When Loretta regained her senses, she was surrounded by a cacophony of thundering hooves, shouts, and screams. Horrible screams. She knew what made the sounds . . . an animal in agony. She blinked and peered upward, trying to bring the world into focus. Hunter leaned over her, skimming his hands down her body. Then he was gone.
When the earth stopped pitching, Loretta pushed up on her elbows, her still dazed senses directed toward the screaming and a blur of movement. Slowly, the blur came into focus. The stallion. The poor beast was thrashing, trying frantically to stand. Even from where she lay, Loretta could see the odd angle of his right foreleg, broken clean in two. Her stomach felt as though it dropped a foot. Had he stepped into a varmint hole?
Oh, God, not the horse! Guilt slammed into her like a giant fist.
Slowly she sat up. About four feet from the stallion, Hunter stood rooted, his face twisted, his fists clenched. His cousin approached and offered him a rifle, but Hunter knocked the weapon aside. The surrounding woods went eerily silent, the only sounds those of the horse, high-pitched and heartrending.
After a moment, the tension flowed from Hunter’s body. Speaking softly in Comanche, he walked toward the crazed stallion. Loretta heard several of the other men murmur in disapproval, but they made no move to stop him. Was Hunter mad? The horse was blind with pain, dangerous. Loretta couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the moment. The other Comanches didn’t move, either. Indeed, no one seemed to breathe.
‘‘Pamo,’’ Hunter whispered. ‘‘Nei Pamo.’’
The horse’s screams changed pitch, took on a pleading note. He threw his head, seemed to focus on his master, and whinnied. Hunter dropped to his knees in front of him.
‘‘Ah, my good friend.’’
The stallion quieted, grunting and nudging his master’s belly. A wind came up, catching the man’s long hair and the stallion’s silken mane. Cast against the backdrop of trees and mesquite, the two formed a picture Loretta knew would be burned in her memory. Wild creatures, both, burnished skin and ebony.
Bending his head, the Comanche touched his lips to the stallion’s muzzle, breathing in, then out. The horse inhaled, tasted, and the fear seemed to leave him. With a great shudder, he stopped struggling to gain his feet and eased onto his side.
Loretta didn’t need to understand Comanche. The body language of love was universal. Man and beast were one in a way she had never experienced, never dreamed could be. The Comanche moved closer, whispering, sometimes smiling, as if he spoke of long-ago moments he and his friend had shared. He stroked the horse’s neck, shoulder, even his injured leg, weaving a hypnotic spell. The animal trusted the Comanche so completely that he at last lowered his head to his master’s knees and heaved a sigh.
Hunter hunched his shoulders and knelt there for a long while, still speaking softly. Then, with no inflection in his voice to warn anyone of what he was about to do, he said, ‘‘Erth-pa, pa-mo. Sleep.’’ The words no sooner passed his lips than he drew his knife and, with a mighty thrust, buried it to the hilt behind the unsuspecting stallion’s shoulder. The large animal jerked, gave a death kick, then exhaled his last breath.
Silence cloaked the woods. Hunter didn’t move, didn’t speak. Loretta had never seen such pain etched upon a man’s face. She felt as if she might be sick, wished that she could die. If she had known this would happen, she wouldn’t have chosen that moment to flee. And never on this man’s horse.
At last Hunter looked up. In the dusk she couldn’t be sure, but she thought a tear shimmered on his cheek. He strained to lift his stallion’s head from his lap and lowered it gently to the ground. A muscle along his jaw spasmed when he grasped his knife and pulled it from the animal’s heart.
Rising to his feet, he turned his eyes, which appeared almost black in the twilight, toward Loretta. He held the bloody weapon aloft in his left hand so she could see it.
Never taking his eyes from hers, the Comanche used the bloody knife to slash his right forearm from just below his elbow to the back of his wrist. Loretta flinched, for the blade ran deep. She stared at the blood, watched it stream down Hunter’s arm, drip onto the dirt. The thought crossed her mind that if he had done that to himself, no telling what he might do to her.
