Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  She waited until he was several feet away, then she called out, “Be careful.”

  He swung around, and this time he actually smiled. “I always try to.”

  He knew what Hap Walker had seen in her, and it was more than beauty. She didn’t have to like a man to care what happened to him. When she told him to be careful, she’d actually meant it.

  The high, hot sun bore down without mercy, soaking nearly everything about her with sweat. Amanda refolded the nearly dry handkerchief she’d dampened less than an hour before and mopped her brow, her cheeks, and her neck with it, trying to cool her hot skin. It was no use. The still, arid air made the whole desert feel like an endless oven. Determined to gain some relief, she reached to draw the canteen from beneath the wagon seat. Unscrewing the lid, she poured more of the tepid water onto the cloth and repeated her effort. Replacing the canteen, she tried again to shade her face with her parasol.

  Beside her, Ramon sat, his face stony beneath his dusty sombrero. In the hours since they’d left Fort Stockton, he’d said little beyond grunting answers to direct questions. Clearly, he was pouting, but she no longer cared. All she wanted now was to get home and take a long, soaking bath.

  She shifted uncomfortably on the hard, wooden seat and tried to adjust her horsehair petticoat. If she’d had any sense at all, she’d have dispensed with everything but her dress and a minimum of underwear. But she hadn’t, and now the elastic between her corset stays stuck to her sweaty skin, adding to her misery.

  Eighty-eight degrees at seven o’clock, with one hundred by early afternoon a near certainty, Hap Walker had observed at breakfast in the officers’ mess. But she was tired of waiting, and since the fort’s scouts had reported no Indian parties, she’d been determined to leave. Now she wasn’t quite so sure it had been a good idea. At least there she’d had cold water from the springs.

  To take her mind from the oppressive heat, she turned her thoughts to Hap Walker and Clay McAlester. They were an unusual pair, the one sociable and likable, the other solitary, at times almost hostile. And yet there seemed to be a mutual bond between them. Like blood, Lt. Baxter said.

  Her last conversation with McAlester had been a strange one, as though he’d wanted to say something, but hadn’t. But then she supposed after the life he’d had, words just didn’t come easily. As his image came into focus, she thought of his aunt in Chicago. Lord, if McAlester the man was the product of twelve years away from the Comanches, McAlester the boy must have been quite a handful for the poor woman. It was a wonder they’d managed four and one-half years together.

  Not that her opinion of either man mattered. Somehow she couldn’t see Walker or McAlester paying a social visit to the Ybarra-Ross. No, it wasn’t at all likely that she’d encounter them again. And it was just as well—for as much as she’d been drawn to Hap Walker, she was even more fascinated by the dark-natured McAlester. As cold and violent as she knew he could be, she still felt a certain attraction for him. She guessed it was the wildness, the danger that she could see in his eyes. He wasn’t the sort of man a lady ought to know.

  She squinted against the brightness, studying the dry earth dotted with squawbush and tumbleweeds snared by a stunted stand of mesquite. As far as she could see, there was no life, only the bleached skull of a long-dead longhorn, but then she supposed that unlike her and Ramon, most creatures were possessed of enough sense not to venture out in such heat.

  Her gaze dropped to the Spencer rifle Ramon had bought at the post store the day before. Not wishing to rely solely on him, she’d taken the precaution of purchasing her own short-barreled revolver, something called a pocket pistol, and the single box of cartridges someone had traded in with it. Despite the scouts’ reports, she was determined to take no chances. She’d already decided that she wasn’t going to share her mother’s fate. Rather than be subjected to the terror and indignity of capture, she’d save the last bullet for herself. Her hand crept to her drawstring purse, and her fingers touched the outline of the gun, reassuring her.

  She wanted a drink, but Ramon was worried they’d empty all five canteens of water long before they reached Ybarra-Ross, so except for what she’d used to cool herself, she’d tried to conserve as much as possible. How had Hap Walker said it at dinner the night before? In the best of times, summer in West Texas tries a man. In the worst, it kills him.

