Comanche Woman (45 page)

“No.”
Difficult, but not impossible.

“Do you wish you were back in
Comanchería?
”

“No.”
Because you can’t be there with me
.

“Are you going to tell me any more about what you’re thinking?”

“No.” Only this time there was a smile in his voice. “It’s all right, Bay. I’m not sorry I chose to live in Texas. It isn’t as though I haven’t ever lived as a white man. I have. Perhaps the finality of it hasn’t struck me yet.”

“But it doesn’t have to be final, does it?” Bay asked. “You can go back to
Comanchería
to visit anytime you want.”

“I suppose I can,” he replied. “But listen to what you said. I’d only be
visiting
. It won’t ever be my home again. I’ll miss it.”

“But you’ll take our child to meet his Comanche relatives, won’t you?”

“You still want me to take our child among the Comanches.”

“How is our son going to be a bridge between two peoples if he doesn’t know anything about one of them?”

“What would have happened if you’d married Jonas, Bay? How would
our
child have learned about his Comanche heritage then?”

Until he’d spoken, Long Quiet hadn’t realized how angry he was with Bay for not telling him about the baby the instant she’d known. The thought of Jonas Harper raising his son put a foul taste in his mouth.

And if he didn’t do something soon to put a stop to Jonas’s games, the day might still come when his son would be calling Jonas Harper “Pa.” That thought prodded Long Quiet completely out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Bay asked, startled to see Long Quiet dressing again.

“I have some business that needs taking care of.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It won’t wait. Go to sleep, Bay.”

“Long Quiet, I—”

“Go to sleep.”

Long Quiet slipped through Jonas’s bedroom window without making a sound. He wore nothing except a breechclout and he’d found his
tunawaws
and painted his face with fierce black stripes. Of course he had no braids, but he’d tied a foxtail and several feathers into his hair, while a leather band at his brow held his raven-black hair from his face. He waited until nearly dawn, sitting cross-legged on the foot of Jonas’s bed.

Jonas woke slowly, with a feeling that he wasn’t alone. That made him think he must be in a hotel with a woman of the night, except the instant he opened his eyes, he knew he was home. His gaze flicked around the room, but found nothing. He frowned. He looked again and saw what appeared to be a war-painted Comanche standing at the foot of his bed with a knife in his hand.

He blinked and had opened his mouth to yell when a guttural voice commanded, “Don’t cry out.”

Panic-stricken, Jonas started to yell anyway.

A heavy hand shut off his voice by grasping his throat. “I said be quiet. I only want to talk to you.”

Jonas had wet himself, and tears of humiliation and fright rose to his eyes as he struggled to breathe through the small air passage left to him by the Comanche’s clutching fingers.

“Do you know who I am?”

Jonas’s eyes went wide with recognition, and he clawed and struggled against the hand at his throat.

“Be still.”

The hand closed tighter, cutting off Jonas’s air, so he was forced to lie still or suffocate.

Long Quiet waited until Jonas opened his eyes again and stared at him before he said, “A Comanche’s horse is his most prized possession, a source of wealth. I’ve lost two horses recently. Someone shot them out from under me.”

Jonas was wildly shaking his head, but he stopped when it occurred to him that Long Quiet’s knife was carving a tiny line along the pulse point below his ear each time he moved.

“But a Comanche is a generous man. I am willing to forgive the loss of my horses, and I will take nothing from you in return.”

Jonas slumped in relief and discovered that once he relaxed, breathing was easier.

“But I should warn you, if one of these accidents should happen again, if another horse of mine should die—for any reason—I’ll come back to visit you again. And next time I’ll flay you alive and cut out your heart when I’m done. Do you understand?”

Jonas nodded vigorously, adding a vertical line to the horizontal one on his throat, which created a jagged cross.

“Now, I know I’ve interrupted your sleep, so why don’t you close your eyes and get some rest.”

Reluctantly, fearfully, Jonas closed his eyes. He waited a moment before daring to open his eyes after the pressure left his throat. He glanced around the room, then leaned up on his elbows to search again.

The Comanche was gone.

Jonas opened his mouth to shout for help and noticed the acrid smell of urine. His face flushed as he rose from the bed and stripped himself of his soiled pajamas.

Who the hell did this Walker Coburn think he was, dressing up like a Comanche and scaring the hell out of him? Well, the time for games was over. He was going to kill Walker Coburn—or whoever the hell he was—and make Bay Stewart his wife. But he was in no hurry. He had a little business in Shelby County to settle first.

When Walker Coburn least expected him, he’d be back.

Chapter 23

B
AY TRIED TO SLEEP BUT COULDN
’
T.
W
HEN DAWN CAME HER
eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, and dark circles had formed in half-moons under her eyes. She rose to prepare Long Quiet’s breakfast, knowing that in this, at least, she could please him. She already had corn cakes cooking on the fire in the lean-to when Paco arrived.

“The señor, he sent me to tell you he will not be coming here to eat his breakfast this morning.”

Bay hid her disappointment as she said, “If you’ll wait, I’ll pack something for his dinner.”

