Bonds, Parris Afton

by The Flash of the Firefly

  "Nature provides for everything," Brant said, and left her to scramble up the gully's near-perpendicular wall toward the shrubby mesquites that lined its rim. Through dust-encrusted eyes Anne watched as he jerked at the thorny branches. "They're mesquite beans," he said, returning to her and holding out several of them in the palm of his hand. "Suck on them, and they'll bring the moisture back to your throat."

  Tentatively Anne tried one and found the saliva filling her mouth, washing away the parchedness. "Don't swallow them," he cautioned, squatting on his haunches next to her. "They'll bloat up in your stomach."

  Anne nodded and closed her eyes with a sigh. When Brant left to tend the horse, she hungrily put the rest of the beans in her mouth, chewing them until they were pulpy, savoring the bitter flavor on her tongue. In spite of herself, her stomach demanded the solids, and she swallowed.

  When Brant returned, he lay down beside her, pulling her against him, imparting his warmth against dawn's chill. Anne was mildly surprised that, unlike the nights with Otto or Pa-ha-yu-quosh, she did not shrink away with distaste at the man's embrace. But then she had been through a lot since that first day she came to Velasco as the fastidious, elegant Anne Maren. At the moment she was Ma-be-quo-si-tu-ma, wife of the half-breed, Firebrand.

  Anne wanted to cry out of sheer despair when Brant awoke her less than an hour later. "We've got to move on," he said.

  She was tired, and her stomach churned. "Why?" she demanded peevishly.

  "We've riders in the area―maybe as close as five miles."

  Anne closed her eyes and bit her lip against the nagging pain in her stomach. "All right," she said, wearily pushing herself erect.

  By the time the sun was a fiery sphere directly overhead, Anne's stomach writhed in snakelike knots, coiling and uncoiling. She doubled forward, her arms wrapped about her sides, and moaned.

  She had expected an "I told you so" from Brant when she confessed she had swallowed the mesquite beans, but he surprised her, as always. "It'll be all right," he said, gently catching her to him. "Just hold on. We'll rest just beyond that bluff."

  "But―Iron Eyes," she gasped. "Is it safe to stop?"

  "No―but then it never has been."

  The bluff Brant spoke of seemed to keep receding. When he finally urged his sorrel behind an enormous, eroded boulder, the eastern sky was already sheathed in black velvet. The narrow path they followed plunged suddenly into an impressive though not large steep-walled, limestone canyon.

  Anne was only vaguely aware of a clear, green spring flowing over the boulder-strewn gorge and spilling into a wide, deep pool that was rimmed by luxuriant hackberries and bald cypresses. Here, beneath the moist shelter of the trees, he stopped and, drawing her down from the horse, laid her on the sweet, soft grass.

  As another seizure of cramps claimed her, Anne curled up, jamming her knees against her chest. When it passed, the sweat stood out on her temples in spite of the cool breeze which had arisen at sunset.

  Brant brushed the tendrils of hair from her eyes. "I'll be back soon. Lie still―and try not to cry out. The sound carries a long way out here."

  As quietly as an Indian he was gone. The minutes crept by on spider legs, and still Brant did not return. Frantically Anne wondered if he had been killed by a silent arrow―or had he left her to perish there alone? Once, when a sagebrush came tumbling down off the canyon wall, a small cry escaped Anne's lips.

  Suddenly Brant was there, his hand over her mouth, silencing her. "I thought you'd left me," she whispered hoarsely.

  "Not yet." She sensed more than saw the wicked grin. "Here―eat this."

  "What is―"

  He shoved the pulpy wedge in her open mouth. "Cactus―peyote. In a few minutes' time it'll kill the pain. Take another bite." Dutifully Anne swallowed the acrid mass. Brant moved away, and she heard him gentling the horse, staking it out for the night. Then he was at her side once more, kneeling over her. "Has the pain lessened?"

  Anne nodded, feeling as if she were drifting. A euphoria spread throughout her taut body, relaxing the pain-tensed muscles, numbing her so that she knew she could not lift a finger if her survival depended on it.

