Comanche Moon (20 page)

Loretta clung to Tom and wished she never had to let go. He smelled even worse than the Indians, but he was her only link to home, to the people she loved. She had never been so frightened.

‘‘Remember what I said,’’ Tom whispered. ‘‘No food or water.’’

Already weak with hunger and beginning to dehydrate, Loretta nodded, wondering why Tom hadn’t noticed her abstinence. Fear, she guessed. It had a way of consuming a person.

‘‘I’ll try to come get you.’’ His voice thickened, and his arms began to tremble around her. ‘‘I’ll try my best.’’

Again she nodded, even though they both knew the odds were against his making it in time.

Hunter’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘‘
Mea-dro,
let’s go.’’

Loretta gave Tom’s neck a final hug and eased herself out of his embrace. She tried to smile at him but couldn’t. Hunter seized her by the arm and drew her toward Tom’s horse, which was now outfitted in Comanche riding gear. When he lifted her onto the mare’s back, she wondered if he would tie her on, as he had before, and received her answer when he mounted behind her, encircling her waist with one arm.

Loretta craned her neck to keep Tom in sight as Hunter nudged the mare forward into a trot. A knot of tears swelled at the base of her throat. This was it, her last contact with home.

‘‘Do not look behind you, Blue Eyes,’’ Hunter murmured. ‘‘We go to a new place, eh? It will be good.’’

Loretta doubted that.

The Comanches rode steadily northward, fording both the Clear and Salt Forks of the Brazos within five hours, passing so close to Fort Belknap on the upper fork that Loretta could scarcely believe their temerity. The country quickly broke into high plains after that, stretching forever with nothing but rolling hills to break the monotony of the horizon. Hunter frequently offered her water, but each time she refused.

From the sun’s position, Loretta guessed it to be around noon when the Indians at last stopped to rest. Dizzy with exhaustion and thirst, she slid off the mare and stumbled. Hunter kept her from falling and led her to a spot of shade under a bush. The combined effects of her sunburn, the inadequate amounts of food and water over the last few days, and the heat were already taking a toll. She sat down and bowed her head, steeling herself for the moment when Hunter offered her more water.

‘‘Blue Eyes, you will drink?’’

Loretta waved him away. A long silence settled over them. Then Hunter grasped her chin and forced her to look at him.

‘‘
Habbe we-ich-ket,
seeking death, it is not wisdom.’’ He wedged the canteen between his knees and caught her hand, placing it on his muscular upper arm. ‘‘
Ein mah-heepicut,
it is yours. No harm will come to you walking in my footsteps. You will trust this Comanche, eh? It is a promise I make for you.’’

Loretta stared into his indigo eyes, aware of the leashed power beneath her fingertips. For an instant she believed he truly meant it, that he would protect her, always. Then her gaze shifted to the scar on his cheek, to his heathen medallion, to the images carved into the leather of his wristband. Half-breed or no, she couldn’t trust this man.

He sighed and released her hand to take a long, slow drink, calculated, she was sure, to make her yearn for one herself. He wiped his mouth and said, ‘‘We will see, eh? It is a hard path to walk, going thirsty in the sun. You will yield.’’

With that, he corked the gourd and set it beside her in the shade so she could help herself if her willpower wavered. Rocking back on his heels, he ran a finger along her cheekbone. ‘‘I must protect you from the sun, eh? So you do not burn.’’

Scooping a handful of dirt, he mixed it with a little water from the canteen to make a mud paste. It felt wonderfully cool when he smoothed it on her face. After he finished he sat back and studied her again, his dark eyes gleaming with that silent laughter that irritated her so. She must look like a blue-eyed bugaboo with her face streaked brown and her hair flying every which way. Well, he was no prize, either.

Far too soon to suit Loretta, the rest period ended and they mounted up again. Above her the sun burned like an orange orb, searing her eyelids, leeching the precious stores of moisture from her body, until the hours seemed to spin by in a dizzying, torturous endlessness.

In the early evening the Comanches took another short break at the North Fork of the Little Wichita. After climbing off the horse, Loretta sank down at the edge of the stream to bathe the cracked mud from her face. The temptation was great to take one small sip of water, but she knew she mustn’t.

