Comanche Moon (13 page)

The seconds stretched into minutes. Loretta grew numb with cold. The Comanche grew tired of crouching and stretched out on the sandy bank, one knee bent, his upper body propped on one elbow so he could watch her. Loretta felt certain her blood had turned to ice. Shivers set in. Her teeth began to clack. And still he watched her, his mouth twisted into that mocking sneer she was coming to know so well.

When at last he sprang to his feet, she retreated a step, lifting her chin so the lapping water couldn’t reach her mouth. He bent to retrieve the buffalo robe and beckoned for her.

She knew by now that the word meant ‘‘come.’’ She shuddered and looked longingly at the fur he held.

‘‘Keemah,’’
he repeated. When she made no move to obey, he sighed.

Sinking lower into the water, Loretta accidentally took a mouthful and choked.

He glanced skyward, clearly exasperated. ‘‘This Comanche is not stupid. You would run like the wind if I took my eyes from you.’’

She shook her head. Frowning, he studied her for a long moment.

‘‘This is not
pe-nan-de taquoip,
the honey talk. It is a promise you make?’’

She nodded, her teeth chattering.

‘‘And you will not make a lie of it?’’

When she assured him she wouldn’t with another shake of her head, he dropped the fur to the ground and pivoted on one foot. She could scarcely believe he truly meant to keep his back to her. She stared at the broad expanse of his shoulders, at the curve of his spine, at his long, leather-clad legs. Like the wild animals he hunted, he was lithe and lean, his large frame padded with sleek, powerful muscle. If she tried to run, he would be upon her before she had gone more than a few steps.

Plowing her way through the water to shore, she kept her eyes riveted to his back. A small rock cut into the sole of her foot as she scrambled up the bank. She bit her lip and kept going, afraid to hesitate even for a second. By the time she reached him, her heart was slamming. She grabbed up the fur and slung it around her shoulders, clasping the edges tightly to her chest.

Standing this close to him, she could see the sheen of oil on his skin, the dark hair that dusted the crease of his armpits. She didn’t want to touch him. The seconds ticked past. Was his hearing so keen that he knew she was still behind him? She sensed he was waiting her out, testing her in some way she couldn’t fathom, proving his mastery over her. She worked one hand free from the heavy robe. So fast that she scarcely felt her fingertips graze his skin, she tapped his shoulder and snatched her hand back.

He turned to look at her, his gaze lingering a moment on her bare feet and legs. Humiliation scorched her cheeks. He stepped toward her, stooping as he did to catch her behind the knees and toss her over his shoulder. As Loretta grabbed his belt for support, she realized two things: the cold water had eased her headache, and the hilt of the Comanche’s knife was within her reach. . . .

Without stopping to think of the possible consequences, she reached out, imagining how it would feel to bury the blade into his back, to be free of him. Just as her fingers curled around the knife handle, he spoke.

‘‘Kill me, Yellow Hair, and my friends will avenge me. The blood of your loved ones will be spilled as slowly as sap drips from a wounded tree.’’ He kept walking and made no move to grab her hand. ‘‘My friends know the way to your wooden walls, eh? Make no grief behind you. It is wisdom.’’

Loretta jerked her hand from the knife, horrified by what she had nearly done. Her family. They could go back and kill her family. . . .

The other Indians crowed with laughter when Hunter carried her through camp. Through golden wisps of hair that had worked loose from her braid, Loretta spied the disfigured face of Hunter’s cousin. He flashed her a grotesque smile and reached under his breechcloth to fondle himself, his eyes glittering. Some other men standing near him began to laugh and gyrate their hips. The obscenity shocked her. The fact that Hunter said nothing filled her with dread. He clearly had no reservations about sharing her with his friends.

After Hunter lowered her onto her fur pallet, which she was swiftly coming to regard as her prison, she clutched the buffalo robe around her and rolled onto her side.
Make no grief behind you.
She felt like an animal caught in a snare—awaiting the trapper and certain death.

The sun burned through her closed eyelids, red and hot. Loretta heard Hunter walk a short distance away, heard him murmur something. His stallion nickered in response. She lifted her lashes and watched the Comanche go through the contents of a parfleche. He withdrew her ruffled drawers, the buckskin shirt he had worn to the farm yesterday morning, and a drawstring pouch. As he walked back to her, he pressed her bloomers to his nose and sniffed.

