Bonds, Parris Afton (9 page)

Anne shrugged her shoulders and rose from her
position beneath the honey locust that overlooked the springs, almost dry now
from the blistering August heat. She supposed she would never find out what had
become of her friends. She felt the tightness in her throat. Moonflower was
right, it did no good to look back.

Her bath finished, Anne knew she had to return to
the camp. She started back through the witheredgrass path that led past the
ghostly ruins of a Franciscan mission. This afternoon, more than usual, she
dreaded returning to the village. During the past eight days she had been
living with Louise Moonflower―away from the male sex, as was customary
during the time of an Indian woman's menses. And these times were a respite for
Anne―a respite from Morning

Sky's daggering looks ...and Pa-ha-yu-quosh's brutal
rapes.

But Anne could postpone her return no longer .She
had been away already three days longer than was necessary. This evening
Pa-ha-yu-quosh would be waiting for her, his obsidian eyes never leaving her as
she moved about his tepee, helping Morning Sky prepare the evening meal.

The path zigzagged upward toward the ruins, and Anne
paused midway, letting the cooling breeze blow dry her freshly washed hair
before she began to plait it.

It was then, with her head tilted to one side and her
fingers entwined in her hair, that she saw the Indian. With the blinding
sunlight on her face he was but a shadow standing on one part of the low adobe
wall that was still intact. He had been watching her, she was sure. He still
did―with a single-minded purposefulness that frightened her.

Anne paused, the first thought coming to her mind
that he was from a raiding tribe, for in spite of the bright sunlight she could
see he was not dressed like the Kwahadi men. He wore what looked like a blue
military shirt with his breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. His dark hair, not
quite shoulder length, was kept from his face by a red band tied around his
forehead.

If she retraced her steps, her escape would be cut
off by the high, rocky embankment on the other side of the creek. And she had
the feeling that the tall, lean Indian before her would swiftly run her down if
she tried to run along the creek. The best option, it seemed, would be to put
the mission ruins between her and the man, with every step bringing her that
much closer to the village and help.

Continuing to plait her hair, she moved off the
path, her steps going toward the far side of the mission. But through her
lashes she saw the Indian lithely jump from the wall and move toward her,
placing one foot in front of the other with a sureness in his movements that
she had come to recognize as belonging especially to the Indian race, as if
each step were planned with deliberation.

She ceased all pretense then, striking out for the
safety of the far walls in a paced run, as she had learned to do by watching
the Kwahadis. And at first Anne had the advantage, being closer to the
mission's far side. But she looked back once and saw he was gaining on her. She
quickened her stride. Her breaths came in gasps now, all sense of breathing
control forgotten in her panic. Had she lived this long, endured unspeakable horrors
this far, only to be killed and scalped by some renegade Indian?

The sun had set now behind the hill, leaving the
mission in an eerie half-light. It was Anne's only chance. She was still too
far away to scream for help, but she might possibly lose her pursuer within the
rooms of tumbled stones, delay him by hiding at least long enough until someone
came looking for her. Even with the sharp pain in her left side and the cramps
in her calves, Anne had enough presence of mind to laugh at the irony of her
situation―if she were trying to escape the Kwahadis, they would have been
all over her like a swarm of bees ,but where were they now when she wanted
them?

She sped past the adobe compound wall and dodged
into the first room she came to, which happened to be the chapel. Christ's
cross still hung askew from a portion of the wall. Knowing it might be the
first place he would look for her, Anne fled past the stone rubble that had
once been an altar and through a side door that swung crazily on its hinges at
her touch.

Quietly she ran across a rock-strewn courtyard to
another building. From the musty hay that covered the floor in spots, she realized
she was in the granary. She fled to the far corner and waited there, her lungs
gasping greedily for air while her eyes and ears strained in the dark silence.

There had been no warning noise, but his sudden
shadow in the doorway blotted out the faint evening light. He moved directly
toward her, as if he had known exactly where she would flee all along. Her eyes
never left the shadow-masked face, but her legs crumpled beneath her, and she
sank to the floor to await her end.

Powerful, muscle-corded arms enfolded her.
"It's all right, Mrs. Maren," the voice said, talking to her as if she
were a child or a person not quite sane. "It's all right, ma'am."

Brant

Unbelieving, Anne raised her gaze from the tattooed
line that boldly streaked the chin to meet the desert brown eyes that watched
her so intently. For a long moment she could bring herself to say nothing. Of everything
that had happened to her so far, Brant Powers' holding her, comforting her, was
the least expected. Neither could she bring herself to move, to stir herself from
the arms that held her. It had been so long since she had been held with
concern, with tenderness.

"Brant," she murmured and laid her head
against the wide chest. She could hear the steady, hard beat of his heart
beneath the coarse wool of the military, shirt. Just for a moment she would let
herself succumb to the pleasure of trustingly giving herself over to someone
else. No longer to have to be on her guard every moment, both waking and
sleeping. To let someone else take the burden of worrying what next to do in
order to survive.

