Comanche Moon (2 page)

When his mother had finished, her voice trailing into silence, Zack stirred at last. “I have to go.” Her eyes flew to his. “Go where?” she whispered in a pained voice.

“How will you live? You’re so young ...”

“I don’t know where. I have my rifle, and I’m a good shot. I’ll get by.” His words sounded heavy and tortured even to his own ears, and Amelia buried her face in her palms. “I’ll be all right, Mother,” he said softly, emotion quivering in his voice for the first time. “And I can’t stay here. Not anymore.

You know that.”

Amelia Banning Miles rose as slowly from her chair as if she’d just aged twenty years. She crossed to the cherry cabinet she’d brought with her from England and opened a drawer. Fumbling inside it for a moment, she withdrew a cloth bundle and turned back to her son.

“This was ... was his. He gave it to me when he set me free. He said he didn’t want to let me go, that I was a good wife.” A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. “I think, in his way, he loved me. But Daniel had roused most of New Mexico Territory, and the soldiers were so close that he knew he was endangering everyone in his tribe for a white captive. So he took me back. Daniel insisted that we sell our land and come to Texas. None of us knew about you at the time ...” She paused to clear her throat. “Then I found out, and thought—since there was a chance you might be Daniel’s child after all—” She jerked to a halt and thrust the cloth-wrapped bundle into Zack’s hands. “Your father gave me this and told me if I ever needed him, I was to show it. Any Comanche who saw this would know I was not to be harmed, and would take me to him. You may want to use it someday.” Zack took the bundle without unwrapping it. He felt nothing inside. No pain, no anger, nothing. Only a dull acceptance of what his mother had told him. He left that night, and a full moon shed bright light across the Texas plains as he rode his horse at a brisk trot. A Comanche moon, he’d heard it called, and he almost smiled at the irony. Life had a certain justice, he supposed.

Chapter 1

Sirocco, Texas

1871

A wedding is always a happy time. Or at least, that is what Deborah Hamilton had always believed. Yet somehow, her own wedding had left her exhausted, and she had to force herself to smile and nod at the well-wishers attending the grand wedding reception. It had to be just the strain of all the preparations that left her drawn and weary.

Her father had been planning this for months. All the important guests he’d wanted to impress with his improved circumstances were at the Velazquez hacienda for Deborah’s marriage to the heir of the Spanish fortune—except John Hamilton himself. But Deborah hadn’t expected her father to attend her wedding to Miguel.

Miguel. Deborah slid her gaze toward him and attempted to smile. The wedding festivities had left many men drunk, and her new groom was no exception. He swayed at her side with the effort to stand, and his lustrous dark eyes skimmed the crowd of dancers erratically. Deborah bit back a sigh.

She’d had to deal with inebriated men before, but never one that was her husband.

“Don Miguel,” she whispered when he staggered and she had to grab his arm to steady him, “perhaps you should sit down beside me for a while.” His gaze sought hers, and his mouth split in a grin as he hugged her clumsily. “You are anxious to lie with me,
sí?
And I thought my pale little bride would have to be coaxed into playing the part of a wife!” She winced at his crudity, but kept a polite, trained smile on her face as the young men with him laughed and made vulgar jokes. At twenty-three, Miguel was only three years older than she was, and she supposed she should feel fortunate. Her best friend in Natchez had married a man thirty years her senior, and had considered herself lucky that he still had most of his teeth.

Suitable men were scarce after the conflict between the states had ended.

Though the war had ended over six years before, it had left behind too many widows. Yes, Deborah Hamilton counted herself fortunate that her father had not married her to some impoverished gentleman with impeccable antecedents and empty pockets. Of course, that would not have been John Hamilton’s style. He appreciated money, and all the benefits that went along with it. He also appreciated the increased business his firm would receive with the Velazquez fortune as one of his investors.

Miles of the Velazquez rancho spread along the border between Texas and Mexico, and had once been a part of Mexico. Since 1847, it had been within the boundaries of Texas, thus losing some of its vast acreage after the peace treaty had set the Rio Grande as the southern boundary. But it was still a considerable size, and would make a formidable inheritance for the children she and Don Miguel would have. As her husband, Miguel would be able to lay claim to American citizenship, as would any child from their union, thus ensuring the future of the Velazquez rancho. Military rule in Texas had ended the year before, and now the years of uncertainty and battle with the American government would end. Yes, it all worked out wonderfully for everyone. Even Deborah.

