Comanche Moon (24 page)

Hunter swallowed back an argument. Though he didn’t believe his little blue-eyes would ever return to Comancheria freely, his parents had agreed that he should take her home, and that was enough. ‘‘What will lead her back to me,
pia
?’’

Woman with Many Robes smiled. ‘‘Fate, Hunter. It guides our footsteps. It will guide hers.’’

Loretta snuggled deeply into silken furs, trying to escape the persistent hand that shook her shoulder and the voice that called to her. Not her name, anyway.
Blue Eyes.
What kind of name was that?

‘‘Blue Eyes, you will be awake now. Home . . . you wish for home?’’

Home.
Amy and Aunt Rachel. The gray down quilt. Pork slab and eggs for breakfast. Coffee on the porch when the sun peeked over the horizon and streaked the sky with crimson.
Home.
To laughter and love and safety. Oh, yes, she wished for home.

‘‘Be awake, little one. This Comanche will take you back. Loh-rhett-ah? Wake up, Hoos-cho Soh-nips, Bird Bones, you must eat and grow strong so you can go home. To your people and your wooden walls.’’

Loretta opened her eyes. She rolled onto her back and blinked. A dark face swam above her. Funny, but blinking didn’t bring him into focus. She reached out, curious, then thought better of it.

‘‘You will make the honey talk with me? We will make a treaty between us, one with no
tiv-ope,
writing. You will eat and grow strong, and I will take you to your people.’’

Honey talk. All lies, according to Hunter. Loretta peered up. She ran her tongue across her lips and tried to swallow. ‘‘H-home?’’ she croaked.

‘‘
Huh,
yes, Blue Eyes. Home. But you must eat so you can live to go back. And drink. For three days. Until you are strong again.’’ His fingertips grazed her cheek and trailed lightly into her hair. ‘‘Then this Comanche will take you.’’

‘‘You will?’’ she rasped.

‘‘It is a promise I make. You will eat and drink?’’

Loretta closed her eyes. She had to be dreaming. But oh, what a lovely dream it was. To go home. To have Hunter volunteer to take her there. No need to worry that his wrath would rain upon her family. ‘‘No tricks. You swear it?’’

‘‘No tricks.’’

His voice echoed and reechoed inside her head, loud, then like a whisper. She fought to open her eyes. The darkness was surrounding her again. ‘‘Then I will eat.’’

Meat broth. Hunter cradled her in one arm and held a steaming cup to her lips. Loretta filled her mouth. Her throat refused to work. She rested her head against her captor’s shoulder, then with great concentration managed to swallow. The broth hit her belly, resting there like a lead ball.

‘‘No more. Sick, I’m going to be sick.’’

‘‘One more,’’ he urged. ‘‘Then you will sleep.’’

Loretta tried to focus. The rim of the cup pressed against her lips. She took another mouthful of broth and forced herself to swallow it. Then she felt herself floating down onto the furs.
Sleep.
Strong hands moved her about and covered her with a heavy robe. Strong hands, gentle hands.

‘‘Home . . . you will take me?’’

‘‘
Huh,
yes, bright one. I will take you.’’

Loretta drifted. He would take her. It was only a dream, after all. She could trust his promises in dreams.

Chapter 13

LORETTA WOKE SLOWLY, DISTURBED BY A sound that reminded her of hens clucking. The chicken coop? When she rolled onto her side and struggled to open her eyes, she felt fur against her cheek. Memory came spinning back, a confusing blur of images. The village, Woman with Many Robes thumping heads with a spoon, Hunter nibbling her neck. And then blackness. In the far reaches of her mind, she recalled someone waking her several times to pour broth and water down her.

The clucking sound seemed closer now and slowly became recognizable as husky giggles. With a jolt, Loretta came fully awake. She opened her eyes to find Blackbird’s impish face hovering inches above her own. The next instant she realized the little girl was not alone. Two other children, a boy of about five and a girl of perhaps two, were on the bed as well, their button eyes wide with curiosity.

Loretta raised up on an elbow. She no longer felt woozy, just horribly weak. Wary of the shadows, she shot a quick glance around the lodge but saw no adults. Children, no matter what their race, weren’t particularly intimidating.

