Comanche Moon Page 16

  She tingled where his fingers grazed, then his hand fell away.

  With a deft movement, he wrenched something away from his neck and held it out to her. She stared down at it, then looked up at him curiously. He shrugged.

  “I want you to wear this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ahpu-a tsomo korohko.” Bewildered, she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was my father’s. He left it with my mother should she ever wish to find him. When I was old enough, I searched for him with it. You may do the same if you should ever need me.” A lump made it impossible for her to speak for a moment. She recognized the necklace now. He’d been wearing it the first time she’d seen him. The leather thong was knotted around a small, shiny bone that had carving on it. Feathers had been fastened to the bone and thong, and it was tied again to keep it from coming loose.

  “Hawk, I don’t know . . . don’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothing. For a change. Just take it and keep it safe.” He pressed the necklace into her hand, and the soft down of the feathers tickled her palm. “Hawk feathers?” she asked softly, but he shook his head with a faint smile.

  “Kee. Eagle feathers. They are sacred to the Comanche, Parukaa. My father is White Eagle —Kwihne tosabitu. These are sacred to him, and to any who see them. You will be safe from any of the People who should see this.”

  “Won’t he be upset that you have given away his gift?”

  Hawk seemed amused. “No.”

  “Oh. Well, then, thank you.” He gestured at the sky, where the moon hung bright and heavy, so close Deborah stilled the impulse to reach out and try to touch it. The silvery gleam backlit his ebony hair and gilded his skin with an unearthly glow, and for a moment he seemed mythical, a Greek god stepped down from Olympus.

  “When you see the full moon, remember me,” Hawk said softly. “It is called by some a Comanche moon.”

  “Why?”

  His grin was white and only slightly mocking. “Because that is when Parukaa choose to ride and raid. The night sun gives good light for our warriors to see.”

  Deborah shuddered at the images his words provoked. She remembered, suddenly, the night of her wedding to Miguel, and how the Comanche had come screaming down to kill and rob and kidnap. The moon had been full and bright, shedding light over the hacienda.

  And it was full tonight.

  No words would come. She trembled. The necklace draped over her palm, swaying slightly from her movements and the night wind. All her preconceived notions of Comanche as murdering savages had diminished while in their village, and now it seemed as if Hawk deliberately provoked the memories and fears.

  “Do you raid with them?” she asked when she knew she shouldn’t.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes closed briefly. “How could you?”

  “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve done.” His savage tone snapped her eyes open. “Did you think I’d changed into some kind and gentle playmate because you found out I’m half-white?” She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

  “Just because I wasn’t the one who captured you doesn’t mean that I haven’t done my share of raiding. I have. And when I live in the white man’s world, I do what’s expected of me there, too.”

  “I can’t imagine it would be as bad as what’s expected of you in this world,” Deborah returned hotly, indicating the painted warriors with a jab of her hand. The necklace dangled as she swept an arm out to indicate the fort below. “Hawk, there, at least, men aren’t expected to slaughter one another for sport or pride.”

  “They aren’t?” His eyes glittered dangerously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No, it’s true. You know it’s true. If you’re half-white, then you should come to terms with yourself. You can’t deny your heritage. And civilized men don’t loot and kill.”

  “Perhaps not where you come from, but out here, men of all colors kill for whatever reason. Or no reason.”

  “How can you turn your back on your true heritage?” she asked miserably. “You’re half-white!” Lifting his head to face the wind that blew his hair into silky tangles, Hawk didn’t reply for a moment. When he did, instead of being angry or defensive, he sounded tired.

  “And I’m half-Comanche. I’m a man divided. Tuapako-ito. If I walk the Comanche path, you will hate me. If I walk the white man’s path, I will hate myself. A man can live without a woman. A man cannot live without himself.”

  “Is that why you’re here? You chose to turn your back on how you’d been born to live as a Comanche?” He gave her a half-smile. “No, not really. It wasn’t a conscious choice. I simply ran out of room to run.”

