Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  ‘‘You blow like the wind.’’ Warrior raised a sarcastic eyebrow and tossed aside the used mullein. ‘‘You taught me all I know about being a warrior, tah-mah, but when it comes to reluctant women, you are as clumsy as a new bear cub.’’

  ‘‘That’s because they’re never reluctant.’’

  ‘‘Oh-ho,’’ Warrior said with a chuckle. ‘‘I seem to remember differently. Willow by the Stream didn’t exactly race from the central fire to your tipi on your wedding night. You made her dance until she was so tired she wouldn’t make a fuss.’’ A tense silence rose between them, a silence heavy with memories. ‘‘I’m sorry, tah-mah. I spoke her name without thinking.’’

  ‘‘It has been many winters. My heart is no longer laid upon the ground.’’ Hunter rested a heavy hand on the girl’s bare shoulder, his frown thoughtful. ‘‘So, we will camp here? Has anyone scouted the area? You’re sure it’s safe?’’

  ‘‘Swift Antelope and Red Buffalo checked for trackers last night and this morning. As crazy as it sounds, Red Buffalo claims the girl’s ap hasn’t even gone for help yet.’’

  ‘‘He’s such a coward, he’s probably waiting to be sure we’re gone. I’m surprised his women haven’t ridden to the fort for help. They are by far the better fighters.’’

  Scarcely aware he was doing it, Hunter feathered his thumb back and forth on the girl’s arm, careful not to press too hard because of her burn. She was as silken as rabbit fur. Glancing down, he saw that her skin was dusted with fine, golden hair, noticeable now only because her sunburn formed a dark backdrop. Fascinated, he touched a fingertip to the fuzz. In the sunshine she glistened as though someone had sprinkled her with gold dust.

  ‘‘Swift Antelope still hasn’t stopped talking about the younger one,’’ Warrior said. ‘‘Her courage impressed him so much, I think he may be smitten. I have to admit, though, once you get used to looking at them, the golden hair and blue eyes grow on you.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you should take her across the river and sell her, eh?’’

  ‘‘I could double my investment.’’ With a grin, Hunter pulled the robe back over her. She reacted by shrinking away from him, and he gave a disgusted snort. ‘‘She must think we’re hungry and she’s going to be breakfast.’’

  ‘‘Speaking of which, are you going to feed her?’’

  ‘‘In an hour or so. If we’re staying here today, I can go back to sleep.’’ He drew his knife and cut the leather on Loretta’s wrists. ‘‘Wake me if the sun gets on her, eh?’’

  ‘‘You’d better keep her tied.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ A yawn stretched Hunter’s dark face.

  ‘‘Because she’s looking skittish.’’

  ‘‘She’s naked.’’ Sheathing his knife, Hunter flopped on his back and shaded his eyes with one arm. ‘‘She won’t run. Not without clothes. I’ve never seen such a bashful female.’’

  ‘‘The tosi tivo truss up their females in so many clothes, it would take a whole sleep just to undress one. Then they have them wear breeches under the lot. How do they manage to have so many children? I’d be so tired by the time I found skin, I’d never get anything else done.’’

  ‘‘You’d think of something,’’ Hunter said with a chuckle.

  ‘‘You know, once you fall asleep, she could go for your knife. You want to wake up with your throat slit?’’

  ‘‘She’s more likely to kill herself than me. You know how they are.’’ Hunter’s mouth lifted at the corners. ‘‘Her honor is gone. A man has seen her naked. As boisa as it sounds, that’s how they think.’’

  ‘‘Want some help watching her?’’

  Hunter threw back his head and laughed. ‘‘Just wake me when the shade leaves, you horny old man. Come anyplace close and I’ll tell Maiden of the Tall Grass. She’ll burn your dinner for a month.’’

  Loretta watched the other Indian leave, her heart slamming wildly with relief. It was short-lived. Hunter turned onto his side and snaked an arm under the buffalo robe, catching her around the waist. He was fully awake now, and she had no idea what to expect from him when he pulled her close. She scarcely dared breathe, she was so frightened. He snugged his hand beneath her breast and nuzzled his face against the back of her neck.

  ‘‘You will sleep now, Yellow Hair,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I must rest. It will be a very long journey home.’’

