Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  ‘‘It is finished.’’ His face tightened as he spoke.

  ‘‘This stallion says hi, hites, how are you, my friend.’’ He ran a muscular arm around the black’s neck, moving in close to his shoulder. ‘‘He is son to my friend who is dead. Breathe into him so he will know your smell and remember with no horizon.’’

  The thought of kissing a horse wasn’t particularly appealing, but after witnessing the Comanche’s rapport with his other stallion, she couldn’t argue that he knew better than she how to communicate with them. She bent over and exhaled close to the black’s muzzle. The horse sniffed and nibbled her face, nickering and blowing. Loretta gave a startled laugh and reared back, scrubbing her mouth with her sleeve. She glanced up to find the Comanche smiling. Her laughter trailed away, and she felt suddenly self-conscious. His large, sandpapery palm still enfolded hers, and the contact made her heart skitter.

  His fingers tightened. ‘‘You like?’’

  ‘‘I—um, yes, he’s wonderful. His left ear isn’t notched like so many of the others. Why is that?’’

  ‘‘The notched ear says a horse is gentled. He is not. If another puts hands upon him, he fights the big fight.’’

  ‘‘Then how can I ride him?’’

  ‘‘You will be his good friend. Come close.’’

  Loretta stepped back instead. ‘‘But he’s wild.’’

  Tightening his hold on her hand, Hunter tugged her forward. ‘‘He is friend to me and no other, eh? He carries me because he wishes it. Now, he will carry you.’’

  With that explanation, which fell far short of reassuring her, he reclaimed the line and lifted her onto the stallion’s back.

  Loretta looked down. ‘‘I—I’m not too sure this is a good idea.’’

  ‘‘It is good. You will trust, eh? I have said words to him. He accepts. Lie forward along his neck and whisper your heart into his ear. Run your hands over him. Tighten your legs around him.’’

  Heart in her throat, Loretta did as he told her. She whispered, ‘‘Please, horse, don’t get mad and kill me.’’ The stallion nickered and sniffed her bare foot, the whites of his eyes rolling. Hunter chuckled. ‘‘He smells your fear and asks if there is danger, eh? He should run like the wind? He should stand? He is sure enough nuhr-vus, like the little blue-eyes is nuhr-vus when she thinks I will eat her and pick my teeth with her bones. You will say to him as I say to you—it is well.’’

  Loretta jerked her foot back, afraid the horse might bite. ‘‘He m-may not understand. He’s a Comanche horse, isn’t he?’’

  ‘‘Toquet, it is well. Whisper your heart. The words are in your touch. Be easy and make him easy.’’

  She ran her hands over the stallion’s sleek coat, her fingers splaying on the powerful muscles in his neck and shoulders. When she began to believe the horse wouldn’t rear, she relaxed. The stallion lowered his head and began to graze. Hunter handed Loretta his line.

  ‘‘Let him carry you, eh? Whisper to him. Teach him your hands bring no pain—only good things. He will find sweet grass and listen.’’

  ‘‘He’s so beautiful, Hunter.’’

  ‘‘Say this to him.’’

  Loretta did. The stallion flicked his ears and nickered. While he grazed, she petted him. Just when she began to feel confident, Hunter lifted her off his back. When he took the stallion’s line from her, he captured her hand as well, his long fingers curling warmly around hers.

  ‘‘He is now your good friend.’’ He looped his free arm over the stallion’s shoulders. ‘‘If you share breath with him often, you can paint yourself and wear leaves on your head, and he will still know you. For always.’’

  ‘‘Well, until I get home, at least.’’ She swallowed. ‘‘I am still going home, aren’t I ?’’

  Something flickered in his eyes—a dangerous something. Loretta’s legs felt as heavy as wet clay, and she watched helplessly while he pressed her palm to his cheek. ‘‘You wish to go?’’

  His jaw felt hard and warm. ‘‘I—yes, I wish to go.’’

  He moved her hand from his cheek to his chest, forcing her palm flat against the vibrant muscle of one breast. His eyes held hers, relentless and piercing. Loretta yearned to move away but knew she had little hope of breaking his hold. She could feel his heart thumping, a steady, sturdy beat in contrast with the uneven flutter of hers.

