Comanche Moon (35 page)

As he clawed his way up out of the red mist of pain, Zack heard the lilting cry of a hunting hawk, and knew he would survive. He would recover, and he would go back for Deborah. And this time, he would kill anyone who tried to stop him from taking her. This time, he would be ready.

The hawk came again.
Deborah saw it, gliding on wind currents, wild and graceful and free. She shaded her eyes with one hand, looking up at the sky.

Its wings beat down in a drift of feathers, up and down, making it rise higher and higher until she felt a pang of regret that she couldn’t go with it.

Her throat closed, and she fought the sharp edges of emotion that tore at her. She wanted to retreat back into the welcoming void where nothing could hurt her, but the hawk had surprised her. It made her think, made her remember things she didn’t want to remember.

She shut her eyes against the glare of the sun and the wild beauty of the hawk, and gripped the arms of her chair with both hands. Her book fell from her lap to the smooth tiles of the patio, and she didn’t move. She sat there, her heart beginning to thud and her mouth dry. There was the whirring of wings, a soft thudding sound that made her eyes open, and she saw the hawk land atop the thick adobe wall that enclosed her patio.

Frozen, she sat in silence as the hawk settled its wings and perched alertly. Its head was lifted and cocked to one side, eyes bright. She saw the sharp talons grip the wall, saw the curved beak shine in the light.

White-tipped feathers fanned out as the hawk spread its wings in a quick, fluttering motion.

Afraid to move for fear of startling it away, Deborah sat and watched the predatory bird for a long time. It seemed not to mind that she was there, or indeed, to be alarmed by anything. And she felt strangely comforted by its presence, as if it had come to watch over her.

For the first time in a long while, Deborah felt the easing of the tight knot in her chest. It loosened ever so slightly, and she took a deep breath.

When the hawk left, rising into the air with a whirring of wings and a piercing cry, Deborah rose to her feet and went to the wall. She bent, and lifted a single white-tipped feather from the tiles where it had fallen. Her fingers closed around it, and she felt a fierce surge of anguish that dissolved slowly into acceptance. Life went on. There was loss and pain, but to give up was to refute the cycle. There was no answer in surrender.

Her head lifted, and she watched the hawk disappear, a tiny dark speck in the sky. A faint smile curved her mouth, and a militant gleam lit her amber eyes with gold.

Dexter Diamond faced Don Francisco
with angry belligerence. He sat his horse stiffly, glaring down at the slender Mexican. “I don’t believe you, Velazquez.”

A faint shrug accompanied Don Francisco’s soft, “I do not care, señor.”

“Where is she? Word has it you locked her up.”

“Rumor also has it that she ran away with your famous gunman,” Velazquez returned in a silky purr. “Ah, I see that you do not like that suggestion.”

Fury radiated from Diamond, making his huge frame tense and his jaw clench tightly. Deborah could see it, even from where she stood in the shadows of her patio and watched the two men. Dexter had ridden boldly up to the hacienda with the sheriff in tow. She’d heard him shout for Velazquez to come out, and had managed to pull herself up to peer over the top of the adobe wall encircling her patio. She had no idea where her guards were, but knew they wouldn’t be gone long.

Deborah didn’t hesitate. She’d kept up her weak, fragile appearance for Don Francisco’s guards, awaiting a chance for escape. This looked as if it would be her only real hope for success.

“Dexter!” she screamed, hoping her voice would carry and the sheriff would at least investigate. “Help me!” Before she could utter another plea, hard hands seized her and dragged her down from the wall. A sweaty palm clamped down over her mouth, and she heard Spanish curses in her ear as she was hauled backward and into her room. The man who was her guard swore viciously as he pressed her onto the mattress of her bed, holding her while another man bound her arms behind her. Deborah tried to fight, but her struggles were useless against the two determined men. She was taken quickly from her room and half-carried down the dimly lit hallway and out of the hacienda by a back door. Despair filled her. She wasn’t even certain she’d been heard, and now she would be killed. Francisco could not afford to risk her release.

Thrust into a dark, small room that must have been a storeroom at one time, Deborah cried out as the door was slammed shut. Even in the autumn, the heat inside the closed room was stifling. At least they’d untied her hands before dumping her in here. She felt her way around the room, her palms scraping on rough adobe. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she could make out faint shadows and the thin shaft of light coming through a high, narrow window at the top of the wall near the ceiling.