  Finally, unable to stand it, she retrieved the container from beneath the seat and unscrewed the cap. Tipping it up, she drank greedily for a moment, wishing there were enough of it to splash over her hot face.

  “Maria, you waste too much water.”

  She recapped the bottle. “You cannot tell me you aren’t as hot as I am,” she muttered.

  “You have been gone too long, while I have lived here most of my life.” He smiled grimly. “I am used to it.”

  At least he was speaking, affording her an opening. “I don’t remember the heat, but I suppose it was always like this. Only then I was a child, and I daresay the clothes were considerably more comfortable.”

  He fell silent again, leaving her to her own thoughts. She sighed, then tried to remember the ranch, wondering if it were as vast as she recalled, or if its size had been magnified in the eyes of a small girl. Anymore she didn’t know how big an acre was, not after years of living in Boston, where land was measured in narrow lots, where houses were set close together or attached in rows.

  She ran her tongue over dry, cracked lips. “I don’t remember Mama very well, you know,” she said, assaulting the barrier between them once more. “I wish you would tell me about her—not about how she died, but what she was like while she lived.”

  “Tía Isabella?” He shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know what you would wish to hear.”

  “I remember she was quite pretty,” she ventured.

  “She had the beauty of ice, even Tío Gregorio came to admit that. He’d wanted fire, and got ice. He said it was as though nothing touched her heart. She was like you, Maria.”

  “I must say you were more charitable about her when you spoke of her before,” she retorted.

  “Perhaps I wished you to think better of her.”

  “You make it sound as though they were unhappy.”

  “Perhaps they were pleased enough in the beginning, but after a while she did not even care when he left her bed for Rosanna.”

  “Rosanna?”

  “One of the serving girls.”

  “Oh. Mama was such a lady—maybe she did not want anyone to know she knew about it.”

  “When Rosanna grew big with his child, Tía Isabella sent her away. But there was no quarrel. No, Maria, she was ice.”

  “She wanted to marry Gregorio. She told me she wanted to marry her own kind.”

  “If she did, she changed her mind. Maria, it was always ‘My Johnny did this,’ or ‘John always said,’ until we were all sick of it. A man does not wish to hear everything was better with someone else. And it was her money, her house, her land—everything.”

  “I guess she never got over losing Papa,” Amanda murmured.

  He half turned to look at her. “She was like you, Maria. She was a cold woman.”

  “What an awful thing to say.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just … well, I want to be on my own … to feel out how things are at Ybarra-Ross. And when I marry, I want what Mama had with my father. I want …” She paused, searching for the words to explain. “I guess I want someone like him,” she said finally. “It has nothing to do with you—or with who you are.”

  His jaw tightened. “You flaunt yourself before that savage, and turn up your nose at me,” he declared bitterly. “To me, Ramon Sandoval, who can trace his ancestors to Spanish princes, you are cold and heartless. You grind my pride under your feet as though it is nothing.”

  “Oh, for—Is that what bothers you?” she asked incredulously. “If you are speaking of Mr. McAlester, I sca
rce know him.”

  “No, Maria, I know you are lying to me. Do you think I am blind—do you think I am too stupid to see? I see you that night with him—I see you buttoning your dress afterward, Maria—and it makes me sick inside. You are no better than Rosanna.”

  She gaped at him for a minute, then found her tongue. “Now you have gone too far—way too far, Ramon Sandoval! If you are speaking of night before last, I went to the springs to cool off. I didn’t even know he was there until after I had loosened my corset hooks enough to breathe! I was trying to brazen it out until he left. I was quite mortified, I assure you.”

  “There is no need to shout at me, Maria,” he said stiffly. “I am neither deaf nor a fool.”

  “You had no right to spy on me—no right at all,” she snapped. “And let me repeat myself—I didn’t know he was there! What would you have had me do? Look him in the face and button up my bodice while he watched? If you think that, you are a fool!”

  “I know what I see.”

