Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  But Hap wasn’t buying it. It ain’t you putting them on the reservation—it’s them. If they wasn’t thieving, murdering—”

  “I said it wasn’t that,” Clay muttered defensively.

  “Then I’d like to know what it is. You’re a hero, son, and looking at you, a man’d think you lost the damned war.”

  Before Clay could respond, Romero Rios spoke up. “You notice anything odd, Miss Ross?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes.” Her eyes scanned the wall again before she answered, “The place looks deserted.”

  “You tell anybody you were coming?” Hap wanted to know.

  “No. I was hoping to surprise Ramon.”

  They were almost to the tall, iron-spiked gate when a man stepped out into the wagon’s path. He waved his arms, signaling for them to stop. Amanda stood up.

  “I’m Amanda Ross, and this is my home,” she declared crisply. “Please inform Alessandro Sandoval I have arrived.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I said I was Amanda Ross,” she repeated more loudly.

  He still didn’t move—not until he heard McAlester cock the shotgun. Then he stepped aside.

  “Answer the lady,” Clay ordered coldly.

  “Senor Sandoval is not here.”

  “What about his son?”

  The man shrugged. “They are both gone.”

  “Where?”

  “They don’t tell me.”

  Hap Walker leaned forward to address the fellow. “Son, you’re talking to the law, and I’m holding a warrant for the arrest of Ramon Sandoval. Now, unless you want Mr. McAlester to blast you into the next life, you’d better get to talking—real fast.”

  The man darted a quick look at Clay, then back to Hap. “They don’t tell me anything.” But as the shotgun leveled on his chest, he licked his lips, then blurted out, “They quarrel, the old man and the boy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ramon left two days ago.”

  “And?” Clay prompted.

  “Alessandro left yesterday.”

  “For where?”

  “They don’t tell me.” He looked down at the two barrels, then wavered. “Sandro took five men with him, and he was in a hurry. Somebody said he went after Ramon, that Ramon was in trouble and was going to Mexico.”

  “Damn,” Hap muttered under his breath.

  “Two days ago—Ramon left two days ago?” Amanda demanded. “But they couldn’t have known I was coming—they couldn’t have.”

  The fellow nodded. “Diego was supposed to go up to Oklahoma to sell beef to the reservations, but he came back, saying he had something to tell Sandro, that it couldn’t wait. That was when Sandro and the boy quarreled.”

  “Who’s Diego?”

  “Diego Vergara,” Amanda answered. “He negotiates government contracts for the ranch. Mama mentioned him in her letters.”

  “Where’s Vergara now?” Clay asked impatiently.

  “In the house.”

  “I suppose Vergara went through Griffin on his way to Oklahoma,” Hap said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah.” Clay lowered the shotgun. “It’d make sense to go that way.”

  Hap exhaled heavily. “Well, I guess he could’ve heard about the warrant.”

  “It kinda looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “I went to the judge, Hap,” Rios spoke up. “I didn’t tell anybody else.”

  “Son of a prominent man wanted for attempted murder—might have been too much for him to keep under his hat,” Hap guessed. He looked to Clay. Looks like you may be on your way to Mexico. Unofficially, you understand. You’ll have to drag him back across the Rio Grande before you can arrest him.”

  Still stunned that Ramon had apparently eluded justice, Amanda felt empty, cheated. “Don’t you think we ought to speak with Mr. Vergara first?” she said finally. “He’ll know what he told Alessandro.”

  “With two days’ start, Ramon Sandoval could be anywhere in Mexico by the time you cross the border,” Rios pointed out.

  “Might as well rest a day or so before you go,” Hap observed laconically. “It’s a long ride down there.”

  “No.” Clay flicked the reins over the team of horses. “I don’t want to give him time to disappear.”

  It was as though she were in a bad dream, one that wasn’t going to end. Ramon had escaped, and Clay couldn’t wait to leave her. She wanted to cry out, to ask why they didn’t send someone else, why they couldn’t send Rios. But she didn’t want to make a bigger fool of herself than she already had.

