Comanche Moon (12 page)

Chapter 7

SPORADIC OUTBURSTS OF CONVERSATION and the tantalizing smell of roasting meat tugged Loretta from the depths of an exhausted sleep. Slitting her eyelids, she peered at the bright orb of the sun, guessing by its position above the canopy of trees that it was nearly noon. Pain throbbed behind her eyes. A ceaseless burning sensation tortured her skin. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, prickly and thick. She would have paid a king’s ransom for one sip of cool water.

Acutely aware that some of the Comanche warriors were gathered around a nearby fire, Loretta was afraid to call attention to herself by moving. The buffalo fur was heavy, hot, and airless. She could hear the fire crackling, the hissing sound of fat dripping into flames. Occasionally the breeze picked up and rustled through the leaves overhead. Birds twittered, squirrels chattered, and in the background there was the constant rushing sound of water. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was down at the river with Amy, the farm and safety a short walk away.

Cramps shot up the calves of her legs, bunching her muscles into tight knots. An uncomfortable pressure grew in the pit of her stomach. Unable to lie in the same position a moment longer, she eased onto her back, clenching her teeth as the fur pallet touched her sunburned shoulder blades.

The guttural voices nearby rose and fell, their tones argumentative but friendly. Occasionally someone laughed. If the Indians had been speaking English, they could have passed for white men, swapping stories, poking fun at each other. But they weren’t white men. She saw a war shield propped against a bush, its face painted with heathen symbols. Scalps hung from the bridle of a nearby pony, the long tresses of one a rich red, without question a white woman’s.

Sweat popped out on Loretta’s brow and trickled down her temples. She had to get away from here.

The sound of approaching footsteps set her heart to skittering. Loretta closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She could sense someone staring at her. Heat bathed her cheeks. It grew hotter, then hotter still. The sensitive skin inside her nostrils began to sear.
Smoke?

She opened her eyes. A smoldering chunk of wood hovered in front of her nose, its embers red hot. Loretta jerked back, her gaze darting from the wood to the sturdy brown hand that held it.

‘‘You do not spit, Yellow Hair?’’

Broad brown shoulders eclipsed the sun, the features above them a grotesque blur of scar tissue. Loretta recognized the Indian who had urged Hunter to kill her that first day. The smoldering wood, wielded so deftly, inched closer to her nose. Grabbing handfuls of the fur and shoving with her feet, she slithered sideways, scarcely aware of the pain on her sunburned back. The Indian grunted and slammed a foot down on her chest.

His scarred face twisted into an ugly smile. ‘‘You are so good at spitting. Spit fast, eh? Drown the coals, before you are scarred and ugly like me.’’

Loretta’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. The hair on her upper lip was singeing, the stench acrid in her nostrils. The Indian’s black eyes glittered down at her.

‘‘Your courage has flown, eh? There are no rifles to make you brave?’’ He leaned forward so that more of his weight rested on her. ‘‘I will put my mark on you, eh? When my cousin grows tired of you, he has promised you to me. It is fair, no? I will do to you what your
tosi tivo
friends did to me.’’

He shoved the wood forward. Just in time, Loretta jerked her face aside.

Suddenly another Indian appeared. He was much older, his greasy hair streaked with gray. Dressed only in a breechcloth, his scrawny brown body looked as tough as uncured leather, his concave buttocks and thin legs stringy with muscle. Gesturing wildly and jabbering words she couldn’t understand, he pointed toward the river. Loretta went limp with relief when he wrenched the chunk of wood from her tormentor’s hand and threw it aside.

The younger Indian snarled a rejoinder. As he removed his foot from Loretta’s chest, he slipped his toe under the fur and gave it a toss. She scrambled for cover, sick with shame when she felt cool air waft across her breasts.

Leering down at her, he said, ‘‘Old Man spoils our fun, but we will play another time. Very soon, eh?’’

Loretta jerked the buffalo hide over her head. Perspiration filmed her body, yet she shivered. Even after the Indians walked away, she couldn’t stop shaking. Animals, they were all animals.

Only a few seconds later, she once again heard footsteps. Long brown fingers clasped the fur and lifted it from her face. Expecting the worst, she stiffened and squinted into the sun. The dark, hulking silhouette of a man crouched over her. Sunblinded, she couldn’t immediately make out his features, but the gleam of his mahogany hair and the breadth of his shoulders identified him.