He met her gaze as he drew the lavender-scented cloth away from his face. For the first time, he smiled a genuine smile. It warmed his expression so briefly that she might have believed she imagined it but for the twinkle that remained in his dark eyes as he knelt beside her.

He dropped the clothing onto the fur and held up the pouch. ‘‘Bear fat for the burn. You will lie on your face.’’

Their gazes locked, laughter still shimmering in his. Seconds dragged by, measured by the wild thumping of her heart. He wanted to rub her down? Oh, God, what was she going to do? She clutched the fur more tightly.

Hunter shrugged as if her defiance bothered him not at all and tossed down the pouch. ‘‘You are sure enough not smart, Blue Eyes. You will lie on your face,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Don’t fight the big fight. If my strong arm fails me, I will call my friends. And in the end, you will lie on your face.’’

Loretta imagined sixty warriors swooping down on her. As if he needed more of an advantage. Hatred and helpless rage made her tremble. Hunter watched her, his expression unreadable as he waited. She wanted to fly at him, scratching and biting. Instead she loosened her hold on the buffalo robe and rolled onto her stomach.

As she pressed her face into the stench-ridden buffalo fur, tears streamed down her cheeks, pooling and tickling in the crevices at each side of her nose. She clamped her arms to her sides and lay rigid, expecting him to jerk back the robe. Shame swept over her in hot, rolling waves as she imagined all those horrible men looking at her.

She felt the fur shift and braced herself. His greased palm touched her back and slid downward with such agonizing slowness that her skin shriveled and her buttocks quivered. So focused was she on his touch, on the shame of it, that several seconds passed before she realized he had slipped his arm beneath the fur, that no one, not even he, could see her.

Relief, if she felt any at all, was short-lived, for he laved every inch of her back with grease and then tried to nudge her arms aside to get at the burned skin along her ribs. She resisted him, but in the end his strength won out. When his fingertips grazed the swell of her left breast, her lungs ceased working and her body snapped taut.

He hesitated, then resumed the rubbing, diving his fingertips between her and the fur to graze her nipple. She wasn’t burned there, and she knew he pressed the issue only to drive home his point. She belonged to him, and he would touch her whenever and wherever he pleased. A sob caught in her throat. Once again she felt his hand pause. His gaze burned into the back of her head, tangible in its intensity.

At last he withdrew his arm from under the fur and sat back. Loretta twisted her neck to look up at his dark face, not bothering to wipe away her tears, too defeated to care if he saw them. He set the leather pouch on the pallet beside her. For an instant she thought she glimpsed pity in his eyes.

‘‘You rub the rest, eh? And put yourself into the clothes.’’

With that, he rose, presented his broad back to her, and walked away to crouch by the only remaining fire. Loretta clutched the fur to her breasts and sat up, not quite able to believe he had left her alone to dress.

Chapter 8

HUNTER CROUCHED BESIDE THE FIRE, A cup of coffee cradled in his palms, his gaze fixed on the shifting flames. He could see his yellow-hair from the corner of his eye and knew every time she moved, every time she looked at him. Somehow she had managed to stay covered with the fur while she pulled on his shirt and her ruffled breeches.

His brother, Warrior, squatted next to him and began tossing chips of bark onto the coals, watching them ignite. ‘‘The
tosi tivo
must be very poor lovers.’’

Hunter glanced up, more than a little bewildered by his brother’s observation. Warrior was like that, though, the thoughts in his heart darting here and there like autumn leaves caught up in the wind.

‘‘You don’t agree?’’ Warrior pressed.

Warrior’s voice and the musical cadence of the Comanche language fell sweetly on Hunter’s ears. Talking
tosi tivo
talk to the yellow-hair had left a dirty taste on his tongue. ‘‘The
tosi tivo
are very poor at everything.’’

Warrior glanced toward the yellow-hair, squinting as a trail of smoke got in his face. ‘‘She still hides beneath the buffalo robe. Your shirt and her ruffles are not enough.’’

Hunter searched his brother’s dark eyes.

‘‘I think the
tosi tivo
teach their women such foolishness because they are afraid.’’

‘‘Hm. And what would they be afraid of?’’

