by Anita Mills
A horsefly buzzed her face, wakening Amanda, and for a moment, she stared in bewilderment at the old blanket above her. She’d been dreaming, she knew that—no, it had been one nightmare after another. There’d even been a hideously painted savage leering at her, touching her hair. And she’d been so dizzy, so thirsty, so very, very thirsty. It was as though she’d been to hell.
Then she remembered—Ramon Sandoval had abandoned her, and she’d walked until her strength was gone. Finally, when there was nothing left to draw on, she’d lain down, too weak, too exhausted to think. And all the while, those birds had watched, mocking her attempts to rise, waiting for her to die.
Even now, her mouth was too dry to swallow, and nearly everything between her pounding head and her feet throbbed, telling her she had to be alive. She moved, then realized that she was only wearing her drawers. For some reason, her dress was lying on the ground beside her. Clutching it to cover her breasts, she turned her head, seeing the horse and mule, and finally Clay McAlester. He stood, his back to her, his body bare below the pale hair that hung over his shoulders. It was the first time she’d ever seen a man’s naked backside, and she knew she ought not look at him.
He leaned to rinse his razor, then wiped the straight blade clean before wrapping it to put away. Going to his packs, he got a shirt, shook it out, and shrugged it over his head. It reached nearly to his knees. As he was buttoning the neck placket, he turned around and saw her.
He regarded her warily, taking in the tangled mass of auburn hair half perched atop her head, the red, puffy eyes. Right now, she didn’t look much like the woman he’d encountered at the stagecoach station. Nor did she look like the one he’d caught unhooking her corset top beside the water. It was just as well. He was distracted enough as it was.
“Good—you’re awake,” was about all he could think of to say.
“Yes.” It was more a croak than an answer.
There was another moment of awkwardness, then he added, “I … uh, I was sort of taking a bath and shaving.”
When she said nothing, he knew she was embarrassed. “Still thirsty?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He picked up one of his canteens and tossed it to her. “Don’t drink too much at once—it’ll make you sick, and if it comes up, you’ll just waste it.”
Removing the lid, she took a mouthful of the warm water, then held it, savoring its wetness before swallowing. She could have drunk the whole thing, but she forced herself to recap it. She was sick enough already.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“You look like hell,” he muttered.
“I feel like I’ve been there.”
Moving again to where Hannibal stood, he retrieved a worn pair of buckskin breeches. Keeping his back to her, he balanced himself against the mule and pulled them on. Still barefooted, he picked up the tin pan, tossed the now-brown water, and refilled it. Carrying it and the soap, he walked to stand over Amanda.
“I don’t know if you feel like washing up, but it’ll cool you off. Uh—if you can’t do it, I’ll try to help you.”
She was looking up at him, her dress bunched in her hands, pressed tightly against the crevice between her breasts. Unlike her red face and forearms, the skin on her shoulders was pale, almost as delicate, as luminous as satin. He sucked in his breath, then let it out. “I reckon you want to try it yourself, huh? And you’ll probably want to be alone.”
“Yes.”
It occurred to him then that there was nowhere to go, that as far as he looked, the land was flat and almost barren. “Tell you what—you get on the other side of that blanket, and I’ll fix supper,” he decided finally.
She eyed the pan, then him, and the lure of soap and water won. But as she tried to rise, her legs buckled, and her feet were so sore she couldn’t stand. She stumbled, tangling the dress between her legs. He lunged, catching her, but not before the garment fell completely. Standing there in naught but her drawers, she felt her face go hot. She couldn’t look at him.
“My feet wouldn’t hold me,” she choked out.
He stepped back and she sank to the ground, where she sat hunched over her knees, nearly too dizzy to think, fighting an inexplicable urge to cry. Hot tears stung her sore eyes and threatened to spill onto her face.
He picked up the canteen and unscrewed the cap for her. “Here,” he said gruffly. ‘Take another drink and sit there.” This time, her stomach fought back. She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to calm rising nausea. Resting her head on her knees, she waited until it was safe to speak. “I’m all right,” she mumbled. But she wasn’t. She felt awful.
She was still suffering from too much heat and too much sun, but there wasn’t much more he could do about it. “For what it’s worth, you’ll get better,” he told her. “You have to.”
“I know.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I despise weeping females, but just now I cannot help it. All I want to do is get home.”
“And see Ramon Sandoval hang,” he reminded her. “You managed to tell me that when I found you. You were more than half dead, but you got that out.”
“Yes,” she admitted, her voice still little more than a whisper. “How far is it—to Ybarra-Ross, I mean?”
Rather than answer her, he went back to his packs and found the lace-edged cambric chemise she’d discarded. With some regret, he unrolled his last clean shirt. He returned to thrust the clothes at her.
“If you get washed up, you can put this on. With your chemise, it’ll more than cover you.” When she didn’t take it, he added, “It’s clean—I washed it with lye soap before I left Stockton. But if you don’t want it, I guess you can suit yourself.”
“I can’t go home in my underwear,” she said tiredly.
He guessed he might as well get it out now, and he knew she wasn’t going to like it. He sucked in his breath, then exhaled fully. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m going north—up toward the Pecos.”