He held a tin cup out to her, very like the ones Aunt Rachel had hanging in her kitchen. Tom Weaver had been right; these Comanches traded often with white men. Where else would they get coffee and tin-ware? No wonder they had such a good command of English.

"You will drink."

His deep, silken voice was expressionless, and that frightened her more than his anger or threats might have. His wide chest and powerful arms gleamed in the sunshine, muscle rippling and bunching beneath his burnished skin every time he moved. She stared at his stone medallion, at the crude wolf head etched on its face. More graven images decorated the band of leather on his wrist, a serpent intertwined with grotesque stick figures whose heads bore a resemblance to the sun and moon.

She rose up on an elbow, taking care to keep the fur clasped to her breasts. With a trembling hand, she took the cup, careful not to touch her fingers to his. Water slopped over the rim and ran down her neck as she drank. Cool, wonderful water. After only five swallows, it was gone. She ran her tongue across her cracked lips, savoring every drop, then handed the dented container back to him. She longed for more but didn’t know how to ask for it.

Hunter set the cup on the pallet and leaned forward on one knee. The combined smells of smoke, beaver oil, leather, and sage emanated from him.
Injun smell.
It clung to the fur, her skin, her hair. A whole tub of lye soap and a bucket of lavender water would never get it off her.

His dark blue eyes cut into hers as he pressed his palm against her cheek. As he slid his fingers to the side of her neck, fear tightened her throat. He touched her with the same matter-of-factness that he might have a horse. Possessively, with arrogant superiority.

Glancing over his shoulder at the group of men behind him, he cried,
‘‘Cho-cof-pe Okoom! Keemah, cah boon!’’

Loretta jumped; she couldn’t help it. Hunter looked back at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a contemptuous sneer. The old Indian who had championed her only moments before turned from the fire and strode toward them.
‘‘Hein ein mah-su-ite?’’

‘‘He-be-to. Heep-et?’’
Hunter nodded toward Loretta.
‘‘Cona.’’

Elbowing Hunter out of the way, the old man knelt and fastened his dark gaze on Loretta. Though she tried to keep her expression blank, her mouth quivered, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. Jabbing a finger at his chest, the old Indian said,
‘‘Nei nan-ne-i-cut Cho-cof-pe Okoom.’’
His wrinkled mouth spread in a snaggle-toothed grin to expose teeth blackened with decay. ‘‘In Comanche that say, ‘My name Old Man.’ You understand?
Cho-cof-pe Okoom
—Old Man.’’

Though Old Man had rescued her earlier and seemed harmless enough, Loretta didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust any of them. She shrank away when he tried to touch her. Hunter snarled something and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She tried to remember a prayer, any prayer. To her relief, the old Indian merely touched her forehead.

‘‘Te-bit-ze!’’
he exclaimed to Hunter. He directed an accusing glance at the sun, then pointed toward the river, spouting more gibberish, which he punctuated with an emphatic,
‘‘Namiso!’’

Whatever it was Old Man had said, Hunter appeared none too pleased. As Old Man walked away, Hunter released his hold on Loretta’s hair and stood, motioning for her to get up as well. Disbelief welled within her. She had no clothes. Surely he didn’t mean for her to—

‘‘Keemah! Namiso!’’
he hissed. When her only response was to stare at him, he said, ‘‘
Keemah,
come!
Namiso,
hurry! Do not test my patience, Blue Eyes.’’

Loretta clutched the fur to her chest and shook her head. She wouldn’t parade stark naked before all these men. She wouldn’t.

A dangerous glint stole into his eyes. ‘‘You will obey this Comanche.’’

The bridled anger in his voice sent sheer, black fright coursing through her, but she set her jaw.

With a low growl, he leaned over and scooped her up, fur and all, into his arms. Before she could register what he had done, he slung her over his shoulder, one arm clamped behind her knees, his other hand holding the fur so it wouldn’t fall. ‘‘Stupid white woman. You do not learn too quick.’’