  “You’re at least staying tonight, aren’t you?” she heard herself ask him. “You can’t drive a wagon all day, then ride all night.”

  “He can,” Rios murmured behind her. “Believe me, he can.”

  “Well, he ain’t—not this time, anyway, because I’m asking him to take you along, Romero. When he brings Sandoval back, I want him in the saddle, not over it—savvy?”

  “No,” Clay responded tersely. “I work alone.”

  “Then I’m ordering you to take him. The Mexicans’ll tell him things they won’t tell a gringo. You let him go into those cantinas alone first, then you go in later. Don’t let ’em guess you even know him.”

  “I know my business.”

  “And there’s none better at it,” Hap agreed. “But this is going to call for some finesse—that’s one of your highfalutin words, ain’t it? You go in there with guns blasting, and you’ll play hell getting Sandoval back to the border.”

  Clay’s jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything. The way he saw it, Hap was saddling him with Romero Rios, giving himself a free shot at courting Amanda. There was no question he was smitten with her—only a blind man couldn’t see it. And it didn’t help that Clay knew Hap was a better man for her. Hap wanted to settle down, and while he wasn’t rich like the Rosses or the Ybarras, he came from good pioneer stock. She could pretty much tame him without a lot of trouble.

  Amanda closed her eyes and clenched the board seat so hard her fingers hurt. One night was all she had left with him. One night to make him want to come back to her.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror, scarce believing the transformation herself. Her mother’s green silk gown clung to her shoulders, dipping just low enough in front to reveal the slightest crevice between ivory breasts. Juana, her mother’s maid, had painstakingly tugged out every snarl, then twisted Amanda’s hair into a crown of auburn curls, securing them with pearl-headed pins, then covering the whole with a mantilla of sheer black lace.

  If she had to, she was going to throw herself at Clay McAlester and dare him to turn her away. The way she looked at it, she didn’t have anything but her pride left to lose. And if he didn’t come back, she wouldn’t have that.

  She sat there, eyeing her mother’s assortment of perfume bottles, remembering the beautiful woman she used to watch dabbing the rich, exotic scents behind her ears, in the hollow of her throat. Impulsively, she reached for one of them and unstoppered it with shaking hands. It smelled of roses—fresh, fragrant, heady roses—deep, lush, red roses. She touched the stopper behind both ears, then drew it along her jawline, down her neck to where her mother’s pearls encircled her throat. Dipping it again, she added a touch between her breasts for good measure.

  She was as ready as she was ever going to be. She settled her shoulders, then rose from the brocade chair. Taking one last look at her image in the mirror, she twitched the full silk skirt over her petticoats, straightened the mantilla where it touched her shoulders, then exhaled fully. As she walked toward the door, the silk shimmered beneath the lights of the iron chandelier.

  The center courtyard was bathed in the rosy hue of the setting sun, its only sounds those of water trickling over moss-covered rocks in the fountain and her footsteps echoing across the paving stones. Any other time she would have stopped to drink in the beauty of the place, but not now. She was too intent on making Clay McAlester want her.<
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  They were waiting for her—Clay, Romero, Hap, and Diego Vergara, who’d dressed like a Spanish grandee for the occasion. As he turned around and saw her, he smiled. Her gaze took in Walker, who’d slicked back his hair and donned a black coat over gray trousers. Rios appeared lean, almost elegant, in what had to be a borrowed suit. McAlester, on the other hand, seemed totally out of place in his buckskin leggings, worn moccasins, black frock coat, and clean white shirt. The only difference between now and when she’d first laid eyes on him at the stage station was that he was unarmed. He still looked half-wild, dangerous.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with a calm she did not feel.

  There was a stunned pause, then Romero Rios found his voice. “You are truly beautiful,” he said, bowing with courtly formality over her hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “Senorita, you remind me of your lovely mother,” Vergara murmured appreciatively.

