Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  He nuzzled her hair, his breath warm on her scalp. Was he asleep? She stared at the fire, her nerve endings leaping every time he inhaled and exhaled, every time his fingers flexed.

  Slowly the heat from his body chased the chill from hers. Loretta’s eyelids grew heavy. The wind whispering in the treetops seemed peaceful now, not frightening. The shifting shadows that had terrified her for hours became just that, shifting shadows.

  A branch cracked somewhere in the darkness. A large animal of some kind, she guessed. It didn’t matter. Wolf, bear, coyote, or cougar, Hunter the terrible was beside her. Nothing would dare challenge him.

  Her thoughts drifted and grew blurred. Sadness washed over her when she remembered the horse. She relaxed and leaned against her captor. A soot-black blanket of exhaustion settled over her.

  A fly buzzed around Loretta’s face. Dimly she recognized the sound, aware that morning had come and that the Comanche lay beside her. In another part of her mind, that dark, shadowy part where nightmares lurked, the buzzing magnified and carried her back in time, to another muggy morning, to the loud buzzing of other flies, and to horror.

  She was in the storm cellar. . . .

  It was strangely quiet outside. The cow didn’t low. The chickens didn’t cluck. The pigs didn’t grunt. Just a heavy silence, except for the flies buzzing. Maybe that was why they sounded so loud, because there wasn’t any other noise. One thing was for sure, the Comanches were gone. No more yipping. No more laughter. Pa wouldn’t care if she came out now, would he? Even though he hadn’t come back yet, like he promised.

  Loretta pressed her palm against the rough planks of the door and pushed. The hinges creaked, and sunlight spilled across her face, the brightness blinding. She stumbled up the steps and out into the yard. The wind picked up, fluttering some blue cloth that was lying on the ground a few feet away. Loretta didn’t look at it.

  Instead she walked to the house. Up onto the porch, through the door, into the kitchen. The bottoms of her shoes felt hot, but she didn’t pay them any mind. It was long past time for chores. She hadn’t done her milching, hadn’t fed the pigs or chickens. Pa would be mighty perturbed if he woke up and found her loafing.

  He would wake up. Here shortly. He and Ma both. She’d just go on about the chores as usual. And pretty soon they’d wake up. They had to.

  The handle of the milch bucket blistered Loretta’s palm as she picked it up and carried it out of the kitchen, across the yard to the barn. At first she didn’t notice, so intent was she on her own thoughts; eventually, however, the pain began to nag at the edges of her mind, tugging her back to reality. Then she heard the flies. The buzzing was so loud that she slowed her steps and turned. Flies. They swarmed all around her, landing, biting through the cloth of her dress, crawling everywhere her skin wasn’t covered.

  Ten feet from her, the blue cloth still fluttered in the breeze, calling to her. Unnerved, she forced her gaze back to the house—only the house had been reduced to cinders. Smoke trailed skyward in feeble wisps from the crumbled remains.

  A terrible smell assailed Loretta’s nostrils. She knew its source. She wouldn’t look down at the blue cloth. She would keep her eyes lifted to the sky, block it all out. It would go away if she pretended hard enough. It would! Ma said anything could come true if a body wished hard enough. And Loretta was wishing harder than she ever had. She had to. Otherwise this would all be real. And her parents would be—they would be—

  Despite her determination not to look, Loretta lowered her gaze to the blue cloth. The ground seemed to tilt. She couldn’t breathe. No. That was what she tried to scream. No!

  Loretta jerked awake and clamped her hands over her ears. Flies. For several seconds she remained trapped in that frightening limbo between reality and nightmare. Then she felt a callused hand on her bare midriff, fingertips grazing her breast. The Comanche. Dream and reality melded. Flies, Indians, blood. She couldn’t breathe. She jackknifed to a sitting position, trying to throw his arm off her, but it was under her shirt. And he still had hold of her hair. Panting, she struggled to free herself.

  ‘‘You went to a dream place, eh?’’ His fingers tightened, curling like warm bands around her upper arms. His gaze delved into hers, searching, reading. She yearned to look away but couldn’t. ‘‘A bad place, no?’’

  Loretta’s neck felt brittle. She couldn’t nod, didn’t want to. He was curious about her dream, but even if she had been able to talk, she couldn’t have explained. Wouldn’t have tried.

