With an angry jerk, he tightened the cinch around the horse’s girth. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
When he turned and walked away, Summer stood there, half-stunned, half-piqued, by his rejection.
Lance busied himself with the rest of their gear, clenching his teeth and cursing under his breath. Her magnanimous offer grated on every nerve he owned. You can make love to me if you want.
Like hell he would. He would chew nails before he let Summer make such a sacrifice. He didn’t want her turning herself into a martyr. He wouldn’t play the wicked villain to her helpless, swooning maiden, He didn’t want her that bad.
Or maybe he did. But that wasn’t what kept him from taking her up on her offer. It wasn’t even his conscience holding him back. He knew it would be a fair exchange, his risking his life for Summer’s body.
The trouble was, he didn’t want just Summer’s body, no matter how willing. He wanted her. All of her. Wanted her smiling at him the way she once had—with that sweet, open smile that had snared his defenseless kid’s heart. Wanted her green eyes going all soft and liquid with tenderness when she looked at him.
Dammit, he wanted her to care. He wanted—needed—her to see him as somebody worth having as her husband, a man she could look up to.
And that was about as likely as pigs flying.
* * *
That day they rode in silence across mile after mile of flat open prairie. If it had been any other man, Summer might have tried to charm him out of his ill temper, but with Lance she didn’t dare. He seemed determined to resume hostilities, committed to remaining immune to her appeal.
Indeed, exercising the normal social graces seemed only to anger him more. She had merely to smile at Lance and he assumed she was practicing her feminine wiles. He mistrusted even simple courtesy, coming from her. The one time she attempted an apology by placing a placating hand on his arm, he pulled away as if burned.
She tried to tell herself she wasn’t upset that he had spurned her offer, that she wasn’t disappointed, but the voice of her conscience upbraided her for thinking like a fool.
She wanted Lance to make love to her, wanted him to desire her. She wanted to know what she had missed on their wedding night—and every night since. It wasn’t hard to imagine the pleasure he could give her. Every womanly instinct she possessed told her his lovemaking would be raw and fierce and exhilarating, like dancing with lightning.
By late morning, though, Summer was hot and weary enough not to care if her actions angered him, as long as she could end the brooding silence that her husband had subjected her to lately.
Deciding it would be a fitting revenge to force Lance to talk to her, Summer brought her horse alongside his and bestirred herself to ask about his Comanche relatives. “You said you had a brother named Fights Bear. Is that who you intend to ask for help?”
Lance gave her a sharp glance, as if suspicious of her intent.
“You said I had to ask if I wanted to know about your family. Well, I’m asking.”
He didn’t reply at once, yet she couldn’t blame him for his hesitation. No doubt he thought she would look down her nose at his heathen relatives. She intended to try to keep an open mind, though, and not sit in judgment of a way of life she didn’t understand. “I would like to learn about your family. I want to know where we’re going, what to expect when we get there.”
Lance shrugged. “I’m not sure what to expect.”
“Do you think your brother will help us find Amelia?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t leave under the best of circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
“I rejected the Comanche way of life. I’m no longer considered a member of the People.”
Summer searched his face in the harsh sunlight. “You rejected it? Why?”
Lance averted his gaze, staring straight ahead between his horse’s ears. “It’s a long story. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“But I would.” When he didn’t reply, Summer decided perhaps it would be wiser to use a less direct approach if she expected to pry out any information from him. “Does your brother blame you for leaving?”
He nodded curtly. “Like any warrior, Fights Bear only has scorn for a Comanche who would attach himself to the white man. I’ve only been back to visit twice since I left, and my reception wasn’t too keen then.” Lance gave a faint smile, as if recalling a private memory. “My grandmother and sister were the only ones glad to see me.”
“Your grandmother?”
“My father’s mother. She’s a real terror. She has more power than most Comanche women because of her medicine skills.”
“Your father, he isn’t still living?”
