Bonds, Parris Afton (17 page)

Reluctantly Anne lifted her gaze to meet the
heavy-lidded eyes, only to feel aflame of scarlet flash over her skin under
Brant's close scrutiny. "The fever," she faltered. "You needed
to be sponged off ...I was going to bathe you."

"Oh?" he asked with a weak smile, as at
last he closed his eyes, releasing her from their imprisoning gaze. "Was
that what you had in mind?"

No proper retort came to her, and she was glad he
seemed to have drifted off again into a semiconscious sleep. She looked
helplessly at his exposed organ thrusting through the parting of the pants.
Coward, she scolded herself, as she hastily pulled the buffalo hide up over his
nudity.

With resolution she turned her attention toward the
onion poultice simmering in the fireplace. Using the damp rag, she lifted the
spider skillet by its long handle, removing it from the hot coals to cool. When
she lifted the lid, the reeking odor of the onions filled the room. And with
the odor came a sudden nausea. Anne clamped the back of her hand across her mouth,
stifling the stench, while she inhaled her own skin's scent. But even that did
not seem to help, as her stomach churned alarmingly.

She hurried from the cabin. Closing the heavy door
behind her, she leaned against it and inhaled in great gasps the sweet air.
What had overcome her? Even the overwhelming odors of freshly butchered pork or
rank cabbage or recently singed chicken had never unsettled her.  Perhaps her
nerves were telling on her after all these months.

Anne forced herself to reenter the cabin, but left
open the door so that the crisp autumn air could permeate the room. Strips of
cloth for fresh bandages would be needed, and she crossed to the large, iron
sea chest at the foot of Brant's bed. The unlocked lid lifted easily, releasing
the musty odor of things long unused.

Anne's gaze ran over the ruffled shirt, a finely
made coat of dark blue broadcloth, the red silk cravat―clothing she
hardly expected a man like Brant to wear. Even more unusual was the worn book tucked
into one comer. She picked it up. "
The Pilot
" she read, by
James Fenimore Cooper. Gently she lifted the cover. "Never forget your
heritage ... Father," was inscribed on the flyleaf.

Feeling as if she were trespassing, Anne let the
cover drop closed and rummaged deeper through the clothing for coarser cloth to
bind the wounds. It was then that her hands brushed over the delicate satin.
Unable to resist herself, she drew the material forward. A white satin wedding
dress. Mechlin lace sleeves and seed pearls set it off―one of the
loveliest gowns she had ever seen. There were other fashionable creations at
the bottom of the trunk, but none held her attention as did the wedding dress―and
the dried, withered bouquet of daisies and baby's breath.

Half lost in reflection on this revelation of
Brant's past, Anne finally found a cotton camisole that would serve for bandage
strips, and firmly closed the trunk and its secrets.

And yet, Brant remained more of a mystery than ever
to her.

The onion poultice had cooled, and she began to make
the plaster. When it was ready, she carried the offensive onion-soaked cloth,
along with Brant's knife, over to the bed. His breathing seemed easier,
steadier. But he did not awaken as she sat down beside him. Gingerly she cut away
the blood-caked strips of cloth from about his shoulder. More than once she had
to jerk a strip that clung to the encrusted wound, and she would wince when
Brant moaned in his sleep. The puckered flesh around the wound was an unsightly
red; yet, from what little she knew, gangrene did not appear to have set in,
for there were, no radial streaks.

She lay the hot plaster over the laceration, and
Brant's eyes flew open. He stared at her unseeingly for a second before his
lids dropped once more. Then came the most difficult part, rebandaging the
wound. Brant's large, rock-solid body was almost impossible to move, but at
last the bandages were secured about the inflamed shoulder.

Wearily, she began to clean up the mess. One of the
last things she did was to prepare coffee, setting the battered pot over the
hot coals; then she collapsed on the narrow space of bed next to Brant's
sprawled form, not caring at that point how improper her action was. After all,
she thought tiredly, a wry smile curving her lips, was she not his wife?

