Comanche Moon Page 3

  “Haa. Keta tekwaaru. Kima habi-ki.” Her perusal was quickly ended by the Comanche’s harsh comment. She didn’t understand the words, but the tone was easily translated. A faint shiver prickled her bare arms with gooseflesh, and she looked away without speaking.

  Hawk saw her faint shiver and noted with appreciation her quick recovery. Her voice was soft, with a trace of an accent he recognized as English. He was glad she had a soft voice instead of an annoying screech, as many white women had.

  With a wave of one hand, Hawk dismissed the Mexican woman and stepped closer to Deborah Hamilton. His gaze raked her from the top of her tousled russet hair to the tattered hem of her gown, pausing with deliberate inspection at the full thrust of her breasts. The torn bodice of her gown revealed more than it hid, and the creamy skin he saw beneath the ragged edges of material was enticing. Slender hips curved beneath the heavy skirt, and there was a flash of bare leg that piqued his interest.

  Hawk allowed himself a moment’s speculation as to the exact nature of the body beneath the gown, then shifted his attention to her face again.

  Aristocratic bones sculpted an exquisite face, from her wide, gold-flecked brown eyes and thick dark lashes to her high, delicate cheekbones and the fragile sweep of her jaw. Her lips were full, with the top lip slightly shorter than the bottom, giving her the appearance of a sultry Madonna.

  Even tousled and tangled, her hair beckoned him to put his hands in it.

  Thick auburn tresses waved around her shoulders, spilling over her breasts and back in shining curls. In daylight, it had caught the sun in fiery splinters; at night, it gleamed with a deep coppery beauty that reflected the firelight in elusive glimmers.

  Desire hit him then, swift and hard, giving a name to the lure that had drawn him closer to her. This woman reminded him of the more pleasant things in life, before harsh reality had intruded, before he’d turned his back on that way of life.

  Hawk’s gaze caught hers again, and he saw the quick widening of her eyes, the lifting of her lashes as she recognized something in his face. It gave him an unsettling feeling.

  Pivoting on his heel, he walked away.

  “She belongs to Spotted Pony. He is the one who reached her first.” White Eagle peered closely at Hawk. “Do you want her, my tua?” Hawk did not answer his father. No answer was necessary. White Eagle knew that he wanted her, and that Spotted Pony would demand a huge ransom or a fight as payment. Neither one mattered to Hawk. He would just as soon do one as the other.

  Plenty of ponies wore his halter, and he would not miss any for a ransom. And if the truth be known, he was restless and in the mood for a good fight.

  He looked toward the center of the camp again. The fires had burned low. Deborah Hamilton had yielded to exhaustion and sat on the ground beside the blonde girl, her head tilted back and her eyes half-closed. She had to be bone-tired, yet she refused to relinquish her vigil. Hawk’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  When he looked at his father, White Eagle’s face was turned toward the captives. There was a stark elegance to the older man’s features, a purity of line and bone that would have been called aristocratic if he were white. A faint smile curved Hawk’s mouth. As a Comanche, White Eagle was called anything by the white man but aristocratic.

  Hawk hadn’t known what to expect from White Eagle ten years before, nor did he really expect anything from him now. There was an unspoken understanding between them that allowed Hawk to travel his own path without question, coming and going from the Comanche camp whenever he pleased.

  Nothing was asked about his life away from the camp in the mountains stretching from Texas into New Mexico; it was as if he didn’t exist once he left Numunuu behind. Numunuu, Comanche for The Comanche People, had given him a vague sense of belonging, after years of aimless wandering.

  Those lonely years made him appreciate the sense of family he had now.

  White Eagle made him welcome. Kwihne tosabitu, White Eagle, had been glad to see his son come home. He never said, but Hawk often wondered if his father disliked seeing him leave to go back to the white man’s world. This time, he’d decided to stay. He would do his best to fit in, to live, raid, even think as one of the People. There was nothing for him in the world he’d left behind, nothing but a sharp sense of failure.

