Comanche Moon (8 page)

“Koobe,”
she whispered. “Face.”

“Pui.”
He touched her hand to his eye.
Ka-ibuhu
was his eyebrow,
puitusii
his eyelashes.
Muubi,
his nose. He gave her a lesson in Comanche anatomy, and Deborah forgot to be afraid.

Until he sat back on his heels, his eyes holding her smiling gaze, and reached out to put his hand on her breast.

“Pitsii.”

Paralyzed, Deborah could not force the echo past her lips. His palm felt suddenly too hot against her skin, and he caressed her breast while he watched her. When she sucked in a deep breath, the motion pushed her breast into his palm, and she saw the starburst of reaction in his eyes. There was a quick flare, like a shooting star, then his lashes lowered to hide his eyes.

Quivering, Deborah felt trapped. The lowering sun took with it the warmth of earlier, and there was a loud, piercing cry overhead that drew Tosa Nakaai’s attention. He glanced up, then sat back on his heels.

“Tosa Nakaai,”
he said softly, and pointed.

Deborah looked up and saw a huge hawk circling gracefully overhead.

Its wings were outspread, and it seemed to just glide on the wind currents, almost as if suspended. The setting sun gilded the wingtips with lucid light.

There was a lethal beauty to it that left her admiring and frightened at the same time, and she realized suddenly that this man had the same effect as the bird for which he had been named.

“Tosa Nakaai,”
she whispered, startling him. “Hawk. We call that a hawk in English. They’re lovely. And deadly, just like you are. Hawk. The name fits you. You’re a predator, just as that bird of prey is a predator, and I’m afraid of you.” He was looking at her coldly, and Deborah tried to speak but couldn’t.

There was no anger in his eyes, but she was suddenly afraid she had said too much. Maybe he understood her tone, and she had somehow betrayed her fear and inexplicable longing. It was not a combination of emotions that would leave any woman comfortable, and the fact that she was this Comanche’s captive did not help.

Tosa Nakaai—Hawk—looked away from her. His profile was etched against the fading light like a cameo, pristine, pure, sharply defined. Shining black hair framed his face. The single braid and dangling feather brushed the muscled curve of his shoulder when he finally turned back to face her, and Deborah was startled by his frustrated expression.

“Kekunabeniitu,”
he said in a growl that left her in no doubt that she’d somehow touched a nerve. He rose in a fluid motion that made her cringe back toward the rough trunk of the pine tree.

He bent, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her to her feet in a swift move that made her gasp with fright. But he did not try to hurt her, only turned her around and took her with him back down the grassy slope to the camp.

When he left her at the entrance to his tipi, Deborah looked at Sunflower and wondered why. What had she done that had made him change so swiftly?

Chapter 6

Hawk caught his swiftest horse and vaulted astride the broad back, drumming his heels against its sides. The animal snorted, huge hooves digging into the earth and sending up thick clods as it broke into a run.

Both seemed to feel the need for a run, and the ragged edges of the moon offered plenty of light across the prairie as they flew like loosed arrows.

There was a fierce, exultant pleasure in the run, the release of pent-up energies and frustrations.

The night smells were familiar. Sharp-scented sage, the brisk fragrance of spruce, the hot smell of dust, all filled his nostrils and heightened his senses.

Deborah.

Her name was the driving beat of his horse’s hooves against the earth.

De-bor-ah, De-bor-ah, De-bor-ah,
the rhythm grew faster and faster, her name echoing in his mind with each strike of hoof, each fluid stroke of leg. Names were powerful; all Comanche knew that a person’s name had a special meaning, a special power all its own. That was why it was considered bad form to use a person’s name, an invasion of their privacy, or a way of lessening their power.

Hawk wasn’t that superstitious. A result of his earlier upbringing, no doubt. Yet, when she’d said his name, both in Comanche and in English, she’d somehow touched a part of him that no woman had yet glimpsed.

And he hadn’t taken her.

He’d meant to. After all, that was why he had taken her from the tipi up to the privacy of that slope, so that if she resisted, no one would hear. To resist was not shameful, but he’d not wanted others to hear her cries.

And he hadn’t taken her.

