Comanche Moon

  The Comanches did her a favor when they killed her loutish husband on her wedding night. But now this Southern belle is the possession of a fierce, blue-eyed warrior called Hawk . . .

  Zach Banning, known as Hawk among the Comanches, is caught between two races, two cultures, two lives. Deborah Hamilton is a Mississippi beauty who came to the Texas territory for an arranged marriage. Little did she know, her new husband’s people have earned the Comanches’ hatred. They enact their vengeance on her wedding night, kidnapping Deborah along with other women and also the settlement’s children.

  She expects the worst at the Comanches’ village, but instead finds kindness among the challenges. But when Hawk barters her away from her owner, intending to seduce and possess her, Deborah finds herself in a battle of wills laced with deep desire.

  Other Books from Virginia Brown Virginia Brown is the author of more than 50 novels in romance, mystery and general fiction. Bell Bridge Books is proud to publish these Virginia Brown titles

  The Dixie Diva Mysteries Dixie Divas

  Drop Dead Divas

  Dixie Diva Blues

  Divas and Dead Rebels

  The Blue Suede Memphis Mysteries Hound Dog Blues

  Harley Rushes In

  Suspicious Mimes

  Mystery/Drama

  Dark River Road

  Historical Romance

  From Bell Bridge Books Comanche Moon * Capture the Wind

  Also Available

  Savage Awakening * Defy The Thunder Storm of Passion * Wild Heart Legacy of Shadows * Moonflower Desert Dreams * Heaven Sent Wildfire * Renegade Embrace Emerald Nights * Hidden Touch Wildflower * Wildest Heart Jade Moon * Highland Hearts River’s Dream * Cutter’s Woman Summer’s Knight * Lyon’s Prize In A Rogue’s Arms * The Moon Rider Once A Rebel Because of You * Touch of Heaven Heaven on Earth * The Quest The Magic * The Baron

  The Knight * The Laird

  Comanche Moon

  by

  Virginia Brown

  Bell Bridge Books

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-138-8

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1993 by Virginia Brown Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  Al rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by Zebra Books in 1993

  We at Bel eBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.Bel eBooks.com and www.Bel BridgeBooks.com.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon Interior design: Hank Smith Photo credits:

  Cover photo (manipulated) © HotDamn Stock

  Dedication

  To my sister, Deborah Adams, with much love and admiration.

  Book I

  The race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong ........

  — Ols Testament

  Prologue

  Presidio County, Texas

  1859

  “I don’t know who did it,” the boy said. He met his father’s angry gaze calmly. “I only know it wasn’t me.”

  “Some body left that damned gate open, Zack, and now my prize mare’s running loose.” Daniel Miles glared down at him with hot rage glittering in his pale eyes. Shadows flirted with sunlight in the dusty barn, and a shaft of light threw a wavering square across the floor. Zack shifted warily, and a hot glare struck his eyes.

  “It wasn’t me,” he repeated in a monotone, blinking at the bright light.

  Fury reverberated in every syllable as Daniel Miles ground out, “You’re lying, Zack. If your brother didn’t leave that corral gate open, and you didn’t do it, then I guess you want me to believe that it just blew open.” Zack’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and he stepped out of the light. He sensed what was coming, and knew that it wasn’t the open gate that fueled his father’s rage. Zack flicked a wary glance toward his older brother.

  Sixteen-year-old Danny stood as still as a fence post, his face as white as buttermilk beneath his tan. Zack instinctively knew that Danny was the guilty one, and he also knew that Danny was too frightened by their father to admit it. Mentally squaring his shoulders, Zack waited silently.

  “Don’t stand there just looking at me!” Miles bellowed. His big hands curled into fists, and his beefy face creased into furious lines. “I want to hear you admit it for once.”

  When there was no reply, no indication that Zack had even heard him, Miles swung a heavy hand in a backstroke that caught the boy on the left side of his face. Zack reeled but did not fall, his dark hair lashing into his eyes as he quickly regained his balance and stood upright again. A small trickle of blood formed at one side of his mouth, but other than that, he gave no sign that he’d even felt his father’s blow.

  As Zack steeled himself for the next blow that he knew would fall, he glimpsed his brother’s wince and almost felt sorry for him. It didn’t matter if he was taking the blame for Danny. Not anymore. It had ceased to matter months before. This scene was becoming increasingly frequent, and he didn’t even know why. All he knew was that for some reason, his father had begun to hate him.

  For over two years he’d done what he could to appease his father’s rage, but it had been useless. Now he just accepted the unrelenting hatred and resentment without comment.

  He didn’t know what to expect next.

  Daniel Miles didn’t leave him wondering long. With his face still contorted in rage, he reached for the buggy whip hanging on the barn wall.

  His expression altered to grim satisfaction at seeing some reaction from Zack at last.

  Taking two quick steps backward, Zack heard his own voice crack with uncertainty. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Teach you some responsibility,” Miles growled. He gave the whip a snap, and it cracked loudly in the air.

