Captive Bride

by Sandi Hampton

  A half hour later, he handed her a skewer. Her eyes lit up, and she tore at the meat. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good.” She wiped her hands on her pants. “Is there any more?”

  “No.”

  She groaned aloud. “Can we rest here for a while?”

  He nodded. “About half an hour, then we have to ride hard.”

  “Have we been doing anything else?” She grabbed the bedroll and placed it under the nearest scrub oak, then collapsed on it. Sleep claimed her immediately.

  It seemed like only minutes before she woke to someone shaking her.

  “Time to get up, Abby. We’ve stayed here long enough.”

  She opened her eyes to find Davy standing over her. “Just ten more minutes. Please.”

  He kicked her boot. “Now.”

  She shoved herself up on her elbows. Something stung her, and she jerked her hand back. “Ouch.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She stood and stretched. Davy had already saddled the horse. He motioned for her to climb up. As she did so, her foot slipped out of the stirrup. She fell against him and put her hands on his chest. She could swear she heard the beating of his heart. Get a hold on yourself, you idiot. He tipped her chin back with his finger. Abby knew if he kissed her, she would be lost. She moved out of his embrace. “Guess we’d best be riding.”

  His lips pinched together in a straight line, but he merely nodded. She mounted, and he vaulted into the saddle behind her, then steered his horse deeper into the ravine.

  Hours later, as the sun sank below the horizon, Davy reined in his mount on the ridge above a small water hole. Abby’s body slumped against him. Once again guilt slammed into him like a bullet. She didn’t deserve this. If her father and Winston were involved in his father’s death, they deserved much worse.

  But she didn’t.

  He shook her gently. “Abby, we’re here. There’s water.” Her answer was a low moan. He shook her again. “Abby, wake up.”

  When she didn’t move, he placed his hand on her forehead. Fever! He slid from the saddle and pulled her with him. He carried her to the water’s edge and laid her in patch of green grass. He hurried back to the horse, pulled a kerchief from the saddlebag and darted back to her. With gentle hands, he bathed her face and neck.

  Then he remembered when she’d hurt herself. He grabbed her hand and studied it. There—swollen, fevered flesh. A bite of a scorpion. He cursed loudly. He’d not only kidnapped her, dragged her around the country, scared her half to death, but now he’d endangered her life. A scorpion’s bite could be fatal.

  “Abby, darling, can you hear me?”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “I don’t feel well.”

  As she said the words, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed into unconsciousness.

  Davy knew he couldn’t stay there. He had to get Abby to his mother. She had great skills with wounds such as this.

  Hours later, as the sun sent golden streaks across the desert floor, Davy reined in his horse and stared down at the Comanche village. The cook fires burned, and he could see people milling around. Familiar smells wafted up, and he sniffed appreciatively. After the quail at breakfast, lunch had consisted of a couple of pieces of jerky and wild berries. He scanned the area and found his mother’s teepee.

  A dark figure emerged. Dawn Little Sky bent over and stirred her fire. Orange flames flickered in the shadows. Davy’s heart went out to her. She had loved his father with a fire that had burned brighter than life itself. He could only dream of such a love. Abby stirred in his arms. He’d once thought she was the one, but their worlds were too far apart.

  And he might soon be dead—and maybe Abby too.

  With a gentle nudge of his heels, Davy sent the horse down the slope. He kept outside the circle of light until he stopped in front of his mother’s teepee.

  Her face showed no surprise.

  He slid from the saddle, then lifted the unconscious Abby into his arms. Without a word, his mother opened the flap to the teepee. Davy walked in and laid Abby on a bed of furs. He knelt beside her and wrapped her in the warm softness. She mumbled a few words, but he couldn’t make them out.

  Silken strands of ebony hair partially covered her face, and he gently pushed them behind her ear. Dirt and grime marred the perfection of her face. A bruise shadowed her forehead. He stroked her forehead. It was still hot with the fever.

  He shoved himself to his feet and left the teepee. His mother sat cross-legged by the fire, and he joined her.

  “My heart is glad to see you, my son.” She took his hand in hers.

  Davy leaned over and brushed a kiss across his mother’s cheek. “As is mine.”

  “You look troubled, my son.”

  “I am sorry I was not there when my father was killed.”

  “Do not feel guilty, Running Wolf. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I wasn’t there to save him, but I will avenge his death, Mother. I promise you.”

  “I do not wish vengeance at the cost of your life.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “The girl?”

  “Her name is Abigail O’Sullivan. She is the daughter of the man I think killed my father.”

  His mother’s dark eyes bored into his. “She is special to you, my son?”

  “No, no. She is a means to my revenge, that’s all.” He took his hat off and turned his head lest she read the truth in his eyes.

  “Word has come of this girl. It is said the soldiers will come, and Silver Feather chases you.”

  “Ayee, it is true. But she is sick and needs your healing hand.”

  “I will see to her. We will talk more later. You must go see Chief Spotted Elk and tell him of this.”

  Davy nodded and rose to his feet. “I will go now.”

  Chapter Six

  A headache pounded at Abby’s temple. Her body burned as if on fire. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach while nausea reared its ugly head. She moaned, but the voice she heard didn’t sound like hers. It sounded more like that of a wounded animal.