  Yet her mind seemed sharper. There was a keenness―a clarity―to everything around her. The blue-white stars above seemed to hover just beyond

  Brant's dark head. His eyes were as bright as midnight fires, consuming her. And his lips, they―why hadn't she noticed before how sensuous they were? Why hadn't she realized how long she had been wanting to feel them against her own lips?

  Her arms, as if they had a life of their own apart from herself, raised to entwine about Brant's neck, drawing his face down to hers. At first the lips only brushed hers, like butterfly wings. But it was not enough. Why couldn't he understand what she wanted? What did she want?

  Oh―why couldn't she think? It was the peyote. No, it was his lips that played at the corner of her mouth, that traced a path to her temple, that kissed the lids of her eyes.

  She must tell him that it wouldn't do, that―what must she tell him? That she liked the feeling ... this strange, languorous floating. "Brant..." she whispered.

  His lips closed over her open mouth. Anne trembled as desire geysered through her body like hot springs. His arms slipped about her, pressing the length of his body against hers. "More," Her sigh sailed on the breeze. "I want―"

  "You don't know what you want!" came his husky voice, as if from a cave.

  He set her from him, and tears of frustration such as she had never felt sprang to the corners of her eyes. "I want...no―I―Brant, please..."

  "Oh God, Annie!" It was a groan that cut off as his mouth found hers again, bruising its softness.

  He had not been able to get her out of his mind―had told himself she was a rich, spoiled, pampered bitch. And yet he had gone against all reasoning of caution to find her, to hope against hope she was not already dead. Maybe he had hoped to fine her worn down, aged by the degradation of captivity. But hell no―it had been the reverse. She had been refined in the process. The once pale skin had turned to a bewitching gold. And there was a supple firmness to her exquisite body―a feline grace to her movements. But it was her voice, like warm rum, that intoxicated him―that had captivated him from the very first. And now there was that added depth of mystery to her, a promise of passion.

  The tight rein of control he had kept upon himself snapped, and he gathered her to him as she pressed his head between her breasts. Her tunic had ridden up over her bare hips, and he cupped his hands about the small, rounded buttocks while his lips sought the delights she offered him.

  Tomorrow she would hate him. But that was tomorrow.

  Now―now he made her his. Felt her wondrous warmth close about him, move with him ... sucking his breath, his life blood, from him and making every movement one of agonizing pleasure. Her hands caressed him, loved him, coaxed him to greater heights. And he knew he could never get enough of her even as his own hands played upon her marvelous body, bringing gasps of desire to respond to his own.

  And then came the half-delirious, whispered name. "Colin." And whatever gentleness Brant had displayed vanished.

  "Damn your fickle soul!"he rasped, and the fury of his passion took her with him to the hell of his release.

  xv

  Her head ached, but the cramps were gone. The memory was not. It came to her in brief lashes, and she could feel the blush of shame and disgust creep over her face. Thank goodness she rode behind Brant where he could not see her.

  She wanted to hate him, to strike out at that impassive face. But she could not, for innate honesty made her admit she was at least partly responsible for the night before. Though he had not taunted her this morning, his earlier gentleness was gone, replaced by his previously stony indifference.

  He had left her soon after sunrise to scout the area, and she had taken the opportunity to bathe in the mirrorlike pool. But, afraid he might return early, she had quickly scrubbed her skin and scalp with sand a
nd had not time to wash her tunic. When he returned with a rabbit in his hand, his hair glistened with drops of water, and she knew he had bathed farther down stream.

  As he began to skin the rabbit carcass, Anne collected twigs and dead branches. She worked deftly, building a near-smokeless fire. But if Brant noticed her skill, he said nothing. The heavy silence disturbed her as nothing else had, and she broke it, asking, "Did you find any sign of Iron Eyes?"

  His hawkish gaze fell on her for the first time that morning, and she noticed the shadow of beard stubble on the squared-off chin. "It looks like we've shaken him," he said evenly before returning to his work.

  From then on Anne's movements became more awkward. He had made no move to touch her, to hold her, and she could only assume that, as always, he thought the worse of her. And why not? She had behaved shockingly―justifying his conception of her immoral character. It mattered not that Colin had never been her lover in the physical sense. Brant would never believe it was not true ...not after last night. Not after ...and she could barely remember calling out Colin's name―and afterwards Brant's fury, bearing her like a tidal wave toward a destruction of her senses. It had been, of course, the peyote that had made it seem like she was drowning in a whirlpool of passion.