  “I won’t be whipped,” Zack said in the flat, emotionless tone that always seemed to enrage his father. “I’m not an animal.”

  “You’re an insolent whelp, and you’ll do as you’re told by God, or I’ll skin you with this!” The whip snaked forward before Zack could move out of the way, catching him across his chest and slicing through his shirt and skin as easily as if they were only warm butter.

  Zack looked up in disbelief. Then pure, murderous fury welled inside him. He was ready when the whip lashed toward him again, and caught it with one fist. The frayed tip coiled around his arm, cutting red marks into his brown skin.

  “I won’t take this!” he spat angrily, and gave a jerk that yanked the whip from Miles’s hand. The butt-end skidded along the hay-strewn floor of the barn, stirring up chaff. Swinging the whip by the end, Zack threw it across the barn where it curled against a post and fell in a tangled heap. His chest heaved with anger, pain, and sorrow. He furiously blinked back tears as he faced his father.

  The words he wanted to say wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how to ask why. He didn’t even know what questions to ask. He was only fourteen. All he knew was how to resist.

  Daniel Miles started toward Zack with all the force and power of an enraged bull, his big hands reaching out to- grab him. His fingers barely caught Zack’s shirt as he dodged in an agile twist, and there was a rending sou
nd of tearing material. Zack was already tall for his age, but without the brawn of a man. He was wiry, not muscled, and certainly no match for the bigger, stronger fury that pounded at him.

  When Amelia Miles reached the barn, running at the heels of her eldest son’s urgent summons, her husband was out of control. He’d managed to back the boy into a corner and had retrieved the whip, and he was using it with vicious force. Not a sound came from the corner where Zack crouched with his arms over his head, just the whining crack of the whip against flesh.

  Shocked to the core of her reserved English nature, Amelia reacted immediately. “My God!” she cried, rushing forward to grab her husband’s arm as he lifted it again. “What are you doing to Zachary?” Panting, his eyes wild, Daniel turned toward his wife. He winced silently at the stark censure in the blue eyes so much like Zack’s, and Daniel slowly lowered his arm as he gazed at Amelia. The whip hung limply in his hand.

  “I will not tolerate this,” Amelia said sharply, and pushed past him to go to Zack. The boy was huddled in a bloody heap on the barn floor, his face turned to the wall. His arms were still over his head in a futile effort to deflect some of the blows. He didn’t make a sound when his mother spoke gently to him. She put her hand under his arm to lift him.

  “Danny,” Amelia said over her shoulder to the anxious youth hovering in the background, “go and put some water on the stove. Get out the salve and clean cloths. Your brother will need them.” Zack lifted his head at last to look at his mother. There was no anger in his eyes now, only a bewildered pain that cut at her more harshly than any words he could have uttered. A gash streaked his cheek with blood, and his blue eyes met hers.

  “I don’t understand,” he said simply, in that calm, toneless voice that she’d become accustomed to hearing. “I just don’t understand.” Her heart aching, Amelia walked him past her husband, only pausing when Miles said harshly, “I don’t want that half-breed bastard here another day. I can’t stand looking at him.” Amelia felt Zack stiffen beneath her hand, and knew the time had come to tell him the truth, to admit the truth to herself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” A fine paleness tinged his dark face as Zack looked at his mother with accusing eyes. “All these years . . .”

  “I wasn’t certain, Zachary. And neither was your fath—was Daniel. It was so close in time, and we both hoped that you were . . . were his child.” Amelia’s voice broke.

  “And now you tell me that my real father is some Comanche in New Mexico Territory, a damn renegade who kidnapped you and—and—oh God.”

  Zack couldn’t continue. His customary impassivity was no protection against the cutting pain that sliced through him now. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath.

  “At least now I understand why Pa—Daniel—hates me,” he said after a moment of choked silence. He winced against the pain of the cuts and welts on his back, chest, and arms as he reached for a clean shirt.

  “As you grew older,” Amelia said into the silence, “it became more obvious that you were not his. When you were small, with your blue eyes and dark hair like mine, you could still have been his child. We prayed for it to be so.” “Tell me about him,” Zack said abruptly, and Amelia did not have to ask whom he meant.

  She straightened, a characteristic gesture that Zack had always associated with English gentlewomen. The years had not altered her cultured English accent, and it lent a fine clip to her words as she lifted her chin and met Zack’s gaze.

  “We lived in New Mexico Territory then. My father had been deeded a land grant by the governor in Louisiana, and he gave it to Daniel and me for a wedding present. The land was not as populated then, though Indians sometimes raided. When your brother was only a few months old, one of the Comanche who came to buy beef from us saw me out riding. He’d seen me before, and always stared at me.” Amelia paused and looked down at her delicate hands, folded in her lap like small flowers. Zack stared at them, and thought of her stroking him as a child, those small, fragile hands always busy and comforting. The lamp on the table flickered briefly as shadows outside the rambling frame house deepened into dusk.

