Their eyes held and she reddened slightly, realizing how the remark sounded. The teasing smile passed over his lips again. “Even among Indians, an Indian man is lost without his woman, whether he is young and it is his mother and sisters, or older and it is his wife and daughters taking care of things. The men think they are so strong and brave, but they know they would be almost helpless without the women taking care of the chores and the cooking and keeping the tipi in order. Is it like that for whites then?”
“Yes. It is very much like that.” She pulled out a chair opposite his and sat down. “Tell me something, Mr. Selby. If you actually prefer Indian life, why are you doing this? You must know people will be against you.”
He sobered then, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Half of me is white. I suppose that is part of the reason. But also because I know what kind of future lies ahead for my people. They cannot live that way forever, and for those of us who are able, we might as well start learning to live another way. I want to be ready to help my people however I can. I can help them better by getting myself settled now, learning to live the white man’s way, learning their laws, how to read—everything I can learn. I can help better from this side than I can by continuing to live as a Comanche. I am one of them. They listen to me. And to know what we are dealing with from the white man’s point of view, I must live this way and learn.”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “You are a very wise man, Mr. Selby. I must say I am rather surprised at such thinking. Most Indians are so opposed to learning new ways. I can easily see you are a very intelligent man, and a man devoted to his people.” She breathed deeply, feeling more relaxed. “I’m very glad I decided to do this. I feel as though it’s a move toward peace.”
“It is a start.” He watched her blue eyes, studied her exquisitely beautiful face. “Where is your father’s ranch? Is it a big one?”
She shrugged. “By Texas standards I guess it’s small. But it does pretty well. It’s northwest of Austin—the Double ‘R.’ My brother Joshua runs it now, with help from my younger brothers, Luke and Matt. I worry about them. They’re all so young. My father was raised among Cherokee, and he had a way with the Indians, plus he knew how to fight the ones he couldn’t reason with.” She reddened again. “I mean…oh, it’s so awkward to sit here talking about fighting Indians to a man who is Indian himself.”
Brand grinned. “It is all right. I understand what you are trying to say:” He touched a candle holder on the table, absently turning it back and forth then. “Your father must have been quite a man.”
“Oh, he was! He was big and strong and such a sure man. I was never afraid when I was around my father. And he and my mother were very much in love. They came here from Tennessee, just before the government began herding the Cherokee into Indian Territory. My mother died about five years ago, and after that Pa was never quite the same, never really happy. It still hurts to think of him being dead, but I know he’s happier now, because he’s with Mother again.”
Again their eyes held in a special understanding, both of them wondering what it must be like to love someone so much that you didn’t want to live without them. “Your mother must have been a fine woman to raise such an understanding daughter,” he said then. “Did she have your golden hair and blue eyes?”
Rachael looked down, hoping the warmth in her cheeks didn’t mean they were red. “Yes.” She met his eyes again. “And she was very intent on learning, on making sure all of us had an education and could read and write and all. She’s the reason I went to St. Louis to study even more. And she’s the reason I’m sitting here now. I couldn’t turn you down, Mr. Selby, because of promises I made to her to help anyone who needed help.”
Brand smiled warmly. “Then I am very glad your mother made you promise. She and your father must have been very fair. That is hard to find among white people.”
Rachael sobered. “Not as hard as you might think, Mr. Selby, I assure you.”
“You have not lived on my side of the fence, Miss Rivers. Yes, it is hard—harder than you could ever know. If you are caught doing this, I don’t think you would find many people around like your mother and father who would understand. It would be very bad for you.”
She leaned back in her chair again. “Well, then, that’s just a chance I’ll have to take, isn’t it?”
He glanced at the door, which he had left open, then moved his eyes back to her. “I am very grateful, Miss Rivers. And we had better get started, before you are missed.”
“You mean you aren’t going to tell me anything about yourself? You know something about my family, Mr. Selby. But I don’t know very much about you. It might help my teaching if I know how much you already know—you mentioned your mother was white and that she taught you what she knew. Can you tell me more about her?”
He leaned back in his chair, turning sideways and crooking one arm over the back of it. One long leg sprawled forward, and he bent the other leg up to position his foot on top of his knee. His powerful presence seemed to fill the room.
“I was not so sure I should tell you. It might frighten you away.”
“Why? Because she was a captive?”
He watched her closely. “Yes. My father stole her from a settlement when she was about fourteen. He wasted no time in making her his wife, if you get my meaning.”
She quickly looked at her lap, feeling the hot flush to her cheeks. “I get your meaning, Mr. Selby. It…must have been terrifying.”
“I suppose—at first. But by the time I was old enough to know my mother and remember her, all of that was gone. She had come to love my father, and he loved her, if you can believe it is possible for Comanche to love. Some whites don’t think so. They don’t credit us with any kind of human emotions.”
Rachael caught the anger in his voice then. She met his eyes again to see the hurt there.