The Comanche’s cousin approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Hunter shrugged away, his gaze still fixed on Loretta. Heart in throat, she looked at Hunter’s cousin. The man’s twisted features were solemn. There was no doubt the horse’s death distressed him, but in his eyes she saw something else— something that had nothing to do with sadness or regret. Satisfaction.
When Loretta drew her gaze back to Hunter, she knew why his cousin appeared so gratified. She had finally succeeded in making Hunter so angry that he would kill her. And, judging from his deadly calm, her death would not be swift.
Chapter 9
AS HUNTER STRODE TOWARD HIS YELLOW-HAIR, countless emotions welled within him, grief, rage, regret, but what burned most brightly was thirst for revenge. He had trusted her promise, and she had made a lie of it. All tosi tivo were the same, spewing honey talk, none of the words written upon their hearts. His beautiful Smoke had paid the price for Hunter’s poor judgment.
Over the years the tosi tivo had taken many of Hunter’s loved ones, his brother Buffalo Runner, for whom Hunter bore a mourning scar on his right palm, his sister, Rain, for whom he bore another scar on his left palm, and his beloved wife, for whom he had marked his face. There had been others in his village, friends, relatives, children. Now, even his war pony, Smoke.
The girl slithered backward on her rump when he reached to grab her arm. Disgust roiled within him. Everything about her was an affront, the flower smell, her golden hair, her wide blue eyes, her berry-red and peeling skin, her ridiculous breeches. Even the feel of her wrist in his hand set his teeth on edge. Hoos-cho Soh-nips, Bird Bones, that was what he would call her.
He jerked her to her feet and yanked her against his chest with so much force, her wind slammed out of her. He was aware that the other men watched, that they waited to see what punishment he would mete out. If Hunter was too soft with her, they would lose respect for him. So be it. At least for now. If he punished her when his heart was this heavy, he’d kill her.
The ride back to camp seemed interminable to Loretta. Hunter rode in grim silence, one bruising arm clamped around her waist, his other hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist in the roan’s mane. She tried to imagine what fate awaited her.
Terror sluiced like ice water down her spine. She began to quiver, then to tremble. When she had contemplated death as a means of escape, she had hoped for something quick. Too late, she realized Hunter did nothing rashly.
When they reached camp, he rode the roan to the oak where she had been sitting all day. After dismounting, he hauled her off the horse and pulled her behind him to his pile of bags, where he made quick business of gathering stakes and lengths of rawhide. Gripping her arm, he made a circle of the camp until he found a rock. Their next destination was the pallet. With a snarl, he kicked what she had come to regard as her buffalo robe out of his way. Then he shoved her down on the other fur.
Loretta landed on all fours. Afraid to move, to breathe, she watched him drive the first stake. He glanced up at her, his eyes glittering. As he moved to drive another stake, she almost made a run for it.
Then she looked up. Indians stood all around her. To a man they stared at her, their faces dark with anger. Hunter’s cousin was less than fifteen feet away. He alone was smiling. She knew that he and the others were waiting to watch her die. If she bolted, she wouldn’t make it five yards.
When Hunter had driven the last stake, he straightened and said, ‘‘You will lie on your back. I warn you, woman, do not fight me. If you do, I will sure enough kill you. It is a promise I make, not your tosi tivo honey talk.’’
Loretta figured he would kill her no matter what, but it seemed a moot point. She was one woman against sixty men. Courage and prayer eluded her. Fe
ar anchored her hands and knees to the fur. It took all her strength of will to move. Her arms shook as she crawled to lie down. Rolling onto her back, she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.
Hunter seized her left wrist in a cruel grip and swiftly lashed it to a stake. Her mother. She forced her mind to go blank and was scarcely aware as Hunter tied her other wrist and spread her legs to secure her ankles. When he had finished, she felt him kneel beside her. Lifting her lashes, she saw he had drawn his knife. He leaned over and slowly brought the blood-stained blade toward her face.
He was going to cut out her tongue. A metallic taste coated the roof of her mouth and puckered her palate. Rage sparkled in his indigo eyes, brilliant and brutal. The razor-sharp edge of his knife lightly grazed her cheek.
