He shoved the pulpy wedge in her open mouth.
"Cactus―peyote. In a few minutes' time it'll kill the pain. Take
another bite." Dutifully Anne swallowed the acrid mass. Brant moved away, and
she heard him gentling the horse, staking it out for the night. Then he was at
her side once more, kneeling over her. "Has the pain lessened?"
Anne nodded, feeling as if she were drifting. A euphoria
spread throughout her taut body, relaxing the pain-tensed muscles, numbing her
so that she knew she could not lift a finger if her survival depended on it.
Yet her mind seemed sharper. There was a keenness―a
clarity―to everything around her. The blue-white stars above seemed to
hover just beyond
Brant's dark head. His eyes were as bright as midnight
fires, consuming her. And his lips, they―why hadn't she noticed before
how sensuous they were? Why hadn't she realized how long she had been wanting
to feel them against her own lips?
Her arms, as if they had a life of their own apart
from herself, raised to entwine about Brant's neck, drawing his face down to
hers. At first the lips only brushed hers, like butterfly wings. But it was not
enough. Why couldn't he understand what she wanted? What did she want?
Oh―why couldn't she think? It was the peyote. No,
it was his lips that played at the corner of her mouth, that traced a path to
her temple, that kissed the lids of her eyes.
She must tell him that it wouldn't do, that―what
must she tell him? That she liked the feeling ... this strange, languorous
floating. "Brant..." she whispered.
His lips closed over her open mouth. Anne trembled
as desire geysered through her body like hot springs. His arms slipped about
her, pressing the length of his body against hers. "More," Her sigh
sailed on the breeze. "I want―"
"You don't know what you want!" came his
husky voice, as if from a cave.
He set her from him, and tears of frustration such
as she had never felt sprang to the corners of her eyes. "I want...no―I―Brant,
please..."
"Oh God, Annie!" It was a groan that cut off
as his mouth found hers again, bruising its softness.
He had not been able to get her out of his mind―had
told himself she was a rich, spoiled, pampered bitch. And yet he had gone
against all reasoning of caution to find her, to hope against hope she was not
already dead. Maybe he had hoped to fine her worn down, aged by the degradation
of captivity. But hell no―it had been the reverse. She had been refined
in the process. The once pale skin had turned to a bewitching gold. And there
was a supple firmness to her exquisite body―a feline grace to her
movements. But it was her voice, like warm rum, that intoxicated him―that
had captivated him from the very first. And now there was that added depth of
mystery to her, a promise of passion.
The tight rein of control he had kept upon himself
snapped, and he gathered her to him as she pressed his head between her
breasts. Her tunic had ridden up over her bare hips, and he cupped his hands
about the small, rounded buttocks while his lips sought the delights she
offered him.
Tomorrow she would hate him. But that was tomorrow.
Now―now he made her his. Felt her wondrous
warmth close about him, move with him ... sucking his breath, his life blood,
from him and making every movement one of agonizing pleasure. Her hands
caressed him, loved him, coaxed him to greater heights. And he knew he could
never get enough of her even as his own hands played upon her marvelous body,
bringing gasps of desire to respond to his own.
And then came the half-delirious, whispered name.
"Colin." And whatever gentleness Brant had displayed vanished.
"Damn your fickle soul!"he rasped, and the
fury of his passion took her with him to the hell of his release.
xv
Her head ached, but the cramps were gone. The memory
was not. It came to her in brief lashes, and she could feel the blush of shame
and disgust creep over her face. Thank goodness she rode behind Brant where he
could not see her.
She wanted to hate him, to strike out at that
impassive face. But she could not, for innate honesty made her admit she was at
least partly responsible for the night before. Though he had not taunted her
this morning, his earlier gentleness was gone, replaced by his previously stony
indifference.
He had left her soon after sunrise to scout the
area, and she had taken the opportunity to bathe in the mirrorlike pool. But,
afraid he might return early, she had quickly scrubbed her skin and scalp with
sand and had not time to wash her tunic. When he returned with a rabbit in his
hand, his hair glistened with drops of water, and she knew he had bathed
farther down stream.
As he began to skin the rabbit carcass, Anne
collected twigs and dead branches. She worked deftly, building a near-smokeless
fire. But if Brant noticed her skill, he said nothing. The heavy silence
disturbed her as nothing else had, and she broke it, asking, "Did you find
any sign of Iron Eyes?"
His hawkish gaze fell on her for the first time that
morning, and she noticed the shadow of beard stubble on the squared-off chin.
"It looks like we've shaken him," he said evenly before returning to
his work.
From then on Anne's movements became more awkward.
He had made no move to touch her, to hold her, and she could only assume that,
as always, he thought the worse of her. And why not? She had behaved shockingly―justifying
his conception of her immoral character. It mattered not that Colin had never
been her lover in the physical sense. Brant would never believe it was not true
...not after last night. Not after ...and she could barely remember calling out
Colin's name―and afterwards Brant's fury, bearing her like a tidal wave
toward a destruction of her senses. It had been, of course, the peyote that had
made it seem like she was drowning in a whirlpool of passion.
