Cresting the hill, she saw the Rangers, with Brant and
Ezra In the lead, bearing down upon retreating Indians. And her stomach knotted
sickeningly as she spotted among the tasseled lances and gaudily painted
buffalo-hide shields the formidable figure of Iron Eyes.
With mounting horror she watched as Iron Eyes
turned. Carefully the chief aimed the sight of his rifle at Rafael, who was
engaged in a hand to hand battle with an already blood-smeared Indian. Anne
jerked up her own pistol but realized the distance was too great for the shot
to be effective. "Rafael," she warned with a scream as she ran down
the slope.
Above the din of shouts and exploding weapons, her
call went unheard. Yet, as though guided by a sixth sense, Iron Eyes pivoted in
her direction. What followed seemed to pass in slow motion. It was as if her
feet had taken root in the sandy soil. With a wolfish grin, Pa-ha-yu-quosh's father
raised the sight of his rifle upwards to fix on her.
Simultaneously with the burst of orange smoke
occurred the impact of Brant's body against that of Iron Eyes. The two men
rolled to the ground in a flurry of dirt. Physically, Brant had the advantage
over the older chief. But Iron Eyes whipped from his war belt a knife that more
equalled the death fight.
Only then did Anne break free of her catatonic
state. She scrambled the rest of the way down the hill, carefully maneuvering
among the combatants. When she reached the thrashing bodies of Brant and Iron
Eyes, she halted. With both hands she raised her pistol, closing her left eye.
Yet she waited for eternal seconds, afraid to fire for hitting Brant. Sweat and
blood coated both men. It was impossible at times to distinguish them. But when
one arm raised to come hurtling down in a final knife thrust, Anne fired.
The body pitched forward on the man beneath. It was
several seconds before Anne realized which man she had killed―the first
man she had ever killed.
Then with the smell of blood, dust, and burnt
gunpowder clouding her nostrils, and her mind, she slumped to the ground.
xx
There was a chill in the Indian summer evening, and
the orange-red tongues of flame in the caliche fireplace cast their flickering
shadows on the wavy, blue-black curls of Rafael's bent head. He held the
blood-stained papers nearer the dancing light, translating aloud the Spanish
for the cabin's two other occupants.
Anne sat nearby on the squat stool, her hands
clasped about her knees, as she listened intently to Rafael's softly accented
words. A purpling bruise on her right temple, where she had slammed her head
against a stone when she fainted the day before, was her only aftereffect of
the battle. It was the first time in her life she had ever fainted, and she
found it incredible that she should do so then, after all the horrors she had
endured.
The third occupant of the small room showed more
visible markings from the day's battle. The long figure stretched out on the
rope-spring bed moved irritably on the soft buffalo furs. Yet the goldenbrown
eyes, feverish from the festering knife wound in the shoulder, were alert.
Alert enough to curse inwardly his stupidity in allowing Iron Eyes the
opportunity to draw the knife, to inflict the throbbing wound near his
collarbone. But then he had foolishly allowed himself to be distracted by the sight
of Anne standing directly in Iron Eyes' line of fire. The little .idiot! She
was always asking for trouble. Bringing death to every man she slept with.
Maren, Pa-ha-yuquosh, himself nearly, and God knew how many more.
Only Donovan had been wily enough to keep out of
Anne's embroilments. At least on the surface. Or had he underestimated Anne
Maren? How deeply was she involved with Donovan in this British Abolitionist
movement? Damn! Between the Abolitionists,' the Mexicans, and the Indians, they
were making sure Texas didn't stand a rabbit's chance in a wolves' den!
Brant's eyes sought the slim figure dressed in boy's
clothing, noticing how the taut, rounded breasts strained against the thin
cotton material. He closed his eyes with another curse. It was hard to believe that
the gray eyes that looked out from behind those thick, sooty lashes could seem
so open, so honest.
The vague muttering reached Anne, and she paused in
braiding her hair to glance sharply in Brant's direction. Her straight brows
drew together in a frown of concern. But no, Brant's coloring seemed fine, his
breathing easy. The bandage was still white against the tanned skin. She turned
her attention back to Rafael.
"All Texians are to be killed, taken captive,
or driven out of the country," Rafael read. "The land will be
returned to your people to be divided equally among the tribes taking part in the
uprising. Meanwhile, you are to cease all raids, lulling the Texians into a
sense of security."