  At last he dropped his hands and looked up at the sun. ‘‘Nei te-bitze utsa-e-tah, I am sure enough hungry. We will make a walk to wash the sleep from our faces, eh? Then I will get meat to put over our fire.’’

  He pushed to his feet. Not wanting him to touch her, Loretta scrambled to stand before he reached for her. The effort availed her naught. The instant she gained her footing, he gripped her elbow and pulled her along beside him. As they passed the main circle of campfires, Hunter yelled something. Several of the other men glanced up, replying in Comanche.

  Tightening his grip on her arm, Hunter steered her toward the river. ‘‘My cousin made a kill this morning. He has fresh meat. You are hungry, no?’’

  In truth Loretta wasn’t, but she nodded, afraid of angering him. Still shaken by her nightmare, she found the weight of his hand on her arm revolting. For all she knew, he might have been present the day her mother died. His was an extraordinary face, but she had been in shock that day and didn’t remember everything as she should.

  She guessed him to be in his early thirties, plenty old enough to have gone on that raid and maybe hundreds before that. Comanche boys became warriors at an early age, some of them participating in their first bloodbath when they were no older than Amy.

  There was a ringing sound in her ears. The world around them seemed unnaturally bright. She was disgusted with herself for meekly following the guidance of his hand. As they walked, small rocks and nettles cut into the soles of her feet. She fell back once, hopping on one leg while she tried to pluck a sticker from her toe. She didn’t expect him to stop, but he did. After she had rid herself of the sticker and they continued on their way, he seemed to pick the path more carefully.

  When they reached the river, he turned left. ‘‘TohobtPah-e-hona, Blue Water River. You call it the Brazos, eh?’’ He pointed ahead of them. ‘‘Pah-gat-su, upstream.’’ Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, ‘‘Te-naw, downstream. You will listen good, Blue Eyes, and learn. Tosi tivo talk is dirt in my mouth.’’

  His tone set Loretta off balance. Dirt in his mouth? If he hated the whites so much, why on earth had he taken her? Upstream, downstream, she couldn’t remember the words. She didn’t want to. The language of murderers. All she wanted was to be free of the whole filthy lot of them.

  Another rock jabbed her insole, and she winced, missing a step. He released her elbow and swept her off her feet into his arms. He took her so much by surprise that if she could have screamed, she would have. Their eyes locked, his mocking, hers wide.

  Though he now bore Loretta’s weight, her position was such that her back was in danger of breaking if she didn’t loop an arm around his neck. He stood there, looking down at her and waiting. Her mouth went dry. She wished he would just toss her over his shoulder again and be done with it. Being carried like a sack of grain wasn’t very dignified, but at least that way she didn’t have to cling to him.

  That determined glint she was coming to know too well crept into his eyes. He gave her a little toss, not enough to drop her, but enough to give her a start. Instinctively she hooked an arm around his neck. His lips slanted into a satisfied grin, a grin that said as clearly as if he had spoken that he would have the last word, always. He started walking again.

  The firm cords of muscle that ran down from his neck undulated beneath her fingers, his warm skin as smooth as fine-grained leather. His hair, silken and heavy, brushed against her knuckles. Beneath her wrist she could feel the crusty cut on h
is shoulder from Aunt Rachel’s bullet. Remembering the wound he had inflicted on his arm last night, she wondered just how many scars he had. Strangely, the longer she was around him, the less she noticed the slash on his cheek. His was the kind of face that suffered imperfections well, features chiseled, skin weathered to a tough, burnished brown, as rugged as the sharp-cut canyons and endless plains from whence he’d sprung.

  He carried her to an outcrop of flat rock along the river’s edge, then set her gently on her feet. They stretched out side by side on the bed of stone. When Loretta splashed her face, the cool water felt heavenly on her sunburned skin. Determined to ignore the Comanche’s unwelcome nearness and take advantage of the few concessions he allowed her, she pushed forward on the rock. Dunking her head, she worked her fingers through her hair to remove the twigs and dirt that had gotten in it when she’d fallen off the horse. After wringing the water from her long tresses as best she could, she sighed and cupped her palms in the swift current, taking a long drink. When she lowered her hands, her reflection shimmered up at her, pale and golden in contrast with the bronzed, dark-haired man next to her. Seeing herself beside him made the nightmarish situation she was in seem all the more real.