The little boy touched his dust-streaked hand to Loretta’s hair and made a breathless ‘‘ooh’’ sound. He smelled like any little boy who had been hard at play, a bit sweaty yet somehow sweet, with the definite odor of dog and horse clinging to him. Blackbird concentrated on Loretta’s blue eyes, staring into them with unflinching intensity. The younger girl ran reverent fingertips over the flounces on Loretta’s bloomers, saying,
‘‘Tosi wannup,’’
over and over again.

Loretta couldn’t help but smile. She was as strange to them as they were to her. She longed to gather them close and never let go. Friendly faces and human warmth. Their giggles made her long for home.

With a throat that responded none too well to the messages from her brain, Loretta murmured, ‘‘Hello.’’ The sound of her own voice seemed unreal—an echo from the past.

‘‘Hi, hites.’’
Blackbird linked her chubby forefingers in an unmistakable sign of friendship.
‘‘Hah-ich-ka sooe ein conic?’’

Loretta had no idea what the child had asked until Blackbird steepled her fingers.

‘‘Oh—my house?’’ Loretta cupped a hand over her brow as if she were squinting into the distance. ‘‘Very far away.’’

Blackbird’s eyes sparkled with delight, and she burst into a long chain of gibberish, chortling and waving her hands. Loretta watched her, fascinated by the glow of happiness in her eyes, the innocence in her small face. She had always imagined Comanches, young and old, with blood dripping from their fingers.

A deep voice came from behind her. ‘‘She asks how long you will eat and keep warm with us.’’

Startled, Loretta glanced over her shoulder to find Hunter reclining on a pallet of furs. Because he lay so low to the floor, she hadn’t seen him the first time she’d looked. Propping himself up on one elbow, he listened to his niece chatter for a moment. His eyes caught the light coming through the lodge door, glistening, fathomless.

‘‘You will tell her,
‘Pihet tabbe.’
’’

Trust didn’t come easily to Loretta. ‘‘What does that mean?’’

A smile teased the corners of his mouth. ‘‘
Pihet,
three.
Tabbe,
the sun. Three suns. It was our bargain.’’

Relieved that she hadn’t dreamed his promise to take her home, Loretta repeated
‘‘pihet tabbe’’
to Blackbird. The little girl looked crestfallen and took Loretta’s hand.
‘‘Ka,’’
she cried.
‘‘Ein mea mon-ach.’’

‘‘
Ka,
no. You are going a long way,’’ Hunter translated, pushing to his feet as he spoke. ‘‘I think she likes you.’’ He came to the bed and, with an indulgent smile, shooed the children away as Aunt Rachel shooed chickens. ‘‘Poke Wy-ar-pee-cha, Pony Girl,’’ he said as he scooped the unintimidated toddler off the furs and set her on the floor. His hand lingered a moment on her hair, a loving gesture that struck Loretta as totally out of character for a Comanche warrior. The fragile child, his rugged strength. The two formed a fascinating contrast. ‘‘She is from my sister who is dead.’’ Nodding toward the boy, he added, ‘‘Wakare-ee, Turtle, from Warrior.’’

Loretta didn’t want the children to leave her alone with their uncle. She gazed after them as they ran out the lodge door. The sound of their laughter floated outside with them. Sensing Hunter’s eyes on her, she swallowed, trying to organize her thoughts. Though he had treated her kindly during their journey and had been extremely patient with her, she couldn’t forget his veiled threats upon their arrival here.

‘‘Wh-where are your children?’’

For an instant she thought she glimpsed pain in his expression. Then he smiled. ‘‘They play
Nanipka,
hiding behind the hill.’’

‘‘Then you—have no children?’’

‘‘No.’’ He bent over a neat pile of parfleche and leather boxes, the braid of muscle in his arm flexing and knotting with his every movement. ‘‘My woman was killed
mau-vate taum,
five years, ago. Our child was within her.’’

‘‘Oh . . .’’ Loretta dropped her chin to gaze at her lap and twisted a length of the buckskin fringe on her shirt around her finger. ‘‘I—I’m so sorry.’’

He glanced over at her, his brow pleated in an inquisitive frown. Sensing his bewilderment, she looked up. ‘‘That is . . . very sad.’’

His frown deepened, but the confusion in his expression disappeared. ‘‘
Huh,
yes, very sad.’’

‘‘How was she killed?’’ She whispered the question hesitantly, not sure he’d answer but feeling a need to know.

‘‘It is a memory on the wind.’’ After rummaging a moment in a parfleche, he withdrew a drawstring pouch. Returning to the bed, he sat beside her, his manner carefully nonchalant, as if he were trying to put her at ease. ‘‘Berries and nuts. You will let a little bit food say
hi, hites
to your belly, eh?’’