Warrior grinned. ‘‘A woman who isn’t well loved will seek solace elsewhere.’’

Hunter huffed at that idea. ‘‘With as many children as their women bear, how can you think they need solace? The trouble with the
tosi tivo
is that they have no honor. They will call a man friend, then borrow his woman when his back is turned. The many clothes make the wife borrowing a little more tricky, eh?’’

A thoughtful frown settled on Warrior’s forehead. He dumped the remainder of the wood chips he had collected onto the fire. The flames hissed hungrily and flared brighter. ‘‘This is the truth? And what of the females? Don’t they spurn the men who try to shame them?’’

‘‘The females have no honor, either.’’

Brushing his hands clean on his leggings, Warrior shot a worried look at the white woman. ‘‘You must teach her, eh? If you go down in battle and I have to take her into my lodge circle, I want to know her children are yours.’’

‘‘She will learn. I will teach her honor if I kill her doing it.’’

Warrior plucked a blade of grass and began to nibble on it, his expression distant. Hunter recognized the signs. His brother’s thoughts were flitting to yet another place. After a moment Warrior spat and said, ‘‘Old Man tells me that you may have to strike the girl to make her obey. That is their way. She may not understand anything else. This worries me. You have a heavy hand when you grow angry. Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned, but with the yellow-hair I’m afraid your patience will snap like a wet bowstring.’’

Hunter scooped a handful of wood chips and tossed them into the flames. The flare of heat matched his mood. ‘‘She’s my woman,
tah-mah.
Let me do the worrying.’’

‘‘But her bones are like a bird’s. If you lost your temper with her and used your fists, you would shatter them.’’

Hunter scowled and made no reply.

Old Man, who had been standing nearby and listening, joined them at the fire to pour himself another measure of coffee. Once his cup was filled, he stepped back from the flames. ‘‘
Ai-ee,
Hunter, are you planning to be our dinner? It’s already so hot in these woods that I’m about to stifle.’’

Hunter had chosen to crouch by the fire because he hoped no one would join him there, but he saw no point in telling Old Man and his brother that. ‘‘A warrior can find great truths by searching the flames.’’

‘‘You have troubles with your woman, eh?’’ Old Man smiled. ‘‘You young braves! All too proud to seek advice. I lived with the
tosi tivo
for many winters, remember. I know things about them that you don’t.’’ A rakish grin slanted across Old Man’s crinkled face. ‘‘Especially about the women.’’

Hunter wasn’t in the mood for advice. ‘‘The girl is half my size. I think I can handle her without calling council.’’

‘‘You disappoint me, Hunter. Where is the patience you show with the wild horses you train? Has it gone the way of the wind?’’

‘‘A horse is worth the trouble. A yellow-hair is not.’’

‘‘I know men who greatly treasure golden women. Perhaps she will grow on you.’’

‘‘I prefer a horse. A
black
one.’’

‘‘Women, horses, there is little difference, eh? Well trained, they both give men smooth rides and much pleasure. What happens when you first rope a mustang?’’

Hunter knew where this conversation was going and refused the bait. Warrior replied for him. ‘‘Every time he runs against the rope, he flips end over end.’’

‘‘And what does he learn? Not to challenge your rope, eh? After that first lesson, he knows you are his master and allows you to gentle him with kindness. The white woman is the same. She is afraid and lunging against the rope. As soon as you break her of that, the battle is won, eh?’’

Hunter wished it could be that simple. When a horse accepted the touch of his hand, joy filled him.

After swirling the dregs of his coffee, Hunter emptied his cup onto the fire. Rising to his feet, he said, ‘‘You are both very wise, and I am glad of your advice. I will handle the woman my way, though. She is
my
woman, eh?’’

‘‘Take care,’’ Old Man warned. ‘‘The
tosi tivo
are unpredictable. Especially the females. Wisest-One had himself a yellow-hair once. After one night in his buffalo robes, she jumped into the Talking Water River and drowned herself. Not even Wisest-One could be that bad a lover.’’

Hunter gave a careless shrug as he ambled toward his camp. There was something different about his woman. As he approached the pallet, he realized it was the expression in her eyes. There was a feverish glitter in their blue depths. He stopped some three feet away and took a moment to study her. Despite himself, he felt uneasy. She had the crazed look of a warrior about to fight a death match.