Fear throbbed in her, real fear. The weeks of apathy had left her too vulnerable. She had little strength to resist this raw an emotion.

She pressed back against the wall and took a deep, steadying breath.

Slowly, as she stood there, the fear subsided into a thread of determination.

She would not allow Don Francisco to win. Perhaps she would lose, but he would not win all. Not this way.

The only form of furniture in the cell was a straw pallet on the floor, and it didn’t look very inviting. Deborah thought she heard furtive rustlings in it, and didn’t dare investigate too closely. There was a musty, dank smell to the room, and she began to explore gingerly, half-afraid of what she might find in the deep shadows.

By the end of her search, she had gathered a rotting scrap of leather, a single spur with sharp rowels, and half a chair leg. Sliding down the wall with her back to it, Deborah faced the door and waited. They would come for her eventually, whether to kill her or hide her, didn’t matter. When they came, she would be ready.

Chapter 22

Dust blew high and hard behind him. Zack paused at the edge of the yard where a small split rail fence leaned drunkenly around a few goats. A neat frame house stood beneath a wind-twisted cottonwood. A woman hung clothes out to dry on scraggly bushes, her skirt flapping in the wind. He put a hand to his face, wondering what her reaction would be if he just walked up to her without warning. In his dark beard and torn shirt and pants, he probably looked frightening.

After a brief hesitation, he moved toward her. He had little choice, and perhaps he could form an explanation before she screamed for her husband to come running with a rifle.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said when he got close enough for her to hear him. She whirled around with a gasp, reaching for a rifle propped in the bushes. She had it up and leveled at him before he could lift his hands high enough for her to see he was not armed.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded. “What do you want?” Zack eyed her closely. She was startled, but not afraid. There was no fear in the calm green eyes watching him. “I want food,” he said slowly. His voice was rough from disuse, and his throat felt thick.

“Food.” She kept the rifle on him, assessing him with a steady gaze.

The wind blew around him, kicking up dust devils and peppering him with grit. His stomach growled as the wind brought a faint whiff of roasted meat. It was what had lured him to this house, that tantalizing odor and the hope of help. He was still so weak, his body aching and unable to answer the demands he put on it. It had taken him three days just to get down out of the hills. He swayed slightly, and managed to stay on his feet, though his arms drooped from where he held them over his head. She was still watching him closely, and Zack closed his eyes. He was near the end of his endurance, but his body was too stubborn to surrender just yet.

Zack felt a rising dismay when his knees buckled, and he sagged slowly to the ground. His eyes snapped open. He saw a faint flicker in the woman’s face, and the muzzle of the rifle lowered slightly. The clothes on the bush snapped in the wind, a flutter of muslin and cotton that punctuated the tense silence. He heard the rattle of a windmill turning slowly, and a faint creak of chains. Goats milled and bleated harshly.

“Ma’am,” he croaked, “I won’t hurt you. I just need some food and water . . .”

His voice trailed into silence, and he felt the terrible weakness steal over him. He clung desperately to consciousness, but a numbing weariness sapped him of the strength to continue talking. He just gazed at her mutely, and saw her take a step toward him.

“Try anything funny, mister, and I’ll shoot you between the eyes,” she said finally. Her voice was firm, but soft.

He wanted to assure her he wasn’t capable of trying anything funny, but couldn’t summon the energy. His head nodded once, and the rifle barrel lowered to point at the ground. He knelt there in the sun and wind on his knees with his hands spread on his thighs and waited as she crossed to the house, looking back every so often as if expecting him to leap after her. If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have laughed. Never in his life had he been so helpless, and it wasn’t a good feeling.

Here he was, on his knees in the dirt, begging for food from a stranger.

It was certainly humbling.

She returned. He smelled the bowl of food she carried, and it snapped his head up.

“Here,” she said. “1 brought you some stew. Come eat in the shade where it’s not so warm.” Zack noticed the small table set up under a scrub oak with twisted branches and dusty leaves. He pushed painfully to his feet, staggered a step, and jerked away when she put out a hand to help him.

“I’ll get there,” he muttered, realizing he was being ungrateful, but too proud to take her hand. It was bad enough asking for her food. To allow a woman to offer him her strong shoulder was too much.