Rafael looked up from the paper with a scowl.
"It seems Santa Anna did not learn his lesson at San Jacinto."
With a strain Brant propped himself on one elbow.
Long brown locks fell forward over the forehead where sweat beaded up from his
effort. "We can't wait for Ezra to get back from San Antonio. Ranger
headquarters could detain him with those senseless reports for God knows how
long. You'll have to take that paper to Houston in my place,
mano
. You
must make sure Sam knows the letter was taken off Flores' body."
Rafael's brows shot up. "Me,
amigo
? I've
never even talked with Sam Houston. I only saw him once―at San
Jacinto."
Ignoring Rafael's outburst, Brant continued.
"And I want you to take her with you." He jerked his head in Anne's
direction.
A thrill of anticipation shot through Anne. At last
she would be with Colin. Only three or four days at the most. She sprang from
the stool. "I can be ready to go whenever you like, Rafael."
Rafael did not miss the sparkle that lit the wide
eyes. It was like lifting a veil of mist from them so that their intoxicating
depths seemed to fill up the near gaunt face, enhancing the fine contours. To
be in the company of such a woman―alone! This one had a mind of her own,
had been captured by the Comanches and had not only learned to survive but had
been accepted as one of them. This Scotswoman was indeed a strong female
...yet, there was a seductive softness about her that made one long to hold
her, to ...
Dios
mio
, could he control his own desire for the sake
of his friend?
Rafael glanced uneasily at Brant. "And what of
you,
amigo
? You are not well enough to take care of yourself."
Brant sank back on the bed. He crossed his good arm
over his forehead, shielding the expression on his face. But Anne heard the
bitterness in his voice. "I'll be fine. Just get the letter―and her―to
Houston."
Anne's eyes were slits. To talk of her as if she were
not in the room. What was she―an object? Did Brant dislike her so much
that the sight of her was an irritation? And yet she knew Brant desired her―she
had seen the look in his eyes the few times she had caught him unawares.
Her lips twisted in a perverse smile. What were a
few days more? When Brant was better she'd make him take her to Houston
himself. Let him face Colin and beg for his reward rather than have Rafael do his
dirty work.
"Rafael has a point, Brant," she said.
"You're too weak to clean out that wound ,much less change your bandage.
Why, you'd fall flat on your face if you tried to rise from the bed. Who will
feed you? No, I'll stay. You can take me to Houston when you're better."
Brant eyed her suspiciously. "Why? Why stay
when you're in such an almighty hurry to get to Donovan?"
"I―you stopped Iron Eyes from killing me,
didn't you? I owe you this much." Anne moved closer to the bed and forced
herself to meet Brant's inquisitive glare. For that brief moment it was as if Rafael
were not in the room. Her voice came in a harsh whisper. "And that's all I
owe you. Nothing more. With this you and I'll even our debts, Brant
Powers."
Something awoke Anne during the night. She raised
from the bearskin pallet on one elbow and peered about the darkened room. The
only light came from the flickering embers in the fireplace behind her. She
listened to the eerie silence, wishing Rafael had delayed his departure until
morning. Then she heard again what had awakened her. From across the room came
a faint moan, followed by an indistinct murmur.
Throwing aside the light covering, she crossed on
bare feet to the bed. The room was so dark she could not see Brant's face.
Lightly she laid her hand over his brow. Hot. Had infection set in? But she and
Rafael had been so careful when they tended to the wound. Even pouring over the
puffy flesh the bottle of whiskey they had found along with the tins of coffee
and flour stored on the shelf over the fireplace.
Anne smiled grimly, remembering Brant's face as he
winced at the stinging sensation. "Shit, Rafael," he had rasped.
"That gut rot'll kill me if the bullet doesn't!"
Anne was jolted back to the present when Brant's
hand slipped about her own in a steely clasp. "Laura."
Only the one word, hoarsely spoken.
"Brant," she whispered, trying to pull away.
"Let me get you some water. You're feverish."
"No―I'm cold. Lie beside me, Laura. Keep
me warm."
Indeed, he did tremble as If chilled, and Anne
relented to the hand that pulled her down beside him. She stretched out her
length against his. For a few moment she was quiet, quiet enough so that it seemed
to Anne she could hear the furious beating of her own heart. Damn him, why did
his nearness have to arouse her so? He was nothing but a backwoodsman, common
riffraff found everywhere in Texas. But she remained close, feeling the
hardness of his body against her own.