  A soft voice fought through the fog in her head. Even though she couldn’t understand the words, the strange chant mesmerized—and comforted her. She relaxed and sank further into the beckoning darkness. Several times the voice came again, summoning her to the light. Still Abby fought returning.

  Then a new voice broke through the swirling confusion of her mind, coaxing and cajoling her to follow the familiar sound. The light grew brighter, and she opened her eyes. A face hovered inches over her own. His hand rested on her arm.

  Davy!

  This time, though, his dark eyes revealed no animosity, only concern. He ran his finger down her cheek. “Abby, I’m glad you’re back. I was worried about you. How do you feel?”

  “Tired, very tired. Want…sleep.” Her eyelids grew heavier.

  “No. Must eat now,” a third voice said.

  “Abby, wake up.”

  She forced her eyes to open. “No, no. Don’t want any food.”

  Davy grabbed her shoulders, lifted her and slipped some soft skins behind her. “Yes, you’ve got to eat.”

  As he propped her up on the mound of animal skins, she caught a glimpse of the woman who knelt beside him. Although definitely older, the woman in the picture on the mantel at the Larson ranch stared back at her. Davy’s mother. Gray hair hung in two long thick braids while a beaded head band covered her forehead. Her doeskin dress embellished in the same beaded pattern fell from slender shoulders. Wary brown eyes, so mindful of Davy’s, stared back at her from a bronzed face.

  She handed a bowl to her son and spoke to him in Comanche.

  “She says you must eat to gain strength to fight the bad spirits which have made you sick.”

  Abby shook her head. “Not hungry.”

  “You are one stubborn woman, Abby O’Sullivan, but I’m stubborn too.” He lifted the bowl to her mouth. “Now drink some of this.”
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  Abby sipped the warm broth. While it was delicious, she had no appetite but forced herself to swallow several mouthfuls. Then she pushed the bowl aside. “No more.”

  “All right. That’s enough for now.” He lowered her onto the soft skins.

  A warm cocoon enveloped Abby, soothing her. She retreated into the fuzzy realm of sleep. The last thing she remembered was Davy’s hand smoothing her hair back—and liking it.

  ****

  Davy covered the prone figure with a buffalo robe and smoothed her hair back. With a muttered oath, he again cursed himself for putting Abby through this ordeal. He should have found some other way to avenge his father’s death. He must have been out of his mind when he thought to kidnap her. It was his fault that she was very ill. If anything happened to her, he couldn’t live with himself.

  “Come, my son, she will sleep now. We must talk.” His mother left the teepee.

  With a last glance at Abby, Davy followed and joined his mother at the cook fire. As she prepared food, he squatted on his haunches and stared into the flickering firelight. His conscience troubled him. Had he delivered Abby into danger? Perhaps the Comanche as well?

  His meeting with Spotted Elk had gone as expected. The chief was not happy he had brought danger to the tribe, yet he understood Davy’s desire for avenging his father’s death. Spotted Elk had informed him that white men had entered the Llano Estacado. That had not surprised him. The Comanche always knew when intruders entered their realm.

  “Why have you come here, my son,” his mother handed a bowl of food to him, “with the white woman?”

  “To speak of my father. I have many questions about his death.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She is the daughter of my enemy. I kidnapped her to find the answers.” He tipped the bowl and gulped down some of the rabbit stew, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You do not look upon her as an enemy,” Dawn Little Sky said. “Rather, with eyes that say much.”

  “I have no fight with her, only her father.” He tried to keep his voice steady and his expression blank so as to hide his true feelings. His mother had always been able to read what was in his heart.

  “Who now comes to our land—with many riders.”

  Davy nodded. “Spotted Elk told me of this.”

  “Did he tell you Silver Feather leads them?”

  Davy’s eyebrows shot up. “No. I knew he was on my trail, but I thought I had more time. I will leave as soon as the woman is able to ride. But while I am here, I would ask you of my father. The night he died, how did you learn of his death?”

  Dawn Little sky stared off into space. When she looked back at him, it was as if she didn’t see him, but had instead returned to that night. Her heart was open, the wound bare and bleeding. “I felt it…when…I knew something had happened to him, and that,” she hesitated, her voice a mere whisper, “his life blood spilled, and I waited. I knew my life’s circle had been broken.” Her gaze locked with Davy’s. “About an hour later, he brought your father’s body to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Silver Feather.”

  The two words hit Davy between the eyes, like a gunshot. He’d expected the answer to be either the sheriff or a Triple S cowhand. “What did he say?”

  “He said your father had been playing the white man’s game called poker and that he had won much money, and he was killed for it.” She swiped her hand across her eyes. “But this I did not believe.”

  “How did he know?”

  Dawn Little Sky shrugged.

  “Who found my father’s body?”

  “Silver Feather said the sheriff told him to bring your father’s body home.” She placed a hand on Davy’s shoulder. “But what does that prove, my son?”

  “I don’t know—yet. One more question. Did my father carry the deed to the ranch around with him? I can’t figure out how someone got it.”

  “This paper you call deed. It is important?”

