Comanche Moon (44 page)

‘‘You are her face upon the water.’’

‘‘Do you truly think so?’’

‘‘You should see how the men’s gazes follow you.’’

Bright Star drew away so she could study him. ‘‘Even Red Buffalo’s?’’

Hunter searched the depths of her dark eyes. ‘‘You have a fondness for my cousin?’’

She nibbled her lip. ‘‘It doesn’t make you angry, does it? I’ve never dishonored you by looking his way. I only asked because, well, since
you
don’t want me, I didn’t think you’d—’’

‘‘Bright Star, no! I feel no anger.’’ Relieved, Hunter laughed and settled his hands on his hips. ‘‘Red Buffalo is a very lonely man. I would be pleased if he found a wife.’’ He gave her a thoughtful study. ‘‘You little weasel! I never suspected you had an interest in Red Buffalo.’’

Her small face softened. ‘‘He’s not handsome, I know. But he’s very brave and strong! And always kind. Have you ever noticed how gentle he is with children? He would make a very good husband, I think, if he—’’ A cloud of uncertainty dimmed her smile. ‘‘If only he would notice me. I don’t think he even
sees
me.’’

‘‘Believe me, he sees you, Bright Star. I think he’s probably pretending not to notice you because he’s so certain you would never notice him.’’

‘‘But he’s wonderful. Why would he think that?’’

‘‘Because he’s badly scarred.’’ Hunter sighed. ‘‘Will you trust me to speak with him? When he returns from hunting?’’

‘‘No! He’ll think I’m forward.’’

Hunter lifted a hand. ‘‘I won’t tell him we talked. I’ll just say I think you might be interested in him. If I don’t, he’ll keep looking through you, and you’ll have snow in your hair before he guesses how you feel.’’

She relaxed and smiled. ‘‘Well . . .’’ Her gaze shifted to the lodge. ‘‘Hunter, I think I’d better leave you, yes? So you can make peace with your woman.’’

With a grimace, Hunter nodded. ‘‘Her heart is laid upon the ground.’’

‘‘Is it me? I will make talk with her.’’

‘‘I don’t think it would be safe,’’ he said wryly.

Angry wasn’t the word to describe Loretta’s frame of mind. She wasn’t just furious, but horribly hurt as well. That terrified her. She wasn’t falling in love. She
wasn’t
. So what if Hunter wanted a dozen wives? What difference did it make to her? She didn’t care a whit. She
didn’t
! It wasn’t as if
she
wanted him. So why was she crying?

Pain welled in her throat. She picked up a pan, trying to force her thoughts onto dinner and what she should fix, but visions of Hunter filled her head. She imagined his dark eyes warming with laughter, his mouth tipping into that lopsided grin that made her heart catch, his warm hand holding hers. It would kill her to watch him doing those things with someone else. What was happening to her? When had he become so important to her?

It wasn’t fair! He had wormed his way into her affections, made her care about him. And now he was out there making over that silly
twit
of a girl! Fresh tears stung Loretta’s eyes. If this was how it felt to be in love, she didn’t want any part of it. Her insides felt like a wet rag someone was wringing out. And the worst part was, she was afraid to go out there and do anything about it. If she did, it would be an admission that she cared for him. Once he realized that, he’d expect her to prove it. She glanced at the bed, and her stomach knotted, images from the past tormenting her. She slammed down the pot. She couldn’t do it, she just couldn’t. . . .

The moment Hunter stepped into the lodge, Loretta swiped the tears from her cheeks and began clanging pots so loudly that her ears rang. Perverse though it was, she fell back on her anger to hide her hurt. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to let him know how she really felt.

‘‘Blue Eyes, we must make talk,’’ he said softly, pausing to tie the lodge flap firmly closed.

‘‘Go make talk with Bright Star,’’ she sniped, even though that was the
last
thing she wanted him to do.

‘‘I would make talk with you.’’ He moved slowly toward her. ‘‘I told Bright Star I would marry no other, yes?’’

Loretta yearned to throw herself in his arms and weep, to hear him whisper, ‘‘It is well,’’ as he always did when things went wrong. Instead she rounded on him. ‘‘And I suppose you made her feel sorry for you in the bargain? Poor, poor Hunter, stuck with one woman!’’ She tried to glare at him but couldn’t quite meet his gaze. ‘‘I’ve been thinking while you were out there
mooning
over her. And I’ve decided a dozen other wives around here would suit me just fine. You’re right! It’s
boisa
for me to feel—’’ She broke off and swallowed, keeping her face averted. ‘‘
I’m
not being a wife to you. . . .’’ Her voice trailed off into a squeak. ‘‘And I’m afraid I never can be.’’

