Bay ate her chili, finding it spicy but delicious. She watched Long Quiet use a spoon with as much grace as a Boston aristocrat. It appeared he was following through on his decision to leave his Comanche heritage behind him.
“When I said I wouldn’t marry you, why didn’t you go back to Comanchería?” she asked.
“I would have eventually, but as long as I had a brush corral built, I figured I might as well take a herd of mustangs with me.”
“Are you . . . are you sorry now that you aren’t going back to Comanchería?”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
Bay’s face blanched.
“Don’t worry. I have no intentions of leaving here before my son is born.”
“You couldn’t . . . you wouldn’t take my child away from me.”
“You would have taken mine from me!”
“Not because I wanted to. Not because I had a choice,” Bay shouted back. “I had to marry Jonas.”
“Enough!” he said. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. But let’s get this straight now. I married you because I want my son. And for no other reason.”
Bay’s eyes drifted to the bedroom. He followed her gaze and then met her violet eyes. Bay flushed.
“Oh yes, we’ll share the bed—because it’s big and it’s the only place to sleep—but that’s all we’ll share. Do you understand?”
Bay stared at him. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d wounded his pride, how completely she’d lost his trust, until she heard the conditions he’d laid down for their life together.
“Do you understand?” Long Quiet repeated.
“Yes. I understand.”
They finished the rest of the meal in silence. Then Long Quiet sent Bay to the back room. Bay had no intention of making it easy for Long Quiet to reject her as his wife. She had her pride, too. If he weren’t so stubborn, he’d have given her a chance to explain the extraordinary circumstances that had forced her to stay engaged to Jonas, and they’d be enjoying a real honeymoon tonight.
She stripped off the torn, grass-stained dress in which she’d been married, then took off her chemise and drawers as well. She left the candle on the bedside table burning. Lying flat on her back, she arranged the thin cotton sheet so it barely covered her nipples and outlined her entire body from breasts to stomach, hips to thighs.
“I’m in bed now.”
A mass of confused emotions rose in Long Quiet as he heard Bay’s soft voice calling out to him. It stung his pride to know Bay had only married him under duress, that she hadn’t willingly foregone all the things Jonas could give her to come to him. It was awful to think he could only have her love by buying her the things she wanted.
Long Quiet wanted Bay to love him enough to take him with nothing. And he didn’t want the sparks between them when they joined their bodies in lovemaking to obscure her decision.
When he crossed the threshold into the bedroom, Long Quiet nearly abandoned his plan. His loins heated at the mere sight of her. He would have said she’d planned her alluring appearance, except it was clear from her reluctance to say “I do” that she hadn’t desired this marriage.
He kept his eyes averted while he undressed, but it didn’t do much good. He knew she was there. He blew out the candle and slipped into bed beside her. “Turn over and go to sleep,” he said brusquely. If she turned over, perhaps he wouldn’t keep imagining the sight of her lying there waiting for him to come to her.
When she turned over, it was worse. She had the sheet tucked under her arm and it slipped down in back so it came nearly to her waist, exposing the entire creamy expanse of her spine, from her shoulders to the dimpled rise of her buttocks.
He swore under his breath and turned on his side facing away from her. It didn’t help that the bed was so soft, reminding him of the pillow her breasts and stomach had made for his head at the Quohadi village. He lay awake until he could hear the steady breathing that meant she was asleep, and then he let himself turn and look at her in the moonlight that seeped in through the bedroom window.
He’d never seen her hair unbound before. It lay in a copper nimbus around her head. He wanted to thrust his fingers into it, to bring her mouth under his and possess her. He craved the taste of her. He craved the touch of her. His hand hovered over her shoulder for a moment, as though he would turn her on her back, and then he withdrew it. There was a lot at stake here. Before he took her body, he must be sure of her love. He lay back down and within moments was sound asleep.