  She turned to look at him, and at the same instant he looked at her. For several heartbeats they simply studied one another.

  ‘‘Even the water sings our song.’’ He sighed and rose to his knees, glancing back down at their shimmering images.

  Loretta stood, too weary to make sense of things. His songs and his gods had nothing to do with her. He sprang to his feet, and once again she suffered his hand upon her arm as they walked back to camp.

  Hunter’s cousin was crouched by their burned-out fire skinning a rabbit when they returned. Instantly wary, Loretta went to sit on the pallet. Pretending indifference, she began working the tangles from her hair. Hunter joined the other man, conversing with him in Comanche while they finished preparing the meat and skewered it on a spit. After building a low fire, they drove the spit into the earth at an angle so the rabbit was suspended over the flames to roast slowly.

  When they finished positioning the meat, both men turned to regard her. From their tone of voice, she guessed they were arguing. She continued to finger-comb her wet hair, wishing she knew what they were saying, praying her trembling hands didn’t betray her.

  A bead of water trickled from her nape down her spine, as chilling as her thoughts. After cutting her loose last night, Hunter hadn’t pulled the stakes. Did he plan to tie her again? Using her long hair as a veil, she sneaked a glance at him. He was looking at her. His cousin threw up his hands, kicked at the dirt, and strode away.

  The ensuing silence made Loretta’s nerves leap. A shadow fell across her, and she knew Hunter had moved to stand over her. After several endless seconds, she dared to lift her head. The anger no longer played upon his face. Indeed, he appeared amused. He hunkered down before her, his indigo eyes sharp and assessing.

  Disconcerted and uncertain what to expect, Loretta stared at his stone medallion. He touched a nearly dry tendril of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers to test its texture. Then he grasped her chin. His thumb and fingertips tightened on each side of her mouth, pursing her lips. When she looked up he met her gaze, searching, not speaking, all trace of laughter gone.

  The heavy, sweet smell of the dead rabbit clung to him. Repulsed, she tried to pull away, but his hold on her was relentless. He feathered his thumb across the chafed surface of her extended bottom lip, his dark face so close that their breath mingled, hers quick and shallow, his slow and measured.

  As difficult as it was to admit, she knew that a few more days as Hunter’s captive would see her focused entirely on her survival. She could almost see herself— jumping to do his bidding, suffering his touch without complaint, groveling for mercy when he grew angry. If she let that happen, how would she ever face people back home if she somehow managed to escape?

  Indeed, how would she face herself?

  As if he sensed what she was thinking, his expression took on a note of mockery. Relinquishing his hold on her, he rocked back on his heels and lowered his gaze to rake her body with an insolent slowness that set her cheeks aflame.

  She was a possession to him, something he felt free to fondle and look at—as he might a trinket he had traded for. When would he become unsatisfied with merely looking? Her sunburn was better, her fever nearly gone. If he had held off taking her because she was ill, time was running out.

  After a moment he rose to his feet, crooked a finger at her, and said, ‘‘Keemah.’’

  Loretta started to get up, then caught herself. A hot lump formed in her throat. If she obeyed him so easily now, she would find it even easier the next time, and soon she’d be scurrying about like his chattel. Was that what she wanted—survival at any cost? No.

  The denial scarcely took root before his hand clamped down on her left arm. The next instant she was jerked to her feet. After staggering to get her balance, she threw her head back and glared at him. His response was to yank her to his side.

  ‘‘Do not test my temper, Blue Eyes. My horse lies dead because of you. It is not too late to punish you, eh? Keemah, come. You know the word.’’

  His voice coiled around her like a noose, coarse and relentless, the words enunciated with such exaggerated slowness and clarity that she felt like a dog being trained to lead. When he pivoted and tried to pull her toward his pile of belongings, she dug her heels into the dirt. With a strength she hadn’t dreamed even he possessed, he tightened his hold and drew her inexorably forward. She tried to pry his fingers loose, but they were like steel talons.