The shuttered look came down to claim Lance’s expression, and his terse “No” was all the answer he gave.
When he fell silent, Summer let the subject rest for the time being, realizing she might be probing painful memories.
And yet her curious questioning seemed to bear fruit. Lance didn’t seem as angry with her when they stopped at noon to rest the horses and eat beneath the questionable shade of a mesquite tree, nor did he snap at her when she asked him what he was doing. He had fished in his saddle pouch for several items and was now sitting cross-legged, braiding two long ropes of what looked to be horsehair and buffalo sinew into his own hair.
“Yeah, it’s horsehair,” Lance replied evenly. “A Comanche’s hair is his pride, and mine’s too short.” His mouth quirked. “I’m not just doing this out of vanity. I’ll fit in better this way, wearing braids.”
She had to smile at the notion of Lance doing anything out of vanity. She had never met anyone so hardened to public opinion, or so determined to ignore what other people thought of him. If he was concerned about his appearance, it had to be because he considered it important to their chances of success. It struck Summer as rather sad that he should have to go to such lengths to be accepted by his own family. But then, that was the same dilemma Lance had always faced. He was an outcast in two societies; he fit into neither.
Just now, though, he looked very much like a Comanche warrior. Today he wore fringed buckskin leggings as well as his breechclout and moccasins, but his chest was still bare except for the necklace.
Summer watched curiously as he tied an eagle feather to a lock of hair high on his scalp. “Shouldn’t you wear paint on your face?”
Lance’s white teeth flashed in a grin, the first real smile she’d seen since they left his friend Deek’s trading post. “Comanches only paint their faces when they raid or hunt, or when they have something to celebrate.”
At the mention of raiding, Summer was the one to fall silent. It was during a raid that her sister had been taken captive. A massacre where three people had lost their lives.
Her unguarded mood abruptly vanished. Lance might jest about Comanche customs and even make light of their brutality, but the Comanches were killers who hated whites with a blind passion. She couldn’t forget that. Her fear had diminished somewhat over the past few days—partly, she was certain, because Lance had downplayed the danger, and partly because they had encountered no trouble. But they were deep in Comanche territory now, and the risk of death was real.
Biting her lip, Summer forced herself to begin gathering their belongings for what she hoped was the final leg of their journey. Perhaps she’d been foolish to insist that Lance take her with him, but it was too late to turn back now. Besides, she still would prefer to entrust her fate to Lance Calder than be left behind as prey for the Yarby brothers. Even if at the moment her husband was looking less and less like the stranger she knew, and more and more like a hostile Indian.
* * *
Her tension grew as the afternoon wore on, as did her headache. The heat didn’t help. The air had turned sweltering, with little shade and no water in sight, only endless miles of flat grassland sparsely dotted with mesquite. Lance had made her take off her head covering since no Comanche woman would be afraid of sunburn, a
nd the September sun beat down on her mercilessly.
She was grateful when he allowed them to stop a few minutes to rest. Lance had vowed not to spare her any sympathy, but when he saw the way she was wilting, he evidently took pity on her and poured some water from the leather water bag onto a cloth, telling her to hold it to her brow and throat.
It was midafternoon when they entered the hills again where it was slightly cooler. Shortly after that, Summer became aware that the atmosphere had suddenly changed.
“We’ve got company,” Lance said quietly. “Just keep riding till I tell you to stop.”
Alarmed, Summer sat upright in the saddle and gazed around her, but all she could see was a hill up ahead. It was at least ten more minutes before Lance’s theory proved out. Without warning, an Indian warrior mounted on a painted pony suddenly appeared at the rise of the hill.
Summer couldn’t quite manage to stifle a gasp as he rode down directly in their path and halted, his feathered lance raised as if daring them to proceed.
“He’s likely a scout for a band camped near here,” Lance murmured to her. “Don’t worry. If he’d meant us harm, he would never have shown himself. He would have shot us first.”
His reassurance gave her little comfort.
