Christa’s eyes widened as she realized that the man was talking about Jeff Davis.
Jeremy, seated behind the broad traveling desk that could be so easily transported to a wagon, nodded sagely to the man before him.
“The emissary from the Confederacy spoke to you in all good faith. But even as he was speaking, the government of the Confederacy was folding. Buffalo Run knows—”
“Buffalo Run knows that things happen—like the massacre at Sand Creek. He was glad when he learned that you were coming, for he remembers you well and he feels that you are, perhaps, the only honest white man he has met.”
Jeremy leaned forward. “Eagle Who Flies High, I am pleased that Buffalo Run feels that we can negotiate. I have been very distressed. It was not long ago that I rode out here with a company from my regiment to discover that a stranded company of men from another regiment had been annihilated. And just days ago, I came across dead men on the plain. Is this Buffalo Run’s message of good faith to me?”
“Just as you do not control all white men, Buffalo Run does not control all Comanche braves.”
“Ah, but Buffalo Run can exert influence,” Jeremy said.
The Indian before him—a man of medium height but with a solid, muscular build—inclined his head. “So he will speak with you. And his brothers Setting Sun and Walks Tall will await here in equal good faith.”
“I am agreed,” Jeremy said simply. He stood. The meeting had evidently been completed.
The Indian turned. He had been about to walk from the tent but he stopped, standing dead still as he saw Christa. Jeremy, who had been involved with his exchange with the man he had called Eagle Who Flies
High, saw her too. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened. Christa felt a flush suffuse her as the Comanche studied her thoroughly from head to toe.
“My wife, Eagle Who Flies High,” Jeremy said. The Comanche didn’t really acknowledge Christa, he nodded to Jeremy.
“She is a fine wife.” He studied Christa again in silence, turned back to Jeremy and bowed, then proceeded out of the tent, nearly brushing by Christa as he left. The other two braves followed him in silence, their dark eyes studying her with the same blunt appraisal.
When they were gone, Jeremy’s wrath exploded. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone low but shaking with the effort to keep it so.
“I just—”
“Colonel, sir,” Emory Clark said, “surely it can’t be Mrs. McCauley’s fault to have stumbled upon us in the midst of—”
“Emory, I’ll thank you to mind your own business!” Jeremy snapped, rising. He started toward Christa. “And you! You need to learn to stay out of business that does not concern you!”
“But it does concern me!” Christa retorted, wishing that she had never come, and miserable for both herself and for poor Emory. “The Comanche—”
“The Comanche are very fond of taking female captives!”
Emory cleared his throat. “He’s concerned for your welfare, Christa—”
“Emory! I’ll speak to my wife myself, thank you!”
“Yes, sir.” Emory saluted. He didn’t look pleased. He strode out of the tent.
“You didn’t need to be so rude!” Christa cried.
“And you don’t need to behave so stupidly!”
She stiffened, swung around, and strode out of the
tent almost blindly. She nearly tripped over Private Darcy.
“Christa!”
She heard him, but she looked right at Private Darcy and pretended that she didn’t. Furious, she strode on through the field of tents until she reached her own.
He was right behind, catching her by her shoulder, spinning her around. “Christa, don’t walk out on me like that again!”
“Then don’t yell at me like that again!”
“I’m just concerned—”
“Then you shouldn’t have yelled at Captain Clark.”
He threw up his hands. “Right. I wouldn’t want to yell at the poor dear fellow who so resembles Liam McCloskey!”
“Oh!” she cried, and threw up her hands in aggravation. “You’re right! He is poor Captain Clark. He will forever have to pay because of that!” Angrily, she pulled the pillow from the bed and threw it at him, hard. He caught it and tossed it to the bed, advancing on her. She backed away quickly, but found there was nowhere to go. He was nearly upon her when she began talking. “My God, I didn’t mean to cause you difficulty!” she hissed out. “I didn’t know if you were staying out all night or coming in. I merely wished to see—”
“You wished to see the Comanche!” he said.
She turned away quickly, trying to keep her fingers from shaking as she poured him a brandy, handing it to him quickly. To her surprise, he took it from her fingers. His eyes were still hard, silver and gun-metal gray. She quickly tried to ply her advantage.
“I’ve seen many of the Indians,” she said.
“Not the Comanche.”
“Yes, but they’re important to you. There’s so much that I don’t understand. What was he talking about? What was the Sand Creek Massacre?”