He wasn’t sure why not. He knew how to play the game of courtship, teasing, touching, and he knew enough about white women to know what made them respond. Yet, he had not been able to finish what he’d begun.

Somehow, her words had formed a wall around her that he could not bridge.

It would have shamed him.

Was there more to his attraction to her than just her delicate beauty? He wondered. For a moment, holding her small hand in his, marveling at the fragile delicacy of her bones and soft, creamy skin, he’d been reminded of his mother. Her hands had not been soft; hard work had roughened them through the years. Yet she had taken care of them, had rubbed them with ointment and cream and sometimes cried at the calluses marring palms and fingers.

It had been a searing memory, long-buried and presumed forgotten.

Until Deborah Hamilton had dredged it up for him, like a ghost from his past. He’d thought he could run from the memories, run from the things he did not want to confront, but he was wrong. He could not run from himself, and all the yesterdays had formed his todays.

Resentment flared in him, that he could cope with the brutal way of life, yet flinched at childhood disappointments. It made him feel less a man, and weak. Reining his horse to a slow trot, Hawk knew that he would have to come to terms with the woman. She could not be allowed to affect him.

Deborah wiped at her damp
forehead with the back of her hand. She was helping Sunflower with the never-ending tasks, and found it much more difficult than chores in Natchez. Of course, in Natchez there had been modern conveniences to ease the backbreaking labor involved in washing clothes. Paddle-boards and huge tubs, and even a machine that could be turned by use of a large crank made life easier at home.

But, washing clothes against rocks in a swift-moving stream was almost as effective. The soap was some sort of combination of animal fat and plant roots. They were far downstream from where the drinking water was drawn, and today, Deborah caught a glimpse of her cousin not far away. Her heart pounded fiercely, and she felt a surge of excitement. Had Judith seen her?

She had, and slowly, trying to disguise their intentions, the two managed to work their way toward one another.

“Judith,” Deborah whispered when they were close; she was bent over and pretending to concentrate on scrubbing a square of cotton. “Are you all right?”

“I’m surviving.” Judith’s bright hair was combed, but looked dark with dirt. Her face was pale, and there were scratches and bruises on her arms and face. “That she-wolf who keeps me close likes to pinch, but that’s the extent of my injuries. So far.”

“No, don’t look at me,” Deborah warned softly when her cousin started to turn toward her. “Pretend to drop something, and we can both bend again.”

“How are you faring?” Judith whispered. “I saw that tall Comanche drag you from camp one afternoon.” How did she explain? Deborah hesitated. “He hasn’t hurt me. Not like . . . like he could, I suppose. I mean, he only tries to talk to me, but he sounds so fierce, that he scares me at times.” Shuddering, Judith murmured, “He looks so savage that he scares me just looking at him!”

“I don’t think he’s that savage,” Deborah said, then could have laughed at her words. Was she defending him? The strange look Judith threw her made her flush and try to explain. “He’s been kind at times, though I know that sounds odd.”

“Somehow, I thought he was . . . uh, taken with you. I mean, I’ve seen him looking at you so intently.” Deborah pushed at a wave of hair blocking her vision and slanted a glance at her cousin. Judith looked concerned and puzzled, and she had to laugh ruefully.

“I have no idea what’s in his mind. All I know, is that he has not harmed me. Yet.” A frown furrowed her brow. “At times, when I wake up, there are unexpected gifts. A hairbrush, for instance. Moccasins when my shoes fell apart. Two satin ribbons for my hair. I know he brought them. No one else would. Yet I know he’s waiting for something.”

“We need to escape before something happens to you,” Judith said. She glanced around cautiously. “So far, we’ve been lucky.”

“Let’s try to meet again soon. Can you get close to me at the stream tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll try. But we have to be careful. If one of them notices us talking together, they’ll be more watchful.” With a quick, soft good-bye, the cousins moved apart in an aimless motion. To a casual observer, it would have seemed innocent.

To the man standing up on the hill, it was a forewarning.

Sunflower studied the toes
of her moccasins, and Hawk watched the pouting curve of her lower lip as she reflected. Her head lifted, dark eyes appraising him.

“But why can’t I practice my English on her? It could do no harm.”

“I do not wish it.”

“It would make things easier.”