She was reasonably content. Miguel was young, and if a bit crude and immature, he was handsome and courteous. It could have been much worse, especially for a well-bred young lady from Mississippi. Her lot in life should improve dramatically.

Deborah slid a glance toward her cousin Judith, who had accompanied her to Texas. An orphan, Judith had left nothing or no one behind. Perhaps Judith would find a husband soon, too. She was certainly pretty enough, with pale gold hair and bright eyes as blue as the wildflowers strewn across the wild Texas hills. Deborah prayed the move to Texas would be good for her.

A faint smile curved Deborah’s mouth as she saw her cousin flirt with a handsome young
caballero,
who bent over her hand with a gallant flourish.

There was a world of difference between her and Judith. Judith was ebullient and vivacious, where Deborah was quiet and reserved, betraying her mother’s English heritage. Deborah even spoke in the same soft, cultured tones her mother had used, with a trace of the English accent that Elizabeth Hamilton had kept until the day she died. Deborah’s quiet gentility often seemed at odds with the brilliant mane of russet hair she’d inherited from her father, and the soft brown eyes that could regard the world with a hint of mischief.

That gentility had made her acceptable to Miguel Velazquez, she knew.

Ordinarily, he would have wed a woman of his own class, who’d grown up in the strictures of Spanish life.

Miguel wrapped a heavy arm around Deborah and leaned close to whisper in her ear. His breath was spiced with tequila, and she turned her face slightly away as he said, “The night drags on,
amanté,
and I grow anxious for you. Come—let us hide from the others for a while.” A pang of nervous fear shot through Deborah, and she looked at him  with glazed eyes. No one had told her exactly what happened on a girl’s wedding night. All she knew, was that it involved extreme intimacy, and that little fact she’d overheard from one of the servants. Only her innate dignity kept her voice cool and steady.

“It would be an insult to leave our guests, Don Miguel. They expect us to lead the dancing shortly.” Loud music filled the air; guitars throbbed and horns soared while brightly attired guests whirled across the stone tiles of the huge patio lit with colorful lanterns.

“There are to be fireworks before the customary dance,” Miguel coaxed softly. His dark eyes flared with hot lights that made her quiver. “We can rejoin them then, and no one will even know we have been gone.” Deborah suppressed the urge to refuse, pressing her lips tightly together as she stared at him in dismay. Miguel was her husband. If he insisted, she must obey. It was what she’d been taught from childhood, what she expected.

Yet she had not expected that he would lead her to the shady arbor where grapevines curled tightly on wooden frames. It was remote and private, but she had thought he would take her to their elegant bedchamber.

“Don Miguel—here?” she murmured doubtfully as he stopped and pulled her close. Her head began to ache, and fear pounded through her even harder. She had thought there would be a maid to help her undress, to brush out her long russet hair and tie pretty ribbons in it. Then she would don the lovely nightdress she’d brought with her from Natchez. But this—this was so sordid, so demeaning.

“Sí,”
he was muttering thickly as he pushed her up against the wall of the arbor. His hand tugged clumsily at the bodice of her elaborate gown. “Here is just as good as anywhere else, my lovely wife. And we don’t have to wait for everyone to pay us compliments first. Or for the endless toasts that will be drunk before we can find our pleasure in bed.” Deborah tried to reconcile herself to the fact that he would not be dissuaded, but couldn’t keep from stiffening as he pawed at her. His hands pushed impatiently at her gown, ripping it in his haste and tearing off the intricate roses sewn onto the bodice and sleeves. She ground her teeth together and tried to think of anything but the moment and what he was doing.

Her lovely gown with seed pearls and silk roses adorning the skirt in tiers was pushed up around her waist, bunched in looping folds over her many petticoats. Miguel swore softly in Spanish, and his motions grew rougher and more impatient.

“All these clothes—
Madre
Díos!
Take them off now.”

“But Miguel—” Deborah gasped when he jerked at the laces holding her soft cotton drawers around her waist, and heard the rip of material. His fist closed around a wad of cloth as he tugged it free.