  Each time he joined Numunuu, Hawk stayed longer and longer. That made his young half-sister, Ohayaa, happy. Sunflower was a lovely, shy girl of thirteen, almost old enough to marry, but still too young to have a household of her own. She stayed in her widowed father’s tipi with her maternal grandmother, caring for him and her half-brother.

  Hawk’s attention drifted back to the woman. She was still awake, still watchful, still hiding her fear. He felt a faint stirring of admiration and was surprised by it. He normally felt nothing for the captives brought in. This one was different, and he didn’t know why. It disturbed him. It left him feeling vulnerable, and he didn’t like that.

  Rising to his feet in a swift, lithe motion, Hawk felt White Eagle’s appraising gaze on him as he strode from the camp to the silence of the woods beyond.

  Chapter 3

  Morning came in chilly streaks of rose and blue, barely rimming the sky at first, making the tall pines around the village look like dark lace against the growing light: Deborah watched; her back was stiff and aching, her legs numb. She’d slept fitfully. Each small noise had jerked her awake, certain that doom was at hand. No one had bothered with the women, however. They’d been left in the center of the camp to dread their futures.

  When the camp began to stir, she could hear faint voices, murmured laughter, the sounds of human beings rising to face the new day. Realization knifed through her that to the Comanche, she and the others were unimportant matters to be disposed of at leisure. It was as if they were no more important than the cattle they’d brought back, or the horses. And to the Comanche, she supposed, they weren’t. Women were dispensable, especially captive women.

  With her head tilted back and the sun behind her, Deborah saw the man who’d spoken to her the night before leave a cone-shaped tent decorated with strange drawings on the exterior. He ducked out the lowered flap and tied it back, then turned and stretched lazily. Her breath caught.

  He was a magnificent animal, she had to admit that, radiating power and confidence and muscled fitness. There was a strange beauty about him that made her feel queer inside, a warm sort of breathlessness that she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but neither was it welcome. It was too disturbing.

  She’d stared at him too long, because he looked up and saw her. A faint smile slanted his harsh mouth into a replica of humor, but Deborah thought that this man must rarely laugh. He looked every inch the brutal, savage warrior she’d heard roamed the western plains. Even the name Comanche struck fear into the hearts of those who heard it. LuEmma had been right.

  She should have listened to her.

  Deborah turned her head away, her chin still held high. The rough wooden post behind her dug painfully against her spine, and she shifted to a more comfortable position. The other captive women began to stir, waking slowly, some sobbing as they realized it had not been a horrible nightmare after all.

  Hawk saw her turn her head in a disdainful, haughty gesture. A faint smile tucked the corners of his eyes for a moment, but his lips quickly settled into a straight line. He pivoted on his heel and strode toward the ribbon of water that lay just to the east of the camp.

  He stripped and plunged into the icy stream, then rubbed vigorously at his body with a handful of grass to scrub his skin. When he left, dripping on the grassy banks, he shook his head as a dog would do, flinging water in all directions. His long hair lay wet and cool on his shoulders. It was invigorating. Cooking smells wafted on the breeze from the village, and he tied his breechcloth on again, tucking his longknife into the sheath at his lean waist. When he walked back into the village, Hawk saw that the girl was gone.

  With an unhurried stride, he switched his di
rection toward Spotted Pony’s tipi. The girl was there, her body rigid with revulsion, her eyes wide with numb fear, and her face as pale as mountain snow. She was quiet; no sound passed her lips, but Hawk could see her mouth ever so slightly quivering with a suppressed scream.

  Spotted Pony turned from his scrutiny of the girl as Hawk approached, and the glitter in his black eyes indicated he knew why he’d come. Slightly shorter than Hawk, the warrior was well muscled, with long legs and arms, his torso powerful. He had many battle scars flecking his dark skin. Spotted Pony was a powerful adversary, but so was Hawk. He nodded.

  “Ahó. I am honored that you visit me,” Spotted Pony said in greeting, and Hawk nodded back.

  He could see the slight greed gathering in Spotted Pony’s eyes, and knew immediately that he understood the reason for his visit. Hawk came straight to the point.

