Comanche Woman (14 page)

Bay’s hands were constantly moving on the child, but Long Quiet felt sure she was unaware of how often she touched. A quick grasp of little fingers, the rub along a slender shoulder, a knuckle across a petal-smooth cheek . . . his loins tightened at the thought of having her touch him so freely.

She hadn’t noticed him, so he stood silently, letting the mellow sound of her voice flow over him, caressing him where her hands did not.

Slowly, her words began to make sense to him. She was telling the story of how his friend Jarrett Creed had met Bay’s sister, Cricket. He’d heard Creed’s side of the tale. Now he cocked an ear, eager to hear what she said.

“. . . he was a big man, but that did not scare Cricket. She liked to wrestle and she was sure she would win.”

Little Deer giggled. “Oh,
Pia
, a woman cannot wrestle with a man.”

Bay smiled, a curve of full lips, a flash of white teeth, and Long Quiet felt his body’s avid response.

“Cricket could,” she answered the little girl. “And she did. But this man was different from any Cricket had ever met, and not so easily beaten. When I came upon them at the pond, Cricket was lying atop Creed, bound to him by his strong arms. His hand covered her mouth to keep her from calling to her wolves, which were feasting nearby on a fallen stag.”

The little girl’s eyes widened. “Wolves?”

“Yes, wolves.” Bay kissed the tip of Little Deer’s nose. “They were Cricket’s pets, and very friendly.”

“Then what happened?”

“I waited and waited, hoping Cricket would win the wrestling contest. But they remained locked in one another’s arms. So I took my bow and arrow—”

“Oh,
Pia!
” Little Deer interrupted, giggling. “You had a bow and arrow?”

“Can you not see me with a bow and arrow?”

Little Deer crowed with delight at the thought.

“I suppose it is funny to imagine it now,” Bay said wryly, “but at the time I was not laughing. I approached them with an arrow nocked in my bow and demanded that the stranger take his hands off my sister.”

“What did he say?”

“He warned me that if I shot at him, I might hit Cricket.” Bay laughed ruefully. “Of course he could have no way of knowing he was right. I could not often hit the mark with my bow and arrow. But I knew that if I did not help Cricket, she might be hurt. So I stood my ground, and at last he released her. Then we marched him home to Three Oaks, to answer for the stolen horses he had in his possession.”

“You were very brave,
Pia
.”

“No, only very scared,” Bay replied.

Long Quiet resisted the urge to correct Bay. Why did she make so little of what she’d done? He knew from Creed’s account of the incident that if it hadn’t been for Bay’s interference, Creed would never have been taken prisoner. His friend had described Bay as frightened but determined to force Creed’s surrender. He was distracted from his thoughts by Little Deer’s next question.

“Can I have a pet wolf?”

“What would poor old Stewpot think if you replaced him with a sleek gray wolf?”

At the sound of his name, the hound lifted his head from Bay’s knee and thrust his wet nose into Little Deer’s lap, begging to be petted. Both of them willingly complied, and two hands, one slender, one small, stroked the speckled fur until the hound’s eyes drooped closed and he groaned in ecstasy.

Long Quiet grinned. He’d be groaning too, he thought, if he were the object of all that loving attention from two doting females.

“Hihites.”

Two surprised faces turned to greet Long Quiet.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were there,” Bay said, feeling flustered. She had to fight to keep her gaze from straying from his face to his muscular chest and flat belly. Self-conscious beneath his warm gaze, she wondered whether she’d said anything in the past few moments she shouldn’t have.

“You’ll have to show me sometime how you handle a bow and arrow,” Long Quiet said, flashing her a devilish grin.

Bay flushed. “It would be a waste of your time. I’m not—”

“—very good,” he finished for her. “The important thing is that you were willing to try.”

“The important thing,” Bay contradicted, “is how good you become at what you try. My father always said good intentions don’t put food on the table. Nor will they protect you from your enemies. My sisters and I understood that and accepted it. If you think about it, no Comanche would argue with it, either. I don’t blame my father for demanding that I be skilled with weapons. I blame myself for not being able to fulfill his expectations.”

“But you can’t expect to equal a man’s skill.”

“My sisters did,” she retorted. Bay lifted Little Deer out of her lap. She’d been sitting for a long time, and she unbent stiffly as she rose and took Little Deer’s hand. “I must go prepare our meal now.”

She headed for the village without looking back at Long Quiet. When Little Deer turned back and gave him a friendly wave good-bye, Bay gave the child a rather ungentle tug to get her started again.

He debated for a moment whether to call Bay back, but he feared they would only argue more if he did, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d only meant to tease her, but it was obviously a sore subject for her, one that wouldn’t bear pressing. What other unusual demands had her father made upon her, he wondered. And what other scars did she bear as a result?

He’d known a few men, most of them White-eyes, who used a brutal hand with their mounts, hardening the beasts’ mouths so it took more and more pain to control them—and very little provocation for the beast to revolt. He wondered how thick a skin Bay had grown in order to avoid the pain of Rip Stewart’s heavy handling. In his experience, it was rarely that a badly treated mount could ever learn to trust again. He wanted Bay to trust him. It was the first step toward the feelings he hoped she’d someday have for him.

He prayed it wasn’t too late to undo the damage Rip had done.

When he arrived at the tipi that evening, Long Quiet saw that Bay had moved Little Deer’s things in with them. He could tell she expected him to object to the sleeping arrangements, but he avoided the subject. Bedtime would be soon enough for the argument he feared was inevitable.