  ‘‘You will walk backward in your footsteps and go forward a new way?’’

  ‘‘I—’’

  He slid her hand upward so it rested on his shoulder, forcing her closer. His height was such that she had to tip her head back to see his face. If he had been a white man, she would have been worrying that he planned to kiss her. But he wasn’t a white man. And she doubted gentle persuasion was what he had in mind. He seemed a yard wide at the shoulders, a looming wall of muscle. There was heat in the depths of his eyes as he studied her, a heat that had never been there before.

  ‘‘I would have you beside me,’’ he told her huskily.

  ‘‘But you promised to take me home.’’

  The stallion nickered and sidestepped, pulling both of them off balance. Hunter released the horse to catch her, his arm encircling her waist. Loretta snapped taut when his hard thighs pressed intimately against hers.

  He bent his head and nuzzled her hair, his breath sifting through the strands to her scalp. A shiver ran through her. For a moment she struggled against him, but then she felt as if an invisible web were entwining itself around her, the silken threads binding her so she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

  She closed her eyes, wildly afraid, of him and what he was making her feel. She tried desperately to conjure an image of her mother, anything to break the spell. Perhaps he knew how to be gently persuasive after all. She knew she should pull away, yet an unnameable something held her transfixed. His mouth trailed to the slope of her neck, sending tingles down her spine. A treacherous languor stole into her limbs. Heat spread through her belly. For an instant she wanted to lean against him, to let his wonderfully strong arms mold her to his length.

  The shock of his hand on her bare back brought her to her senses. Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. She tried to arch away from him and succeeded only in accommodating his mouth when her head fell back. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat a rapid tattoo. His callused palm slid slowly but inexorably to her side, his thumb feathering against the underside of her breast. Horrified, she groped for his wrist, her fingers finding feeble purchase through the leather.

  ‘‘Ah, nei mah-tao-yo,’’ he whispered. ‘‘You tremble.’’

  His mouth continued its downward path, lips like silk nibbling her collarbone. Acutely aware that the generous neckline of her shirt provided little barrier against him, she abandoned her hold on his wrist and caught his face between her hands. Forcing his head up, she met his gaze, disconcerted even more by the longing she saw in his eyes. ‘‘You’re frightening me.’’

  ‘‘It is boisa, this fear.’’ Beneath her shirt, his warm hand stilled on her ribs. ‘‘You are my woman.’’

  ‘‘And that’s exactly why you frighten me. You can’t buy a woman.’’ She twisted to one side, wedging one arm against his larynx. She had no delusions. If he pressed the issue, her strength was no match. ‘‘Why can’t you understand that? A woman must come freely.’’

  Lowering his hand to her waist, he leaned away from her, his dark eyes searching, thoughtful. ‘‘And when you come freely, you will have no fear?’’

  ‘‘I—’’ She stared at him. ‘‘I suppose if I—not that I ever would, mind you—but if I came to you freely, then, no, I probably wouldn’t.’’ Loretta knew she was babbling. He looked confused, and she didn’t blame him. She broke off, and her gaze chased away from his. ‘‘It’s so completely unlikely that I—but if I did, I don’t suppose I would be afraid. I wouldn’t come if I were.’’

  His arm relaxed around her. After studying her for what seemed an eternity, he said, ‘‘
Then this Comanche will wait. Until the Great Ones lead you in a great circle back to him.’’

  The return trip to Loretta’s home took five days. Despite her eagerness, at times she actually found herself enjoying the lazy pace. The forty Comanche braves who rode with her and Hunter seemed to accept her, and she no longer felt threatened when her captor wasn’t at her side, which was rarely. Home. The nightmare was nearly over.

  Loretta worried about the reception she might receive. People weren’t likely to believe her Comanche captor hadn’t raped her. But she would face that when it happened. For now it was enough that she was going to see Amy and Aunt Rachel again.

  Hunter made the time pass more quickly by teaching her things while they rode: how to find water by watching the birds and wild horses and by searching for certain types of grass that grew only near underground springs; how to track; and, most fascinating, how to read the signs left by Comanches to show which direction they had traveled.

