Little Deer took one of Bay’s braids and held it up to the sunlight to see the red highlights sparkle in the sun. “Why is your hair not the color of the raven’s wing?”
“The Great Spirit created each of us to be as we are. So my hair is . . .” Bay examined the braid that shone gold and red and tried to think what color she should use to describe it.
“Like the sunrise,” Little Deer offered.
“Yes,” Bay agreed, tapping Little Deer on the nose. “Perhaps you are right.”
“Will my ap’ be coming home soon?”
“Your father will be home when he has done what he went to do. I hope it will be soon.”
“I miss him.”
“I miss him, too.”
Recently, Bay had begun to count the days, certain it couldn’t be long before Many Horses returned from his raid in the south. “The day is nearly gone, Little Deer. Help me to put away this pemmican, and we will go and have our meal. Maybe if your ap’ smells our good cooking he will find his way home to us.”
But Many Horses did not come home, and as Bay drifted off to sleep, she wondered for the thousandth time if she was fated to spend the rest of her life among the Comanches. She knew her family must have searched for her, but she was hidden every time a stranger came to the village.
After three years of captivity, she harbored very little hope that anyone would ever find her. And she feared that the one person she wanted most to find her, Jonas Harper, wouldn’t want her back if he could see her now. Because the woman she’d become was nothing like the woman who’d exchanged vows of love with Jonas in Boston so many years ago.
It wasn’t just that her skin had tanned and freckled from exposure to the sun or that her fingers were callused from hard work or that her feet had lost their delicate arch from running barefoot so much of the time. There had been fundamental changes inside Bay that she wasn’t sure Jonas would like. Rip had taught her to rely on herself, but in comparison to her sisters, Sloan and Cricket, she’d been a sparrow among hawks.
In those long-ago days, Jonas had bolstered her meager self-confidence, had protected her from the fears of inadequacy she’d acquired growing up in a home with two outspoken sisters and an overpowering father. Jonas had been happy to find a woman who needed him, someone who depended upon him to sustain her sense of who and what she was. She’d clung to him as to a rooftop in a raging spring flood.
But she’d changed. Surviving, and then having responsibility for another human life, had given her a confidence in herself that hadn’t been there before. She wondered if Jonas would like the more self-assured Bay she’d become. She wondered if he could love such a woman enough to make her his wife.
Of course, it was silly to worry about what Jonas wanted in a wife, Bay thought, yawning hugely. She was never going to see him again. She turned over and closed her eyes and sought out Jonas in a world of dreams, where he would want her even changed as she was.
What seemed like moments later, a strong tug on the rawhide string attached to her pallet startled Bay awake. Her dream of dancing in Jonas Harper’s arms rapidly faded, leaving her disoriented. As her fingertips grazed the woolly buffalo robe beneath her, she realized she wasn’t in her soft featherbed at Three Oaks. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The walls of the tipi slanted in on her. Her nose burned with the smell of rancid meat and woodsmoke.
Like the slow rising of the sun on a black night, the reality of her situation once again became plain. No longer was she Bayleigh Falkirk Stewart, daughter of Rip, sister to Sloan and Cricket. She was Shadow, white captive of the Comanche war chief Many Horses. And at long last her master had returned and summoned her to him.
Bay hurriedly put on her deerskin poncho, the long fringes tickling her naked thighs as she pulled it down. She quickly stood and added a fringed deerskin skirt. She tied the thong at her waist as she bent to check on Little Deer, who still slept soundly.
“Something is wrong,” a voice announced from the opposite side of the tipi. “Had everything gone well on his raid, Many Horses would have waited with the others until morning and awakened the camp to celebrate their victorious return.”
Bay crossed to kneel beside Cries at Night, not bothering to ask how the old woman knew Many Horses was back and had summoned her. Bay helped the old woman, who suffered from arthritis in her joints, get more comfortable before she answered in a whisper, “Many Horses would have called you also, Pia, had anything been seriously amiss.”