“We do love, Miss Rivers,” he went on. “As passionately as we hate. My mother had a lot to learn when she was captured, but she was a survivor, strong like you. And she decided early on that if she was to live, she had to learn the Comanche way. Her quick acceptance of her new life impressed my father, and he began to be more kind to her. Then the first baby came—” Rachael looked at her lap again. “—and that was the link,” he went on. “She told me about my older brother many times, about how she felt when that baby was bom, how proud my father was. But he died, and not only was my mother beside herself with grief, she was afraid she would be killed—be blamed for the baby’s death. She thought my father would say it was because of her own weak blood. But he came to her and held her, and he wept, too. She told me that was when she realized she loved him. She saw then the human side, and she had already seen it in the others—had seen the Comanche have the same feelings as whites have. They live differently, but love, Miss Rivers, is the same all over the world, with all people. There is no difference in the link between mother and child, husband and wife, father and son. When we lose a loved one, we weep, just like you wept over your father and mother when they died. My mother had chances after that to escape, but she never tried. She wouldn’t leave my father.”
Rachael looked at him then, curiosity and admiration in her eyes. “What an amazing story, Mr. Selby. Were there more children besides you then?”
He moved his arm from the back of the chair and grasped his ankle, fingering the beads of his moccasins. “None that lived. Among the Comanche there is much more death than among your people. I came along next, and I was strong. I survived. But two more babies died after me. So I have no brothers and sisters. I was twelve when my mother died, but by then she had taught me as much as she knew herself about words and letters and such. I knew your alphabet and could write. My father never kept her from teaching me those things, and she always told me that some day I would have to decide which way to live my own life. Now I have decided. That is why you are here today.”
He got up from this chair then, going to the
fireplace, where a ladle hung. “You thirsty? There is a good well outside. Hard to believe in this land, but you really can find water in some places. I’m sorry I didn’t think until now to ask. It’s very hot. Are you comfortable?”
“I’m fine. But I would like a glass of water.”
He took a tin cup from a shelf and walked out. She watched his easy gait, watched the dancing fringes of his clothing. Never in her life had she considered with such sincerity the human side of the Comanche. This man made it all so real, so much more clear. She had grown up understanding that Indians had feelings, too, for her father and mother had spoken about their own life among the Cherokee many times.
But somehow the Comanche had always seemed different. There was no doubt they were different—as different from whites as two worlds could be. They lived in a world of spirits and bloodletting and fierce combat. She was well aware of some of the hideous acts they had committed against settlers, but now she wondered about the reasons behind them, wondered about their beliefs. For now Brand Selby had opened up an avenue she had failed to consider—emotions—love. Somehow she had not been able to connect the word love with the Comanche. But this man’s white mother had loved his Comanche father, in spite of the brutality under which the man had first taken her. It was surely partly because she had been young enough at the time to still be molded into a new life, and partly out of survival, as Brand had said. But there had to be more after that, for she had apparently gladly borne the man three more children, and there was only one way to get babies.
When Brand returned she quickly opened a book. She could not help thinking—what would it be like getting pregnant by a man like Brand Selby. How did Comanche men make love? The thought made her thumb nervously through the book as Brand set a cup of water in front of her. She glanced at his strong, dark hand.
“Drink some water and we’ll get started,” he told her, his voice gentle.
She drank the water while he went to get his chair, bringing it around beside her own. He turned it backward and straddled it, leaning against the back of it and peering down at the books.
“Yes, I have ridden against whites and I have attacked settlements,” he told her then. “I know you are wondering. But because of my mother I never harmed a white woman.”
Rachael drank the water, secretly breathing a sigh of relief. Somehow she wanted very much to know this man had not hurt white women, not because she feared for herself, but because it just made everything easier, teaching him, being his friend.
“Later on I became a scout for the Texas Militia,” he continued, “and for a while for the Rangers. Then I worked on a white man’s ranch. He’s the one who helped me get started here—paid me well, taught me a lot. I settled here so that I can be closer to my people. My father was killed at Plum Creek. I was one of the few who got away. After that I knew there was no future for the Comanche, at least not in the old ways. Those were bad times.”
His voice seemed to drift, and she turned to look at him, but he was staring at the books, a terrible sadness in his eyes.
“How sad there is so much misunderstanding,” she told him.
He met her eyes, his own moving over her again. She wanted to ask him about Plum Creek, about Jason Brown, about many more things. But she had a feeling he didn’t want to talk about those things anymore at the moment. And for her part, she didn’t want to talk about Jason Brown.
“What was your mother’s name?” she asked quietly.
He looked back at the books. “Mary. Mary Selby. She gave me her own last name to use for my white name. Her parents and a little brother were killed the day she was taken. No other relatives lived here in Texas, and no one ever came looking for her.”
Outside his horse whinnied, but inside the room hung silent for several long seconds. Rachael turned back to the books. She turned to a page with the letter “A” on it, in capital form, small print and in longhand.
“Do you know how to print and write in longhand, Mr. Selby?”
“Just printing.”
“Can you make words? Read?”