  ‘‘Hunter, if you leave signs for other Comanche bands, why do white men have so much trouble finding you?’’

  ‘‘They are not smart.’’

  Loretta laughed softly. ‘‘I think I’ve been insulted. You think I’m stupid?’’

  He threw her a look that made her laugh again. ‘‘A little bit smart. Because I teach you.’’

  ‘‘Ah, so I’m ignorant, not stupid? I suppose I can accept that.’’ She scanned the endless expanse of golden hills, lined up ahead of them like loaves of fresh-baked unleavened bread. This harsh land was Hunter’s general store, the shelves stocked with all he might need. To her it was an alien place and frightening, so immense it had the perverse effect of making her claustrophobic. She felt vulnerable out here, so terribly vulnerable. ‘‘In my world, you wouldn’t be smart, either.’’

  ‘‘That is good. The tosi tivo way is boisa.’’

  ‘‘How so?’’

  He nodded toward a scrawny mesquite tree that had sprung up in a cluster of rock. ‘‘He plants dead trees in the earth, and the trees fall over. That tree does not.’’

  Loretta’s stallion did a restless sidestep. She shifted her weight and reined him back into line, stroking his neck as she squinted to see through the dust the other horses were stirring up around them. ‘‘No, it doesn’t fall over, but it’s not where it needs to be for a fence, either.’’

  ‘‘A fence says the earth belongs to the tosi tivo? He will become dust in the wind, the fence will rot, and the earth will still be. Another tosi tivo will come, and he will plant more dead trees. It is sure enough boisa.’’

  ‘‘But the tosi tivo buys the land. It belongs to him. He puts up the dead trees so others will know where his boundaries are, so his livestock won’t run away.’’

  ‘‘He cannot buy the land. Mother Earth belongs to the true People.’’

  Loretta gazed after the other warriors, silent and thoughtful. ‘‘The true People. Your people?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘That is your belief. But according to ours, the land can be bought. And fenced. You understand? No one means to steal from you. They’re just taking what’s been given to them by the government or what they’ve paid for. You must learn to be open-minded. There’s lots of land, plenty for all.’’

  Hunter grunted. ‘‘Let the tosi tivo find the lots of land, plenty for all, and plant dead trees there. This is Comanche land, and it cannot be given or bought.’’

  ‘‘And we say it can. As you’re so fond of saying, it is not wise to fight when you cannot win. We are the stronger. We have better weaponry. When you’re outnumbered and outflanked, you must surrender your ways and accept the new.’’

  He looked over at her. ‘‘Strong is right?’’

  ‘‘Well, yes, I suppose you could say that.’’

  ‘‘You say a woman cannot be bought. I say she can. I am strong. I am right.’’

  Just when she started to relax around him, he jerked the rug from under her. ‘‘That’s different.’’

  ‘‘I say it is not.’’ Mischief twinkled in his eyes as he slowly ran his gaze from her ankle to her waist. The way his attention lingered on her hips brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘‘You believe a different way. But I am strong; you are not. I shall take what I have paid for. You will surrender, no? To my ways?’’

  ‘‘Never.’’ She tugged down the hem of her shirt, once again painfully aware that her lower extremities were covered only with drawers. ‘‘It isn’t the same thing at all.’’

  ‘‘Ah, but it is. Your heart cries no. Our hearts cry no. Strong is not always good, Blue Eyes. To surrender and die inside, that is not good. Do not ask this Comanche to do what you cannot. It is wisdom.’’

  A lump rose in Loretta’s throat. She had never analyzed the situation from the Indian point of view. Their land? In a way, they had a right to think so. They were here first. She nibbled her bottom lip, loath to admit what she had difficulty accepting. ‘‘I’m sorry your land is being taken, Hunter.’’

  ‘‘I am sorry, you are sorry. They take the land. They kill the buffalo. Our sorrow does nothing.’’

  She leaned forward to finger-comb her horse’s mane, still unsettled because he had turned the tables on her. She was anxious to change the subject. ‘‘My good friend grows weary. Will we stop to rest soon?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Your good friend is tired, too.’’ She glanced sideways at the stallion he rode, an almost exact replica of her own. ‘‘Can I ask something?’’