Cries at Night was the closest thing Bay had ever had to a mother, since her own mother had died when she was a child. The older woman had been adviser and teacher rather than confidante, and since that was very nearly the same relationship she’d had with her father, Bay had been more than willing to accord the respectful title of Mother to Cries at Night.
The hard nomadic Comanche life had wrinkled the old woman’s skin and toasted it dark brown. Because of Cries at Night’s black hair and dark eyes, Bay hadn’t realized at first she was Spanish rather than Comanche and had once been a captive herself. That wasn’t surprising, because now even the old woman’s thoughts were Comanche. Several years ago, Cries at Night’s Comanche husband had died in battle and she’d become dependent upon her son-in-law, Many Horses, for her support. Thus, both women had an equally strong interest in Many Horses’ well-being.
Cries at Night took Bay’s arm and warned in a low, raspy voice, “That proud man would die before he’d admit to any pain. Look well to Many Horses and be sure he does not conceal any wound from you.”
“I shall do as you ask, Pia. Now go back to sleep. You need your rest.”
Bay turned and stepped outside the tipi, welcoming the August breeze that cooled the perspiration on her body. She took time to stroke the speckled fur of the dog that lay on its back near the threshold.
“Hello, Stewpot.”
The dog stretched and groaned with pleasure as Bay scratched its flea-ridden stomach. The Comanches never ate dog meat if they could help it, but during the past February and March, the “time when the babies cry for food,” she’d barely saved this ugly hound from the cooking pot, thus earning it its name.
“Go back to sleep, Stewpot.”
It was but a few steps to reach Many Horses’ tipi. His war shield, decoratively rimmed with the scalps of his enemies, stood on a tripod nearby. There were blond scalps, black, red, and even gray. Bay shuddered as she passed by the gruesome trophies and quickly lifted the flap of Many Horses’ tipi and stepped inside.
It had been brighter in the light of the half-moon, and it took a moment for her eyes to readjust to the dim interior of the tipi. A small fire had been lit, weaving eerie designs within the buffalo-hide walls. Bay moved instinctively toward the heat of the man who’d first become her master on a sweltering night very much like this one three years ago.
“Welcome home, Many Horses. I thank Our Sure Enough Father for bringing you safely back to me.”
“It is good to be home, Shadow.” Many Horses’ gaze warmed with appreciation as he said, “I thought often of you while I was away. I had only to close my eyes to see your face. I remembered your eyes, the deep violet of a stormy night; your hair, the red of a young fox’s fur; your cheeks, pink as primroses blanketing the earth; your face—”
“—shining like the moon in the sky,” Bay finished with a smile. His words, the tender poem of a lover, were beautiful in the Comanche tongue, and the first time she’d actually understood what he was saying to her, she’d been embarrassed by his effusive praise—until she’d heard him using words equally poetic and beautiful to describe his favorite war pony. It had been a shock to realize she was but a possession—one he considered exquisite and unusual, but a possession nonetheless. Bay didn’t even believe the compliments, because she thought the features he honored were not nearly so beautiful as they were simply an oddity among the Comanches, who were uniformly black-eyed and raven-haired.
“I am glad you find me pleasing. It is sad to
know my beauty must share your thoughts with burning homes and bloodied bodies,” she replied.
Bay knew the frown was coming even before Many Horses pursed his lips. She knew he lived by raiding, plundering, and killing, and he knew she hated it. Many Horses was a Comanche warrior, and his valorous actions proved his courage and gave him his pride. Over the three years she’d been his captive, she’d come to understand why he did what he did. But she’d never learned to accept it.
At least he was back alive and—was he well? Why had he not waited with the two young men until morning and made a triumphal entry into camp? “Where are Eagle Feather and He Follows the Trail?”
“They did not return. They both died bravely fighting our enemies, the Tonkawas.”