  But whatever rapport had existed between them before was now obliterated by her disgust and his anger that was almost impersonal. Brant was once more the cynical, uncaring frontiers man. But at least she did not have to worry about a repeat of the previous night. She was safe at least from him. And once again a hot blush swept over her at the memory of Brant's passionate embrace.

  The sorrel stumbled over a prairie dog hole, and Anne grasped more tightly about Brant's lean waist to keep from slipping off. Strange, she thought. Never had she given thought to a man's body. She had only been attracted to one man―Colin, and that love was on a higher plateau than the baser carnal desire she had known the night before with Brant. Oh, how often she had wanted Colin to sweep her up in her arms and cover her face with kisses, to whisper words of adoration.

  But she had never thought beyond that. Never realized until Otto ...and then he, and Pa-ha-yuquosh ...they had taken her, used her for their own particular reasons. But she―she had felt no desire, no stirrings ...only disgust.

  Then why Brant? She disliked the man. His insolence, his arrogance, his lack of scruples, his crudity. Yet, just thinking of her hands resting on his warm, toast-colored skin―his rock hard thighs alongside hers ...the masculine smell of leather and sweat that strangely stirred her senses ... remembering the weight of his body on hers. She must stop that. Soon she'd be free of him. Could put the revolting memories behind her.

  "Is San Antonio much farther?" she asked, her voice sounding stilted in her ears.

  With a cocked brow Brant looked over his shoulder at her. "Don't tell me you're anxious to end our honeymoon?"

  "Last night was―it'll never happen again, Brant Powers!"

  "Can't say that I want it to. The way you look now, you aren't that appetizing. But then again," he hauled back on the reins, slowing the sorrel, "I never liked being told I couldn't do something."

  "No!" she said quickly. "Please ..."

  There was anger in his laugh. "You sure blow hot and cold, Annie sweet." He urged the horse forward again. "Last night, I'd've sworn―"

  "Ohhh! You're disgusting! This journey can't end too soon."

  "That's too bad. 'Cause we've got another three days ahead of us. And I'm getting damned tired of your nagging. You're beginning to sound like a shrew, Annie Maren. I've half a mind to leave you here. Maybe Iron Eyes'll rescue you―or a band of Mexican terrorists. They'd like sharing a white woman among them―especially one with hair like yours."

  Anne's outward fury subsided, but she seethed inside. She wanted to rake her nails across Brant's stomach, to claw at his eyes. But she had no doubt that he would do just as he threatened. Her lips tightened into a taut line. She would not speak to the man again. She would show him her disdain―that he was little better than an animal. She drew as far away from him as space permitted.

  Yet barely six hours had passed, and she was pleading with him. "You said we'd lost Iron Eyes. Surely he wouldn't follow us this far. Please. Just a few minute's rest." Her head fell against his back. Her voice dragged with fatigue. "You're inhuman," she murmured.

  The moon was rising against the backdrop of the Anacacho Mountains when Brant hauled her from his horse and deposited her near a clump of the woody Guayule shrubs. Anne was too tired to protest as he gathered her against him. Later...later she would tell him what she thought of him. But right now ...she snuggled closer in his embrace, seeking his warmth against her back.

  "We'll be in the outskirts of San Antonio by nightfall," Brant told her.

  "We can't ride in looking like this! Just look―"

  "Don't aim to. There's a pueblo just over the next rise, in a grove of cottonwoods. Friends there'll give us a change of clothing and a bath."

  Inwardly Anne shrank at the thought of meeting white people again. What would they think of her―living with the Indians as she had done? The whispers―or worse, their pitying stares. She could not bear that.

  As if sensing her distress, Brant said, "The DeLeons don't ask questions."

  When Anne met the brother and sister, she understood why. For one thing, she learned Rafael DeLeon was a spy for the Texas Republic. "When Santa Anna marched to San Jacinto," Brant explained, "the DeLeon Hacienda was one of the homes he burned―and when he hanged their parents, Rafael and Celia became that much more pro-Texas."