“The Sand Creek Massacre,” he repeated. He walked around his desk, pulled back the chair, and sat in it, his eyes remaining on her sharply. “You never heard of it?”
She shook her head. “There—there was a war going on.”
“Yes,” he murmured, looking away. “All right, you want to know. War came, and half the men out here resigned to go with the Confederacy. More men were pulled back to fight on the front. Once there was a fairly decent man named Wynkoop at a place northwest of here called Fort Lyon. Under terms, some Arapaho and Cheyenne Indians had put themselves under his protection. Wynkoop was too decent a man. Somebody decided to get rid of him and a Major Anthony came out to take charge. Governor Evans of Colorado and a militia colonel named Chivington wanted a war. Anthony managed to get the Indians to move away from the protection of the fort—he could attack them then. And he did. Chivington had given his men orders to attack all the Indians, to kill and scalp the big ones and the little ones because nits made lice. And so the men went in and killed, raped, maimed, and destroyed. A Captain Silas, a regular from Anthony’s army, refused to follow the order. He was murdered in Denver soon after. Anthony and Chivington tried to make it sound like a noble battle, and still the truth got out to whites and red men alike. Buffalo Run is not a fool. He has seen the past, and by that, he sees the future. He doesn’t trust many men.”
Christa didn’t think that she could blame Buffalo Run, not after the story Jeremy had told her. He didn’t describe the slaughter in detail, but in his tone she could almost imagine what had happened and it had surely been horrible.
“It seems that Buffalo Run trusts you.”
Jeremy shrugged. “He tolerates me—more than he
is willing to tolerate most white men.” He leaned forward suddenly, wagging a finger at her. “His men should have never seen you.”
“But—”
“They are a polygamous society. Buffalo Run has several wives and probably wouldn’t mind having another one.”
“But—”
“The Comanche can move like the wind. They like to travel down to Mexico and trade with the Spanish. They trade women just like they trade buffalo meat and hides. They like to rape their female prisoners first so that they give the Spaniards a woman who is soiled. It’s a way of being superior.”
A chill was slipping over her. “But Jeremy, I came to the headquarters tent! I didn’t wander out into open territory.”
“But you’ve done so before,” he reminded her tautly.
She felt a chill seeping into her. “I won’t do so again,” she said uneasily.
He was up suddenly, hands folded at his back, pacing the space between them. “See that you do stay close in!” he commanded. He stopped in front of her, his voice sharper than she had ever heard it to one of his soldiers. “Over the next few days, until my return, you must stay with Robert Black Paw. Always, always have him in sight.”
“Until your return?” Christa said, startled.
“I am going with Eagle Who Flies High tomorrow to visit the place where Buffalo Run is keeping camp.”
Christa gasped. “You’re going—right into a Comanche camp? But you can’t!”
“I’ve been in his camp before.”
Christa shook her head. “But—how can you trust him? He kills people, he has his own set of rules, you just told me that!”
“I have to go, Christa. And I trust him more than I do most men, no matter what his color.”
“If you trust him so much, why are you so angry with me?”
“Damnation!” he seemed to roar. “I’ve been trying and trying to make you understand!”
“Stop swearing at me like that!” she countered, her teeth gritting. “Mrs. Brooks will be in to get you!”
To her amazement, he paused. He sat down at the foot of the bed, staring at her incredulously, then smiling slowly.
“I have to go, Christa.”
“But—”
“Will you miss me?”
Color touched her cheeks. “Jeremy, really—”
“Come now! Surely, you’ll miss me just a little. I’m another body to fight off whatever threats may come!”
“You’re a fool, marching into a hostile Indian camp!”
“Come here,” he said suddenly.
“I—”
“Come here. I’ve got tonight. Then I’ve got to ride. I will not spend tonight arguing.”
“You won’t argue. No, you’ll just yell and then expect me to jump at your beck and call.”
“Fine!” He stood, strode the distance to her, lifted her high, and set her down upon the foot of the bed. “I’m not being a fool, Christa. Buffalo Run has sent two of his own brothers to be hostages here until I return safely. He and I are blood brothers. The Comanche are a very free people. There are many bands, usually created of family connections. Any Comanche is free to come and go from his band and a brave is certainly free to think for himself, but they all respect certain matters of honor among one another. Two minutes after I return here hostilities might break out. But
while I’m under his promise of protection, I will be completely safe.”