‘‘You made a lie of your promise, Blue Eyes. I said what I would do. You thought I was blowing like the wind, eh?’’ His white teeth flashed in a sneer. ‘‘The crows will be very happy birds and will fly far away with your lying tongue so it will never again lay my heart on the ground. That will be good, no? We will do it, eh? When the moon shows her face? Do not go away. You wait here for this Comanche.’’
Sheathing his knife, he rose and left her. Loretta turned her head to see that the other men were still standing there—watching, waiting. She heard Hunter go over to the oak, heard him speak, heard someone reply. Then the sound of hooves thrummed through the ground, and she realized he was riding away on the roan. The other Indians gathered their horses and walked off, clearly disappointed that their entertainment was delayed.
When the last of them had gone, Loretta stared at the darkening sky. The moon would come out soon. How long would Hunter delay her torture? An hour? Two? She should be praying, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of the words. Images of Amy and Aunt Rachel passed through her mind, the good times they had shared and the bad. Uncle Henry wasn’t so terrible, not really. She worked her wrists, trying to free them from the leather. The thin thongs cut into her skin but didn’t loosen.
Time passed. She had no idea how much. It grew so dark that red-gold auras hovered over the fires. Hunter would return soon. Pray, draw strength, make your peace with God.
Hunter didn’t return.
Loretta wasn’t sure when it happened, but slowly her fear altered, focusing less on what Hunter might do to her and more on what could happen before he returned. Snakes, bears, wolves, cougars. She had wanted to die . . . but, please, God, not as an animal’s dinner. Or slowly, from poisonous venom.
Blackness . . . Why had she never noticed how dark the nights were? Something rustled in the brush, and she craned her neck. Shadows shifted. An animal? Or only a breath of wind? She strained against the leather, oblivious of the pain as the strips bit into her flesh. Moisture filmed her face. She heard something slither in the grass. A snake? She fastened her gaze on the closest campfire, concentrating on the light. She couldn’t see Hunter. Why hadn’t he come back yet?
A hysterical urge to laugh hit her. Of course! He had chosen the worst torture of all . . . waiting. Alone in the dark to contemplate death, either at his hands or by some beast of prey. By the time he returned, she already would have died in her mind a thousand times and in as many ways.
Moonlight shimmered on the river, silver-white where it caught in the ripples, casting the untouched surfaces of water into glistening blackness. The night wind whispered, as sadly as lost souls searching for solace, and Hunter lifted his face to it.
His hands ached from gathering rocks for Smoke’s grave. Flexing his fingers, he drew up his knees and rested his folded arms on them. He sighed and let his eyes close so his heart could drift along the path of memories, back to Smoke’s birth, then forward, recreating the moments they had shared these many years. It hurt to remember, but he knew the pain would cut deep and leave a wound that would begin to heal. A man couldn’t run from grief. In the end it always caught up to him. Better to face it now.
The muscles along Hunter’s throat tightened. As had happened so many times in his life, his grief had to walk behind his responsibilities, like a woman behind her husband. He could mourn Smoke for only a few short minutes. The yellow-hair waited, and Hunter had to return to camp.
He gazed into the darkness at the flickering shadows. Above the tops of the trees on the opposite side of the river, he could see endless stretches of starlit sky. He longed for home where the plains stretched forever, where the wind sighed through the river canyons, sweet with the smell of grass and mesquite. If only his friends hadn’t come across a mute yellow-hair and ridden to tell him.
Loretta heard something. A rustling sound. She dropped her chin to her chest and peered through the blackness, heart slamming. A black shape moved. She knew it wasn’t her imagination this time. She strained frantically against the leather strips that bound her hands. Then the shape moved between her and the flickering light of the campfires, taking on the outline of a man, a tall man who moved with fluid strength. She went weak with relief.
He gathered wood for a fire, lighting the tinder with a fire drill. It was a long, tedious process. In the moonlight, she could see the constant play of muscle across his back as he pulled the small bow back and forth. At last, though, the friction created sparks, the tinder caught fire, and the parched wood flared to life, a brilliant yellow in the darkness. Loretta longed to be closer to the heat.