"I've been watching your movements―for
the last day and a half―waiting until you were alone."

Then he had watched her bathing. Anne blushed and
was thankful for the darkness of the room. She pulled slightly away so she
could see his face. "Why?"

"I'm taking you with me."

"There's no way Pa-ha-yu-quosh will let me go,
Brant."

Sitting back on his heels, Brant released her, and
Anne at once missed the protection his arms afforded. She could sense he was
weighing his words before he spoke. "The Kwahadis would be all over us
before we could get five miles. But since I'm a brother of the Tonkawas ...the
chief of the Kwahadi might honor my claim to you―that you're my
wife."

Anne's eyes widened, but all she said was, "And
if Chief Iron Eyes doesn't?"

The white teeth flashed in the darkness. "Then
we'll have to fight our way out―something I've got an idea you're good
at."

Anne followed behind Brant as they walked through
the Kwahadi village. Unlike her first arrival, there was a heavy silence, The
children stopped their play, and the wives left off their gossip to watch. Even
the yelping dogs were silent. Afraid the others would see the fear in her eyes,
Anne trained her gaze on the bronze muscles that rippled in the thighs with
each of Brant's long strides.

When they reached Iron Eyes' tepee, Brant motioned
her to wait outside and spoke rapidly to one of the braves before being ushered
within. Anne kept her gaze on the cracked, parched earth before her,
desperately wishing she could hear what was being said inside. Then at last the
buffalo hide was pushed aside, and she saw Pa-ha-yu-quosh's stony face. He
indicated with a jerk of his head she was to enter.

After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw
that Iron Eyes sat in the center of the tepee before the firepit. In spite of
the evening heat, he was wrapped in a blanket. Sitting crosslegged on either side
of him were Pa-ha-yu-quosh and Brant. Brant ignored her.

"Your brothers, the Peneteka Comanche,"
Brant was saying, "have agreed to come to the Council House to talk with
our leader, Sam Houston, about a peace between our nations. How can the people
of Sam Houston put down their long guns in trust, if you will not even release
the wife of one of your own brothers?"

The chief said something which Anne could not
follow, and Brant put his right hand to the side of his head with his finger
toward the leather-colored hair, then made a downward sweeping movement.

Pa-ha-yu-quosh sprang to his feet, spewing furious
words. Iron Eyes frowned impatiently at his son. "Must you behave as a
squaw, my son? You bring me great shame." The chief faced Anne, and gray
eyes met gray eyes. "Firebrand says you are his woman, Ma-be-quo-si-tu-ma?
This is so?"

It took Anne a second to realize that Firebrand was
the same as Brant. She nodded mutely.

"You say you come as a brother,"
Pa-ha-yu-quosh spit. "Yet I see no such marriage markings to show you have
married her by the rites of our tribes!"

"We were married by the Black Robes,"
Brant said calmly.

"That is not enough! The white man's way is not
honored here."

"Do you speak for your father?" Iron Eyes
demanded angrily of his son, but turned to Brant. "You say you are married
in the way of the whites. But as a brother of the Tonkawa, will you also honor
your marriage?"

At last Brant looked at Anne. "Iron Eyes,"
he told her in English, "will only honor my claim to you as my wife if we
are married in the Indian manner. It isn't a pleasant ceremony." His brown
eyes watched her, colder, harder than any Indian's ever had. What choice had
she? Once more she nodded.

Pa-ha-yu-quosh's opaque eyes never left Brant. The
Indian's words came in staccato, as if each were a lance thrust into the heart
of his enemy ...the white man who walked and talked like an Indian. "I
will not give her up. I captured her. She is mine. I will fight you for
Ma-be-quo-si-tu-mal"

"This is my son's right," Iron Eyes said.

Brant shrugged. "I accept your son's challenge,
Iron Eyes."

In the flickering light of the torches Brant and
Anne came together in the center of the circle of the Kwahadi people. In the
darkness beyond the firelight nearly one thousand pair of eyes watched the
couple. An awesome silence pervaded the village. Iron Eyes came forward and
took Brant's left hand. Slowly the chief drew the sharp blade of his knife
across the back of Brant's hand. Blood sprang up like beads of sweat, yet Brant
never flinched.

Then Iron Eyes turned to Anne. Her heart drummed
with the anticipation of pain, but she wordlessly presented her hand to Iron
Eyes. As he had with Brant, Iron Eyes scored the back of her hand. And as the
blood formed a bright crimson line, the Chief of the Kwahadi Comanches took
both her and Brant's hands and joined them back to back. At that solemn moment,
as their blood mingled, Anne looked up to meet Brant's enigmatic gaze. It was
the simplest of ceremonies. But they were husband and wife, no less.

