Comanche Moon (20 page)

Deborah realized she was clutching the reins to her horse so tightly her fingers ached from the strain. Nothing seemed to move below in the bright prick of moonlight, no indication that anyone was awake. Yet the Comanche were taking no chances and remained well out of firing range.

To her left, beyond Hawk, she glimpsed her cousin’s blond head. Judith had said hardly a single word the entire time, and the night before when they had camped, she’d remained huddled in a tight ball near one of the men, a young warrior. Deborah had heard Hawk call him cousin, and had thought it fitting that two cousins would return them.

Now that the moment had come for her freedom, she was sad, and amazed by it. In less than two months, she’d come to care about Hawk and care about his sister.

Sunflower had wept when she’d left, and Deborah had barely been able to hold back her own tears. The girl was heartbroken and murmured that her heart was laid upon the ground by Deborah’s departure.

She thought the description quite apt. That was how she felt at this moment, as if her heart lay exposed for anyone to tread on it. She felt bruised, her chest a tight ball of pain and suppressed emotion. And she wondered if Hawk felt any of what she felt, even the slightest bit. He certainly didn’t look as if he did. His face was impassive, his chiseled features as expressionless as carved stone.

Deborah blinked back the sudden sting of tears. Dear God, this was so insane, so beyond anything she should feel at all. He was a savage, a ruthless savage despite the fact that he’d been born into another world. He had frightened her and intimidated her, and if she had not been a virgin, he would have raped her that first night.

Yet, she’d fallen in love with him. It was beyond the realm of her imagination to understand why. Maybe the few, hidden kindnesses he’d offered had only made him seem less brutal to her. Maybe once he was behind her, she would realize how foolish she’d been, that she’d only adapted to her situation to save herself. She hoped so. Because if she hurt later as badly as she hurt now at leaving him, she would not be able to stand it.

Hawk shifted, and she saw him slide from his horse in a smooth, effortless motion. He approached her with that lazy, graceful glide that characterized all his movements, and reached up to lift her from her horse.

She didn’t speak, didn’t offer a comment as he slid her down the length of his body to stand her on her feet.

“Kima,”
he growled. He refused to speak English to her in front of his companions, as if it would make him disloyal. She nodded, and followed as he turned and walked several yards away.

Her heart was beating rapidly, and a thousand thoughts chased aimlessly through her head. Was he changing his mind? Did he want to go with her?

The question circled repeatedly, even though she knew better.

When he reached the edge of a high ridge overlooking the fort below, Hawk turned. His face was half in shadow, but she could see the wariness in his eyes, those dark blue eyes that could lighten with laughter or turn to a smoldering intensity that made her pulses race and her heart lurch. A light breeze lifted his long hair away from his face. A feather hung from the wide leather band holding his hair out of his eyes, spinning gently against his cheek. A hawk’s feather.

On impulse, she reached up to touch it, her fingers grazing lightly against his cheekbone. He caught her hand in a swift grip, stilling her caress.

She saw the flex of a muscle in his jaw as he stared down at her.

“Keta.”

“You can speak English now. They can’t hear.” Hawk’s gaze remained riveted on her face. His arms were corded with strain, and he took a deep breath before he released her hand.

“I want to give you something.” Deborah waited, feeling the wind in her hair and cold desolation in her soul. The fringe of her doeskin dress tickled the backs of her bare calves, and the beadwork on the soft moccasins she wore clacked slightly when she shifted position. A coyote howled in the distance, and she could hear the restive shuffle of the horses behind her.

When Hawk moved closer, she caught the scent of tobacco and rawhide, familiar and comforting now instead of frightening as it had once been. Her throat constricted when his hand lifted to touch her face lightly.

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 to 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.