“I can read some, but not some of the bigger words. Same with writing them.”
“Good. We have a good start then. First I want you to learn to make your letters in longhand. I’ll write the entire alphabet for you on my slate, in both small letters and capital letters. I want you to start by practicing making the same letters yourself. The next time I come we’ll do some reading.”
“Fine.” She picked up the slate and took some chalk from her handbag. He watched her make the letters, studying her delicate hands and their fair, smooth skin. He wondered what the skin of her breasts was like, certainly even smoother and softer. Surely she was warm and soft everywhere, and he ached to know but knew it was not possible to find out. Even if he had the right to touch her, she was not the type who could be pushed too quickly. This woman was made of fine stuff, strong, independent, proud. If she were captured she would be very much like his own mother had been—a fighter, a survivor. He wondered if he had taken her like his father took his mother, if she would learn to love him eventually.
“There. Now you try it.” She handed him the slate. Brand turned his chair around and moved closer to the table. He took the slate and the chalk and started the letters.
“No. Start at this point,” she said. She rose and stood behind him, putting her hand over his own then and moving his fingers for him to show him the flow of the letter. The scent of her, the feel of her hand on his distracted him so that it was a struggle to repeat the movement on his own. It made him feel awkward, and he gave out a disgusted sigh.
“It’s all right, Brand,” she said, hardly aware she had used his first name. “It’s only your first try.”
He turned and looked up at her. “You called me by my first name.”
Her eyebrows arched and she colored slightly. “I did, didn’t I?” She pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “It just slipped out.”
He smiled. “Leave it that way then. I told you once to call me Brand.”
She smiled in return, feeling more relaxed all the time. “And I guess you might as well call me Rachael.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” She folded her arms. “How did your mother come to call you Brand?”
He turned back to the slate. “She told me once that being a half-breed left me branded—a man who would live in two worlds and belong to neither. So she called me Brand. She always worried about what life would be like for me, being a half-breed.”
For over an hour they worked together, their friendship already growing; but other feelings were also growing, feelings both of them struggled to ignore.
“I’d better get back,” she finally said. “If you like I’ll leave the slate here and you can practice. There are more slates at the school.”
“That would be good. I’ll practice every day. You’ll be surprised when you come back.”
Rachael smiled, moving around the table to pick up her books. “I don’t think I will be. I have no doubt of your abilities, Brand.”
“I could never go to a regular school even if one had been available. Whites don’t want half-breeds in their schools.” He set the slate on the table, his eyes moving over her again. “I just realized I never even tended to my horse. But he should be rested enough to take us back. After I let you off I will watch until I know you are safe.”
Their eyes held again, a strange ache growing in Rachael’s heart. “I won’t be afraid anymore, Brand.” She pulled the books to her breast, suddenly aware of her shape, feeling as though he knew exactly how she looked naked. “Do you have an Indian name?” she asked, moving toward the door.
“It is Running Wolf. The wolf is my guiding spirit. I carry the feet of a wolf in my medicine bag, a wolf that came to speak to me and offer its spirit to me after I spent many days fasting and praying as a young boy.”
Brand hated to see her go. He had always been a loner and liked it that way. Now, sudd
enly, he realized he would be lonely after she was gone. When they reached his horse he lifted her with powerful arms, then untied the animal and moved up behind her. Both of them were full of more questions, but strange new feelings prevented further conversation. Suddenly they were each afraid to speak for fear of saying something that should not be said. Brand turned the horse and headed back toward Austin.
They rode silently over sun-blistered rock and clay, through emptiness. This was where Rachael Rivers had grown up, yet suddenly she felt like a foreigner in this land. Brand’s arm slipped around her. She wondered what kind of hell she had invited herself to visit by agreeing to come and meet this man alone to teach him. And it seemed that all too soon they were close enough to town that she would have to get off the horse and walk back or be seen with him.
For a moment she was tempted to have him ride her straight into town, in front of everyone. Brand Selby was a good man, struggling to improve his life. Who was there to say that any man in Austin was any better?
He halted his horse and helped her down. Their eyes held.
“Thank you, Rachael,” he told her.
“It was my pleasure. Come again in three days—same time.”
“I will be waiting for you.”
She hugged her books to her breast and backed away, smiling at him. “Be careful, Brand. Folks around here carry an awful lot of hatred.”
He grinned and shook his head. “You think you need to tell me that?”
Again she wondered about Jason Brown—the story about the old Indian man. “No. I guess it was silly of me to even mention it.”
His smile faded. “It wasn’t silly. You were just being kind.” He turned and moved onto his horse in one swift motion. “Go now before people start wondering.”
She nodded, turned, and started walking. It seemed only a moment later that she turned back to wave to him, but already he had disappeared. She looked around, astounded that he could make himself so invisible so quickly. She headed back to town, feeling no fear now. Someone was watching, and now she had no doubt he would come to her rescue in a moment if she needed him.
The Bride Series (Omnibus Edition) Page 47