“Stay here, and don’t say anything,” Lance ordered. “Keep your eyes lowered, and let me handle it. I’ll see if he knows where Fights Bear is camped.”
Handing her the reins of the packhorse, Lance rode forward with a gesture of greeting, a gesture that, to Summer’s immense relief, was returned. She sat rigidly waiting while they held a conversation, using a mixture of speech and hand signs.
Finally Lance looked over his shoulder at her and motioned curtly for her to join him. Swallowing the dry fear in her throat, Summer nudged her mount into a walk, leading the packhorse.
When she reached the two men, Lance brought his horse alongside her and kept riding. Summer could almost hear her heart pounding as they passed, and she could feel the warrior’s fierce black eyes following them all the while.
“Relax, princess,” Lance said when they were out of hearing. “He’s not going to hurt you. A Comanche won’t attack another Comanche unless it’s for blood vengeance.”
She didn’t bother reminding him that she wasn’t a Comanche, but he seemed to understand her fears.
“He thinks you’re my white slave,” Lance explained, his tone holding an edge of amusement.
“Oh, well,” Summer said with forced gaiety, “naturally, that relieves my mind. As long as I’m your property, he’ll spare my life.”
Lance grinned. “Something like that. I didn’t tell him he was in the presence of royalty. He wouldn’t understand that you consider yourself a princess, or why a warrior would allow himself to be commanded by a mere woman, especially his wife.”
Resenting his levity, Summer tossed her head proudly. “You have never in your life let anyone command you, Lance Calder, let alone me. And I am not a mere woman!”
“No, that you’re not.”
His rusty chuckle raised her hackles, but at least it served to stiffen her spine and make her momentarily forget her fear.
Which, Summer realized nearly an hour later as she silently seethed, was no doubt exactly what Lance had intended all along.
Her first sight of a Comanche village both impressed and intimidated her. Just as the scout had indicated, a few hour’s ride north through the hills brought them to the camp of Fights Bear.
When a group of young boys raced out on their ponies to meet them, shrieking and waving their bows and lances, Summer went stiff with dread, but Lance greeted several of them by name and made them laugh with something he said. Turning, the youths provided them an escort into the camp.
The village itself was nestled between two rugged hills and seemed to stretch forever. Scores of pale, conical tepees covered with sun-bleached buffalo hide stood laid out in a square, the curling smoke from the cooking fires rising to disappear into the blue skies overhead. An immense herd of horses grazed in the rich grass beyond the camp, tended by a few boys.
The noise and activity within the camp held Summer’s attention: naked children frolicking and playing games, scrawny dogs scavenging for bones, women clad in buckskin garments hard at work over the cooking pots, ancient men smoking their long pipes at the entrances to their lodges, fierce-looking warriors standing proudly at attention as the visitors passed. For all its activity, however, the camp didn’t have a look of prosperity about it. The racks that should have held strips of drying buffalo meat were mostly empty, while the dirty faces of the children had a lean look of hunger.
She and Lance were the subject of many curious eyes as they rode toward the center of the village. More than a few people offered greetings to Lance, Summer noted with relief. Perhaps he’d been mistaken when he’d said he might not be welcomed with open arms.
In the center of the camp was a clearing, ringed by the lodges of the most important leaders. Lance came to a halt before one of the tepees, where a Comanche warrior stood waiting, his arms crossed belligerently over his bare chest.
The defiant expression on his face, even more than his features, told Summer this was Lance’s half brother. It held the same damn-your-eyes arrogance she’d seen so often on her husband’s face. The physical resemblance was striking, as well. Lance’s coloring was lighter, his features leaner and younger and less weathered, but they had the same high forehead, prominent cheekbones, sharp nose, and strong chin. The same fascinating, forbidden appeal.
It startled her, how attractive she found his brother. Fights Bear was a brutal Comanche, someone she should by rights hate and fear. Was she suddenly developing a passion for savage-looking, dangerous men? Or only those who resembled her husband?