  “How many horses for the white woman?” Spotted Pony pretended surprise. “You want her?” he asked with a wide-eyed expression of amazement. “But I stole her, and planned to keep her. In spite of such skinny arms, she might be useful. At least she does not chatter like a crow.”

  “Horses are more useful.” Hawk did not look at the white woman. He kept his gaze on Spotted Pony, his tone flat and disinterested. “My sister could use help with the cooking. Another woman would be of better help than the horses I have.” Spotted Pony narrowed his eyes as if considering the oblique offer. Both men were aware that the more reluctant the seller, the higher the price.

  Spotted Pony gave a doubtful shake of his head.

  “I don’t know if I need more horses,” he said slowly, and flicked a gaze toward the pale, quiet woman who stood as stiff as a young oak tree beside him. She must have sensed they were talking about her; her eyes grew even wider, the pupils dilated with gold light. Spotted Pony looked back at Hawk.

  “Maybe I need another wife to help with the cooking and scraping of hides.”

  “You need more horses to hunt buffalo to feed the wife you already have,” Hawk said. “Another empty belly to fill would crowd your lodge.” As the men conversed in their rough language, Deborah’s gaze jumped from one to the other. She didn’t know if she was more frightened by the man who had taken her from the Velazquez hacienda, or the hard-eyed man who was still wet from an apparent swim. She didn’t like the way he’d looked at her the night before, speculatively, as if she were his next meal. Yet she had no doubt that she would be treated in the same manner by the man who had abducted her; she’d seen his flat, cruel eyes, and he’d handled her roughly. If she had to choose—and she realized she had no choice—she would choose death over the horror that awaited her.

  Survival had seemed so important earlier, but now she thought that perhaps there were worse things than death. If the furtive, fearful look in the eyes of some of the Mexican women she’d seen slinking through the camp was any indication, she would prefer a quick ending. Deborah wished she understood Spanish, so she could ask some of the women who had been taken captive with her what was planned for them. They seemed to know; Judith had gasped with shock and fear when the warrior had approached and cut Deborah loose from the others. One of the Mexican women had moaned in a mixture of Spanish and English that, “It has begun.” What had begun? And dear God, what was about to happen to her now?

  The Comanche men had apparently finished their discussion, and with a gesture of hands, taken leave of one another. She didn’t know what to expect.

  The tall, blue-eyed Comanche turned on his bare heel and strode away without even glancing at her. Not once had he looked directly at her, nor indicated by any word or action that he was aware of her, yet she knew that he was. Deborah waited. Time passed, and the odors from nearby cooking pots tantalized her. She still stood with her hands tied in front of her, her back stiff and straight as the Comanche kept her beside him. He sat cross-legged in front of his hide-covered tent, smoking a pipe after he’d eaten from a bowl.

  No food or water had been offered to any of the white captives. Deborah’s stomach growled a protest, but she gave no other indication of her need.

  A pressing need to go into the bushes was her most urgent thought, and she held herself upright with a quiet desperation. A woman in a beaded buckskin dress served the man, offering a word now and then as she scurried about, bringing him a smoldering stick from the fire to light his pipe, or a water pouch, or following some growled command. Deborah had made up her mind to try and communicate the urgency of her need to the woman, when she saw from one corner of her eye that the blue-eyed Comanche had returned.

  He was leading five horses. They were splendid animals. Straight legs and thick necks gleamed in the sunlight, and they pranced with high spirits as he led them forward and tied them to the post beside the lodge. Turning, he pulled a bundle from the back of one of the horses and held it out.

  Her captor rose slowly as if still thinking, but a gleam of satisfaction shone in his black eyes. He flashed a glance at Deborah, then took the bundle held out to him. He flipped back the edge of the woven blanket, smiling when he saw a rifle shining dully in the folds. For him, it seemed as if the bargain was sealed.

  Deborah watched tensely, saw the blue-eyed Comanche turn toward her, his eyes glittering with hot lights. She knew in that instant what had happened. A protest at being sold as casually as that welled up in her throat.