  “What do you mean by that?” His glance was quick and impatient. “As a white man, I had to make certain decisions, not all of which were popular. Things got—hot for me. I had to hide somewhere, and I thought—hoped—that I could lose myself in the Comanche camp. Or find myself.” He shrugged. “Obviously, I didn’t do either.”

  “What can be so bad that you’d choose to raid and ride with Indians?” There was a flash of savagery in his face that made her swallow, and his voice was rough.

  “Let me tell you something you may not want to hear—it’s a lot tougher out there in the white man’s world than it is in the Comanche’s. You think Indians are savages? You ought to get a good look at some of the men I’ve seen, white men who go to church on Sundays and hire a man to kill the preacher on Monday. No, don’t try to tell me any different, because I know better.”

  For a moment she stared at him, at the white-hot intensity of his face, the cold ice of his eyes. He meant it. And she wondered what had happened in his past to make him so bitter. It was still there, that bitterness, eating at him, tearing him apart. It had made him an outcast wherever he went, left him without a home. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of his other side, the flip side of the coin, the dark side of the mirror. And she didn’t know which one was Hawk, which man truly existed. Even his voice changed at times, melding from the clipped, soft tones of the Comanche into a drawling mockery that bespoke another life, another man.

  Dear God, what would it be like to lose oneself so completely? She ached for him, but knew he would never accept her sympathy.

  “What—what will you do now? Fight with the Comanche until you’re killed by soldiers?”

  His gaze was brooding, his voice bitter. “No, I can’t bring risk to them.

  I’ll help them move to their winter grounds, then ride out.”

  “But Hawk—where will you go? What will you do?” Anguish made her voice catch, and she saw his mouth curve into a faint smile.

  “Whatever I have to do to survive, just like everyone else. Just like you’ll do. You’ll conform, like the rest. In a few months, you’ll forget me. Women have singularly short memories, I’ve found.” His glance swept Judith, then came back to rest on Deborah. She could feel his withdrawal, his retreat back into the formal, impenetrable shell of a Comanche brave.

  Angry tears streaked her cheeks as she gazed up at his silvered profile, the stark lines and harsh angles that formed his features. She wanted to say that it wasn’t the same for a woman, for this woman. But she couldn’t. Her pride had been abused enough, and she could not bring herself to force words of love past her stubborn lips.

  Instead, she said calmly, “Thank you for keeping your promise. I will be glad to go home.”

  “That’s Fort Richardson. You’re not close to your home, but I don’t want to risk my men. There’ll be a lot of soldiers out looking for you now.” He looked up and past her toward the quiet fort. “It’s time for you to go now.

  Their sentries may not sleep as soundly as usual.” There was a dry sarcasm to his words that made her smile in spite of her pain. She waited a moment, but he did not try to touch her, and she began to feel foolish for waiting on something he obviously didn’t want.

  There were no words of farewell, nor did he try t
o kiss her. Hawk turned on his heel. She followed him without comment.

  Hawk boosted Deborah back onto her horse. Then he reached up and took the necklace from her hand and tied it around her neck. It lay nestled between the mounds of her breasts, brushing against the intricate beadwork of the doeskin dress. Deborah felt another sting of tears, but lifted her chin to meet Hawk’s steady gaze. He smiled, and brushed her cheek with his thumb before turning away.

  Hawk motioned for his cousin to bring Judith’s mount forward. Yellow Bear transferred the reins to his hand, then Hawk vaulted to his stallion’s back. He glanced over at the warriors with him.

  “Muu ta-wo-i-a -ka maka-miki!” Deborah picked out the word gun from his terse command and felt a chill race up her spine. Did he mean to fire on the fort?

  As if he sensed her sudden fright, he turned to look at her, his smile mocking, but his words bitter.

  “Keta nu kuya-a-ku-tu.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said, and knew she meant it. No. Not of Hawk. Not really. Of how she felt about him, yes. But not that he would actually harm her. His mouth quirked in a half-grin.