“My sister, Juanita, she has already done this.”

“Oh.” The stab of jealousy was quick and deadly. Bay swayed with dizziness that was not altogether due to fatigue.

Paco reached out a hand to steady her. “The señora, she should rest, no?”

Bay shook off his hand. “No, the señora has work to do. Tell the señor I’ll see him at supper. That is, if he’s coming home for supper.”

Paco grinned. “
Sí
, Señora Coburn. I will tell him.
Adiós
.”

Bay was determined to keep herself busy so she wouldn’t have time to think about where Long Quiet had been all night long. She was digging a plot for a winter garden behind the house when she heard a wagon approaching. She ran around the side of the house in time to hear Sloan yell, “Hello the house! Is anybody home?”

Bay found Sloan unloading a huge trunk from the wagon. “What have you got there? Can I help?”

Sloan hefted the trunk over her shoulder. “Just tell me where you want this trunk.”

“What’s in it?”

“Your clothes.”

“Oh, my. Bring it into the bedroom.”

Bay hurried ahead of Sloan to the bedroom and shoved Long Quiet’s trunk, which was centered at the foot of the bed, over to leave room for hers.

“Set it there,” Bay said, indicating the empty space.

Sloan set down the trunk and immediately plopped herself down on top of it. “Whew! I forgot how heavy that was.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her trousers and wiped the sweat from her brow. “So, how’s married life?” she asked with a grin.

Bay was surprised by Sloan’s friendliness. It occurred to her that Sloan might be as lonely as she herself was feeling at the moment. At any rate, Bay wasn’t one to overlook a found penny, so she said, “It’s not what I expected, if you want to know the honest truth.” She sat down on Long Quiet’s trunk beside Sloan and confided, “For one thing, there isn’t much for me to do.”

Sloan turned her head over her shoulder and looked for a long moment at the gigantic bed, then turned back to Bay and eyed the dark circles under her eyes. “Nothing to do, huh?”

Bay felt herself flush from the neck up. “Well . . . um . . . you know what I mean.”

“What did you expect?” Sloan asked.

“I don’t know that I ever really thought about it. At Three Oaks I always had bookkeeping responsibilities to keep me busy. When I was with the Comanches, I worked hard sewing and tanning and cooking. But I’ve always known what was expected of me. This is probably the first time in my life that I’ve gotten up in the morning without somebody ready to tell me what to do.”

“If you’d married Jonas, you wouldn’t have had this problem. He’d have told you what to do.”

“You’re right about that,” Bay agreed with a grin that said she wasn’t sorry she’d missed that opportunity. “I feel a little like a bear that’s woken up in spring and found everything still covered with snow. Things are kind of familiar, but the landmarks are harder to find.”

“Don’t worry,” Sloan said. “It’s bound to get easier. But you look tired. How have you been feeling? You aren’t working too hard, are you?”

Bay smiled as she laced her hands across her belly. “All right, most of the time. But how long is this muzziness in the morning going to last? Was it like this for you, Sloan? I mean, when did you start feeling better?”

Bay looked up from her stomach to find that Sloan’s face had paled to an unhealthy shade of white. She immediately reached out a hand to Sloan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“I’ve got to go now.” Sloan rose, moving away from Bay’s comforting hand.

“Please don’t leave,” Bay pleaded. “I promise we won’t talk about the baby anymore if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Sloan stopped in the doorway between the two rooms and turned back to her sister. “Look, Bay,” she said, her voice taut with control. “I understand how happy you must be about your baby. It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. Just because I . . .” Sloan swallowed hard and continued, “Just because I chose not to keep my child doesn’t mean I don’t want to share your happiness. But I really do have to go right now.”

Bay thought Sloan was lying about not caring, and she wondered who Sloan was trying to fool most—Bay or herself. “I understand you have to go,” Bay said, “but can I just ask one more question? If you’re sure it won’t bother you,” she qualified.

Sloan’s hands curled into fists, then relaxed as she said, “I told you it wouldn’t bother me, and I do have time for one more question. Go ahead. What is it?”

“When the baby first moved, when you first felt life inside you, what was it like?”

Sloan turned her face away abruptly and stared out toward the front room. “I try not to think about it.” Sloan turned back around, and Bay saw for the first time the anguish her sister had hidden so well from her family. “I try to pretend it never happened, that I never had a baby . . . But I haven’t forgotten what it was like to have my child growing inside me.”

There was the bitterness, the futility and sadness Bay would have expected to hear from a mother who’d given up her child. She ached for her sister and wondered whether Sloan had ever tried to see Cisco and whether, if she had a second chance, she would take her child back.

Sloan walked back into the bedroom and sat down on Bay’s trunk. Bay grasped Sloan’s hand in a show of support.

Sloan squeezed her sister’s hand back and said, “I was in the barn the first time I felt the baby move, and it was like . . . like a small butterfly fluttering in your cupped hands, only it’s happening here . . .” Sloan slid her free hand across her belly in a caress of her empty womb.