The grim look on Fights Bear’s face didn’t diminish when Lance raised his hand and said something in Comanche that Summer assumed was a greeting. When Lance said a few more words, this brother’s fierce black eyes turned on her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Lowering her own eyes politely, Summer tried to look appropriately meek and unassuming. Since Lance hadn’t introduced her, she assumed it would be beneath the dignity of a war chief to formally recognize a woman, especially a white one.
When Fights Bear finally nodded and made a gruff reply, Lance turned to Summer and murmured in an undertone, “We’re going to get down and eat. It’s a Comanche law to offer hospitality to anyone who seeks it, so he’s going to accept us as his guests tonight.”
“Will he help us find Amelia?” Summer asked anxiously.
“I haven’t asked him yet. It would be bad manners to talk before we’re fed.”
Lance swung down off his horse then, but left her to dismount on her own—perhaps, Summer suspected, because it would hurt his consequence as a warrior to be seen helping a mere woman. When he told her to bring the two pouches that contained presents, she didn’t protest, not wishing to give Fights Bear any reason to turn them away. His reception already worried her. If his fierce expression was anything to judge by, his attitude toward Lance held more than reserve—indeed, almost an edge of hostility.
At the moment the two brothers were eyeing each other in grim silence. With the two men on level ground, Summer could see Fights Bear was several inches shorter than Lance, yet he possessed a commanding air of authority that she wouldn’t want to cross.
It was only when Fights Bear barked something to the women standing behind him that Summer paid them any heed. Two of the women were obviously Comanche, but to her surprise, the third had features that appeared Mexican.
Fights Bear turned and disappeared into his tepee, and Lance followed. When Summer hesitated uncertainly, the woman who looked Mexican offered a shy smile and motioned for Summer to enter after the men.
The interior was dim, but when her eyes adjusted, she could see the dwelling was crowded with belongings. Hide bedding, willow-rod backrests, wooden and horn utensils, and parfleches made of buffalo hide nearly obscured the earthen
floor, while weapons and other various objects hung from the slanting walls. A ring of stone occupied the center as a fireplace, but the hearth was cold—Summer assumed because it was too hot to cook inside.
Fights Bear had seated himself at the rear facing the entrance, with Lance on his right. Summer sat where Lance indicated, beside and slightly behind him.
In only a few moments one of the Comanche women entered with food. She served the men first, then handed Summer a leaf that wrapped a half-raw, half-charred strip of buffalo meat so hot that it burned her fingers. When she eyed it uncertainly, she found Lance giving her a stern glance over his shoulder.
“Eat it,” he ordered harshly. “And look like you enjoy it.”
Obediently Summer smiled and took a bite, finding the meat tough, stringy, and unsalted. She forced it down, though, in silence.
When they were finished with the scant meal, Lance reached for the bags Summer had carried in and began to speak in Comanche.
“I have brought gifts for you and your wives, my brother.”
Fights Bear gave them a summary glance and nodded. “I accept. But you did not seek me out only to offer me presents, Kanap-Cheetu.”
“Haa, that is true. I ask your help in finding my wife’s sister. She was taken by the Comanche from Texas when the moon was last full. I have an arrow shaft belonging to one of her captors.”
Lance rummaged in a pouch and brought out the broken arrow he’d found at the Grice ranch. He showed it to his brother, who studied the feathers and painted markings at the end. “This is not of your band, I think.”
“No, the markings are not familiar.”
“I wish your help in locating the owner of the arrow.”
Fights Bear scowled. “You ask much for one who has turned from the ways of the People.”
Lance returned his brother’s hard gaze. “I follow the laws of the Comanche. This is my woman, my wife. It is a warrior’s responsibility to protect and provide for his wife’s family.”
Fights Bear crossed his sinewed arms over his bare chest. “I do not wish to aid a white woman against the Comanche.”
The Savage Page 16