She seemed to understand and watched as he crossed the few yards to the table under the tree. The chair creaked loudly as he sank into it, and the woman put the bowl of stew down in front of him.

“There’s bread and stewed apples. I’ll get them.” She came back with the rest, bringing her own bowl of stew. By that time, Zack had eaten most of his, feeling his belly knot at the unexpected bounty. He chewed slowly and washed it down with cool well water. Then he looked up to find his hostess watching him.

“Thank you,” he said simply. There weren’t words enough to convey how much he appreciated the food. He had the thought it had literally saved his life and wondered if she guessed that already.

“You’re welcome.” She smiled faintly and tucked a strand of dark blond hair behind her ear. It fluttered in loose curls around her face. “My name is

Sally Martin.”

He hesitated. Zack Banning was well known in some places. Hawk might frighten her. He looked away.

“My mother named me Zachary, but most folks call me Zack.”

“Well, Zack, you look pretty tired. If you like, I can offer you a bed of straw in my barn and a good breakfast in the morning.” His gaze shifted back to her. “I have no way to pay you.”

“I am not asking for payment. I made the offer. You may accept it or not, as you like.”

She stood up and cleared the small table, piling the dishes with slow, unhurried movements. Sally was sturdy, with capable hands and a slender frame.

What will your husband say?” he asked, and she paused with one hand hovering over an empty plate still smeared with the sticky juices of stewed apples.

“Nothing. He’d dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes met his, a clear, cool green, direct and unshadowed. “So am I.

He was a good man, and I miss him.” Zack stayed in the chair under the oak for a while, and saw her come back out of the house and go back to the basket of wash she was spreading on bushes. Then she fed the goats and chickens and went into the barn. He saw a clump of hay come sailing out into a small corral, and a rangy horse ambled over to munch.

With a pained grimace, he heaved himself out of the chair and hobbled to the barn. She had her skirts hiked up a little and tucked into her waistband while she forked hay out the side door of the barn.

“I’ll do that,” he said.

Sally turned to look at him. “No. You don’t look like you can do much of anything. My guess is, those are bullet holes in that shirt.” It was more a statement than a question, and Zack grew still. “Yes.”

“Thought so.” She studied his face in the dusty gloom of the barn for a long moment. “Rest today. If you want to help me tomorrow or the next day, I’ll be glad of it.”

The dizziness made him reel slightly, and though pride nudged him to insist on helping, common sense won out.

She left him alone in the barn, and returned only to bring him a few blankets. Zack managed to stay upright until she left again, then made up a bed in the straw and rolled up in the blankets. Through the open door, he could see the sun sliding into a crimson and gold thread of sky. As it disappeared, the last fiery rays shot up in splinters of light that made him think of the firelight in Deborah’s hair. Dark fire, glowing and shimmering with radiance.

“Who’s Deborah?”

Zack looked up in surprise, eyes narrowing slightly. A brisk wind blew as he leaned on the fence. “Why?”

“Because sometimes at night I hear you say her name.” Sally shrugged.

“Just curious. Your wife?”

“No.” Zack looked away from her. He’d been at her ranch for a month, slowly recuperating from his injuries. The day after he’d arrived, she’d come into the barn to wake him for breakfast and found him delirious and raving.

His wound had suppurated during the night. If not for Sally, he would have died. She’d removed that bullet, tended his wound, and even removed the bullet still in his arm.

Sally Martin was a very capable, undemanding woman. He’d never known anyone like her. She asked for nothing, not even help. She offered quiet companionship and gentle humor, and in exchange, he did what little he could to help her. He had learned that she was very self-sufficient and content to remain on her small ranch.

“It suits me,” she said in reply to his question about the suitability of her living out here all alone. “After Marty died, I just went on. At first, because it was the only thing I could do, and it helped me focus on the everyday things that make up life. And then, I realized that even alone, I could enjoy sunsets, the flight of an eagle, the smell of freshly baked bread.” Her mouth had curved into a smile. “I just have to admire them with the goats.” As Zack slowly regained his strength, he began practicing with a pistol again. Sally gave him the Colt that had belonged to her husband, along with a worn leather holster for it. Sometimes, in the evenings when the chores were done and before the sun set, she came to watch him draw and shoot tin cans balanced on the top rail of a fence.