  “No, you are blind! You cannot be persuaded with reason or logic! If you could, you would know I don’t care a button for you or Mr. McAlester! He’s nigh to a stranger to me!”

  “I don’t want to hear your lies, Maria.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to control her anger. “Well, maybe I think there is a loose telegraph wire somewhere between your ears and your brain,” she said evenly. “If you cannot learn to say Amanda, maybe you cannot learn anything.”

  “I offered you my heart and my name, and you—”

  “And you scarce know me,” she cut in. “You don’t know me now. But I can assure you that once we get home, whatever degree of acquaintance we have will be at an end.”

  “You have scorned me, Maria.”

  “For the last time, my name is Amanda, not Maria,” she gritted out.

  He turned away and flicked the reins hard, making the mules run, nearly oversetting her. As she caught at the seat to keep her balance, she turned loose of her umbrella. “Stop it!” she shouted at him. But he paid no attention. She looked back into the dusty wake of the wagon. “What do you think you are doing? You’ve lost my sunshade!” Reaching in front of him, she tried to take the reins, but he held them tightly. “Did you hear me? I said stop the wagon!”

  “I am taking you home, Maria!” he yelled at her. “I am doing what you ask!”

  “If you turn us over, I’ll never forgive you!”

  “Hah! I am not so weak as Gregorio, Maria! I give you what you deserve!”

  The wagon bounced over the rough trail, its wheels rattling. Flecks of foam from the mules flew back, spotting her dress. Finally, he seemed to regain control of his temper, and he reined in. His face set, he slowed the team to a walk.

  “I should like to go back for my umbrella now, if you please,” she said coldly.

  “We cannot afford the time,” he answered tersely. Reaching to his neck, he slid the button that tightened the sombrero cord beneath his chin. “Here.”

  She took it and pushed the damp inner rim down over her crown, flattening her hair. Maybe she would care about how she looked once she got to the ranch, but not now. There was no use carrying the argument further.

  He’d spied on her. He’d accused her of the basest behavior. Still seething, she stole a glance at Ramon’s grim face, and she knew she’d meant what she’d said. She didn’t want him at Ybarra-Ross. And when she got there, she was going to send him packing.

  She refolded her handkerchief and ran it over her hot cheeks. When she looked at it, it was streaked with dirt. Reaching under the seat, she retrieved the canteen again. Unscrewing the lid, she gulped a drink, then wet the handkerchief. This time, Ramon said nothing.

  He turned off, leaving the rutted road. She looked up at the sun, then toward the distant purple-gray hills, thinking it had been so long since she’d been home that she no longer remembered the way. But it was south toward Fort Davis, she knew that. And unless she was confused, they were heading north.

  “What direction is this?” she asked finally.

  “West.”

  “Are you sure? Ramon, that cannot be right—the sun is over there. It looks as though we are turned north.”

  “You think Ramon Sandoval does not know Texas well enough not to get himself lost?”

  “No, of course not,” she lied. “There must be landmarks to follow.”

  “I do not need anything to tell me where I am, Maria. I have lived here the whole of my life. But if you do not believe me, what can I say?”

  “Ramon, look at the sun. Something’s not right.”

  “I am taking you where you belong,” he responded tersely.

  “Isn’t Ybarra-Ross south of here?” she persisted.

  “A little, yes. But we will get there. I don’t want to cross a war trail.”

  “I thought the scouts said they hadn’t seen any Indians.

  “The army never finds any Comanches until it is too late. There weren’t supposed to be any when the devils caught my uncle and Tía Isabella. You don’t want to end up like that, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He lapsed into silence again, but she was still uneasy. She pulled his sombrero forward to shade most of her face, telling herself that he must surely know what he was doing. If they would just make good time, she wouldn’t even complain of the heat. If they would just get there.

  The wagon bounced and jarred her for several more hours, while her shaded eyes scanned the dry, desolate land, watching distant hills that never seemed to get any closer. That was what Big John liked about Texas, she reflected. He’d said one could ride for days and get nowhere, that unlike Boston, Texas provided a man with all the room to roam he could want. She shifted the sombrero back to check the sky. The sun was nearly three-quarters down, making it about five o’clock. And it was on the left. They had to be going north.