  Home. Loretta listened to the hum of the river and stared sightlessly into the woods. Oh, how she longed to be home. The morning fire would be warming the loft right now. And she would be snuggled under the gray down quilt with Amy, waking to the smells of coffee and pork slab in the fry pan. She recognized the Brazos River. The farm was so close. The Indians were clever, she’d give them that. The rangers would never think to look for them here, never in a thousand years. Tears filled her eyes. She tried to stop them, but they ran in rivers down her cheeks. Her stomach started quivering. Her chest heaved.

  The Comanche rose on an elbow to look down at her, then touched her cheek. After staring for a long while at the moistness that came away on his finger-tips, he sighed and lay back down, wrapping his arm around her again. ‘‘You will stop this.’’

  Loretta held her breath. But she could only hold it for so long. The instant she drew air, a jagged sob knifed its way down her windpipe.

  ‘‘You will stop,’’ he hissed. ‘‘This Comanche will blow hard at you like the wind.’’

  Loretta squeezed her eyes closed. She thought of her parents. She wondered if one of these men had taken her mother’s scalp. Oh, mercy, she had to get away. . . .

  As if he guessed her thoughts, he cinched his arm more tightly around her. ‘‘You cannot go back. You are my woman now. Suvate, it is finished. You will be quiet and sleep.’’

  A hiccup caught crosswise in her throat. He groaned and gave her a light shake.

  ‘‘You did not hear? You will stop the tears. I have spoken it. Don’t test my temper, Yellow Hair. It is a warning I make for you, eh? Disobey me and we will fight the great fight.’’

  Loretta again tried to stifle herself by holding her breath. She had no idea what ‘‘the great fight’’ was, but it was a foregone conclusion that he would win. When her air rushed out, it erupted, wet and shaky. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Hunter snarled something at her and leaped to his feet. Running a hand through his hair, he stepped around in front of her and stared down at her contorted features with a thoroughly disgruntled expression playing upon his own. ‘‘You will have stopped this when I return. You understand?’’

  She nodded, averting her face to deflect her shame. His woman? The moment he touched her, she would be ruined forever. She’d never be able to go home. People would stare at her and whisper behind her back. Hunter strode off toward the other men. Loretta sobbed in earnest then. All the fear, the exhaustion, the tension of the last twenty-four hours, came pouring out of her. She cried until there were no more tears and no energy left with which to shed them. Then she fell into an exhausted slumber, her last thought being that she had to escape.

  Chapter 7

  SPORADIC OUTBURSTS OF CONVERSATION and the tantalizing smell of roasting meat tugged Loretta from the depths of an exhausted sleep. Slitting her eyelids, she peered at the bright orb of the sun, guessing by its position above the canopy of trees that it was nearly noon. Pain throbbed behind her eyes. A ceaseless burning sensation tortured her skin. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, prickly and thick. She would have paid a king’s ransom for one sip of cool water.

  Acutely aware that some of the Comanche warriors were gathered around a nearby fire, Loretta was afraid to call attention to herself by moving. The buffalo fur was heavy, hot, and airless. She could hear the fire crackling, the hissing sound of fat dripping into flames. Occasionally the breeze picked up and rustled through the leaves overhead. Birds twittered, squirrels chattered, and in the background there was the constant rushing sound of water. If she closed her eyes, she could almost be
lieve she was down at the river with Amy, the farm and safety a short walk away.

  Cramps shot up the calves of her legs, bunching her muscles into tight knots. An uncomfortable pressure grew in the pit of her stomach. Unable to lie in the same position a moment longer, she eased onto her back, clenching her teeth as the fur pallet touched her sunburned shoulder blades.

  The guttural voices nearby rose and fell, their tones argumentative but friendly. Occasionally someone laughed. If the Indians had been speaking English, they could have passed for white men, swapping stories, poking fun at each other. But they weren’t white men. She saw a war shield propped against a bush, its face painted with heathen symbols. Scalps hung from the bridle of a nearby pony, the long tresses of one a rich red, without question a white woman’s.

  Sweat popped out on Loretta’s brow and trickled down her temples. She had to get away from here.

  The sound of approaching footsteps set her heart to skittering. Loretta closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She could sense someone staring at her. Heat bathed her cheeks. It grew hotter, then hotter still. The sensitive skin inside her nostrils began to sear. Smoke?