  There was no time to voice it before he said something in the rough, growling language they used.

  When she shrank back, her captor shoved her forward again, speaking sharply and leaving her in no doubt that she was being given away. Bargained for, she corrected silently, watching as the rifle and horses were examined by the buckskin-clad woman who must be his wife.

  What did it really matter? She wondered wearily in the next instant. One captor was much like another. And perhaps this one would at least feed her and allow her to tend her needs.

  Fear, exhaustion, and deprivation had left her strangely compliant. She offered no more protest or resistance as the blue-eyed Comanche curled a hard hand around her still-bound wrists and took her with him. He was firm, but not rough, not like the other had been. And he led her to a tent set back apart from the others. It was larger, with painted figures on the cone-shaped exterior. Tall poles rose from the center where the smoke from a fire curled upward. Deborah could smell something cooking in the pot outside the lodge, and a young girl looked at her curiously as she was pulled forward.

  After a brief exchange of words between the young girl and her new captor, Deborah’s bound wrists were placed in her custody. The girl spoke softly, smiling somewhat shyly, and motioned that she was to follow. It was the first time she’d been offered any choice instead of pushed or pulled one way or the other, and Deborah went willingly.

  Then she was glad she had. The girl took her to a clump of bushes some distance from the camp, and indicated she was to tend to any private needs. It was difficult with her bound hands, but Deborah managed to lift her skirts.

  As her fine cotton drawers had been removed that night in the arbor with Miguel, her skirts and a single petticoat were all she wore.

  When she stepped out from behind the bushes, she gave the girl a smile of gratitude at her tact. The girl nodded gravely as she beckoned her forward again. Deborah was led to the edge of a swiftly running stream, and would have bent down to drink if the girl had not stopped her. Dark hair swung in two neat plaits over her shoulders as she shook her head and said something in Comanche. Then the sharp blade of a knife slashed upward, slicing the tight ropes around Deborah’s wrists.

  Deborah couldn’t help a gasp of pain as blood flowed through her constricted veins back into her abused flesh; the girl replaced the knife in the sheath at her side before taking Deborah’s wrists between her small, callused palms and rubbing them briskly to restore circulation. Then she indicated with a smile that Deborah was to wash herself.

  The water was icy but clear and felt good on her dry skin. Hitching her skirts up as high as she dared, D
eborah waded out into the shallows, letting the water swirl around her bare calves.

  She knelt and cupped her hands, drinking deeply of the cool water, letting it slide down her parched throat and wet the front of her dress. She didn’t care. It seemed like days since she’d had her fill of water. Finally she felt the girl touch her shoulder and shake her head, motioning for her to drink more slowly.

  After she’d quenched her thirst and washed every place she could reach without totally disrobing, Deborah waded back to the muddy bank and stepped up on the grass beside the silently watching girl. She dried her hands on her damp skirts.

  “May I take some water to the others?” she asked, pantomiming drinking and pointing toward the village.

  A quick shake of the girl’s head was disappointing, but not unexpected.

  Poor Judith. Deborah’s distress mounted. If she could only manage to converse with her new captor, perhaps she could ask him to buy Judith as well. Her fears for her cousin were as strong as her fears for herself, but together they might draw some comfort from one another.

  Refreshed, but still frightened, Deborah walked silently beside the girl back to the tall tent. She surveyed the tent drawings she’d seen earlier more closely. Figures representing men and horses at war were scattered across the hide, and odd squiggles that looked like insects formed a neat row. She counted seventeen before the girl motioned that she was to go inside.

  Deborah was surprised at the size of the interior. It was much bigger than it looked from the outside, and neat in spite of the dirt floor and crude furnishings. Soaring poles braced the stitched animal-hide cover, and the structure was tilted slightly toward the front, giving more headroom in the rear. It was roughly oval, with a stone-ringed fire just off-center. Only embers glowed red and gray between the stones. It looked as if all cooking was being done outside in the warm weather.