When Hunter told her it was once again time to ride out, Loretta would have cried if there had been any extra moisture left in her body to wring out for tears. Her limbs ached. Her head swam. And she was weak. All she wanted was to sleep. How could they press onward like this? How could the horses?

Less than ten minutes after they left the stream, Loretta began to nod and felt herself slumping. She jerked upright and blinked. Hunter tightened his arm around her and slipped a hand under her right knee to lift her leg over the horse’s head. Gathering her against his chest, he cradled her crosswise in front of him.

‘‘Sleep,
nei mah-tao-yo,
sleep.’’

His deep voice sifted through the exhaustion that clouded her mind.
Nei mah-tao-yo.
She had no idea what it meant, but it sounded so soft the way he said it—like an endearment. The hollow of his shoulder made a perfect resting place. She leaned into him, her cheek against his warm skin. He smelled of sage, smoke, and leather, earthy smells that were becoming familiar and somehow comforting. As she drifted into blackness, she no longer thought of him as an Indian, just a man. A wonderfully sturdy man who could hold her comfortably while she slept.

Dreams haunted her. Silly, stupid dreams, about Amy, Aunt Rachel, Tom Weaver. Wonderful dreams. Dancing with Amy by the well. Running through a field of red-gold daisies. Sitting at the table with Rachel and studying the fashions in a year-old
Godey’s Lady’s Book
that Uncle Henry had picked up in Jacksboro.

Then once again, she was standing out on the porch in the moonlight to bid Tom good-bye. She knew he meant to kiss her and braced herself. His whiskers and wet lips touched her mouth.

Then, inexplicably, the dream altered, and the mouth that claimed hers changed to wet silk, the pressure firm but somehow gentle. Heavy folds of dark hair brushed her cheeks, forming a curtain around her. She pressed a hand against the warm planes of a man’s well-muscled chest and became aware that strong arms held her. Wonderfully strong arms.

‘‘Mah-tao-yo,’’
a deep voice whispered.

Loretta focused on the dark face above her, realizing with a shock that dream and reality had blended. The wet silk on her lips was Hunter’s fingertips, wet with water from the canteen. The curtains of heavy hair that brushed her cheeks were real, as were the muscled chest and arms. She stiffened.

‘‘We have reached the
Oo-e-ta,
the Big Wichita,’’ he told her in a low voice. ‘‘We will rest here. You will be awake now, eh?’’

She straightened and cast a disoriented look around her. The shadows of stunted trees surrounded her, brushed silver with moonlight. The rushing sound of water told her they were near the river. Crickets and frogs serenaded, a gentle, pleasant cacophony that rose from the banks and rode lightly on the breeze. A medley of scents assailed her, summer grass and prairie blossoms, their perfume so sweet that she felt drunk from it. As she tipped her head back to breathe it in, wooziness overcame her. She clutched the mare’s mane to get her balance.

Hunter dismounted and reached up to lift her from the horse. As his large hands encircled her waist, Loretta stared down at him, her senses still spinning. The Big Wichita was a good seventy-five miles from her home. She couldn’t believe they had ridden so far. Even if Tom rounded up help and tried to follow, he would never catch up with the Comanches before they reached the Staked Plains.

Hunter swung her to the ground. Her legs nearly buckled, and she staggered. He caught her arm, leading both her and the horse to a level spot near the stream. She sat on a smooth rock while he pulled his packs off the mare and unsaddled her. Before he led the horse down to the river for a drink, he spread the buffalo robes for Loretta to lie down, but she was too exhausted to walk. Instead she slid off her perch onto the dirt and hugged the sun-warmed rock like a lover, resting her cheek against its smooth surface.

A fitful sleep overtook her. A short time later she heard footsteps nearby. Hunter, she guessed. She tried to open her eyes, wondering why he hadn’t brought the horse back with him. Through the fringe of her lashes, she saw moccasins, bare legs. Not Hunter? Exhaustion weighted her eyelids, drew them closed. What difference did it make? One Indian, a dozen, as long as they let her be, she didn’t care what they did.

When Loretta awoke to the crackling of a fire, she had no idea how long she had slept. More than likely a few minutes, but it could have been hours. Golden light fell across the small clearing, flickering on the bushes, throwing eerie shadows. The smell of burning mesquite wafted to her nostrils. Hunter crouched over the flames, coaxing them to burn more hotly by shifting the wood and blowing on the coals. When Loretta sat up, he glanced over at her.