  “Tsaa.”

  Deborah felt Judith’s startled gaze on her, and heard her whisper, “You can actually understand him?” Drumming his heels against his horse’s sides, Hawk started down the slope, pulling Deborah and Judith with him. The horses half-slid in places, and she had to hold on to the mane with both hands, but Deborah managed to stay on. It wasn’t until they reached the bottom that she saw they were hidden in a grove of scrubby trees near a winding stream. Up above them, the fort lay on a flat tableland. Hawk reined to a halt and waited, his lean frame relaxed.

  Puzzled, Deborah glanced at Hawk, but he remained still and listening.

  She exchanged a quick glance with Judith, her heart pounding furiously. For several long minutes nothing happened. Then she heard the first yips break the night silence of wind and insects, and stiffened. Shots shattered the night.

  She’d been wrong. Hawk meant to attack the fort!

  Her head whipped around, and she heard Judith’s strangled gasp, but Hawk remained still. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  Just when she couldn’t stand the strain another moment, Hawk nudged the horse up the steep, rocky bank above them, and she had to grasp tightly to keep from falling. A few shots had been exchanged, but after the first spate, they’d stopped. Now she heard voices, and recognized familiar words being shouted back to the Comanche.

  Hawk paused on the lip of the bank, jerking their mounts to a halt.

  Deborah saw soldiers, most half-dressed, all carrying weapons, talking with two of the warriors. Her heart thumped.

  “They’re discussing the terms of your return,” Hawk said when she flashed him a glance.

  “You’re— selling—me?”

  “Would you rather I risk them shooting you before they find out you’re a white woman?” he asked with an irritable grunt. “And I’m not selling you.

  I’m trading you back to them.” He tossed her the reins to her mount, then did the same to Judith.

  Deborah caught them. It was time. She would ride into Fort Richardson and never see him again.

  Tears welled again, embarrassing and annoying, and she blinked them back. Fortunately, he didn’t notice.

  “Then this is good-bye.” Hawk looked at her in the light. He nudged his stallion forward and leaned over to cup her chin in his palm. His hand was warm, and for some reason, she recalled that day under the pine trees when he had held her hand and examined it so gently. She closed her eyes when he kissed her, a light, feathery brush of his mouth across her parted lips.

  He deepened the kiss when she leaned into him, and his arm went around her back to keep her from falling off her horse. There was a fierce urgency in the kiss, a desperation that tore at her soul and made her tremble.

  Her arms wound around his neck, and she kissed him back.

  A harsh groan sounded deep in his throat, and he jerked back, his eyes glittering in the press of moonlight.

  “I will never forget you,” he rasped. “I will think of you always. Usúni” Wheeling his stallion around, Hawk reached out and slapped her mare on the rump, sending it bounding forward. She gave a startled, anguished cry that echoed in the night, but he was gone.

  Dust boiled up behind his stallion’s hooves as Hawk rode in the opposite direction. Deborah caught a glimpse of him as she and Judith reached the soldiers, who were eagerly reaching up to grab their horses. He rode between the soldiers and his own men, whooping and yelling like a fiend, and before any of the soldiers could react, the Comanche were gone.

  Deborah watched as the last of them were outlined on the rocky ridge.

  Was it her imagination, or was that Hawk reining back his stallion to its haunches, and lifting his rifle over his head? Then a high-pitched howl rode the wind, and she knew. She knew.

  Moonlight sprayed over the scene, a sight she thought she would never forget. Hawk—wild, free, long hair blowing in the wind and looking as if he were a part of his horse. It would be imprinted on her mind forever.

  “Ma’am, ma’am,” someone was saying, and she looked down blindly. A kind-faced man wearing cavalry pants and a union shirt held her horse. “It’s all right, ma’am. They’re gone. They won’t be back now that they’ve got what they want.”

  Her horse pranced nervously, and Deborah shifted to keep her balance.

  “What did they want?”