  She opened her eyes. A smoldering chunk of wood hovered in front of her nose, its embers red hot. Loretta jerked back, her gaze darting from the wood to the sturdy brown hand that held it.

  ‘‘You do not spit, Yellow Hair?’’

  Broad brown shoulders eclipsed the sun, the features above them a grotesque blur of scar tissue. Loretta recognized the Indian who had urged Hunter to kill her that first day. The smoldering wood, wielded so deftly, inched closer to her nose. Grabbing handfuls of the fur and shoving with her feet, she slithered sideways, scarcely aware of the pain on her sunburned back. The Indian grunted and slammed a foot down on her chest.

  His scarred face twisted into an ugly smile. ‘‘You are so good at spitting. Spit fast, eh? Drown the coals, before you are scarred and ugly like me.’’

  Loretta’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. The hair on her upper lip was singeing, the stench acrid in her nostrils. The Indian’s black eyes glittered down at her.

  ‘‘Your courage has flown, eh? There are no rifles to make you brave?’’ He leaned forward so that more of his weight rested on her. ‘‘I will put my mark on you, eh? When my cousin grows tired of you, he has promised you to me. It is fair, no? I will do to you what your tosi tivo friends did to me.’’

  He shoved the wood forward. Just in time, Loretta jerked her face aside.

  Suddenly another Indian appeared. He was much older, his greasy hair streaked with gray. Dressed only in a breechcloth, his scrawny brown body looked as tough as uncured leather, his concave buttocks and thin legs stringy with muscle. Gesturing wildly and jabbering words she couldn’t understand, he pointed toward the river. Loretta went limp with relief when he wrenched the chunk of wood from her tormentor’s hand and threw it aside.

  The younger Indian snarled a rejoinder. As he removed his foot from Loretta’s chest, he slipped his toe under the fur and gave it a toss. She scrambled for cover, sick with shame when she felt cool air waft across her breasts.

  Leering down at her, he said, ‘‘Old Man spoils our fun, but we will play another time. Very soon, eh?’’

  Loretta jerked the buffalo hide over her head. Perspiration filmed her body, yet she shivered. Even after the Indians walked away, she couldn’t stop shaking. Animals, they were all animals.

  Only a few seconds later, she once again heard footsteps. Long brown fingers clasped the fur and lifted it from her face. Expecting the worst, she stiffened and squinted into the sun. The dark, hulking silhouette of a man crouched over her. Sunblinded, she couldn’t immediately make out his features, but the gleam of his mahogany hair and the breadth of his shoulders identified him.

  He held a tin cup out to her, very like the ones Aunt Rachel had hanging in her kitchen. Tom Weaver had been right; these Comanches traded often with white men. Where else would they get coffee and tin-ware? No wonder they had such a good command of English.

  "You will drink."

  His deep, silken voice was expressionless, and that frightened her more than his anger or threats might have. His wide chest and powerful arms gleamed in the sunshine, muscle rippling and bunching beneath his burnished skin every time he moved. She stared at his stone medallion, at the crude wolf head etched on its face. More graven images decorated the band of leather on his wrist, a serpent intertwined with grotesque stick figures whose heads bore a resemblance to the sun and moon.

  She rose up on an elbow, taking care to keep the fur clasped to her breasts. With a trembling hand, she took the cup, careful not to touch her fingers to his. Water slopped over the rim and ran down her neck as she drank. Cool, wonderful water. After only five swallows, it was gone. She ran her tongue across her cracked lips, savoring every drop, then handed the dented container back to him. She longed for more but didn’t know how to ask for it.

  Hunter set the cup on the pallet and leaned forward on one knee. The combined smells of smoke, beaver oil, leather, and sage emanated from him. Injun smell. It clung to the fur, her skin, her hair. A whole tub of lye soap and a bucket of lavender water would never get it off her.

  His dark blue eyes cut into hers as he pressed his palm against her cheek. As he slid his fingers to the side of her neck, fear tightened her throat. He touched her with the same matter-of-factness that he might have a horse. Possessively, with arrogant superiority.

  Glancing over his shoulder at the group of men behind him, he cried, ‘‘Cho-cof-pe Okoom! Keemah, cah boon!’’