Hi, hites.
Loretta recognized the words as those Blackbird had said as she linked her forefingers in the sign of friendship. ‘‘Hello?’’

‘‘Yes. It says in Comanche, ‘How are you, my friend?’ ’’

He set the pouch between them on the fur, the top spread wide so she could help herself. Loretta stared down at the honey-glazed pecans and dried berries. Last night, when she had agreed to eat and drink, she had been too ill and exhausted to think clearly. In the light of day, despite what he had said a few moments ago, it seemed entirely too likely that he might have been lying to her about taking her home.

She took quick measure of her strange surroundings. His war shield sat on a tripod nearby, the feathers that lined its circular edge fluttering in the breeze that came in through the lodge door. She could hear a multitude of voices coming from outside, the words garbled and foreign. His power over her was absolute. He could keep her here forever if he wished. Or kill her on a whim.

‘‘Hunter of the Wolf, did you mean—’’

‘‘Hunter, if your tongue grows weary.’’

She licked her lips. ‘‘Hunter . . . did you mean what you said? About taking me home?’’

‘‘I have spoken it.’’

She studied his dark features, searching for some clue to his thoughts.
I have spoken it.
No inflection in his voice, his expression unreadable. What kind of answer was that? ‘‘I—I know what you said, but did you
mean
it?’’

His mouth thinned. ‘‘I have spoken it.’’

She hugged her knees, deducing by the edge to his voice that he disliked having his word questioned. ‘‘I—’’ She dug her fingernails into her palms. ‘‘I want to go home very badly.’’

Loretta fixed her gaze on her captor’s medallion. All around her, the smell of his world permeated her senses, leather, dust, smoke, and unidentifiable foods. She was probably out of her mind to trust him. But, oh, how she wanted to.
Home.
To Aunt Rachel and Amy. It was a fact that he hadn’t lied to her—except for the time he had promised to cut out her tongue and hadn’t. She couldn’t very well hold that against him.

She scooped up a handful of nuts and berries, taking a small amount into her mouth. The sweet taste of honey washed over her tongue, activating her salivary glands. Her stomach growled in response. He heard the sound and cocked an eyebrow.

‘‘It is good?’’

‘‘Mm,’’ she said, taking another bite and brushing her palm clean on her bloomers. ‘‘Delicious.’’

‘‘Dee-lish-us?’’

For the space of a heartbeat she forgot to be afraid of him, and a smile spread across her lips before she realized it was coming. When he smiled back at her, the strangest feeling swept over her, an inexplicable warmth. He had smiled at her before, of course, but never like this.

‘‘Delicious,’’ she repeated. ‘‘That means
very
good, much better than just good.’’

His smile didn’t fade, and she found herself fascinated. On a civilized man, that lopsided grin of his could have been heart-stopping. His sharply defined lips lifted lazily at one corner to reveal gleaming white teeth, deep creases bracketing his mouth. Not the face of a killer, surely.

The mood shattered when he reached out to touch her cheek. The sudden movement made her recoil, reminding her of who he was and what he was. That he considered her his property. Because she jerked away, he settled for capturing a lock of her hair, twining it through his fingers.

‘‘You are dee-lish-us. Like sunshine, eh?’’

Unnerved by the gleam that had stolen into his eyes, Loretta caught hold of his hand to disentangle it from her hair. Just because there were no scalps in his lodge didn’t mean he was above taking one if the mood struck. ‘‘Only things you can
taste
are delicious.’’

The moment the words passed her lips, she recalled how he had nibbled at her neck. Heat crept up her nape. As if he guessed her thoughts, his gaze dropped to her throat. She found herself longing for her homespun dress with its mutton sleeves and high neckline.

Mischief danced in his eyes. Or was it a trick of the light? ‘‘This Comanche is not a Tonkowa, a People Eater.’’

‘‘Tonkowa
eat
people?’’ Last year there had been a number of Tonkowa up at Fort Belknap. Loretta had seen several during a visit there. They had been friendly Indians and seemed harmless. They’d even volunteered their scouting services to the border patrol, helping to track Comanches. She had been within touching distance of cannibals? ‘‘Mercy,’’ she whispered.

He thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘‘No mercy. They eat brave enemies to steal their courage. It is sure enough
boisa.
They are
to-ho-ba-ka,
enemy, to the People.’’