It sank into her numb mind slowly. He wasn’t going to take her home. For an awful moment she thought he was going to leave her alone there. Then reason reasserted itself.
“I can pay … I can pay …” She wet her raw lips, then blurted out, “Two hundred dollars—two hundred dollars to get me to Ybarra-Ross. I’ll pay you when I get there.”
“No.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
What she meant was it was a lot of money for a man like him, and he knew it. His jaw tightened visibly, and his eyes went cold, but he didn’t answer.
“Five hundred, then,” she said. “For saving my life and getting me home. Well?”
“No.”
“No?” Her voice cracked on the word. “Do you want more?”
The look he gave her would have wilted a flower.
“All right,” she decided wearily. “Just tell me what it takes.”
She was offering him more than he could make in a year, and yet he was disappointed in her. He shook his head.
“Please.”
“Look, if I try to take you back—say as far as Davis, even—I run the risk of missing a shipment of guns coming across from New Mexico.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Tell me you’re worth more than a hundred families living out here,” he said evenly. “Because if Quanah Parker gets those guns, that’s what it’s going to cost. Maybe more. He’s not going to go onto the reservation without one hell of a fight.”
She was nearly too sick to think. “I didn’t know—but surely the army—”
“The regular army couldn’t find a Comanchero if he had the word painted on his back, and by the time Mackenzie’s ready to take to the field, it’ll just be to get even with the Comanches. And then it’s too late.” Rather than argue with her, he turned and walked off.
“Wait—” She licked her raw, cracked lips again. “Where are you going?” Then, as she considered the possibilities, she wished she hadn’t asked. “That is …”
<
br /> “To get firewood.”
He knew he was being hard on her, but he resented her thinking he could be bought. As if she didn’t know what she was costing him already. Now he had to be careful, now he had to think of getting both of them back alive. And if he’d been alone, he’d have eaten his usual handful of berries and a couple of pieces of jerky and been on his way before now. As it was, he’d only brought food and water for himself. And with everything dried out between here and the Pecos, it was going to be a hard trip. Since it hadn’t rained in weeks, he knew there’d be so much gypsum in the river that she wouldn’t want to drink the water.
He picked up his Bowie knife and walked about fifty feet, where he began hacking dead twigs and branches off the sparse mesquite and greasewood. He worked the knife with a vengeance, giving release to his anger. Gradually it dissipated, and he had to own that none of this was really her fault. She hadn’t asked to be abandoned, but she’d done one hell of a job of trying to survive. And why wouldn’t she think he’d want money? He’d already told her that he only made thirty-three dollars a month, and to her that wasn’t very damned much.
She watched his back for several minutes, feeling utterly helpless. Then she remembered how hard she’d worked to live, and she wasn’t going to quit now. If she couldn’t stand, she could surely crawl. With an effort, she dragged her clothes and the washpan with her, spilling some of the precious water. Exhausted, she lay there for a moment, then carefully sat up. Her head pounded. She was too weak for anything.
There wasn’t very much water left, but she leaned over the pan and dipped both her hands into it, splashing her face, getting what relief she could. She rubbed the hard, strong soap between her palms, trying to make some sort of suds, then washed her face, her neck, her shoulders, and her arms. It didn’t even matter that she had to rinse with the same water. Finally, she pushed down her drawers and washed herself there also. Much good that was going to do her, she thought wryly—she was just going to have to put them back on again.
She considered her dirty dress for a moment, then pushed it aside and reached for the chemise. It was too thin, but she didn’t care anymore. She pulled it over her head and down over the top of her drawers. And then she tried the shirt. As it enveloped her, it smelled of sunlight and strong soap. Concentrating with an effort, she managed to button it almost to her neck. Leaving the pan, she crawled back and lay down again.
“Well, you look better,” he observed as he dropped his armful of sticks.
“I feel like I could die,” she said dully.
“The worst is over, so you’ll make it. But you’re probably hungry.”
She hadn’t had anything since breakfast the day before, but she felt too weak to eat. “No.”
“Ever eat any jerky?”
“No.”
“Hackberries?”
“No.”
“That’s about all I’ve got with me, and we’ve got to get something in you before we ride. You need your strength.”
Kneeling, he began arranging the sticks, putting the mesquite over the greasewood. It wouldn’t burn long, but it’d burn hot enough to make coffee. He struck a match against his thumbnail, then touched it to the greasewood. There was a flare as it caught. He stood and wiped his hands.
“Done with this?” he asked, retrieving the pan.
“Yes.” Despite her throbbing head and queasy stomach, she knew she’d insulted him with her offer of money. But while his head was inches from hers, she couldn’t quite get up the nerve to apologize. Instead, she waited until he straightened, then said low, “You saved my life, and I’m grateful—truly grateful.”
He didn’t answer.
“I didn’t mean to offend you about the money. I just thought you could use it.” That hadn’t come out quite right. “I mean, well, I wanted to go home and …”
“I understood you the first time. You thought you could buy me.”
“No.”
“Save your breath until you have something to say worth saying,” he muttered.