  “Yeah. It proves my father owned the ranch, and it should rightfully be mine.”

  Dawn Little Sky shrugged her shoulders. “I know nothing of this deed.”

  “Did anyone ever come to the ranch and ask about it?”

  “No.”

  “When I went there earlier, the house had been searched. Had you seen my father with this paper?”

  She shook her head.

  “So he didn’t take it to the bank or anything? Borrow money?”

  “No.”

  “What happened after Silver Feather brought…the body home? Did he leave right away?”

  “No. He offered to help me bury…” Her voice broke.

  Davy knelt beside his mother and hugged her. “I’m sorry to put you through this, but it’s important.”

  “I know. I told him I wanted to be alone with my husband. He said that he would leave and return the next day to help me. I thanked him, then he left.”

  “He returned the next day?”

  His mother nodded. “Your father wished to be buried at the ranch—by his parents. Silver Feather dug the grave for me.”

  “Was he in the house at any time? Alone?”

  “I do not remember.”

  “So I need to talk to Silver Feather.”

  “You must walk softly with Silver Feather,” she warned.

  “Why is that? I know he doesn’t like me, never has, but I never knew why.” He leaned forward and stirred the glowing embers.

  “Many years ago, my son, when I was just a maiden, Silver Feather asked for me to be his wife, but I had met your father and had eyes only for John Larson. Silver Feather suffered dishonor when I left the village to go live with a white man.”

  “Then why would he want to help you?” Davy quirked an eyebrow at his mother. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He has hinted that he still wants me to be his woman.”

  “What? With my father barely cold in the ground?” He clenched his hands into fists. “Why, that sonofabitch!” He stood and paced around the cook fire. “Why don’t you get some rest, Mother? I need to think about…everything.”

  “Very well.” She stood, then ran her fingers through his hair, something she hadn’t done since he was a young boy. “I have missed you, Running Wolf. I have prayed to the Great Spirit for your safe return. Now you walk dangerous ground. You must be careful.”

  Davy nodded.

  “Good night, my son.”

  As his mother disappeared into the teepee, Davy stared into the flickering flames. The information he’d learned about the night of his father’s death twisted in his mind like a tornado, scattering his thoughts in all directions. He ran his hand over his jaw.

  Memories crowded in around him, memories of a time when he was a boy and had spent many days among the Comanche. His life had been a jumble of emotions between the Indian world and the white man’s world. It sometimes had been, and still was, a difficult path to walk.

  He stretched out by the fire and stared into the ebony sky. He had much thinking to do—and a lot of it centered on Abigail O’Sullivan.

  ****

  Noise outside jerked Abby from her sleep. She shoved herself up on her elbows and surveyed her surroundings. For a moment, she didn’t recognize anything, and her pulse raced like a runaway locomotive. But then, although she’d never been in one, she recognized the conical shape of a teepee. A cook fire smoldered in the center of the teepee. Wisps of smoke drifted lazily toward the hole in the top. Buffalo skins and various woven baskets were piled around the outer circle.

  She thrust the buffalo skin aside and discovered she was nude. Taken aback, she glanced around for her clothes. They were not in sight.

  The rustle of footsteps grabbed her attention. She hastily pulled the robe up and then turned to the entrance. Two people entered the teepee. Dawn Little Sky smiled at her. Dark circles framed Davy’s eyes, exhaustion evident on his face.

  When he saw she was awake, he smiled at her, leaned over and felt her
forehead. “Good. The fever is gone. Do you feel better?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Only a headache remains.”

  “My mother’s healing herbs are very potent.” He squatted down beside the fire. “They can heal almost every illness.”

  “Does she speak English?”

  “Some.”

  “Then please tell her thank you for me,” Abby levered herself into a seated position, “although it was her son who caused me to be ill in the first place.”

  His answer was a mischievous grin.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “My mother burned them, but she has brought more.”

  “Burned? Why?”

  “To kill the spirits that made you sick.”

  “I see.” She glanced at the Indian woman who knelt beside her and took the bundle offered. A dress of soft doeskin and beautiful beadwork made her smile. “Oh, it’s so beautiful. Thank you.”

  To her surprise, the woman answered in English. “You are welcome.”

  Davy’s expression sobered. “My people tell me that white men have entered the Llano Estacado.”

  “Your people? Was not your father a white man?”

  A shadow crossed his eyes, but he didn’t answer, merely nodded.

  “My father is with them?” Her heartbeat quickened. Would her rescue result in lives lost? Hers? Her father’s? Phillip’s? At the thought of her betrothed, guilt slammed into her. She’d not thought of him for the last two days.

  “I don’t know. Silver Feather leads them.”

  Despite her attempt to be brave, tears misted in her eyes. “What now, Davy? What happens now?”

  “I have sent word to Silver Feather that your father is to meet me at the Painted Canyon. He is to come alone and unarmed.”

  Abby caught his gaze and held it. “Then what?”

  “I have many questions to ask him. If I am satisfied with the answers, I will release you to him.”

  “So you’re putting him on trial?” Forgetting she was naked, she lunged at him and tried to slap him, but he caught her hand. “Who made you the judge and the jury?”