When Anne next awoke it was not quite dark. The
pungent smell of coffee filled the room. Beside her, Brant lay on his stomach
in a deep, restorative sleep. One sinewy arm was thrown across her, and she
tentatively touched the skin, finding it cool. With as little movement as
possible, she disengaged herself from his constraining limbs.

She poured the steaming coffee into a cup with a
broken handle, and took it back to Brant. But when she gently shook his good
shoulder, he sprang up to a sitting position, as if prepared to do battle with
the enemy. His gaze fell on her, and he made a grin that was more of a grimace,
as he ran his hand through his rumpled hair.

"You stayed," he said, taking the cup she
handed him.

"Aye―I said I would."

"Why?"

"I thought I explained it all to you." She
turned back toward the fireplace. "That I owe you at least this much, and―"

"That's a crock full of shit, Anne."

She fumbled for another cup. "I told you,"
she mumbled.

"Out here time's too short―and life's too
dangerous―for the games your kind play."

Shaking, Anne poured the coffee. "And just what
are my kind, Mr. Powers? The kind that won't survive, that'll age before their
time? Well, let me tell
you
something. Your kind bore me! You can't bear
to see anyone else enjoy life because you don't know how to! And that's another
thing―" Anne whirled on Brant only to find him already asleep, the
cup balanced perilously on his flat stomach.

The anger went out of her, and she crossed to him,
taking his cup and setting it aside with her own. "And that's another
thing," she said softly to the sleeping man who looked more like a little
boy playing Indian. "In spite of everything, you're right. And if I can't
be that honest with myself, then I'm still the little girl Delila always called
me."

With that Anne curled up beside the frontiersman and
went to sleep.

This time when Anne awoke, Brant was gone. At first
she was frightened, thinking he had left her there alone to make her way back
to civilization as best she could. But the sight of his rifle and pistol told
her he had not gone far, only taking with him the knife he always carried.

Another day had dawned, and the September sun was a
bright lemon yellow. All thought of Brant left as the desire for a bath grew in
Anne, and she moved eagerly in the direction of the rock-bottomed pool she had
glimpsed the day before. However, Brant had had the same idea, and he stood
before her now, knee-deep in the crystal clear water, rubbing sand abrasively
on his arms.

For one long moment Anne stood at the crest of the
hill, paralyzed by the beauty of the man. His broad chest tapered to slim hips
and long, well-formed legs. The entire body was sinewed with muscles, and
despite its leanness its perfect symmetry bespoke its excellent physical
condition. Anne remained rooted in fascination and did not blush this time as
Brant, sensing her presence, turned slowly to face her.

If she thought Brant would make it any easier on
her, he did not. He did nothing―only watched her and waited. At last all
her pride and reserve were put aside, and she moved toward him, her fingers
working carefully at the buttons of her shirt. At the water's edge her pants
dropped to her feet, and she stepped out of them. The water was shockingly cold
as she waded in, but she continued until she stood before him, thigh-deep in
water and as naked as he.

"I've finished playing games, Brant. I want
you. What I'm doing may be wrong―but I think to continue to lie to myself
is even more wrong." She held up her arms to him.

The brown eyes watched her through narrowed lids,
studied her, as if searching in the gray depths of her eyes for the truth. And Anne
was suddenly afraid he would turn away―reject her. But, as if satisfied
with what he read in her face, he took her in his arms. Yet before his mouth
could close over hers, she drew her head back so that she could see the gold
flecks reflected in his eyes by the water.

"But I want you to know now―I don't love
you, Brant. My love has been―and always will be―for the man that
has held my heart since I was a child."

"I can wait," he said.

"Then you'll wait forever."