When Bay woke the next morning, she was alone. The bed sheets had been carefully pulled up to cover her shoulders and she wondered how Long Qui—Walker, she corrected herself—had felt when he’d done that husbandly chore. Bay knew she was going to have a problem calling Long Quiet by his white name. In her heart and mind he would always be Comanche.
Bay brought the covers to her nose to breathe in his masculine scent. She was determined to make him a good wife. He would never be sorry he’d married her. Bay heard a chair knock against the table in the other room and realized Long Quiet must not have left yet. What a lazy wife he must think her! Bay quickly put on her torn dress, which was all she had, and, keeping a lookout for scorpions and spiders, walked barefoot to the doorway between the two rooms.
When she lifted the blanket that separated the two rooms, what she saw almost made her take back the vows she’d just made.
“Buenos días, señora,” Juanita said.
“What are you doing here?”
The pretty young woman smiled at Bay and said in broken English, “The señor, he asked me to come.” Juanita was already clearing away the dishes Long Quiet had used for breakfast.
Bay felt nauseated and was afraid it had nothing to do with her pregnancy. What was this woman doing here? Why hadn’t Long Quiet asked her to fix his breakfast? Some of their most pleasant times together in Comanchería had been when they’d sat down to eat together.
Bay was already uncertain of the role Long Quiet wanted her to play, and the appearance of this pretty woman in her home on the first day of her marriage wasn’t helping her confidence. Had Juanita done more for Long Quiet than fix his breakfast? Had Long Quiet given his smiles, his tender looks to Juanita over the breakfast table?
“Are you hungry, señora?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Bay wished she could say no. She still hadn’t decided in what role the other woman was cast, and she didn’t want to owe her any favors. But she felt a familiar queasiness in her stomach and knew from experience that if she didn’t eat a little something, it would only get worse. She admitted, “I could eat something, I suppose.”
“Bueno. Is good for the bebé, no?”
The radiant smile on the woman’s face startled Bay. Surely if Juanita had done more for Long Quiet than cook his food she wouldn’t seem so happy about the baby. “Yes, it’s good for the baby,” Bay agreed.
Bay had expected the other woman to spend the day at the house, but shortly after she’d prepared breakfast and put some beans in water to soak in the lean-to, she announced she was leaving. “The señor, he says now you will do the cooking, no?”
“Oh yes,” Bay said, smiling for the first time. Juanita was here to cook, had probably always been here to cook . . . at least she could salve her fears with that notion until she was proven wrong.
Paco had left a mule for Juanita to ride home, and when she rode away just before noon, Bay couldn’t help hugging herself in delight. She would be waiting for Long Quiet with a wonderful meal ready to be served. He would not be sorry he’d counted on her. Bay spent the entire afternoon imagining how she would ask him about his day and how he would share his adventures with her. They were going to have a wonderful marriage. She’d make sure of it.
Not knowing when Long Quiet would return, Bay had supper ready a little before sundown, figuring he couldn’t work in the dark. She hadn’t found Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets—those only bloomed in spring—but she’d found some yellow sunflowers and fi
lled the vase on the table to overflowing. She’d also placed two candles on the table for a glowing light she thought was nicer than the lantern. By the time it had been dark for two hours, she was worried. Two hours after that, she dumped Long Quiet’s food in the fire in a fit of pique and went to bed.
But she lay awake, wide-eyed and frightened. Where was he? What if Jonas had followed through on his threats and Long Quiet was lying dead in a ravine somewhere? What if he’d gone to see Juanita? Or what if he’d simply decided to return to Comanchería?
There were no answers to her questions in the quiet night. All she could do was wait for morning. And pray.
Chapter 22
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT BEFORE BAY HEARD LONG Quiet’s footsteps cross the threshold. He was moving quietly, as though he expected to find her asleep.
“I’m awake,” she said, sitting up in bed, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms protectively around them.
“You should be asleep. You need your rest.”
“I . . . I was worried about you.”
She didn’t ask him where he’d been, but the question hovered in the air between them.