Hunter’s guts clenched at the pain he read in her expression. He hadn’t intended to hurt her, only to make her face her feelings. Why was it that no matter what he did, it was always wrong? Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned forward and braced his arms on his knees. ‘‘Blue Eyes, you will be a fine wife in time,’’ he said gravely.

‘‘No, I won’t.’’ Her gaze flew to his, brimming with misery and tears. ‘‘Oh, Hunter, what’s the matter with me?’’

Studying her small face, Hunter realized two things: he didn’t want her to be like anyone else, and, right or wrong, he had to bring this torturous waiting to an end, for both their sakes. For once, his father had given poor advice. ‘‘Blue Eyes . . .’’ Hunter sighed and interlaced his fingers, bending his knuckles backward, stalling because he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. ‘‘Can you say words so this Comanche can see into you?’’

‘‘I’m
afraid.
’’

‘‘Ah, yes, afraid.’’ He studied her beaded moccasins. ‘‘Because I am Comanche?’’

She squeezed her eyes closed. ‘‘It isn’t that, not anymore. That’s just an excuse!’’

Cautiously Hunter asked, ‘‘Then what makes your heart sad?’’

She bit her bottom lip and tipped her head back to stare at the smoke hole. After several seconds she sniffed and said, ‘‘You’re a man.’’

She looked so forlorn that Hunter had to bite back a smile. He started to speak, then thought better of it. Clearing his throat, he shifted his attention from her quivering mouth to her nervous hands, wishing he knew how to ease her fears. Being patient hadn’t worked.

She closed her eyes again and made a strangled sound, whirling away from him. ‘‘Marry Bright Star. It’s only fair. I can’t expect you to wait forever for me to—’’ She made another angry swipe at her cheeks and took a jagged breath. ‘‘She’s very lovely. You wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t want her. And it’s clear she wants you. Why should you be tied to me?’’

He pushed to his feet and slowly approached her from behind. She jerked when he grasped her shoulders. ‘‘I have no wish to marry Bright Star. You are the wife I want. One wife, for always.’’

‘‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t
be
a wife to you. I’m—’’ A shudder shook her, and she hugged her waist. ‘‘I’m a coward, Hunter. As if you haven’t figured that out by now! And it’s not going to get better. I thought it might, but it’s only gotten worse! If only I were more like Amy. After all she’s been through, she’s—’’

‘‘You are not Aye-mee,’’ he inserted gently. ‘‘She is a child, with my strong arm to protect her. Many
taum
from now, she will marry and have to face her memories, yes? But today she runs from them. You can no longer run, eh? The years have rolled away, and what happened long ago now walks beside you.’’

Hunter drew her back against his chest and bent his head to press his face to her hair. ‘‘Blue Eyes . . .’’ He trailed his lips down one of her braids until he found the sweet curve of her neck. ‘‘Make a picture for me, yes? So I can see what you fear.’’

‘‘What good will that do?’’

‘‘Fear is a strong enemy. I would stand beside you.’’

She sighed. ‘‘Hunter,
you
are what I fear.’’

Releasing her shoulders, he slipped his arms around her, placing his palms beneath her breasts. He smiled at the way she gripped his wrists to make sure his hands didn’t wander. ‘‘I strike fear into you because I am a man?’’

‘‘It isn’t funny.’’

‘‘I do not laugh. It is a sad thing, yes, that your husband is a man. A very terrible thing.’’

She rewarded him with a tremulous laugh, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘‘It
isn’t
that you’re a man, exactly. It’s what will happen between us
because
you’re a man.’’

‘‘Many good things.’’ He felt her tense. ‘‘Little one, you will trust, eh? I make no lies. What is between us will be very good.’’

‘‘I try to believe that, really I do. And then I remember.’’

‘‘Make a picture of the remembering, eh?’’

‘‘I can’t.’’

Hunter tightened his hold on her. ‘‘It is a memory of your mother?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she admitted. ‘‘My mother and what—the Comanches did to her. The memories hit me, and I feel so frightened. I start wondering what it’ll be like, you know, between you and me. And then I start wondering
when
it’ll happen. And the first thing I know, it’s bedtime. And I’m terrified
tonight
will be the night. I can feel you watching me. And I’m afraid you’ll get angry if I sleep by Amy.’’