But whatever rapport had existed between them before
was now obliterated by her disgust and his anger that was almost impersonal.
Brant was once more the cynical, uncaring frontiers man. But at least she did
not have to worry about a repeat of the previous night. She was safe at least
from him. And once again a hot blush swept over her at the memory of Brant's
passionate embrace.
The sorrel stumbled over a prairie dog hole, and
Anne grasped more tightly about Brant's lean waist to keep from slipping off.
Strange, she thought. Never had she given thought to a man's body. She had only
been attracted to one man―Colin, and that love was on a higher plateau
than the baser carnal desire she had known the night before with Brant. Oh, how
often she had wanted Colin to sweep her up in her arms and cover her face with
kisses, to whisper words of adoration.
But she had never thought beyond that. Never
realized until Otto ...and then he, and Pa-ha-yuquosh ...they had taken her,
used her for their own particular reasons. But she―she had felt no
desire, no stirrings ...only disgust.
Then why Brant? She disliked the man. His insolence,
his arrogance, his lack of scruples, his crudity. Yet, just thinking of her hands
resting on his warm, toast-colored skin―his rock hard thighs alongside
hers ...the masculine smell of leather and sweat that strangely stirred her
senses ... remembering the weight of his body on hers. She must stop that. Soon
she'd be free of him. Could put the revolting memories behind her.
"Is San Antonio much farther?" she asked,
her voice sounding stilted in her ears.
With a cocked brow Brant looked over his shoulder at
her. "Don't tell me you're anxious to end our honeymoon?"
"Last night was―it'll never happen again,
Brant Powers!"
"Can't say that I want it to. The way you look
now, you aren't that appetizing. But then again," he hauled back on the
reins, slowing the sorrel, "I never liked being told I couldn't do
something."
"No!" she said quickly. "Please
..."
There was anger in his laugh. "You sure blow
hot and cold, Annie sweet." He urged the horse forward again. "Last
night, I'd've sworn―"
"Ohhh! You're disgusting! This journey can't
end too soon."
"That's too bad. 'Cause we've got another three
days ahead of us. And I'm getting damned tired of your nagging. You're
beginning to sound like a shrew, Annie Maren. I've half a mind to leave you
here. Maybe Iron Eyes'll rescue you―or a band of Mexican terrorists.
They'd like sharing a white woman among them―especially one with hair
like yours."
Anne's outward fury subsided, but she seethed
inside. She wanted to rake her nails across Brant's stomach, to claw at his
eyes. But she had no doubt that he would do just as he threatened. Her lips
tightened into a taut line. She would not speak to the man again. She would
show him her disdain―that he was little better than an animal. She drew
as far away from him as space permitted.
Yet barely six hours had passed, and she was
pleading with him. "You said we'd lost Iron Eyes. Surely he wouldn't
follow us this far. Please. Just a few minute's rest." Her head fell
against his back. Her voice dragged with fatigue. "You're inhuman,"
she murmured.
The moon was rising against the backdrop of the
Anacacho Mountains when Brant hauled her from his horse and deposited her near
a clump of the woody Guayule shrubs. Anne was too tired to protest as he
gathered her against him. Later...later she would tell him what she thought of
him. But right now ...she snuggled closer in his embrace, seeking his warmth
against her back.
"We'll be in the outskirts of San Antonio by
nightfall," Brant told her.
"We can't ride in looking like this! Just look―"
"Don't aim to. There's a pueblo just over the
next rise, in a grove of cottonwoods. Friends there'll give us a change of
clothing and a bath."
Inwardly Anne shrank at the thought of meeting white
people again. What would they think of her―living with the Indians as she
had done? The whispers―or worse, their pitying stares. She could not bear
that.
As if sensing her distress, Brant said, "The DeLeons
don't ask questions."
When Anne met the brother and sister, she understood
why. For one thing, she learned Rafael DeLeon was a spy for the Texas Republic.
"When Santa Anna marched to San Jacinto," Brant explained, "the
DeLeon Hacienda was one of the homes he burned―and when he hanged their
parents, Rafael and Celia became that much more pro-Texas."
The village of squat, white stucco houses where the
DeLeons lived slumbered under the scorching sun. Only the squawking chickens
and skinny dogs in the narrow, rutted dirt streets were awake to announce the
arrival of the two riders who resembled Indians. But when Brant and Anne
entered the cool, dim interior of one of the adobe homes there was a much
different reception. "
Quién es
?" a throaty voice called out.
Brant dropped his saddle inside the doorway. "
Floja!
Porqué no eres luchando
?"
If Anne was surprised by Brant's knowledge of
Spanish, she was even more so by the small, black-haired, black-eyed young girl
who materialized out of the room's darkness and threw herself in Brant's arms.
"
Querido mio
!" The girl, who could be no more than sixteen,
drew Brant's head down to hers and planted a passionate kiss on his mouth
before drawing back with pouting lips. "Where have you been, Brant? We
expected you more than a week ago!"
Then she noticed behind him the slim woman with the
pale red hair in braids, and she dropped her arms. "And who is she?"