A few moments later Hunter reached the river and waded thigh deep into the current. With a grunt, he gave her a toss, keeping a firm grip on the buffalo robe so that she spun out of it as she fell. There was no time to feel embarrassed. Iciness engulfed her, the change in temperature such a shock to her feverish body that she gasped. Water seared up her nose and down her windpipe. Darkness, everywhere darkness. For a moment she wasn’t sure which way was up. Then she saw light shimmering. She shot to the surface, choking and coughing, arms flailing wildly.

A blur of movement, Hunter threw the fur onto the riverbank and waded toward her. She couldn’t touch bottom and, despite the desperate pumping of her arms and legs, went under again, taking another draft of water.

Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her to the surface and nearer to shore so her feet touched. Bringing his face close to hers, he tightened his grip on her braid. ‘‘You will obey me.’’ He enunciated each word with venomous clarity. ‘‘Always. You are mine—Hunter’s woman, forever with no horizon. The next time you shake your head at me, I will beat you.’’

A measure of the water she had inhaled surged up her throat. Unable to stop herself, she choked and then coughed. The ejected spray hit him square in the eyes. He blinked and drew back, an incredulous look on his face. Loretta clamped her palms over her mouth, angling her arms to hide her breasts, her shoulders heaving.

As angry as he appeared, she fully expected him to lay her flat with his fist. Instead he released her braid and caught hold of her arms. When she finally got her breath, he let go of her and returned to shore, his leather-clad legs cutting sparkling swaths through the water. After wiping his face dry with the buffalo robe, he turned to glower at her.

He sat on his haunches and rested his corded forearms on his knees. Glancing upstream and down, he said, ‘‘Your wooden walls are far away, Yellow Hair. If you try to slip away, this Comanche will find you.’’

Until that moment, the thought of swimming off hadn’t occurred to her. She shot a glance over her shoulder at the swift current. If only she had clothes . . .

‘‘You do not make like a fish so good. Save this Comanche much trouble, eh?’’

She thought she detected laughter in his voice, but when she looked back at him, his gaze, blue-black and piercing, was as unreadable as ever. He studied her for several endless seconds. She wondered what he was thinking and decided, from the gleam in his eye, that she didn’t want to find out.

‘‘Your eyes say I lie when I call you my woman. This is not good. It is our bargain, eh?’’ He plucked a wisp of grass and ran it slowly between his fingers, watching her in a way that suggested he would soon touch her—just as slowly. ‘‘It was a promise you made for me, and now you make a lie of it? This is the way of your people, to say empty words.
Penende taquoip,
honey talk, eh? But it is not the way of the Comanche. If you make a lie, I will carve out your tongue and feed it to the crows.’’

The breeze caught his hair, draping strands of it across his chiseled features. For an instant, the knife slash that marred his cheek was hidden, and he seemed less formidable. Her attention was drawn to his lips, full and sharply defined, yet somehow hard, perhaps because of the rigid expression he always wore. Deep crevices bracketed his mouth—laugh lines, surely. Ah, yes, she could imagine him cutting out her tongue and smiling while he did it.

‘‘You do not like me too good. That is a sad thing, eh?’’ With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the world around them. ‘‘The sky is up, the earth is down. The sun shows its face, only to be chased away by Mother Moon. These things are for always, eh? Just as you are my woman. The song was sung long ago, and the song must come to pass. You must accept, Blue Eyes.’’

Loretta yearned to break eye contact but found she couldn’t. The silken threads of his deep voice wove a spell around her. She must accept? Already he was planning to give her away to his horrible cousin. She sank lower in the water, keeping her arms crossed to hide her breasts. Could he see through the ripples?

Still studying her with the same unnerving intensity, he said, ‘‘When the wind blows, the sapling bends, the flowers lie low against the earth, the grass is flattened.’’ He thumped his chest with his fist. ‘‘I am your wind, Blue Eyes. Bend or break.’’

Bend or break.
In all her life, she had never felt quite so helpless. Her attention moved to the knife on his hip. If only he would drop his guard—just for a moment.

As if he sensed what she was thinking, he smiled another humorless smile and lowered his gaze to her chest where the water lapped just above her splayed fingertips. She tightened her arms around herself. He said nothing more, but words weren’t necessary. She couldn’t stay in the river forever, and when she emerged, he would be waiting. She was trapped. Always, forever, with no horizon.