Pa-ha-yu-quosh stepped into the circle's center.
"I will kill the husband of Ma-be-quo-si-tu-ma now."

Anne was forced back into the ring of spectators.
Brant removed his shirt, then drew forth the knife sheathed in the left legging
of his moccasin. Warily the two men circled each other. The sweat glistened on
their chests, running in rivulets down the corded muscles of their stomachs. For
three unbelievably long minutes the two weighed each other.

The encircling crowd was tense in spite of the lack
of emotion on their expressionless faces. Anne herself felt the tension that
hovered over the crowd like an evil spirit, and her nails dug into the palms of
her hands. If Brant died, all hope for escape died with him. Nevertheless, she
stood as impassively as the others and watched the two combatants, awaiting the
outcome of her fate.

With lightning swiftness Pa-ha-yu-quosh took the
offensive. His knife cut across the space separating him from his opponent.
"Pei-da Ta'kae'keh!" He cried when a thin red streak appeared across
Brant's chest. "Death to the white man!"

Brant's eyes never left Pa-ha-yu-quosh. He moved to
the left, feinted with his knife as his leg shot out, twisting about that of
Pa-ha-yu-quosh. The Indian went sprawling in the dust. Brant dove on him.
Grunts exploded from the two. They rolled, one over the other, stirring up the
dust so that it was hard to distinguish the two. There was a sudden stillness.
Then Brant's knife gleamed against Pa-ha-yuquosh's throat. The Indian's body
went slack, waiting for the inevitable.

Brant looked toward Iron Eyes .The old man's face
was like carved granite. Every breath was held in suspense. Brant released his
hold on Pa-ha-yu-quosh and rose. "I give you your son's life, Iron Eyes,
in return for my wife."

There was only the slightest flicker in the old
man's eyes to indicate his relief. But when Brant turned away, Pa-ha-yu-quosh
sprang upward. Hatred contorted his face so that he looked like one of the
gargoyles that decorated the Old Town Hall in Bridgetown, and Anne screamed in
warning. Brant whirled, ducking, and drove home his knife, burying it to the hilt
in Pa-ha-yu-quosh's stomach .The Indian doubled over, then fell forward. The
death gurgle bubbled from his open mouth. His body twitched spasmodically.

Brant bent over Pa-ha-yu-quosh. His knife moved
expertly. In a few seconds he lifted the black-braided scalp and tucked it in
the band of his breechcloth before sheathing his knife.

Still no one moved. Anne tore her gaze from the
grizzly sight of Pa-ha-yu-quosh's mangled skull to meet Brant's dark eyes. He
crossed the open circle to her as Morning Sky gave a shrill animal howl and
threw herself on her husband's lifeless body.

"Let's go," Brant said and took Anne's
wrist, pulling her through the crowd that parted for them.

Anne stumbled after him, not quite believing the
savagery that she had witnessed. In the darkness Brant went unerringly .among the
hobbled Indian ponies to find his sorrel. He caught Anne by the waist, swung
her up on the horse, and mounted Indian style behind her.

She flinched away from the contact of his body.
"No," she whispered hysterically as the wet scalp brushed her thigh. "Don't―"

Brant's arm wrapped around her waist like a shackle,
and the breath shot from Anne in an expulsive rasp. "Shut up!" he
warned.

His moccasined feet dug into the sorrel's flanks,
and the horse sprang forward into the night. The Indian village fell behind
them. The desert floor with its sentinel shadows of cacti loomed up before
them. The cool wind whipped at Anne, reviving her. "Where are we
going?"

His voice came above her head. "Eventually
southeast. To San Antonio."

Anne tried to twist about in the saddle, but he held
her firmly. "You're not taking me home?"

"Does home mean to your husband―or
Donovan?"

"Why must you keep bringing up Colin's
name?" she demanded.

"I kind of thought it was Donovan you would be
interested in―since he offered the reward to find you."

Colin! Never had she given up hope. All along she
knew he would try and find her. "But then why aren't you taking me―"

"I've business in San Antonio."

"But you said Colin offered a reward to bring
me back."

"Nope. He offered a reward to find you. There's
a difference."

"Ohhh! You clod―you swine!" Anne
struggled to break free.

Brant sawed sharply on the reins, and the sorrel
reared its forelegs, pawing the air. Brant's muscled thighs touched those of
Anne's, and she could feel him bring the sorrel under control with only slight
pressure against the horse's flanks.

She heard the anger in his voice, barely held in
check. "Iron Eyes has lost his son. And as noble as the chief might be, it
won't take long before he decides to avenge his son's death. Now do you want me
to leave you here―'cause, ma'am, I really don't care much either way.
You'll only slow me down."

Anne turned her head upward, and in the harsh planes
of his face she saw no leniency. He had found her―and that was all he
needed to do to collect the reward money. It would do her little good to cry or
flirt or use any feminine wiles on him. "I have no choice, do I?"

"Doesn't seem so."