  Listening as his mother related how the young Comanche had stolen her that day, kidnapped her, and taken her as his wife, Zack began to understand a great many things. He had always looked different from his father and brother. They were both light-skinned and blond, while his mother had dark brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Not Zack. His hair was darker, more coarse and thick, and his skin turned a deep bronze in the sun. Now it all made sense. It also left him virtually homeless. He couldn’t stay when Daniel hated him so badly.

  When his mother had finished, her voice trailing into silence, Zack stirred at last. “I have to go.” Her eyes flew to his. “Go where?” she whispered in a pained voice.

  “How will you live? You’re so young ...”

  “I don’t know where. I have my rifle, and I’m a good shot. I’ll get by.” His words sounded heavy and tortured even to his own ears, and Amelia buried her face in her palms. “I’ll be all right, Mother,” he said softly, emotion quivering in his voice for the first time. “And I can’t stay here. Not anymore.

  You know that.”

  Amelia Banning Miles rose as slowly from her chair as if she’d just aged twenty years. She crossed to the cherry cabinet she’d brought with her from England and opened a drawer. Fumbling inside it for a moment, she withdrew a cloth bundle and turned back to her son.

  “This was ... was his. He gave it to me when he set me free. He said he didn’t want to let me go, that I was a good wife.” A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. “I think, in his way, he loved me. But Daniel had roused most of New Mexico Territory, and the soldiers were so close that he knew he was endangering everyone in his tribe for a white captive. So he took me back. Daniel insisted that we sell our land and come to Texas. None of us knew about you at the time ...” She paused to clear her throat. “Then I found out, and thought—since there was a chance you might be Daniel’s child after all—” She jerked to a halt and thrust the cloth-wrapped bundle into Zack’s hands. “Your father gave me this and told me if I ever needed him, I was to show it. Any Comanche who saw this would know I was not to be harmed, and would take me to him. You may want to use it someday.” Zack took the bundle without unwrapping it. He felt nothing inside. No pain, no anger, nothing. Only a dull acceptance of what his mother had told him. He left that night, and a full moon shed bright light across the Texas plains as he rode his horse at a brisk trot. A Comanche moon, he’d heard it called, and he almost smiled at the irony. Life had a certain justice, he supposed.

  Chapter 1

  Sirocco, Texas

  1871

  A wedding is always a happy time. Or at least, that is what Deborah Hamilton had always believed. Yet somehow, her own wedding had left her exhausted, and she had to force herself to smile and nod at the well-wishers attending the grand wedding reception. It had to be just the strain of all the preparations that left her drawn and weary.

  Her father had been planning this for months. All the important guests he’d wanted to impress with his improved circumstances were at the Velazquez hacienda for Deborah’s marriage to the heir of the Spanish fortune—except John Hamilton himself. But Deborah hadn’t expected her father to attend her wedding to Miguel.

  Miguel. Deborah slid her gaze toward him and attempted to smile. The wedding festivities had left many men drunk, and her new groom was no exception. He swayed at her side with the effort to stand, and his lustrous dark eyes skimmed the crowd of dancers erratically. Deborah bit back a sigh.

  She’d had to deal with inebriated men before, but never one that was her husband.

  “Don Miguel,” she whispered when he staggered and she had to grab his arm to steady him, “perhaps you should sit down beside me for a while.” His gaze sought hers, and his mouth split in a grin as he hugged her clumsily. “You are anxious to lie with me, sí? And I thought my pale little bride would have to be coaxed into p
laying the part of a wife!” She winced at his crudity, but kept a polite, trained smile on her face as the young men with him laughed and made vulgar jokes. At twenty-three, Miguel was only three years older than she was, and she supposed she should feel fortunate. Her best friend in Natchez had married a man thirty years her senior, and had considered herself lucky that he still had most of his teeth.

  Suitable men were scarce after the conflict between the states had ended.

  Though the war had ended over six years before, it had left behind too many widows. Yes, Deborah Hamilton counted herself fortunate that her father had not married her to some impoverished gentleman with impeccable antecedents and empty pockets. Of course, that would not have been John Hamilton’s style. He appreciated money, and all the benefits that went along with it. He also appreciated the increased business his firm would receive with the Velazquez fortune as one of his investors.

  Miles of the Velazquez rancho spread along the border between Texas and Mexico, and had once been a part of Mexico. Since 1847, it had been within the boundaries of Texas, thus losing some of its vast acreage after the peace treaty had set the Rio Grande as the southern boundary. But it was still a considerable size, and would make a formidable inheritance for the children she and Don Miguel would have. As her husband, Miguel would be able to lay claim to American citizenship, as would any child from their union, thus ensuring the future of the Velazquez rancho. Military rule in Texas had ended the year before, and now the years of uncertainty and battle with the American government would end. Yes, it all worked out wonderfully for everyone. Even Deborah.

  She was reasonably content. Miguel was young, and if a bit crude and immature, he was handsome and courteous. It could have been much worse, especially for a well-bred young lady from Mississippi. Her lot in life should improve dramatically.