. Loretta pressed her back to the tree and stared across the clearing. Hopelessness welled within her. Indians, everywhere she looked. Tom was as helpless against them as she. And every bit as scared. Seeing him quake in fear cemented her belief that the Comanches were not only treacherous, but impossible to escape. It would take an army to rescue them, and the army was off fighting the Northerners.

Tom was untied only long enough to partake of a meager meal of water and jerked meat. After the two men finished eating, Hunter hauled Tom to the tree where Loretta sat. Pulling his arms behind him to encircle the trunk, Hunter lashed the older man’s wrists with rawhide. Loretta was left beside Tom while their captor banked the fire for the night.

‘‘We’ll only have a few seconds, girl, so listen close,’’ Tom whispered with feverish urgency. ‘‘They be Quohadie, the fiercest and cruelest of the lot. He’ll take ya to the Staked Plains. And once he gets ya there . . . well, you know what that means.’’

Loretta nodded. Few white men ventured into that country. Few dared. Once Hunter got her that far from civilization, there would be no hope of rescue. Not that there was now.

‘‘Tomorrow when they set out, they’ll probably kill me. If they don’t, they’ll leave me without my horse. We’re too close to Belknap for them to risk me ridin’ for help.’’ He leaned against the oak and sighed. ‘‘I wish to God I had a gun.’’

Acid coated the back of Loretta’s tongue. She knew what he was thinking and threw a frightened look toward the fire to be certain Hunter wasn’t listening.

Tom made a hollow little plunking sound as he swallowed. ‘‘He’s bent on keepin’ ya. Ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna talk him outa it.’’ A brief silence settled over them. ‘‘You know what ya got to do, girl.’’

Loretta couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.

‘‘He’ll never let ya get near a weapon, so’s you can do it quick. That don’t figger in the games they like to play. Ya got no choice, girl. No choice at all. Goin’ without food and water is yer only way out. You know how I hate sayin’ this, but it’s better than—’’ He heaved a sigh. ‘‘Out there on them plains in this kinda heat, you won’t last more than three days without water, maybe even less. If I’m left alive, I’ll try to get help rounded up and reach ya before—’’ He peered at her through the gloom. ‘‘You understand what I’m sayin’, Loretta Jane?’’

Hysterical laughter bubbled in Loretta’s chest. Did Tom truly believe she was that stupid? That she hadn’t already considered her pitiful options and taken action?

‘‘You got no choice, girl. Don’t think ya do. He’s not treatin’ ya too bad right now, but as God is my witness, he will. Just pray you go before they start in on ya.’’ He swallowed again. ‘‘I don’t know why he’s held off. Maybe he’s takin’ you back to his village for some kinda ceremony or somethin’—to his squaws. Or maybe he just fancies a wife with golden hair. Either way, believe me when I say dyin’ of thirst will be kinder.’’

Loretta hugged herself. She understood. She understood all too well.

Moments later Hunter came back and jerked the furs out from under Tom’s legs. With his usual arrogance, he motioned for Loretta to follow him and walked away into the shadows at the far side of the fire. A flush stole up her neck as she rose to go with him. Tom was watching. That made her sleeping with the Comanche seem all the more shameful. She didn’t dare balk, though. Tom might pay with his life.

Hunter spread the pallet and motioned for her to lie next to him. Keeping her back to him, she stretched out on the fur, putting as much distance between them as the pallet allowed. She felt him wrapping a length of her hair around his wrist and intertwining it in his fingers. She prayed he wouldn’t touch her—not in front of Tom.

There was no God in heaven. A heartbeat later, Hunter’s steely arm encircled her waist, and his large hand splayed beneath her breasts. The fur abraded her sunburned thigh as he slid her toward him, but that sting was nothing compared to the degradation. What would Tom think? Loretta knew well what he’d think, and she couldn’t blame him. But what choice did she have?

Chapter 11

LONG BEFORE DAWN, THE COMANCHES broke camp and prepared to ride out. Despite Hunter’s assurance to the contrary, Loretta expected Tom to be killed before they left. Once again Hunter surprised her. Relieved of his horse and boots, Tom would have to walk home—a goodly distance in bare feet, but he wasn’t harmed. Loretta was even allowed to bid him good-bye. Hunter stood nearby, ever watchful.

Tears filled Tom’s eyes, catching the first anemic rays of sunlight, as Loretta walked through the misty ground fog toward him. He touched her hair, then groaned and pulled her into his arms for a fierce hug. ‘‘Ah, Loretta, I’m so sorry. If I was half a man, I’d be able to do somethin’.’’