Brant pulled her back into the safekeeping of his
arms. There was only the gentle rippling of the water to tell of their coming
together. There were no acrobatics, no twisted maneuverings. Only the
inevitable, unhurried coupling. For Anne there was no holding back, nor any
sense of violation. She wanted  Brant and knew he wanted her. And there was something
else―a sense of fulfillment―that pervaded her as their union came
to a climax in a rainbow of explosive passion. A sense of fulfillment that
continued long after Brant, favoring his wounded shoulder, carried her from the
pool's edge and laid her down on the warm ledge that protruded over the deepest
part of the water.

Anne stirred at last from her contentment to watch
the incredibly beautiful butterfly that settled in the hollow of her
outstretched arm. "It's a Monarch," Brant said softly so as not to
disturb it. "They migrate from Canada each year about this time."

She looked up quickly at Brant, surprised at his
knowledge. But she was reluctant to ask him any questions, to know more of him
than she already did. That way it would be easier when the time came to part.

She stretched, feeling no embarrassment now at her
nudity. "I'm hungry."

Brant watched her, marveling silently at the ripe,
faintly-veined globes that invited a man to cup one in each hand, the narrow
waist that both of his hands could span, and the long, golden-tanned limbs that
came together in the soft thatch of hair the color of pale fire. Yet she had
little of Celia's voluptuous charms. What was it about her that attracted him
so―above all other women?

Perhaps it was her resemblance to Laura. They both
had the same refined, haughty bone structure to their lovely faces, the same
regal bearing, the same delicate build. But there the similarity ended. For
Anne had a stronger nature, had succeeded in surviving in Texas where Laura had
not. And yet, Anne, like Laura, had made all too clear her low opinion of him.

Now that his head lay next to hers, he could smell
the clean, sweet, mossy smell of her hair, and it was all he could do not to
take her in his arms and make love to her again.

"I don't have an apple to tempt you with,"
he said, rising and pulling her to her feet with him. "But would you
settle for some persimmons for your hunger? They should be ripe by now."

"After living with the Comanches, you can't
imagine how delicious even the simplest foods are."

"Yes," he said, "I can." He held
out his hand, and Anne laid her hand in his. The two of them, as innocently
naked as the first two of God's creations, climbed the rocky incline and walked
along a grass-worn path that led past the cabin and over several sparsely
wooded hills. At their approach a jackrabbit scurried under a clump of juniper shrubs,
and an angus bull bellowed his protest before ambling away. Ahead of them a
dragonfly hovered, as if guiding them.

Brant nodded toward the flying insect. "Our friend
has something he wants you to see."

Anne looked at Brant questioningly but let him lead
her along a rock-strewn trail that wound to the top of the next hill. At its
crest Brant paused, and it was then she saw in the meadow before her a single,
live oak tree, spreading its branches like some giant mythological bird to a
diameter of more than three hundred feet. It was the largest tree she had ever
seen, and she stood gaping at it in awe.

"I've only seen one other like it," Brant
said, leading her closer, so that the two of them stood in the cool dimness beneath
the sheltering branches. "Near Gonzales, Sam Houston proclaimed Texas a
Republic beneath a tree like this one."

Anne's eyes were wide and shining. "There's a
tree almost this large in Bridgetown―near the Queen's House. They say the
baobab tree is over one thousand years old. I used to play in its branches as a
child. It was my enchanted tree. Anything could happen there."

She released Brant's hand and knelt on the ground,
running her fingers in the short, crisp grass before looking up at the towering,
umbrella-like branches. There was an aura of safety there. Security.

Brant came to sit beside her, and she sank back in
the grass, stretching like a feline before crossing her arms behind her head.
"This is where I'd come, Brant. Whenever I wanted to escape from the
world, this is where I'd run to."

Brant chewed on a blade of grass without looking at
the woman stretched out beside him. His eyes narrowed on the distant hills, and
he said in a low voice,  "I guess that's about what I did. Hid out here
like a wild thing. Until I met Rafael again on a trip into San Antonio. Then he
reminded me that there was a civilization out there. Still, this place draws me
back."