‘‘You did not like the robes?’’

Her gaze slid to the pallet he had made for her. It lay in a mussed heap, as if she had lifted the furs and tossed them down carelessly. A prickle of unease ran up her spine as Hunter walked to the pallet and grasped the furs to straighten them. If neither of them had touched the bedding, then who had? A fleeting memory of moccasins and bare legs flashed through her mind.

As Hunter lifted the top fur, Loretta glimpsed something beneath it. Her breath caught. A huge rattlesnake lay coiled on the pallet, hidden from the Comanche’s view by the other buffalo robe. As yet, the rattler hadn’t buzzed a warning. Hunter didn’t realize the snake was there. Loretta shot to her knees, her throat constricting.

In that fraction of an instant, it seemed that the Indian and the snake moved as slowly as cold honey dripping off a spoon. She reached toward her captor, her attention fixed on his wrist, on the bulging vein that ribboned his arm. A venomous bite so close to the heart might be fatal. She saw the snake lift its head, its fangs gleaming in the bright firelight. There was no time to think. Instinct took over.

‘‘Snake!’’ she screamed. ‘‘Snake!’’

Hunter reacted to her cry, not leaping away as she might have, but instantly offensive. Using the robe he held as a shield, he deflected the rattler’s first strike and then lashed out with his other hand, catching it behind the head before it could recoil and strike again. The snake writhed and hissed as Hunter lifted it from the pallet. For a moment he held it aloft. Then he looked at Loretta. After what seemed an eternity, he pulled his knife, beheaded the rattler, and tossed it into the brush.

Loretta knelt in the dirt, clutching her throat.
Snake.
The word bounced off the walls of her mind, shrill, echoing and reechoing. She had screamed. . . .

Disbelief swamped her. Surely her ears had deceived her. She couldn’t have screamed, she just couldn’t, not after seven years of silence. And
never
to save a Comanche.

Sheathing his knife, Hunter walked toward her hesitantly. Loretta stared at him—at his long hair, his fringed moccasins, his buckskin pants, his medallion, the gods on his wristband. A
Comanche.

She felt as if her insides were shattering into a million shards, slicing her apart. Visions of her parents flashed through her head, her mother lying in a pool of dried blood, her eye sockets and mouth crawling with black flies, her father tied to a tree, his body mutilated beyond recognition and obscenely rearranged in death. Those memories were burned into her mind, never to be forgotten, never. She couldn’t have betrayed her parents like this. She couldn’t have. . . .

‘‘N-no,’’ she croaked. ‘‘No.’’

Hunter knelt on one knee in front of her. As she stared at him, he became a blurred mass of muscle, heathen gods, and stinking leather. A suffocating, claustrophobic feeling hit her. Before he could grasp her shoulders, she swung blindly, clipping his cheek with her fist, the memories rising within her like bile. ‘‘Don’t touch me! Don’t
touch
me!’’

Tightening his jaw against the pain that shot along his cheekbone, Hunter grasped the girl’s shoulders. Even with nothing but firelight to illuminate her face, he could see the shock in her expression, the ache of betrayal in her eyes, her suffering all the more acute because she had betrayed herself. To save someone she hated . . .

Sobbing, she struck out at him again, then again, until she was pummeling his face, her own twisted with hysteria. She had saved his life. Hunter flinched but made no move to stop her or to defend himself. Her eyes had a glazed, unseeing look in them, and her sobs spoke of grief trapped within her for far too long. He knew it wasn’t really him she was striking out at, but herself.

At last he drew her against his chest, and she clung to him as if he were about to throw her off a cliff. He wondered if that wouldn’t be kinder. ‘‘You’re a murderer,’’ she sobbed. ‘‘I hate you, don’t you understand? I
hate
you!’’

He tightened his arms around her, awash in painful memories of his own. She
didn’t
hate him, not anymore. That was why she cried. The blood of her people called out to her for vengeance, as his did to him. And her heart had turned traitor. ‘‘
Toquet,
it is well.’’

‘‘No!’’ she wailed. ‘‘My parents . . . oh, God, my parents. You killed them—butchered them.’’ He ran a hand up her spine. Beneath his palm, she quivered. ‘‘You k-killed them.’’

‘‘No, no, I did not. It is a promise I make for you, Blue Eyes. I did not kill them.’’