When his hand seared across the bare, quivering flesh of her stomach, Deborah closed her eyes. She barely felt his mouth on her lips, her cheek, and the arch of her throat as he tilted back her head. Night air whisked over her shrinking flesh when he pulled down the bodice of her gown, ripping the exquisite embroidery in the process. Miguel’s mouth traced hot, wet trails over her skin, and Deborah shuddered at the invasion, wondering how much worse it could get.

Even as her mind screamed
No!,
she knew that the worst was yet to come. She heard Miguel fumble with the buttons of his trousers, heard his panting breath as he swore softly at the delay. Then the hot, rigid press of his flesh against her bare thighs made her jump. Revulsion shot through her, and despite her vow not to protest, not to plead, she shoved hard at him with the heels of her hands.

“Miguel! Stop that—you must stop at once,
please.
Listen—the fireworks have begun. They will be looking for us to lead the dance . . .” He groaned. “Not yet, not yet. I go too fast . . . and you are not ready for me . . . I understand. Let me kiss you, so that you will be ready for me . . .” Not understanding what he meant, Deborah knew only that he wanted to kiss her, and she lifted her lips with a kind of desperation. That much she did not mind. A kiss, after all, was proper between a husband and wife.

Miguel’s mouth was wet, and his kiss searching as he held her close, her bare breasts crushed against his ruffled shirt front. Gold buttons on his vest dug painfully into her skin, and she tried to ease the sting by twisting away.

That only made Miguel hold her more tightly, his hands closing cruelly around her upper arms. He ground his hips against her, and reached down with one hand to lift up her skirts and stroke the downy triangle between her legs. When she shuddered, he grew more excited. Ignoring her cry of horror, he slid a finger into the soft heat of her body.

Never had Deborah imagined such shocking pain. It shot through her like a flame, and her nails dug into Miguel so hard she should have brought blood. He didn’t seem to notice it. He was panting, and dear God—he was trying to push his swollen organ into her, shoving her up against the wall of the arbor so hard she couldn’t move or even draw a breath.

As he strained against her, Deborah tried to remove herself from time and place. She heard Miguel curse vaguely, the words mixing with the loud pops of fireworks that Don Francisco, Miguel’s uncle, had bought for the evening’s festivities. They sounded faraway, muffled by the harsh rasp of Miguel’s breathing and her own smothered cries. Delighted screams rose in the distance as the fireworks exploded, and she felt a detached sense of dismay that she was not there to see the display.

The dark shadows in the arbor grew lighter, and she could see Miguel’s face now, taut and straining as he tried to plunge his rigid staff between her thighs and into her body. Her flesh resisted, her nails dug more deeply into his back as he shoved against her, and she heard him swear again.

Half-sobbing, Deborah saw Miguel lift his head, his dark eyes focusing on her face.

“Díos,”
he muttered, “I am sorry to hurt you.” He put up a hand to cup her cheek in a soft caress. She gave a moan that made him flinch.

Deborah saw his mouth open, but no words came out. He looked faintly surprised, a little puzzled, and then he was sliding limply toward the floor of the arbor. She stared numbly, not quite able to comprehend the swiftness of this change, unable to understand the small, neat hole just above his left ear.

Blood spurted from it, dripping down Miguel’s face as his body sagged uselessly against her legs. She stared at him stupidly.

“Miguel . . . ?”

Fireworks exploded again, a rattling firestorm that popped and popped.

Screams pierced the night more loudly, and this time Deborah understood.

They were not the screams of delight she’d thought, but screams of terror and pain. As Deborah crouched, frozen in the darkness of the arbor with her wedding gown still hanging from her bared breasts, she saw a shadow silhouetted against the bright background of rising flames and death.

Tenor stilled her voice, and she sat paralyzed as a painted, half-naked warrior stepped into the opening and looked down at her. Smoke filled the air and stung her eyes, and Deborah heard the jubilant yells of the raiding warriors rise high above the screams of death.

Chapter 2

The nightmare went on and on. Deborah Hamilton Velazquez was numb with exhaustion and fear. She was not alone. There were others who were captives, mostly women, and a few small children. All of them had passed the point of screams or protests in the past days, and simply endured. It was enough for the moment that they were alive.