He sidestepped it, saying, “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
Bay heard him taking off his clothes. His movements seemed slow—too slow, she realized suddenly. She scrambled across the bed to the small table where the candle stood and lit it. In the dim light she could see the bloodstains on his clothes and the dried blood on his face and neck.
“You’re hurt!” She was at his side in an instant, helping him remove his tattered shirt. His skin beneath it was scraped raw, but there was no bullet wound, as she’d feared from the amount of blood on his shirt. She fetched the pitcher of water and poured some into a bowl. She tore off a corner of the ruined shirt and rinsed it in the water. He sat patiently on the bed while, hands trembling, she used the damp cloth to wash the blood, gravel, and dirt from the scrapes on his chest and arm and from the side of his face.
“What happened?”
“I had an accident.”
Bay waited, but when he didn’t say anything else she prodded, “What kind of accident?”
“A stupid one, really. After the vaqueros had all gone home, I decided to have one last try at breaking one of those mustangs I’ve got penned. I got thrown and hit my head and I guess it knocked me out for a while.”
Bay’s hands immediately reached for his hair, to search for the knot he must have on his head. Long Quiet grasped her wrists and pulled them down. “I’m all right. Leave me be and go back to bed.”
Bay stared at him, her eyes wide, frightened by his unexpected brusqueness.
Suddenly his mouth covered hers, his tongue seeking hungrily, then gentling, soothing the hurt he’d done. Just as abruptly, he tore himself away. “Go to bed,” he ordered, his voice harsher now than before. “You have to be up early tomorrow to make my breakfast.”
Confused by the contradiction between his words and his actions, Bay backed away a step and then turned and climbed quickly into bed, dragging the sheet up over her shoulder as she turned her back to him. She wondered if he was hungry, but she didn’t dare bring up the subject, because then she’d have to confess that she’d thrown out his supper. She’d only wanted to help him just now, but somehow she’d failed miserably. He didn’t want her to touch him. And he couldn’t even stand to kiss her.
Long Quiet blew out the candle and they were once more shrouded in darkness. He muttered a vicious curse and heard Bay whimper in response. He cursed again, more loudly, and stomped into the other room, throwing himself into one of the rawhide chairs that sat before the fireplace.
He couldn’t let her touch his head or she’d have discovered there wasn’t any knot. And there wasn’t a knot because he hadn’t been thrown from a horse. His horse had been shot out from under him. Again.
He knew now that whoever had shot at him before had done exactly what he’d intended to do when he shot Long Quiet’s horse. This time, Long Quiet had been riding hard, knowing that Bay was at home waiting for him. His fall when the galloping horse had crumpled beneath him had caused the raw scrapes Bay had cleaned up. The blood on his shirt was the result of his impatience to get back to Bay. Knowing she’d be worried if he didn’t show up, he’d tried to make a break for cover before it was completely dark. He’d felt his head explode in pain as a bullet creased his scalp and had felt the warm blood begin to run down his neck and onto his shoulder before he’d lost consciousness.
He’d woken in the dark, wondering why the bushwhacker hadn’t finished him off. Maybe the arrogant villain thought he had. Maybe he hadn’t been careful enough to make sure. Or maybe things were happening exactly the way Jonas Harper had planned them all along. Long Quiet leaned back in the chair, careful to keep the pressure off the spot where the bullet had grazed his head.
He’d had a lot of time to think on the walk home, and although the answer had been slow in coming, he believed he’d finally figured out what Jonas had in mind. Long Quiet had played games with a quarry before, similar to the game he believed Jonas was playing with him. Eventually, the object of the hunt became his own worst enemy, fearing his shadow, afraid and ineffectual, a shell of a man. It appeared Jonas wanted Bay to see Long Quiet craven and quaking before he finally shot him dead.
Unfortunately, divining what Jonas had planned didn’t make it any less nerve-racking to endure. Because the truth of the matter was, for the first time in his memory, Long Quiet was afraid.