  The village of squat, white stucco houses where the DeLeons lived slumbered under the scorching sun. Only the squawking chickens and skinny dogs in the narrow, rutted dirt streets were awake to announce the arrival of the two riders who resembled Indians. But when Brant and Anne entered the cool, dim interior of one of the adobe homes there was a much different reception. "Quién es?" a throaty voice called out.

  Brant dropped his saddle inside the doorway. "Floja! Porqué no eres luchando?"

  If Anne was surprised by Brant's knowledge of Spanish, she was even more so by the small, black-haired, black-eyed young girl who materialized out of the room's darkness and threw herself in Brant's arms. "Querido mio!" The girl, who could be no more than sixteen, drew Brant's head down to hers and planted a passionate kiss on his mouth before drawing back with pouting lips. "Where have you been, Brant? We expected you more than a week ago!"

  Then she noticed behind him the slim woman with the pale red hair in braids, and she dropped her arms. "And who is she?"

  "I thought you said they didn't ask questions," Anne snapped, finding herself disgusted by the performance before her. She moved out of the doorway to stand at Brant's side.

  "Celia―meet Anne," Brant said easily.

  The black sloe-eyes narrowed, appraising the woman who stood with hands on hips. The gray eyes, like flint in the apricot-colored face, mocked her. She's not so pretty, Celia thought. But still, there was something about her. Maybe it was because the young woman seemed to move with the same easy grace as Brant.

  "Where's Rafael?" Brant asked. "And how about a bath, niña?"

  "Rafael's in San Antonio―gathering information. But he's due back later tonight. And as for a bath," she cocked her head toward the back room, "I'll prepare it for you myself, querido."

  The corner of Brant's mouth lifted in a mocking, one-sided smile. "Later. Let Anne wash up first while you tell me what's been going on."

  Anne watched as Celia slipped an arm about Brant's waist, pulling him toward a round, intricately carved table of pine. As if remembering she had another guest, Celia looked back over her shoulder, wrinkling her small nose in distaste. "I'll have Juana get hot water for you," she told Anne. "You'll find clean clothes in the back room." Then, softly to Brant, "We've some aguardiente to boil your blood, corazon. And if that doesn't work ..." She broke off with a slow smile.

  Anne whirled from the two and shoved aside
the curtain leading to the rear room. She was jerking off the dirty, sweat-stiffened leather tunic when a rotund woman with white hair knotted behind her short, thick neck waddled into the room. In each hand she lugged a bucket of steaming water. A wide smile formed below the mustache-shadowed upper lip. "Buenas tardes, señora. Tengo agua caliente para usted."

  Anne clutched the dress before her nudity and nodded her head politely, not understanding the Spanish. The woman continued to talk cheerfully as she poured the buckets of water in the large tin tub that stood between the two rawhide-bound beds.

  When she finally left, Anne removed the dusty, knee-high moccasins and stepped into the water with a sigh that was almost one of ecstasy. It was enough just to sit there, to feel the hot water eddy about her tired body, soaking away the stiffness in her muscles. But she feared Celia―or worse, Brant―might come in and so hurried with her bath, wishing there was enough water to more thoroughly rinse the lye soap from her tangled hair.

  Too soon, old Juana appeared with a brightly colored skirt and white blouse, which she laid out on one of the beds. "Aquí estan sus huaraches,"she told Anne, placing the pair of leather-braided sandals by the tub before leaving. Regretfully, Anne rose from the first hot bath she had had in almost three months and slipped her feet into the huaraches. The sandals whispered on the flagstone floor when she crossed to the bed and began to dress.

  As she yanked the low-cut blouse over her head, tucking it into the waistband of her ankle-length skirt, she was conscious of a third voice in the outer room―a masculine one. "The two hombres―I don't know if they're agents for Mexico or not, amigo―they were at Fatima's Cantina―there in the Villita district. But they talked of a Mexican force of five thousand calvary and infantrymen that are to cross the border and join up with the Comanche and Cherokee."

  "One of the men, Rafael," ―it was Brant's voice now―"did he call himself Manuel Flores?"

  "I didn't learn his name, amigo. But these two men, they were encouraging the Mexicans there at the cantina to rebel against the Anglos―to join up with Santa Anna's forces and drive the gringos from Texas. One of them, I remember, had a large, handlebar mustache―and he was missing two fingers on his right hand."