Bay wished she had more courage. She knew Long Quiet had seen the pallet laid out for Little Deer next to her own, yet he’d said nothing. He’d merely complimented her on the delicious meal she’d prepared and told her about his day. They could have been a Texas family sitting down to supper after a hard day working cotton. It felt so normal, and so nice. It made her wish things could always be this pleasant.

Bay had just gathered up the wooden bowls they’d used so she could take them down to the stream and rinse them out when Long Quiet reached over to wipe a bit of stew off the edge of Little Deer’s mouth.

“I want to see all of your pretty face,” he said with a smile.

Little Deer smiled back shyly and reached out to touch Long Quiet’s chin. Bay held her breath, waiting to see what he’d do.

Long Quiet sat unmoving as Little Deer’s tiny hand roamed the sharp angles of his cheeks and chin. At last her fingers twined around one of the black curls at his temple. She stretched it out straight, but when she let go it curled back up again. She laughed. “Do that to my hair.”

Long Quiet twined a bit of her chin-length hair around his finger, then let it go and made a face of exaggerated disappointment when it immediately straightened again. “It does not stay curled like mine does.”

“Do not be sad,” Little Deer said, shaping Long Quiet’s mouth back into a smile with her hands. “I still like you even though your hair is not straight like mine.”

Bay’s heart skipped a beat when Long Quiet reached up to cover Little Deer’s hands with his own. He looked deeply into the girl’s eyes and replied, “That shows a generous spirit. That is a very good thing for a Comanche woman to possess.”

Bay wondered how he’d known the right thing to say to Little Deer, who puffed up with pride at being referred to as a woman. Bay knew she must look silly sitting there with three dirty bowls in her lap listening to the two of them talk, but she couldn’t bear the thought of missing the dialogue between the man to whom she belonged and the child she felt belonged to her.

Little Deer angled her head sideways so she could look up at Long Quiet’s face. He smiled down at her and said, “I was only a little older than you when I first came to live among The People. My
tawp
, my grandfather, used to tell me a story each night before I went to sleep. Would you like to hear my favorite one?”

“Oh, yes!”

Long Quiet settled the child more comfortably in his arms and began, “Once a Comanche was traveling across the desert and found a black colt that was all alone. The Comanche asked where the colt’s mother and father had gone, but the colt answered that he did not know. The colt was very thirsty and the Comanche brave had water. The brave offered the colt some water, but the colt was stubborn and very independent and decided he would keep trying to find some water on his own.

“Two days passed while the colt got thirstier and thirstier, weaker and weaker. The brave offered the water again, and this time the colt said maybe he would take just a sip. While he sipped the water, the brave stroked the colt’s nose and scratched that itchy spot behind its ears. The colt thought that felt very good, so when the brave asked if the colt would like to come home with him, the colt agreed.

“When they got to the Comanche’s village, the brave told the colt to go and play with all the other ponies that lived there. That sounded like it would be fun, so the colt raced over to join them. But when he arrived, several of the ponies turned and lashed out at him with their heels. He shied away from them, only to be bitten on the neck and the rump by two other ponies. The colt raced back the way he had come and stood at the edge of the herd watching the ponies play with one another.

“The colt ran to ask the Comanche brave why the other ponies did not like him. The brave asked the colt to take a look at himself and then to look at the other ponies. Was he not different? The colt looked carefully at himself. He had four legs, a mane and a tail, a nose, two eyes, and two ears, just like all the other ponies. He did not see a single thing that was different and he told the brave so.

“That was when the brave pointed out that he was much larger in size than the other ponies. His coat was black, while all the other ponies were spotted or red or brown. While their manes and tails hung straight to the ground, his flowed in waves. The colt found it hard to believe that such little things would keep the other ponies from liking him.

“The Comanche brave assured him that those things made no difference to him, and that if the colt were just patient, the other ponies would soon discover the same thing for themselves and become his friends.”

Long Quiet had been so involved in telling the story, he hadn’t been aware of Little Deer’s body relaxing in his arms. “She’s fallen asleep.”

“She was very tired, and your voice was soothing. It was a beautiful story. Did the other boys come to like you as your grandfather promised they would?” Bay ventured.

Long Quiet started at her perception. It wasn’t until he was much older that he’d acknowledged how obviously the story mirrored his own situation. He’d only known it offered the hope of acceptance, and for a little boy who felt all alone, it had been the balm that had allowed him to survive his circumstances. “It was what I needed to hear at the time,” he hedged.

“So they didn’t accept you.”

“Comanches are a very loving people. It didn’t take long before the other boys forgot the color of my eyes and skin.”

“But you were never really one of them,” she prodded.

“I grew up knowing I was different,” he admitted.

Bay took a deep breath and said, “Me too.”

“What?”

“I was different, too. The neighbors weren’t too accepting of the way Rip raised us, so we weren’t always welcome when we showed up at some harvest social. I stopped going after a while. It hurt too much to be shut out. It might not have been so bad, I suppose, if I’d been more like Sloan or Cricket. At least they were always sure of Rip’s approval.”

“But you weren’t.”

“Not always.” Then Bay corrected, “Not ever.”

“So life is better among the Comanches.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Would you go home, Bay, if you didn’t have Little Deer to consider?”

“But I do.”

“Answer the question.”