  “Damndest thing—a sack of hard candy. You ever heard of such? You two ladies are lucky, yessir, you are.” Deborah didn’t hear the rest of his words. A roar filled her ears, and through the pounding, she heard Hawk’s husky voice.

  Usúni. Forever.

  Book II

  Evil is wrought by want of Thought As well as want of Heart.

  —Thomas Hood

  Chapter 14

  Sirocco, Texas

  1872

  “It’s been over six months for heaven’s sake,” Judith said irritably. “Are you still thinking about him?” Deborah turned from the window where she’d been gazing out at the courtyard garden. “About who?”

  “About that handsome savage, that’s who.” Her voice softened. “Oh, Deborah, don’t look at me like that. You know I don’t mean to hurt you, but you’ve got to stop moping about like this.”

  “And what else am I supposed to do?” she asked dryly, turning to face her cousin. “The Velazquez family was not exactly thrilled to have me back on their doorstep.”

  Judith looked away from Deborah’s steady gaze. “I know. I can’t understand why Uncle John has not . . . didn’t . . .”

  “Didn’t want me back, you mean?” Deborah laughed shortly. “He’s not the kind of man to want to invite a well-used woman, even his daughter, back into a society he’s trying to impress with his wealth and position. No, he’s quite satisfied to leave me to the Velazquez family and let them worry about public opinion.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite that bad,” Judith said in a wretched voice that made Deborah sigh.

  “Perhaps not. Maybe it just seems that way.” She turned back to gaze out at the flowering vines and lush garden shading the tiled patio.

  Nothing had been as she had once envisioned it. The Velazquez family had politely accepted Deborah into their home, but it was plain that they did not want her. She had been Miguel’s wife so briefly, that she was of use only to tie them to American citizenship. If not for that, the embarrassment of her stay with the Comanche would have prompted her immediate return to John Hamilton whether he wanted her or not.

  It was to be expected, she supposed. After all, the horror of the raid and Don Francisco’s slow recovery from the wounds he’d suffered during that horrible time had left marks on all of them. He was bound to be resentful.

  So she remained, an unwanted guest, living on the fringes of life. But it was worse, she sometimes thought, for Judith. Her cousin had the same stigma, and no position to save her. At leas
t, as Miguel’s widow, Deborah was entitled to a certain grudging respect.

  “Why don’t we ride into town?” Judith suggested, her tone forced. “If we’re to be ostracized, we should at least be able to shop.” Deborah laughed. “There must be some benefits to this situation, is that it?” “Exactly.” Some of Judith’s former humor surfaced in her quick smile.

  “My generous cousin will be more than glad to buy me some new cloth for a dress so that I can add it to my collection of other unused dresses.”

  “Of course. And we can wear them when we sit on the patio at night with Don Francisco.”

  Judith grimaced. “That charmer.”

  “Isn’t he? And so delicate when he repeats that if not for the family, I would have met the fate of most women when captured by Comanche.”

  “As if he personally was responsible for our return. I don’t think he bothered to look for us at all.” Deborah thought the same. Of course, after the brutal attack, there had been other worries. The army had been notified, and there had been a brief, cursory search. But the search had not continued after the first week.

  She felt a pang. If not for her escape attempt, she and Judith would probably have remained with Hawk forever. Usúni.

  But she was being selfish. Judith had hated it there, and she had, too.

  Only her love for Hawk had made it bearable, and that realization had come late, so late.

  She thought of him often. And on the nights of a full moon, when it rode high in the sky and she could hear the lonely, distant wail of a coyote, she felt an unbearable loneliness that threatened to consume her.

  Deborah turned abruptly, unable to bear her own thoughts any longer.

  “Let’s go now. It’s still early, and I want to get out for a while.”

  “Shall we check with our jailer first?” Judith asked with a slight lift of her brow. “Don Francisco has the notion that we should not breathe without his permission.”

  “I refuse to be treated as a prisoner. Since he has what he needs by my presence here as Miguel’s widow, I should be allowed my freedom.”