“Easy is not always the best way.” Hawk felt a surge of impatience.

Normally, he was quite patient with his young sister. It surprised him that he suddenly felt like boxing her ears. “Do not disobey me,” he warned when the girl gave a heavy sigh and looked away from him. Her startled reply was evidence that she was aware of his tension.

“I would not do so.”

“You like her.”

Sunflower nodded.
“Haa.”
She seemed to struggle for words, then said,

“She is
kesósooru—
very gentle. And she does not screech, or whine, or complain like others I have known. She is different.”

“Yes. She is different. Do not allow your sympathy to make trouble for her. I have not hurt her.” Sunflower looked suddenly very adult and flashed him a sly glance. “But you want her in your robes.” Making his voice stern, Hawk growled, “It is not seemly for a young maiden to speak of such things. Shall I tell old grandmother and have her take a switch to you?”

Sunflower laughed, mischief dancing in her dark, liquid eyes. “She would have to catch me first.”

“I could catch you for her.” Sobering, Sunflower said uncertainly, “You would not do that.”

“Do you wish to test me?” She shook her head, disappointment shadowing her pretty face. “I do not think so. You look very fierce when you speak of
Eka-paapi.”
Hawk stared at her.
Eka-paapi.
Red head. It was appropriate enough, but he would not have given her a Comanche name. It was too personal. Too permanent. Irritation made his voice harsher than usual, and Sunflower backed away from him when he spoke to her.

“Go back to my tipi and stay with her. Do not let her from your sight. It will go bad for you if she leaves here, and you could have stopped her.” Sunflower paused. “That is why you are so angry? Do you think she will leave you?”

“This is not a matter to discuss with children,” Hawk said stiffly, and saw the hurt flare in his sister’s eyes. He said nothing to ease it. She must believe that he would be very angry with her if Deborah escaped the village.

That would make her doubly vigilant.

Hawk watched as Sunflower stomped toward his tipi. It was set slightly apart from the others, and those in the village had come to accept his strangeness. He did not stay with his father, sister, and the old mother of his father’s late wife, but had always kept his own lodge. He liked his privacy, liked being alone. Since Deborah had come to the camp, however, he’d spent his nights in his father’s lodge, or outside on a robe beneath the stars.

If he went into his own lodge to sleep, he would not be able to resist pulling her beneath his robes, and he had to prove to himself that he could stay away from her. A faint, wry smile slanted his mouth. It had come to this, then, that he would allow a woman to dictate his habits. And she didn’t even try. In fact, she would be astonished if she had any idea that her presence disturbed him to the extent that he avoided her.

A hard knot coiled in his belly, and Hawk fought a surge of anger at himself and the woman who governed his actions without knowing it. She was a sickness, and he would ease himself on another. That would blunt the edge of his need, and put him in control again. Yes. That is what he would do.

There were women in camp who found him favorable.

Sunflower thrust a basket
at Deborah.
“Kima.”
By now, Deborah knew that meant to come. She nodded, and slid her feet into the soft deerhide moccasins she’d been given. Hawk had brought them to her, shoving them into her hands without a word, his face set and hard. Only Sunflower’s muffled giggle had alerted her to the fact that his thoughtfulness meant more than just protecting her feet. It was thought-provoking.

“Panatsayaa,”
Sunflower said when Deborah rose to her feet and took the empty basket.

Blackberries. Or raspberries. Deborah grew confused at the similarity of names. She assumed it would be blackberries they were to pick. And she was never certain when one of her attempts to mimic Sunflower’s Comanche language would send the girl into peals of laughter. Sometimes, she was able to understand what she’d said wrong—as in
wura
for “thank you” when it really meant mountain lion. It would be easy to get into real trouble in a conversation, she could see that.

The sun beat down fiercely, and Deborah wondered with a sigh why Sunflower had chosen such a hot morning to search for berries. Late afternoon would have been better. It was cooler then. Insects buzzed annoyingly close, and she was grateful for the cool clothes she wore. If she’d still been clad in petticoats, drawers, chemise, and high-necked dress, she would have fainted from the heat. There were some things that the women she’d known could benefit from, and that was the comparative freedom of dress the Comanche women enjoyed.