What does it matter whether they died bravely? They’re still dead, aren’t they? Bay bit her tongue against the words she longed to hurl, knowing they wouldn’t be welcome. She knew the honored manner of their sons’ deaths would be of utmost importance to Red Wing and Singing Woman. She fought against feeling so much hurt for the loss of the two young men she’d known only through the overheard conversations of their mothers.
She swallowed her grief, asking instead, “And you, Many Horses? Are you well?”
“Of course, except for . . . I am well.”
Bay tried to keep her anxiety from her face, but she felt certain Many Horses was hiding something from her.
Apparently, she hadn’t hidden her concern as well as she’d thought, because he held out his arms to her and said, “I have more to speak of and I can see you will not rest until your hands have confirmed what I have told you. Come. Look for yourself.”
Bay knelt on the edge of the huge buffalo robe that covered nearly the entire floor of the tipi. Many Horses was naked except for a breechclout. She let her hands roam his thick, muscular body to reassure herself there was indeed no wound he’d hidden from her. His skin was hot and slick with sweat, and she inhaled his familiar musky scent as her fingertips skimmed his body. To her dismay, she found a bandage at his waist, and then one on his thigh, which had been hidden by his breechclout.
“What is this?”
He grunted as she touched the cloth bandage at his hip. “Only a small wound from a Tonkawa lance,” he soothed. “Nothing to be troubled about. It has already begun to heal.”
“Let me see.”
Bay had already started unwrapping the covering when Many Horses caught both her hands firmly in his and said, “First you must greet our guest.”
“What?”
“I have brought someone home with me who wishes to meet you.”
Bay couldn’t have been more surprised if Many Horses had announced he’d brought his war pony into the tipi to spend the night. She whirled on her knees to seek out the dark figure near the entry flap of the tipi.
“Haints, this woman is Shadow. Shadow, this man is my friend and brother Long Quiet, to whom I owe my life. I was surrounded by my enemies when he came charging amongst them and rescued me. Then he saved my throat from the slashing knife of a Tonkawa dog before we finally escaped from our enemies in the darkness of the night.”
The man in the shadows rose and resettled himself cross-legged in front of Bay.
Long Quiet fought to keep his features impassive as he felt a flood of desire for the lovely woman who sat before him. His quest was over. At long last he’d found Bayleigh Falkirk Stewart—Shadow, the mystical white woman the young Comanche buck had spoken of, with eyes the dark purple of a stormy night and hair the color of fire. He no longer had to rely on his imagination to remember her. Before him sat a flesh-and-blood woman who set his pulse to pounding and his loins ablaze.
She belongs to another man, he reminded himself.
Yet he couldn’t keep from eating the sight of her with his eyes. She’d matured since he’d seen her so many years ago. Her body, once gangly with youth, was lush, her breasts a bounteous promise beneath the deerskin she wore, her hips slim. Her lustrous auburn hair hung in braids, but the bound curls escaped in tendrils at her temples, enticing his fingers to entwine with them. He understood Many Horses’ need to honor her beauty with his poetry. He felt the need to do the same himself and regretted he didn’t have the other man’s ease with words.
“You did not tell a tale. She is very beautiful,” he said softly. “A man would do well to possess such a woman.”
Bay felt her skin flush at the Comanche’s compliment. It had been all she could do to sit still for his frank, thorough examination of her face and form. She waited impatiently for permission to speak and despaired when it did not come.
“I have been trying to convince Long Quiet he should accept some of the ponies in my herd. I would not have returned at all without his help, and I wish to thank him,” Many Horses explained to Bay. “But he will take nothing.”
“I also add my thanks to that of Many Horses. I will be always in your debt for having helped him come safely home,” Bay said.
Many Horses watched with a queer mixture of pride and jealousy the look of admiration for Shadow that he found on his blood brother’s face. He pressed the wound at his waist with his elbow and flinched when his elbow grazed the place where his flesh had been flayed away by the Tonkawas. He did not like owing Long Quiet, but nothing he had said had convinced the other man to accept a suitable reward that would free him of his obligation.