He wasn’t afraid of dying. As a Comanche, he’d always considered dying inevitable. The only consideration was whether a warrior fought bravely to the end. And he would face death bravely however it came to him.
No, what he feared was leaving Bay alone and vulnerable to a smooth-talking thief—and bushwhacker—like Jonas Harper. But he didn’t plan to die without ever having a chance to face the man who intended to kill him. Tonight he’d visit Jonas Harper and give a little of what he’d gotten.
But he’d take a moment to rest—and to be sure Bay was asleep—before he left again. His head throbbed. He reached up to check the crease, which had already scabbed over. The wound had probably left him more stunned than he’d realized. He could think of no other excuse for why he’d kissed Bay when he’d vowed to himself he wouldn’t touch her until he was sure she no longer regretted giving up the things Jonas Harper had promised her. He shook his head in disbelief. Another moment and he’d have done a lot more than kiss her. Fortunately, his pride had reared its ugly head and saved him from himself.
Long Quiet’s musing was interrupted by a cry from the other room. “What’s the matter?” he called. All he heard was another low moan in response. He was up and into the bedroom in a matter of moments.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Bay said, teeth gritted against the cramp in her leg. She’d already clutched the muscles of her right calf with both hands trying to work out the cramp, but she couldn’t help groaning as the muscles tightened even more despite her efforts. Since her pregnancy she’d been getting slight cramps in her legs when she stood too long during the day. But this one was much worse than any of the others.
Long Quiet lit the candle and pulled the sheet away. He hadn’t paid much attention to what Bay was wearing while she’d ministered to him. Now he was quite aware that she was wearing only her chemise and knee-length drawers. He saw the flash of white skin in the shadows. He forced his gaze away from the darker nipples visible through the thin cotton chemise, focusing on the flesh she’d gripped in both hands. He knew at once what her problem was. He took her calf between his callused hands and worked his thumbs deep into the clenched muscles to relax them.
Bay was still curled over by the pain, unable to lie flat without worsening the problem, so their faces were close. She’d been too worried about Long Quiet before to notice how he smelled, but now every breath brought her the odor of a hard-working man. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell—horses and ho
nest male sweat. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she didn’t dare.
“How does it feel now?”
“Better,” Bay said. “Thank you.” Her calf muscles had begun to relax but still ached, and the arch of her foot began to tighten, threatening a cramp there. “Now my foot—”
“I’ll get it.” Long Quiet continued his massage down to her ankle and foot.
Bay groaned in relief. “That feels good.”
Long Quiet massaged the muscles of her calf and foot, glad for the opportunity to touch her and know the touch was welcome.
When she was sure another cramp wasn’t going to seize her, Bay lay down with her head on the pillow.
Long Quiet watched absently as she clasped her hands in her lap . . . actually, over the dark shadow at the apex of her legs. His hands never left her leg, but worked the muscle closer to her knee, his hands brushing the inside of her thigh. He felt her quiver before he slid his hands back down to her ankle. He took her foot in both hands and pressed the sole of her foot, ran his thumbs down the arch, eased each toe between his fingers.
It wasn’t until Bay spoke that he noticed that she was quivering with tension.
“What do you expect from me in this marriage?” Bay asked softly. “I . . . I need to know.”
Long Quiet’s hands stilled. His eyes sought hers before he said, “Only that you be my wife.”
Bay sat up so she could see his expression. “What does that mean, to be your wife? Is it only cooking and cleaning? Or does it include loving and sharing, too?”
He released a gust of air. “What would you like it to be?”
“I’ve always loved you.”
“You told me once before that you loved me—and then made sure I knew that you loved the things Jonas Harper could buy you a helluva lot more. Don’t speak to me about love. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“If you’ll listen, I can explain everything.”
He rose from the bed as though he were in danger of succumbing to some siren’s lure if he stayed. “Just say what you want from me,” he snarled. “Don’t try to dress it up in a fancy wrapping with words of love.”
Comanche Woman Page 29