  Loretta jumped; she couldn’t help it. Hunter looked back at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a contemptuous sneer. The old Indian who had championed her only moments before turned from the fire and strode toward them. ‘‘Hein ein mah-su-ite?’’

  ‘‘He-be-to. Heep-et?’’ Hunter nodded toward Loretta. ‘‘Cona.’’

  Elbowing Hunter out of the way, the old man knelt and fastened his dark gaze on Loretta. Though she tried to keep her expression blank, her mouth quivered, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. Jabbing a finger at his chest, the old Indian said, ‘‘Nei nan-ne-i-cut Cho-cof-pe Okoom.’’ His wrinkled mouth spread in a snaggle-toothed grin to expose teeth blackened with decay. ‘‘In Comanche that say, ‘My name Old Man.’ You understand? Cho-cof-pe Okoom—Old Man.’’

  Though Old Man had rescued her earlier and seemed harmless enough, Loretta didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust any of them. She shrank away when he tried to touch her. Hunter snarled something and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She tried to remember a prayer, any prayer. To her relief, the old Indian merely touched her forehead.

  ‘‘Te-bit-ze!’’ he exclaimed to Hunter. He directed an accusing glance at the sun, then pointed toward the river, spouting more gibberish, which he punctuated with an emphatic, ‘‘Namiso!’’

  Whatever it was Old Man had said, Hunter appeared none too pleased. As Old Man walked away, Hunter released his hold on Loretta’s hair and stood, motioning for her to get up as well. Disbelief welled within her. She had no clothes. Surely he didn’t mean for her to—

  ‘‘Keemah! Namiso!’’ he hissed. When her only response was to stare at him, he said, ‘‘Keemah, come! Namiso, hurry! Do not test my patience, Blue Eyes.’’

  Loretta clutched the fur to her chest and shook her head. She wouldn’t parade stark naked before all these men. She wouldn’t.

  A dangerous glint stole into his eyes. ‘‘You will obey this Comanche.’’

  The bridled anger in his voice sent sheer, black fright coursing through her, but she set her jaw.

  With a low growl, he leaned over and scooped her up, fur and all, into his arms. Before she could register what he had done, he slung her over his shoulder, one arm clamped behind her knees, his other hand holding the fur so it wouldn’t fall. ‘‘Stupid white woman. You do not learn too quick.’’

  A few moments later Hunter reached the river and waded thigh deep into the current.
With a grunt, he gave her a toss, keeping a firm grip on the buffalo robe so that she spun out of it as she fell. There was no time to feel embarrassed. Iciness engulfed her, the change in temperature such a shock to her feverish body that she gasped. Water seared up her nose and down her windpipe. Darkness, everywhere darkness. For a moment she wasn’t sure which way was up. Then she saw light shimmering. She shot to the surface, choking and coughing, arms flailing wildly.

  A blur of movement, Hunter threw the fur onto the riverbank and waded toward her. She couldn’t touch bottom and, despite the desperate pumping of her arms and legs, went under again, taking another draft of water.

  Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her to the surface and nearer to shore so her feet touched. Bringing his face close to hers, he tightened his grip on her braid. ‘‘You will obey me.’’ He enunciated each word with venomous clarity. ‘‘Always. You are mine—Hunter’s woman, forever with no horizon. The next time you shake your head at me, I will beat you.’’

  A measure of the water she had inhaled surged up her throat. Unable to stop herself, she choked and then coughed. The ejected spray hit him square in the eyes. He blinked and drew back, an incredulous look on his face. Loretta clamped her palms over her mouth, angling her arms to hide her breasts, her shoulders heaving.

  As angry as he appeared, she fully expected him to lay her flat with his fist. Instead he released her braid and caught hold of her arms. When she finally got her breath, he let go of her and returned to shore, his leather-clad legs cutting sparkling swaths through the water. After wiping his face dry with the buffalo robe, he turned to glower at her.

  He sat on his haunches and rested his corded forearms on his knees. Glancing upstream and down, he said, ‘‘Your wooden walls are far away, Yellow Hair. If you try to slip away, this Comanche will find you.’’

  Until that moment, the thought of swimming off hadn’t occurred to her. She shot a glance over her shoulder at the swift current. If only she had clothes . . .

  ‘‘You do not make like a fish so good. Save this Comanche much trouble, eh?’’