Bonds, Parris Afton

by The Flash of the Firefly

  "I do not think my friend was wise in bringing you," Rafael said at her side, his gaze following the direction of her own.

  Anne saw the concern in Rafael's eyes and said, "I can take care of myself, Rafael." Her hands rested reassuringly on the muzzle loader tucked into the band of her pants. Before they had left San Antonio she had stuffed her pockets full of powder and balls and a few caps.

  "Ni modo, it is too dangerous," Rafael said' obstinately. "Brant's cabin is not many miles north from here. When it becomes too dark to track, I will speak to him about leaving you there."

  Anne turned on him. "No! I'll not be left behind again. When Brant finds Flores, he'll head for Houston. And I mean to go with him!"

  Rafael shrugged indifferently but was inwardly puzzled by Anne's vehemence on the subject. What was so important in the miserable, disease-ridden town of Houston? But then, if it were true the two were married, she would of course want to be with Brant. Qué lástima, that he had not met Anita first!

  The journey resumed again, but at a brisker pace as the tracks became more pronounced. They followed a small, dry creek through a low valley rimmed by rocky hills sparsely covered with juniper and cypress. However, darkness forced the search party to halt just east of the tiny settlement of Waterloo on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River.

  While the men talked easily around the small fire, Rafael drew Anne aside and once more tried to persuade her to give up her idea of riding with the search party. "If you won't go to Brant's cabin," he said impatiently, "at least consider spending the night at Waterloo. Another hour's traveling and you could be sleeping comfortably on a feather mattress instead of the hard ground."

  Anne smiled, realizing with her woman's intuition that Rafael was indeed in love with her. And as warm and ardent lover as he might be―and realizing full well that there were many belles in Bridgetown that would adore having a suitor of his old world charm and aristocracy―Anne knew there could never be thought in her heart for any one but Colin. Gently she withdrew her hand from his.

  "You forget, Rafael, that I am more accustomed to the hard ground now than a mattress." She smiled to herself thinking how, like Brant, she threw the ticking pillows on the floor at night and was still somewhat uncomfortable in a bed. "I've survived a lot since coming to Texas, and I shall quite probably survive this, Rafael."

  The autumn moon lit the beautifully sculptured face she turned up to him, and it was all Rafael could do to keep from kissing the wide, generous mouth. He was half angry that she seemed to regard him as a boy though he was more than seven years beyond her twenty. But then she had been through a considerable deal more than most women her age. And though she never spoke of her ordeal with the Comanches, there was a maturity to be found in the large gray eyes that enhanced their loveliness. Reluctantly, he acceded to her womanly wisdom and followed her back to the campfire.

  The evening passed quickly until bedtime, with the soldiers, who were exceedingly polite to Anne, recounting for her tales of their daring exploits, many of which Ezra warned her laughingly to take with a grain of salt. But when the bedrolls were laid out, Anne found hers spread close to Brant's.

  Since that morning, he had left behind the mocking, cynical attitude he had adopted toward her after the episode of the peyote and was once again the impersonal scout she had once known. It was as if, since he had made the decision to return her to Houston―and Colin, he was giving up his claim to her as her husband. So she was therefore somewhat surprised that he still kept her near his side.

  The fire was banked, and a quietness settled over the camp as Anne stretched out in her bedroll. For a long time she lay watching the dark shadow that was Brant's back, so close to her she could reach out and touch him. It came to her that she did not know anything about the man, really. And now that she was leaving him, she would like to know more.

  If she had never met Colin, perhaps she might have come to care for this stranger who claimed to be her husband ...and she smiled to herself and yawned, thinking how silly her musings were, for Brant Powers cared for her even less, wanting only one thing from her. And that in itself surprised her...for what he took from her, the days and nights of love, he could have from any number of women, from Dorothy to Celia. But then, there was no accounting for the peculiarities of a frontiersman.

  At dawn the party crossed the Colorado at Grantam's Ferry and continued northward. There was no halt for lunch this time. Brant, Rafael, and Ezra fanned out, hoping to come upon the tracks again that had disappeared near the dry, rocky bed of Brushy Creek. Anne rode along side of Rice, a short, wiry man with keen hazel eyes that peered out of a sun-baked face. He spoke briefly to her of his family in San Antonio and his childhood home in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. But for the most part his eyes traveled, as Brant's did, in a swinging arc before him, taking in everything.