  Hunter’s mouth lifted at one corner. ‘‘If I say no, you will be silent?’’

  ‘‘Are you saying I talk too much?’’ Loretta hesitated, realizing it was true. Silence had been her prison for far too long. And while she had the chance, she hungered to learn all she could about him—to put her ghosts to rest. ‘‘I was just wondering, of these two horses, why did you choose that one as your good friend? Is he superior to this one in some way?’’

  ‘‘Sup-ear-ee-or?’’

  ‘‘Better.’’

  ‘‘Not better. He has a crooked front hoof, like my good friend who is dead.’’ He paused and seemed to search for the right words. ‘‘He is his face on the water, no? How is it you say this?’’

  Loretta leaned sideways to see the stallion’s tracks. His right front hoof left a notched-crescent print in the dust. ‘‘Reflection?’’

  ‘‘Yes, he is his reflection.’’

  ‘‘The spittin’ image of— What was your dead friend’s name?’’

  ‘‘It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?’’

  ‘‘It’s just a saying. When someone or something looks just like something else, it’s called a spittin’ image. I don’t know why.’’

  ‘‘You do not know, but you say the words? The words from your mouth say who you are, Blue Eyes. I make a lie; I am an easop, storyteller. I speak hate; my heart burns with hate. The People do not make talk if they do not know the words. If it is spoken, it must be. A man is what he speaks. This is not so with the tosi tivo?’’

  Loretta shrugged and bit back a smile. ‘‘I seriously doubt I’ll become spit. It’s just something everyone says.’’

  ‘‘You will learn the meaning of this spit image, no? And say it to me. When we meet again?’’

  Loretta tightened her hand on the reins. ‘‘Yes, if we meet again.’’

  He glanced over at her, his expression suddenly solemn. ‘‘We walk backward in our footsteps, eh? Maybe you will walk forward a new way when we reach your wooden walls. You could be a little bit happy as my woman, no?’’

  Loretta fixed her eyes on the horizon ahead of them. They were only a day and a half’s ride from her home. A day and a half from real clothes, a chance to wash her hair, to eat her own kind of food. Yes, he had been kind to her. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she’d even come to like him a little. But not enough to belong to him. Never that.

  ‘‘To be h
appy, I must be at my wooden walls,’’ she said shakily. ‘‘That’s my home and where my people are.’’

  There was only tonight and tomorrow night to get through, and then she’d be home. Suvate. It was almost finished.

  To Loretta’s dismay, the closer they got to her home, the less anxious she was to get there. The time passed too quickly. At dusk the next day they stopped for the night at the base of Whiskey Mountain. During the trip, the men had collected slender willow limbs, and they now sat in small groups to make lances, each of which was marked with the maker’s feathers. Loretta was at first alarmed, but after Hunter assured her they had no intention of making war at her farm, she relaxed and sat beside him to watch. His long, lean fingers fascinated her—graceful, yet leathery and strong. She recalled how they felt against her skin, warm and feather light, capable of inflicting pain yet always gentle. A tingling sensation crawled up her throat.

  She noticed that each man’s feathers were painted differently. ‘‘What do your feathers say?’’

  ‘‘They have my mark. And tell a little bit my life song.’’ His full lower lip quirked in a grin. ‘‘My marks say I am a fine fellow—a good lover, a good hunter, with a mighty arm to shield a little yellow-hair.’’

  She hugged her knees and grinned back at him. ‘‘I bet your marks say you’re a fierce warrior, and yellow-hairs should beware.’’

  He shrugged. ‘‘I fight the big fight for my people. This is bad?’’

  Loretta grabbed a handful of grass and ripped it up. Its smell was sharp in her nostrils. ‘‘A-are you going on a raid tomorrow after you take me home?’’

  He glanced up from his work. ‘‘With this?’’ His dark eyes filled with laughter as he peered along the crooked shaft of the lance. ‘‘Blue Eyes, a crooked tse-aksuch as this would kill my friend beside me. This tse-ak will say hi, hites, hello, my friend.’’