  “Pretty as a picture,” Hap added.

  But she was watching Clay, waiting. He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly, fighting the ache he felt for her. He had to look away.

  “Yeah,” was all he trusted himself to say.

  “Danged if I know what ails you, son,” Hap grumbled. “You’ve been out in the desert so long you’ve plumb baked that head.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Acutely disappointed, Amanda tried not to show it. “Yes, well—shall we go in to supper, sirs?” she asked, reaching for Diego Vergara’s arm.

  As Clay watched the Spaniard lead her into the dining room, he felt almost relieved. She was with her own kind now, he told himself. She didn’t need him anymore. By the time he got back from Mexico, she’d know it, too.

  Romero sidled up to him, whispering, “Want me to get Vergara out of the way for you?”

  “No.”

  “I kinda thought she was yours.”

  “A woman like that doesn’t look twice at a man like me—not for long, anyway,” Clay murmured evasively.

  Dinner proved to be a long, tedious affair, marked by stilted, almost strained conversation. As she looked down the long, polished oak table, she hardly noted the admiring glances cast her way. All she knew was that the dress, the pearls, the perfume were all for naught. She could have been naked for all that he seemed to care.

  And when the interminable meal ended at last, the men withdrew to smoke their nasty cheroots, leaving her alone with half a bottle of imported red wine. She sat at the table for a long time, too defeated to get up and leave. Finally, she refilled her chased silver goblet and drank deeply, trying to buoy her sagging spirits, Sinking them farther.

  She’d been there, and he’d used her, that was all. No, she couldn’t accept that, she argued within herself. All she had to do was close her eyes and relive that last night on the hill overlooking Sanchez-Torres’s wagons. He’d thought he might die then, that he might not come back to her, and there’d a sweetness, a tenderness in his touch. No, he’d loved her then. She knew it.

  “You are finished, señorita?” a kitchen boy inquired politely.

  “Huh? Oh, yes, I guess I am,” she managed. Having nothing else to do, she rose and reached for the wine bottle. “Tell Juana I am ready to retire.”

  But once she was back in her mother’s richly decorated bedchamber, the green gown neatly hung away, her hair brushed out until it streamed like dark red silk over her white cotton nightgown, she couldn’t stand the intense, aching loneliness she still felt. She downed two more glasses of wine, then pushed the empty bottle away.

  The English clock ticked loudly, marking the seconds of her life. Resolutely, she walked to the massive carved oak bed and crawled between the crisp, snowy sheets Juana had turned back for her. Lying back on the bank of pillows, she closed her eyes. A long time ago she’d been conceived in this bed, taking life from two very different people—the strong, iron-willed John Ross; the beautiful, delicate, sheltered Isabella Ybarra. As different as night and day, yet they’d loved passionately.

  She heard the men come down the corridor one by one, the heavy oak doors open and close, then nothing but the clock counting the hour. Tomorrow he would be going, perhaps leaving her forever, and she had not the means to stop him. She lay there, waiting, listening, wanting, struggling with her pride.

  The great, sprawling house was silent now. Unable to stand the emptiness she felt, she crept from her bed and let herself out. Huge, yellowing wax candles impaled on spikes cast tall, smoky shadows on whitewashed walls. She counted the doors, then stood outside the last one, hesitating, afraid to go in, more afraid to go back. Emboldened by too much wine, she reached for the black lever, lifting it. The heavy door swung inward, creaking on iron hinges.

  She held her breath, listening for the sound of his breathing, hearing the beat of her own heart. She had nothing more to lose, she told herself, stiffening her resolve. In the darkness she moved to the bed, feeling for the edge of it. He snored softly, telling her he slept. She lifted the sheets and cotton coverlet, then lay down beside him, pressing her body against his back.

  Hap Walker came awake with a start. “What the devil—?”

  Aware she’d made a terrible mistake, Amanda tried to roll away, but the ranger captain’s hand gripped her arm, holding her. He struggled to sit up, peering into the darkness.