‘‘And I have blown like the wind, yes? Angry because you sleep away from me?’’

‘‘No. But I know you have every right.’’

‘‘So you wait for my anger, and it does not come.’’ He turned her in his arms and raised her chin so he could look into her eyes. ‘‘And the fear grows, until it is big like a buffalo?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she admitted in a quavery little voice.

Hunter sighed and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. ‘‘Ah, little one, I am sure enough a stupid man. We must make talk, yes? It was my wish to make your fear small, not big. To become your good friend, not your enemy.’’

‘‘Oh, Hunter, I wish we
could
be friends again. Remember our journey to my wooden walls? Sometimes— I think about those times, and—’’ She broke off and gave an exasperated groan. ‘‘I felt so close to you then, and I was so sad to say good-bye.’’

‘‘And now your heart does not sing friendship for me?’’

‘‘You’re my
husband.
’’

‘‘I wish to be your friend.’’ He leaned back to see her face. ‘‘Can I not be both? You have stolen my heart from me, Blue Eyes.’’

‘‘Oh, Hunter . . .’’

‘‘You will be my friend again?’’ he asked huskily. ‘‘We will make laughter together, yes? And you will lie beside me when we sleep, with no fear, because my hand upon you is the hand of your good friend.’’

‘‘I’d like to be friends again—truly I would.’’

‘‘Then it will be so.’’ He nuzzled her ear.

‘‘But Hunter, don’t you see? We’re
married.
’’

‘‘Ah, yes, married.’’ Hunter’s mind circled the word, trying to imagine what images it conjured for her. ‘‘And good friends, yes? Trust. This last time. My hand upon you has brought pain?’’

‘‘No,’’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘‘I have beaten you?’’

‘‘No.’’ She pressed closer to him and encircled his neck with her arms. ‘‘Oh, Hunter, what must you think of me?’’

‘‘I think there is big fear inside you.’’

‘‘Without cause. You’ve never been cruel to me, never, and yet . . .’’ A shiver coursed through her. In a rush, she told him of the many times she had heard her aunt Rachel whimpering late at night. ‘‘I keep telling myself it won’t be like that with you, that Henry’s mean as sin and that’s why she cries, but—’’ She broke off and swallowed. ‘‘What if that isn’t it? What if it’s as horrible as it sounds?’’

Seeing through her eyes, Hunter found himself smiling again. He considered telling her that many women whimpered when their men loved them, but he decided it would be unwise. He ran his hand up her slender back, aching to touch her soft skin instead of leather. He controlled the urge, reluctant to shatter the mood by startling her. ‘‘No more fear, eh? If I grow angry, I will bring you my mother’s spoon.’’

She sniffed and laughed. ‘‘A lot of good a spoon would be.’’

In one smooth sweep, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, pretending he didn’t notice her gasp of surprise or the frantic way she tugged her skirt down. He sat with his back braced against a gnarled bedpost, shifting her so she was draped across his lap, her shoulders supported by the crook of his arm. Gazing down into her wary eyes, he toyed with a curl at her temple, fascinated by the way it coiled on his finger.

‘‘Blue Eyes, you must make the picture for me. Of the day your mother died.’’

A tiny muscle in her eyelid twitched, and her mouth quivered. ‘‘I can’t talk about it. I can’t, Hunter. Please don’t ask.’’

‘‘My heart is sad with memories, too,’’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘‘Let us make trade. I will make a picture of my remembering, yes? And you will make a picture for me.’’

‘‘My memories are so horrible.’’

Hunter swallowed and tipped his head back to rest it against the post. Sharing his own memories would not be easy. His chest constricted as he forced his mind back through the years to that long-ago night on the bluff when he had sworn to kill this woman he now held in his arms. A flash of pain cut through him, but it quickly dulled. His memories of Willow by the Stream were beautiful and sweet. He would cherish them always. But they no longer had the power to destroy him.

In a coarse whisper, Hunter began a story he had never told to anyone, uncertain once he had begun that he could even finish it. The words spilled from him, though, raw and ugly, painting a graphic picture of the butchery that had occurred that day, of his wife’s slow death. When he finished the lodge was eerily silent, the woman he held unnaturally still.

At last she stirred and turned haunted blue eyes on him. ‘‘Oh, Hunter, you loved her very much, didn’t you?’’

He touched a finger to her cheek. ‘‘That love is for yesterday.’’