  Hungry now, she unbent enough to ask, “Are we making good time, do you think?”

  “Very good.” He actually smiled, making his teeth a flash of white against his dust-darkened skin. “Do you wish to stop?”

  Actually, she did, for more than one reason, but she forbore saying it. “I can wait until you find a place,” she murmured.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think it is too early to camp, but I too must stop.” He reined in, halting the wagon, then jumped down. “Wait here, Maria, and I will be back.”

  Her gaze followed him to a stand of scrub oak, and she realized he meant to relieve himself there. She looked away, embarrassed. Surely there must be a better place, but no matter which direction she surveyed, it all looked about the same. Still buttoning his pants, he walked back.

  “At least I didn’t see any snakes,” he told her. Seeing that she picked up the canteen, he frowned. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I’d thought to wash some of the dust off. There are four other bottles of water,” she reminded him.

  “You are wasting too much. There is no more water between here and Ybarra.”

  “I’m only using enough to wet this cloth.” She could scarce see beneath the sombrero brim. But she wasn’t about to give it back to him.

  He shrugged as she picked up her black knitted purse and climbed down. Her cramped legs felt stiff and unsteady. And her back ached from sitting too long on the hard wooden seat.

  “You need to walk, or you will be sore.”

  “I am sore,” she muttered.

  She walked toward where he’d been, and turning her back behind the scraggly screen, she began unbuttoning her bodice and loosening her corset. If she’d have had more privacy, she’d have liked to take her stays and her petticoats off entirely and leave only her undershift beneath her gown. She quickly opened the canteen and poured a trickle of water directly on her sweaty skin. Taking the handkerchief, she wiped it up. Her sunburned neck stung at the touch of the cloth. There was no doubt abou
t it, she mused wearily—Hap Walker was right. Texas was hell in summer.

  As she reached beneath her skirt to ease her drawers down, she heard him walk the mules. She squatted indecorously, praying he had enough decency not to watch. The iron-clad wagon wheels rattled as they picked up speed. Dropping her skirt, she hurried out. For a moment she stared, wondering what he was doing. Then her heart sank with the realization that he was driving off without her.

  “Ramon! Ramon!” she shouted. “Ramon, come back!”

  Choking on the cloud of dust, she dropped the canteen and ran after him, but the gap was widening between them. She wrenched her pocket pistol from her purse and fired it into the air. He didn’t even look over his shoulder. Breathless from the heat, she stopped and shaded her eyes, watching as the wagon grew smaller and smaller.

  She stood there, first shocked, than furious. He was trying to frighten her, punishing her for rejecting him. He was going to let her scream herself hoarse, then he would come back for her. Once he’d satisfied his Spanish pride, he would come back. He couldn’t leave her there.

  But at least she’d managed to keep his hat. Her head pounding now, she turned and walked back to the canteen. Bending down, she picked it up and shook it. At least she still had water.

  At the scrub oaks, she sank down to wait. Her eyes traveled over the vast, empty land, seeing an endless sameness all the way to the horizon. No, there was not even a road to follow across the desert. There was nothing.

  She looked down at the gun in her hand, thinking she’d wasted a bullet. Resolutely, she opened her purse and retrieved another bullet to replace it. When he did come back, it was going to take a great deal of discipline not to shoot him with it. A very great deal. He had no right to frighten her like that, no right at all.

  She raised her eyes skyward, guessing there were possibly four hours of light left, knowing that if he didn’t return, she was going to spend the night alone. And she remembered her father telling her once that “snakes and every other varmint come out at night in Texas.” It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  And what if Ramon didn’t come back? She couldn’t just sit there—not once the water was gone. She’d die, and once the coyotes and God only knew what else was done with her, she’d be nothing but bleached bones lying in the desert. No one would even know what happened to her.