  Near dusk Ezra came riding back, reining in abruptly before Rice. "Brant's found fresh tracks―unshod Indian war ponies," he told the lieutenant in labored breath. "Not more than twenty minutes old. And in the lead, sharp cut prints."

  "Such as left by a white man's mount?" Rice asked.

  "Or a Mexican's," Ezra said thinly.

  Rice signaled to his Rangers, and the group plunged ahead and in a few moments carne upon Brant and Rafael haunched near a scrub oak. Anne dismounted and, with Rice, walked her horse over to the two men. Brant rose and said quietly, "There are Indians camped in the heavy timber along a small stream―just beyond the next rise."

  Rice nodded and motioned to his men. In silence the Rangers dismounted. Following Ezra and Rafael's example, they too fanned out, stealthily forging ahead.

  Brant hung back, catching the bridle of Anne's mount as she moved out with the rest. The setting sun was at his back, and, looking up at him, she could discern nothing but the bronze glints in his brown hair. But she could hear the harshness in his voice. "You're to stay here. If there's trouble, you're to ride back to San Antonio. I've left enough greenbacks with the desk clerk at the hotel to get you to Houston."

  Astounded, she opened her mouth, but Brant interrupted her. "Damn it, Anne, try to do what I say for once!"

  He stalked away before she could make any reply. She had to content herself with waiting beneath the scrub oak while the moments played out like a chess tournament. Then came the sudden burst of gunfire, echoed by answering volleys. Anne's grasp tightened on her pistol's horn grip. The seconds that followed were agonizing. When spine-tingling whoops rent the air, she sprang to her feet.

  It seemed she wasted previous seconds as she first spilled the small amount of powder into her pistol, followed by the ball, carefully poking it in well. Then she set out at a steady run. Her sombrero fell from her head, and her hair tumbled down her back. The air emptied from her lungs. Still, she ran.

  Cresting the hill, she saw the Rangers, with Brant and Ezra In the lead, bearing down upon retreating Indians. And her stomach knotted sickeningly as she spotted among the tasseled lances and gaudily painted buffalo-hide shields the formidable figure of Iron Eyes.

  With mounting horror she watched as Iron Eyes turned. Carefully the chief aimed the sight of his rifle at Rafael, who was engaged in a hand to hand battle with an already blood-smeared Indian. Anne jerked up her own pistol but realized the distance was too great for the shot to be effective. "Rafael," she warned with a scream as she ran down the slope.

  Above the din of shouts and exploding weapons, her call went unheard. Yet, as though guided by a sixth sense, Iron Eyes pivoted in her direction. What followed seemed to pass in slow motion. It was as if her feet had taken root in the sandy soil. With a wolfish grin, Pa-ha-yu-quosh's father raised the sight of his rifle upwards to fix on her.

  Simultaneously with the burst of orange smoke occurred the impact of Brant's body against that of Iron Eyes. The two men rolled to the ground in a flurry of dirt. Physically, Brant had the advantage over the older chief. But Iron Eyes whipped from his war belt a knife that more equalled the death fight.r />
  Only then did Anne break free of her catatonic state. She scrambled the rest of the way down the hill, carefully maneuvering among the combatants. When she reached the thrashing bodies of Brant and Iron Eyes, she halted. With both hands she raised her pistol, closing her left eye. Yet she waited for eternal seconds, afraid to fire for hitting Brant. Sweat and blood coated both men. It was impossible at times to distinguish them. But when one arm raised to come hurtling down in a final knife thrust, Anne fired.

  The body pitched forward on the man beneath. It was several seconds before Anne realized which man she had killed―the first man she had ever killed.

  Then with the smell of blood, dust, and burnt gunpowder clouding her nostrils, and her mind, she slumped to the ground.

  xx

  There was a chill in the Indian summer evening, and the orange-red tongues of flame in the caliche fireplace cast their flickering shadows on the wavy, blue-black curls of Rafael's bent head. He held the blood-stained papers nearer the dancing light, translating aloud the Spanish for the cabin's two other occupants.