While she watched, he filled the pan again, then placed it in front of his horse. The animal drank noisily until it was empty. He repeated the process, this time giving it to the mule. When Hannibal lifted his head, McAlester rinsed the pan out, added more water, and carried it to his packs, where he found his food bag.
Returning to his small fire, he opened a small, stained cotton sack and took out a handful of coffee, which he dropped into the pan. He set it in the fire, then turned his attention to the larger bag. He pulled out what looked to be some sort of dark balls. He skewered them on the ends of two green sticks and propped them next to the pan so that they didn’t drip into the coffee. Almost immediately they began smoking and sizzling.
Her stomach rebelled at the smell of them. “What’s that?”
“Hackberry.”
“Are you sure they aren’t grease,” she managed, swallowing the gorge that rose in her throat.
“That’s the buffalo tallow.” Without looking up, he explained, “Comanche women pound the berries into a paste, then mix them with melted tallow, and as the fat cools, they roll it into balls, and store them in parfleches. When I was a boy, I thought they were the best thing I’d ever eaten.”
“Ugh.”
“Don’t turn up your nose until you try them.”
“I don’t think I can eat.”
“There’s Indian bread—at least that’s what Texans call it. You probably ate it at the Ybarra.”
“My father didn’t like Indians.”
“But he liked their land well enough,” he retorted.
She didn’t want to dispute anything. She just wanted to lie there, but she couldn’t let it pass. “The Ybarra-Ross came from Mama,” she said tiredly. “Her family held the grant for a century before he was born.”
“Maybe it wasn’t theirs to give him.” He got up to fetch a battered tin cup, a tin plate, and a piece of cloth. Using a stick, he pulled the pan from the smoldering coals, and one of the hackberry balls fell into what was left of the fire. He jabbed it, dragging it out, and dumped it, ashes and all, onto the plate. Then he turned his attention back to the coffee. Putting the cloth over the cup, he picked up the hot pan and sloshed its contents through the cloth, straining it.
“I don’t have any sugar,” he said, handing the cup to her.
She eyed it dubiously, but said nothing. The remaining hackberry ball joined the blackened mess in the plate. Clay McAlester dropped down beside her and speared the first ball with his knife. Holding it up, he waited for the ashes and grit to drip off.
“Go on—try it,” he urged, gesturing to the other one. When she didn’t move, he sighed. “Look, it may not compare with anything you ate in Boston, but you’ve got to eat. I don’t mean to stop again to rest before morning.” She watched as he bit into his with the stick. Grease ran down his chin. ‘Try it,” he urged her.
“I can’t … I just can’t.”
He speared the hackberry ball on her plate and held it to her mouth. Rather than fight, she took the smallest nibble possible. Before her stomach could rebel, she swallowed, then took a gulp of hot coffee. She choked on it.
“Careful—Hap says I make that too strong.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
“Come on,” he coaxed, “the more you eat, the better you’ll feel.”
This time, she forced herself to take a sizable bite. As soon as it hit, the grease was churning in her stomach. She swallowed more of the awful coffee, forcing it down.
He reached into his bag and took out what appeared to be a block sealed in paraffin. Cutting off several slices with the knife, he handed one to her. Then he opened a small sealed jar, and set it between them. As she hesitated, he dipped one of the slices into it, then carried it to his mouth.
She looked at it doubtfully.
“It’s dried venison, pecans, and wild plums. You pound them together until the flavor
s mix, then you dip the whole in tallow. Air doesn’t get in, so it’ll keep for years.” He smiled faintly. “It’s one of the few Comanche foods white people like.”
It couldn’t be worse than the hackberry balls, she was sure of that. She took a breath, then broke off a piece of it between her teeth. As she was chewing, he took her wrist and made her dip the rest of it in the jar.
“Honey,” he explained succinctly.
She managed to get several bites down, then shook her head. “I can’t eat any more—truly I cannot.”
“Then drink your coffee.”
Her stomach knotted at the thought, and rather than answer, she shook her head. He regarded her soberly, thinking she was being difficult. Finally, he took the cup and drained it.
“All right,” he said, standing up. “Just don’t be telling me how hungry you are come midnight.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s getting late, so I’m going to pack up. If you need to take care of nature, you can take that blanket and hang it over a mesquite tree for privacy. Otherwise, I’m going to put it into my bedroll now.” He studied her again for a moment, then asked bluntly, “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No.”
“Just don’t go far, and watch where you are. Things come out once the sun’s down.”
She tried to rise to her feet, but she couldn’t make it. She lay back and rolled into a ball. Wave after wave of nausea washed over her as she desperately tried to hold the little she’d eaten down. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I just can’t.”
His anger gone, he felt sorry for her now. “I wish we could stay, but we can’t. Come morning, it’ll be hotter than hell again, and we don’t have all that much water.” He leaned down and grasped her arm, trying to help her up.
She fought back tears. “I can’t stand up.”
“I’ll hold you.”
“No.”
“Because you’re embarrassed?”
“Yes.”
“Amanda, I’ve seen a lot of Comanche woman squatting along the trail. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”
She swallowed. “I’m not a Comanche woman,” she managed through gritted teeth.