"I thought you said they didn't ask
questions," Anne snapped, finding herself disgusted by the performance
before her. She moved out of the doorway to stand at Brant's side.
"Celia―meet Anne," Brant said
easily.
The black sloe-eyes narrowed, appraising the woman
who stood with hands on hips. The gray eyes, like flint in the apricot-colored
face, mocked her. She's not so pretty, Celia thought. But still, there was
something about her. Maybe it was because the young woman seemed to move with
the same easy grace as Brant.
"Where's Rafael?" Brant asked. "And how
about a bath,
niña
?"
"Rafael's in San Antonio―gathering information.
But he's due back later tonight. And as for a bath," she cocked her head
toward the back room, "I'll prepare it for you myself,
querido
."
The corner of Brant's mouth lifted in a mocking,
one-sided smile. "Later. Let Anne wash up first while you tell me what's
been going on."
Anne watched as Celia slipped an arm about Brant's
waist, pulling him toward a round, intricately carved table of pine. As if
remembering she had another guest, Celia looked back over her shoulder,
wrinkling her small nose in distaste. "I'll have Juana get hot water for
you," she told Anne. "You'll find clean clothes in the back
room." Then, softly to Brant, "We've some
aguardiente
to boil
your blood,
corazon
. And if that doesn't work ..." She broke off
with a slow smile.
Anne whirled from the two and shoved aside the
curtain leading to the rear room. She was jerking off the dirty,
sweat-stiffened leather tunic when a rotund woman with white hair knotted
behind her short, thick neck waddled into the room. In each hand she lugged a
bucket of steaming water. A wide smile formed below the mustache-shadowed upper
lip. "
Buenas tardes, señora. Tengo agua caliente para usted
."
Anne clutched the dress before her nudity and nodded
her head politely, not understanding the Spanish. The woman continued to talk
cheerfully as she poured the buckets of water in the large tin tub that stood
between the two rawhide-bound beds.
When she finally left, Anne removed the dusty,
knee-high moccasins and stepped into the water with a sigh that was almost one
of ecstasy. It was enough just to sit there, to feel the hot water eddy about
her tired body, soaking away the stiffness in her muscles. But she feared Celia―or
worse, Brant―might come in and so hurried with her bath, wishing there
was enough water to more thoroughly rinse the lye soap from her tangled hair.
Too soon, old Juana appeared with a brightly colored
skirt and white blouse, which she laid out on one of the beds. "
Aquí
estan sus huaraches
,"she told Anne, placing the pair of leather-braided
sandals by the tub before leaving. Regretfully, Anne rose from the first hot
bath she had had in almost three months and slipped her feet into the
huaraches. The sandals whispered on the flagstone floor when she crossed to the
bed and began to dress.
As she yanked the low-cut blouse over her head,
tucking it into the waistband of her ankle-length skirt, she was conscious of a
third voice in the outer room―a masculine one. "The two hombres―I
don't know if they're agents for Mexico or not, amigo―they were at
Fatima's Cantina―there in the Villita district. But they talked of a
Mexican force of five thousand calvary and infantrymen that are to cross the
border and join up with the Comanche and Cherokee."
"One of the men, Rafael," ―it was
Brant's voice now―"did he call himself Manuel Flores?"
"I didn't learn his name, amigo. But these two
men, they were encouraging the Mexicans there at the cantina to rebel against
the Anglos―to join up with Santa Anna's forces and drive the gringos from
Texas. One of them, I remember, had a large, handlebar mustache―and he
was missing two fingers on his right hand."
Anne paused in her dressing, remembering seeing such
a man ride into Iron Eyes' camp more than three weeks before. Pa-ha-yu-quosh
had made her remain in his tepee until the man left the next morning.
Brant's voice was grim. ''That's Flores. I trailed
him to Iron Eyes' camp. He's promising the Indians the land'll be returned to
them if they take part in the uprising."
"Must you two always talk business?" Celia
was asking when Anne raged through the curtained doorway.
So great was her fury, Anne saw only Brant lounging
in the chair balanced on its back two legs. His long legs were propped on the
table before him, and his thumbs were jammed into the band of his breechcloth.
A thin cigarillo dangled from the corner of his mouth. If he evidenced no
surprise at her stormy entrance, only the sardonic lift of one dark brow, the
other man present, dressed all in black, whistled a low, "
Carramba
!"
through his lips.
"You―you polecat!" Anne hissed
between clenched teeth. "You weren't even planning on rescuing me. It was
this Flores you were trailing."
She hurled herself on Brant, tipping him over. The
two went rolling on the floor."I just happened to be in the right camp,
didn't I?" Her voice came in sobbing gasps. "And it was convenient
for you, wasn't it? Bring me back and collect Colin's money!"
Brant was above her now, pinning her to the floor.
His light brown eyes laughed down at her, as if he welcomed the confrontation
that had been brewing between the two of them. "Why you're not fit to―to
spit on!" Anne cried, beating at his bare chest and pummeling at his face
until he caught her two wrists and held them above her head. "You bastard!"
She spat up at him.