However, Long Quiet had unwittingly revealed there was something Many Horses possessed that he desired very much: Shadow. Of course the flicker of desire for Shadow in Long Quiet’s eyes had been inappropriate, and quickly hidden. Nonetheless, Many Horses had seen it.
He had never shared Shadow with another man and was not quite sure how the idea had come into his head now. Yet there it was. He turned the thought in his mind as he would have turned a new arrow in his hands, smoothing the shaft, looking for flaws. It galled his pride to be in the debt of the other man. And Shadow was the only thing he possessed in which Long Quiet had expressed an interest. No man could turn down such a prize.
Yet could he share her? He considered the danger the puhakut had warned him of when he’d first brought Shadow to the village. Surely this man could mean him no harm. Long Quiet had already saved his life twice. Still, Many Horses felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He was about to share a highly treasured possession, one he’d come to recognize as solely his own, and could not shake the feeling of foreboding that descended upon him. He felt his jaw tighten in determination, aware his pride was forcing him to do a thing his warrior’s instincts told him could have terrible consequences.
He spoke before he could change his mind. “I am glad you approve of Shadow. She shall be yours to serve you in whatever manner you wish, for so long as you are among us.”
Bay’s head snapped up, and she looked at Many Horses with horror. “You cannot give me—”
Many Horses cut her off with a wave of his hand. If he could have done so without looking foolish, he would have withdrawn his offer in that instant. He briefly considered playing the fool, but his pride rescued him from that fate.
What was done was done. There was no turning back. When he spoke, his eyes were focused on Long Quiet, and his voice was brusque.
“You would not take a single pony from me, haints, nor any other gift I offered, even though you saved my life more than once. You were right to refuse such tokens. For only a gift as priceless as the one I offer now could repay the debt I owe you. I wish to share with my brother everything that is mine. Surely you will not refuse my offer and leave me without honor in this matter.”
Long Quiet was stunned. He opened his mouth to agree, then snapped it shut. He’d only planned to be in the village long enough to find out if Shadow was indeed Bayleigh Stewart and, if so, to ask her whether she wished to return home to Three Oaks. Now he’d been given a gift he’d only imagined. He had to remind himself this was a white woman—his friend Creed’s sister-in-law. He felt the swell of desire within him and knew it would be better if
he did not accept Many Horses’ gift.
Long Quiet held his tongue.
Bay was in shock. She turned her head slowly to confront the man to whom she’d been temporarily given. His lips were pressed in a tight line, and he looked uncomfortable, and perhaps even a little angry. If she’d learned nothing else among the Comanches, she’d learned a man’s honor was everything. It was clear Long Quiet recognized his dilemma: He could not refuse Many Horses’ gift without causing the warrior to lose face. Bay’s stomach knotted in agitation. Many Horses could not intend that she be used for any purpose. Yet she feared he did.
Bay allowed herself to examine more closely the stranger who’d saved Many Horses’ life. Where Many Horses had the high, wide cheekbones and straight, prominent nose of a Comanche, this man’s angled cheekbones and aquiline nose were more refined. His skin was more bronze than copper, his muscular chest slick and smooth, with only a provocative line of dark hair arrowing from his navel downward. Instead of being barrel-chested like Many Horses, his broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and hips.
She looked closer and realized his sin-black hair escaped from his braids in tiny curls at his temples and at his nape, much as her own did. She almost jumped when their eyes met. Intense gray eyes stared back at her. No Comanche warrior she’d ever seen had curly black hair and slate-gray eyes. It dawned on her suddenly that this was no Indian, constrained to obey Indian customs.
“This man is white!”
Long Quiet’s face became forbidding. He stared straight ahead but said nothing.
“Truly, some white blood runs in his veins. But he is of The People,” Many Horses replied firmly.
Bay watched surprise flicker in the stranger’s gray eyes, which immediately became blank again. “I do not wish to belong to this man.”
Comanche Woman Page 4