  Anne sat nearby on the squat stool, her hands clasped about her knees, as she listened intently to Rafael's softly accented words. A purpling bruise on her right temple, where she had slammed her head against a stone when she fainted the day before, was her only aftereffect of the battle. It was the first time in her life she had ever fainted, and she found it incredible that she should do so then, after all the horrors she had endured.

  The third occupant of the small room showed more visible markings from the day's battle. The long figure stretched out on the rope-spring bed moved irritably on the soft buffalo furs. Yet the goldenbrown eyes, feverish from the festering knife wound in the shoulder, were alert. Alert enough to curse inwardly his stupidity in allowing Iron Eyes the opportunity to draw the knife, to inflict the throbbing wound near his collarbone. But then he had foolishly allowed himself to be distracted by the sight of Anne standing directly in Iron Eyes' line of fire. The little .idiot! She was always asking for trouble. Bringing death to every man she slept with. Maren, Pa-ha-yuquosh, himself nearly, and God knew how many more.

  Only Donovan had been wily enough to keep out of Anne's embroilments. At least on the surface. Or had he underestimated Anne Maren? How deeply was she involved with Donovan in this British Abolitionist movement? Damn! Between the Abolitionists,' the Mexicans, and the Indians, they were making sure Texas didn't stand a rabbit's chance in a wolves' den!

  Brant's eyes sought the slim figure dressed in boy's clothing, noticing how the taut, rounded breasts strained against the thin cotton material. He closed his eyes with another curse. It was hard to believe that the gray eyes that looked out from behind those thick, sooty lashes could seem so open, so honest.

  The vague muttering reached Anne, and she paused in braiding her hair to glance sharply in Brant's direction. Her straight brows drew together in a frown of concern. But no, Brant's coloring seemed fine, his breathing easy. The bandage was still white against the tanned skin. She turned her attention back to Rafael.

  "All Texians are to be killed, taken captive, or driven out of the country," Rafael read. "The land will be returned to your people to be divided equally among the tribes taking part in the uprising. Meanwhile, you are to cease all raids, lulling the Texians into a sense of security."

  Rafael looked up from the paper with a scowl. "It seems Santa Anna did not learn his lesson at San Jacinto."

  With a strain Brant propped himself on one elbow. Long brown locks fell forward over the forehead where sweat beaded up from his effort. "We can't wait for Ezra to get back from San Antonio. Ranger headquarters could detain him with those senseless reports for God knows how long. You'll have to take that paper to Houston in my place, mano. You must make sure Sam knows the letter was taken off Flores' body."

  Rafael's brows shot up. "Me, amigo? I've never even talked with Sam Houston. I only saw him once―at San Jacinto."

  Ignoring Rafael's outburst, Brant continued. "And I want you to take her with you." He jerked his head in Anne's direction.

  A thrill of anticipation shot through Anne. At last she would be with Colin. Only three or four days at the most. She sprang from the stool. "I can be ready to go whenever you like, Rafael."

  Rafael did not miss the sparkle that lit the wide eyes. It was like lifting a veil of mist from them so that their intoxicating depths seemed to fill up the near gaunt face, enhancing the fine contours. To be in the company of such a woman―alone! This one had a mind of her own, had been captured by the Comanches and had not only learned to survive but had been accepted as one of them. This Scotswoman was indeed a strong female ...yet, there was a seductive softness about her that made one long to hold her, to ...Dios mio, could he control his own desire for the sake of his friend?

  Rafael glanced uneasily at Brant. "And what of you, amigo? You are not well enough to take care of yourself."

  Brant sank back on the bed. He crossed his good arm over his forehead, shielding the expression on his face. But Anne heard the bitterness in his voice. "I'll be fine. Just get the letter―and her―to Houston."

  Anne's eyes were slits. To talk of her as if she were not in the room. What was she―an object? Did Brant dislike her so much that the sight of her was an irritation? And yet she knew Brant desired her―she had seen the look in his eyes the few times she had caught him unawares.

  Her lips twisted in a perverse smile. What were a few days more? When Brant was better she'd make him take her to Houston himself. Let him face Colin and beg for his reward rather than have Rafael do his dirty work.