  “Let me go!” she cried out.

  Instead, he leaned across her to feel for his pants. Retrieving a match, he lit it with his fingernail, then held the flame in front of her face. There was no mistaking the shock in his eyes when he recognized her.

  “Miss Ross!”

  “I must’ve been sleepwalking,” she mumbled, too mortified now to look at him. “Please, I’ll go.”

  “You’re looking for Clay.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Hap turned her arm loose and sat back against the pillows, regarding her soberly. “He didn’t want to sleep inside,” he said finally. “Told me to take his room because the bed was bigger—said it’d give me a better place for my leg.”

  “I’m sorry.” She slid off the bed and backed away.

  He waited until she had her hand on the door. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” he offered.

  “No.” She wrenched the handle, opening it.

  “Wish it was me you were looking for,” he said behind her.

  She escaped then, walking as fast as her bare feet would carry her. Completely, utterly humiliated, she stopped at the end of the corridor, where she leaned her head against the wall, fighting back tears. She’d never be able to look Walker in the eyes again, she was sure of that.

  She stood there for a moment, collecting herself, wavering between hunting for Clay or going back to her room. No, she couldn’t let him leave before she saw him one last time. He could love her, he could hate her, but he wasn’t going to turn her way until she made him tell her where she stood.

  The night air was warm, the smell of her mother’s roses and bougainvillea mingled seductively as she crossed the courtyard, then let herself out the other side of the house. Above, a hundred stars dotted the midnight sky.

  He’d unrolled his bedroll beneath a spreading oak, but he wasn’t asleep. He was sitting propped up against the tree trunk, staring into the darkness, when she found him. Knowing he had to see her, she licked dry lips nervously, then walked to stand in front of him. He didn’t look up. Instead, he broke off the stick he’d been chewing and threw it away.

  He knew if he let himself touch her, he’d be lost. Instead, he willed himself to sit as though he’d turned to stone, saying nothing. But it was as though every inch of his body ached for her. He held his breath.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked finally.

  “No.”

  “What have I done to turn you away from me?” she cried.

  “Nothing.”

  “Clay, I love y
ou! I wouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t,” he cut in curtly. With an effort he heaved himself up to stand. “I just think it’s better if I go, that’s all.”

  “All?” Her voice rose shrilly. “All? What about the horse you gave me? What about those nights, those—”

  “Stop it,” he said harshly. “It was a mistake, and I’m sorry for it.”

  “Sorry! How can you be sorry for loving someone?” She sniffed back tears. “Didn’t any of it mean anything to you? Was it just a convenience to you? Answer me, Clay, answer me!”

  “I can’t do it, Amanda. I was a fool to think I could.”

  “I don’t understand—make me understand!”

  He hadn’t wanted it to end like this. He hadn’t wanted it to end at all. He exhaled heavily, then nodded. “I can’t live like this—I’ve got to be free. I’m not a rancher, Amanda.”

  “You don’t have to be!” She took a deep breath again, trying to calm herself. “I don’t care what you are, Clay.”

  “But you will.”

  He was so cool, so self-contained that she couldn’t break through the facade to the man beneath. “I see,” she managed, stepping back from him. “All right, then.” Wiping her wet face with the back of her hand, she swallowed the awful lump in her throat. “Just tell me one thing—it’s all I’m going to ask of you—did you ever love me? Did I ever mean anything to you?”

  “That’s two.” He stared unseeing into the darkness, then nodded. “Yeah. You meant a lot to me.”

  “I see,” she said, sighing. “Well, I suppose that’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you even going to tell me good-bye?”

  “No. I figured you’d be better off if I didn’t.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have.”

  “You’ll marry some nice fellow—somebody who’ll want what you want—and you’ll forget all about me.”

  “No. I guess I’m different from you.”

  He nodded. “You are. You come from a whole different world. Just look around you, and you can see it.”

  “You know I was beginning to believe all that stuff about Indian honor. I don’t now, you know.”