“Fine!” she said, repeating his words.
“You!” he said, pointing a finger at her. “I will never feel safe about you.”
“But—”
“But! Will you miss me?”
She moistened her lips. “Perhaps.”
His laughter was throaty.
“It will pain me every second that I am away.”
“You are a liar!” she accused him.
“It’s God’s truth.”
“Well, it’s hard to tell. You do manage to keep your distance when you choose.”
“And then I am furious with myself. There will be no distance tonight, Christa. When the night has passed, you will surely miss me. Whether you do with pain or pleasure, I can’t be certain, but you will surely be aware of my presence tonight, and that it is gone tomorrow!”
A heat rose within her. She lowered her eyes quickly, avoiding his.
“What, no protests? No fury?”
The lamplight was very low and very soft. She stared down at her hands, studying them. No matter how she fought it, she felt a wave of crimson coloring rush to her cheeks and her words were soft and breathless. “You’re mocking me. I truly don’t know what you want! I surrendered everything the other night, everything. And you seemed pleased enough at the time, yet uninterested when you returned from your ride.”
“I have never been uninterested!” he said, and he came down upon one knee, taking her hand from her lap to slide between his own. “Never.”
“You said that I was half-dead.”
“Because I wanted to shake you into the realm of the living.”
She inhaled, feeling the fire of the silver in his eyes as they sought to impale her own. She refused to meet his gaze, shaking her head. “I did give in!” she murmured. “I swear, I ceased the fight! I—”
“You told me it was the wine,” he reminded her. “I was palatable—because of the wine.”
She lowered her head, wishing that he were not so close, so very demanding. “Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn’t. I still don’t understand what it is that—that you still want of me.”
“More, Christa. I will always want more. But mainly, I want you to come to me. Not because I might defend you. Not because Camerons always pay their debts. But because you want me. Would that be so very difficult?”
She shook her head, swallowing hard. Her eyes met his at last. She tried to speak, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, seeking words, unable to find them. Perhaps he understood her dilemma, perhaps he knew exactly when to push her, and when to come to her rescue. He released her hands, his arms slipping around her. He rose, bringing her to her feet along with him. His mouth descended ardently down upon hers, seizing her lips in a fierce, hungry kiss. But one that gave so much more. One that teased, one that coerced. One that was hot and fervent, one that elicited fires to burn deep in secret places she had so recently discovered within herself.
Those fires seemed so quickly fanned! In the fierce sweetness of his kiss she swiftly understood more of what he sought from her, and with the honeyed excitement sweeping through her she dared to do those things she had dreamed before. Her arms slipped around his neck. Her lips parted more willingly to the pressure of his kiss, and tentatively at first, but more boldly with each passing second, she teased and taunted and elicited in return, her tongue playing with
his, thrusting into his mouth, rimming it. Her fingers stroked the hair at his nape, caressed his cheek, curled into the muscles of his shoulders and arms. She felt the rampant beating of his heart, a hardness, a quickening within him. He lifted his head from hers at last, silver glistening in his eyes as they touched hers. “Jesu!” he whispered, and she smiled, unaware of how dazzling and beautiful the lights in her eyes could be. But he did not meet them long. He spun her around, his fingers impatient on the hooks of her gown. When the material fell from her shoulders, he spun her again, his lips touching down on her flesh, searing and wet, causing her breath to catch, and the flame within her to sizzle and soar. He eased her dress downward, and it fell in a pool at her feet. His fingers caught at the tie of her pantalets, and when they fell, she stepped from them. The lamplight seemed so gentle that night.
He sat, pulling off a boot. She knelt before him, taking off the other boot. She paused for a moment, aware that he was quickly shedding his shirt. Her eyes met his again and the searing spark of desire within them sent a flutter cascading from her heart to the center of her womb. She rose slightly, curling her arms around him. Her lips just brushed atop his, then pressed to his throat, to his collarbone, and trailed slowly across his shoulder. She teased his flesh with the tip of her tongue, tasting the salt there. Her fingers moved over the bronzed length of his arm, testing the ripple and feel of muscle. She sat back, watching with fascination as she brought her hands down over his chest, her fingertips dancing lightly over the crisp whorls of dark red hair upon it. She came close again, kissing his chest, testing with the hot tip of her tongue, finding a rich, rising excitement in the intrigue of his body.