Then, "Lovely, white body. Too beautiful, too
white for the Texas sun. Must make her happy ...cut the teasing, Laura. Say
you'll marry me ...Texas?―it's wide open―fresh―unspoiled,
like yourself ... you'll love it―like I love you ... stop it, Laura! Stop
the crying―it'll get easier―give it a chance."
Cracked laughter. "She's gone! My God, a
Methodist preacher!"
And all through the dawn. "Laura ... Laura
...Laura."
Anne extricated herself from the thrashing limbs.
Brant's torn shirt and dirty pants were soaked with perspiration. An unhealthy
flush dulled the tanned skin. He needed a doctor. And she knew nothing about
medicine.
Anne slipped outside. Maybe the fresh air and
sunlight would restore her senses, numbed by a sleepless night. She looked around
the clearing where the cabin stood, not really seeing the tall, majestic elms
and maples already dressed for autumn in oranges and reds, or the spring-fed
pond just below the rocky slope to the left of the cabin. Instead, her vision
was fixed on the pastas she tried to remember. What would Delila have done? The
Negress had been an encyclopedia of medicinal information.
Anne wrung her hands, then ceased as her desperate
gaze fell upon a garden long since gone to seed. But in a nearby section of the
garden there was a patch of winter onions, their green stems barely visible
among the riot of weeds. How many times Delila had made an onion poultice for
anything from a chest cold to a snake bite.
She began to run, stumbling once over one of the
insidious bramble bushes. Then she was on her knees. Her fingers groveled in
the black dirt, digging at the onion heads. Ten, twelve, thirteen. That should
be enough onions.
Once inside the house she found enough water in a
clay crock to boil the onions. But more water would be needed to cleanse
Brant's wound, to bathe his feverish body. As she coaxed the half-cold coals
back to flickering life, she cast a quick glance at Brant who stirred
restlessly in his sleep. The shallow breathing was still unchanged. Hurriedly,
she shoveled a few more coals over the spider skillet; then, grabbing up the
crock pot, she headed for the pond.
It seemed that time and space were spinning by her
in fast motion as she scrambled down the incline of sandy quartz, shoving aside
the stubborn ferns that clung in places to the rocky ledges. Dipping the crock
pot, she filled it to the brim. Hurry, she must hurry. The crock was
intolerably heavy. Would it be too late for the poultice to work? Delila would
have known. She stumbled again, catching herself. Damn, some of the water
spilled!
With labored breathing she began to bathe Brant.
First his arms, compressing the cool, wet rag at his wrists and inside his
elbows. Her own breathing came easier, and she sponged the chest that seemed
incredibly broad. The mat of fine brown hair seemed to entwine about her
fingers, holding her. Next, Brant's face―his temples where the leather
colored hair lay in sweat-dampened curls.
Anne paused, looking at the rough-hewn face. She had
never considered Brant particularly goodlooking. Not like Colin. If anything,
the reverse. With the hideous tattoo markings on the squared-off chin―the
hawk-like nose that had none of Colin's patrician lines―and the skin that
was tanned by the sun, betraying the fact he was a common man, a backwoodsman,
rather than a man of the aristocracy.
Yet, why had she never noticed the way the long
lashes lay like feathers of a fan against the high-ridged cheekbones? And the
sensuous lower lip, held in check by the firmer, leaner one above. Even the
flaring nostrils bespoke of sensitivity. Had her immediate dislike of the man
permanently blinded her to his finer points?
Her finger hesitantly reached out and brushed along
the tattooed chin, feeling the skin's texture. Hard, rough like a brick. Then,
with even greater hesitancy, her hands moved to the buttons of Brant's pants.
Should she sponge off his lower half? Dear Lord, her female delicacy had
disappeared that first night Otto had slobbered like a baby over her body. Why
hesitate now?
Her fingers moved swiftly and firmly over the
remaining buttons. The pants' opening parted to free the bold shaft. Unable to
restrain herself, her fingers reached wonderingly toward it, then jerked back
in fright at Brant's chuckle.
Anne cringed with mortification. She could not meet
the dark eyes that she knew must mock her. But his raspy voice was rueful.
"You would finally pick a time like this to fool around, Annie―when I
can't do a damned thing about it."