  "Rafael has a point, Brant," she said. "You're too weak to clean out that wound ,much less change your bandage. Why, you'd fall flat on your face if you tried to rise from the bed. Who will feed you? No, I'll stay. You can take me to Houston when you're better."

  Brant eyed her suspiciously. "Why? Why stay when you're in such an almighty hurry to get to Donovan?"

  "I―you stopped Iron Eyes from killing me, didn't you? I owe you this much." Anne moved closer to the bed and forced herself to meet Brant's inquisitive glare. For that brief moment it was as if Rafael were not in the room. Her voice came in a harsh whisper. "And that's all I owe you. Nothing more. With this you and I'll even our debts, Brant Powers."

  Something awoke Anne during the night. She raised from the bearskin pallet on one elbow and peered about the darkened room. The only light came from the flickering embers in the fireplace behind her. She listened to the eerie silence, wishing Rafael had delayed his departure until morning. Then she heard again what had awakened her. From across the room came a faint moan, followed by an indistinct murmur.

  Throwing aside the light covering, she crossed on bare feet to the bed. The room was so dark she could not see Brant's face. Lightly she laid her hand over his brow. Hot. Had infection set in? But she and Rafael had been so careful when they tended to the wound. Even pouring over the puffy flesh the bottle of whiskey they had found along with the tins of coffee and flour stored on the shelf over the fireplace.

  Anne smiled grimly, remembering Brant's face as he winced at the stinging sensation. "Shit, Rafael," he had rasped. "That gut rot'll kill me if the bullet doesn't!"

  Anne was jolted back to the present when Brant's hand slipped about her own in a steely clasp. "Laura."

  Only the one word, hoarsely spoken.

  "Brant," she whispered, trying to pull away. "Let me get you some water. You're feverish."

  "No―I'm cold. Lie beside me, Laura. Keep me warm."

  Indeed, he did tremble as If chilled, and Anne relented to the hand that pulled her down beside him. She stretched out her length against his. For a few moment she was quiet, quiet enough so that it seemed to Anne she could hear the furious beating of her own heart. Damn him, why did his nearness have to arouse her so? He was nothing but a backwoodsman, common riffraff found everywhere in Texas. But she remained close, feeling the hardness of his body against her own.

  Then,
"Lovely, white body. Too beautiful, too white for the Texas sun. Must make her happy ...cut the teasing, Laura. Say you'll marry me ...Texas?―it's wide open―fresh―unspoiled, like yourself ... you'll love it―like I love you ... stop it, Laura! Stop the crying―it'll get easier―give it a chance."

  Cracked laughter. "She's gone! My God, a Methodist preacher!"

  And all through the dawn. "Laura ... Laura ...Laura."

  Anne extricated herself from the thrashing limbs. Brant's torn shirt and dirty pants were soaked with perspiration. An unhealthy flush dulled the tanned skin. He needed a doctor. And she knew nothing about medicine.

  Anne slipped outside. Maybe the fresh air and sunlight would restore her senses, numbed by a sleepless night. She looked around the clearing where the cabin stood, not really seeing the tall, majestic elms and maples already dressed for autumn in oranges and reds, or the spring-fed pond just below the rocky slope to the left of the cabin. Instead, her vision was fixed on the pastas she tried to remember. What would Delila have done? The Negress had been an encyclopedia of medicinal information.

  Anne wrung her hands, then ceased as her desperate gaze fell upon a garden long since gone to seed. But in a nearby section of the garden there was a patch of winter onions, their green stems barely visible among the riot of weeds. How many times Delila had made an onion poultice for anything from a chest cold to a snake bite.

  She began to run, stumbling once over one of the insidious bramble bushes. Then she was on her knees. Her fingers groveled in the black dirt, digging at the onion heads. Ten, twelve, thirteen. That should be enough onions.

  Once inside the house she found enough water in a clay crock to boil the onions. But more water would be needed to cleanse Brant's wound, to bathe his feverish body. As she coaxed the half-cold coals back to flickering life, she cast a quick glance at Brant who stirred restlessly in his sleep. The shallow breathing was still unchanged. Hurriedly, she shoveled a few more coals over the spider skillet; then, grabbing up the crock pot, she headed for the pond.