  When they reached his leather bags, he released her and fished through his possessions until he found a drawstring pouch. After loosening the ties, he grabbed her hand and poured a measure of dried fruit and nuts onto her palm. For an instant Loretta felt ashamed for giving him so much trouble when he only wanted to feed her, but the emotion quickly fled.

  As hungry as she was, her choices were few, and compliance was not among them. She had few avenues of escape. Braced for his reaction, she tipped her palm and spilled his offering onto the dirt. He could make her do a lot of things, but he couldn’t make her eat.

  Chapter 10

  BY THE TIME THE RABBIT FINISHED ROASTING, Hunter was at a loss as to how to handle his captive and was having doubts about the wisdom of not punishing her last night. She had thrown his food on the ground. When he offered her water, she had dumped it out. Sooner or later he would have no choice but to punish her.

  When Red Buffalo and two of his friends ambled over to enjoy their portion of the rabbit Red Buffalo had killed, Hunter kept one eye on the girl, hoping she had the sense to behave herself. Red Buffalo smiled as he knelt by the fire. He had either forgotten their argument over the girl, or he was regrouping for another round.

  ‘‘Smells good, Hunter,’’ Red Buffalo said. ‘‘Who needs a woman, eh?’’

  ‘‘All wives do is nag.’’ Arrow Maker, one of Red Buffalo’s friends, leaned over to steal a bit of meat from the rabbit’s leg. As thin as the weapons he tooled, Arrow Maker scarcely cast a shadow standing sideways and was more in need of a woman than any brave Hunter knew. ‘‘I’d rather sneak under lodge walls. Why tug a rope and see the same old hags every night?’’

  ‘‘Just be careful some jealous husband doesn’t catch you.’’ Hunter removed the rabbit from the spit, shaking one hand when the sizzling meat scorched his fingers. ‘‘I like the thought of having women in my lodge circle. The winters can seem very long without someone to warm your buffalo robes.’’

  Red Buffalo studied the yellow-hair. ‘‘If that’s why you want her, you’re a fool. White females lie under you like a slab of rock.’’

  Hunter placed the charred meat on a piece of hide. Throwing a glance at the yellow-hair, he shrugged. ‘‘Even stone can be tooled to serve a man’s needs. Maybe with a good teacher, she will be passable.’’

  Red Buff
alo spat into the fire and sent the woman a smoldering glare. ‘‘You’re too soft with her. What she needs is a firm hand. Give her to me for a few days. I will teach her.’’

  Rising to his feet, Red Buffalo walked over to the pallet. Though Hunter remained bent over the meat, he was very much aware of the girl’s fear. Red Buffalo grabbed her by the hair, forcing her head back.

  In English he said, ‘‘We will have a good time together, eh, woman?’’ With a low laugh, he swept his palm down her front, giving her breast a cruel squeeze through the soft leather of Hunter’s shirt. ‘‘While I teach you how to play our games?’’

  Still in a crouch, Hunter turned on the balls of his feet, his knife held loosely in one hand. If anyone was going to mistreat the girl, it was going to be him. ‘‘Let go of her.’’

  ‘‘Let go?’’ Red Buffalo gave her hair a jerk. ‘‘Cousin, surely you would not challenge me over a stinking yellow-hair?’’

  The girl’s eyes were huge with fright. She sat with her shoulders hunched, her arms hugging her breasts to protect them from further abuse, her neck crimped to ease the pull of Red Buffalo’s hand on her hair. ‘‘If you want a yellow-hair to play with, Red Buffalo, go steal your own. That one belongs to me.’’

  Red Buffalo’s gaze dropped to the knife in Hunter’s hand. ‘‘Is it a fight you seek? We have always shared everything.’’

  ‘‘Not our women.’’

  ‘‘She’s a slave, not a woman.’’

  ‘‘The woman of the prophecy.’’

  ‘‘Ai-ee!’’ Ishatay, Coyote Dung, strode around the fire to stand between the two cousins. ‘‘Have you two been guzzling stupid water? Let go of her, Red Buffalo. She isn’t worth it.’’

  When Red Buffalo released the girl, he gave her a shove that sent her sprawling. Hunter shifted his gaze to her face and saw tears shimmering in her eyes— involuntary tears, he felt sure, from having her hair pulled so viciously. She was too proud to cry so easily otherwise. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.