Hunter brushed his palms clean on his pants, turning to give her a long perusal. Her heart nearly stopped, she was so scared.
The fire cast its light over him. Outlined against the blackness, he looked more like an artist’s carving than a flesh-and-blood man, his chest and arms burnished copper, his pants and moccasins muted gold. Flickering shadows danced across his face, obscuring his features.
With pantherlike grace he walked toward her, his feet seeming to skim the earth. As he neared the pallet, he pulled his knife from its sheath. Loretta jerked. As he knelt beside her, she strained away. His piercing blue-black eyes locked with hers.
Offering no explanation for his clemency, he bent over her and cut the leather that bound her wrists. Then, with the same quick precision, he slashed the leather that secured her feet and sheathed his knife, not speaking, not looking at her again. Scarcely able to believe he wasn’t going to do something horrible, Loretta slowly sat up and rubbed her wrists, watching him. He walked to his leather bags and rummaged in them. When he returned, he tossed a piece of jerked meat in her lap, keeping another for himself.
Closing her hand around the meager fare, she bowed her head and blinked back tears. She was acutely aware of him as he crouched by the fire. The night air nipped at her feverish skin, but she didn’t dare join him to warm herself. He tore off a piece of meat with his teeth and began to chew. At least she didn’t need to worry that the jerky was poisoned. She had no idea what kind of meat it might be.
Thinking about food made her stomach growl. It seemed like a century since she’d eaten. She uncurled her hand and studied the meat. It looked pretty much like the jerked venison from home. Her mouth started to water. Hunter was gazing into the fire, either ignoring her or pretending he was. She sneaked a bite. A delicious smoke flavor filled her mouth as she rolled the tough fibers across her tongue. She glanced at him and thought she detected a glimpse of a smile, but when she looked again his mouth had settled into its familiar grim lines, his jaw muscle bunching as he chewed.
Loretta took another tiny bite. Then a bigger one. The meat tasted so good; she couldn’t swallow fast enough. Her stomach growled again, so loudly that Hunter glanced over. She averted her face and stopped chewing, reluctant to let him know she was actually enjoying something he had given her. The moment he looked away, she stuffed the remainder in her mouth.
When he finished his portion, he retrieved the other buffalo fur from where he had kicked it earlier and stretched out on his back beside her. Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the space next to him. Loretta curled up on her side, as close to the edge of the pallet as she could
. She jumped when she felt his hand in her hair. When she realized that he had wrapped a length of it around his wrist, helpless rage welled within her.
Miserable, Loretta hugged herself to ward off the cold, too proud and too frightened to seek warmth with him under the fur. He sighed and yawned, draping a corner of the robe over her. Accidentally? Or on purpose? She couldn’t be sure.
Heat radiated from his body and immediately began to warm her back. Loretta fought against the desire to inch closer and hugged herself more tightly. It really wasn’t that cold tonight. It just felt that way because of her sunburn. Oh, but she was chilled. So chilled she felt sick—hot on the inside, shaking on the outside. When she closed her eyes, her head whirled. If only he would throw more wood on the fire.
Seconds slipped by, mounting into minutes, and still Loretta huddled in a shivering ball. The Comanche lay motionless beside her. Warmth seeped from his body, beckoning to her. She cocked an ear, trying to tell by his breathing if he was awake.
She’d be crazy to move closer unless he was asleep. If he was, he’d never know, would he? And she could warm herself, stop shivering. He had to be asleep. Nobody could lie that still otherwise.
She wriggled her bottom over just a little way, then held her breath. He didn’t move. For a long while she lay there listening, waiting. Nothing. She moved in another inch. He remained perfectly still. Loretta relaxed a little, taking care not to lean so close she touched him. In a few minutes she would grow warm and ease away, and he would be none the wiser.
With no warning, he rolled onto his side. He threw a heavy arm across her waist, splaying his broad hand on her midriff just below her breasts. With an ease that alarmed her, he pulled her snugly against him, scraping her sunburned thigh on the fur. His well-padded chest felt as warm as a fire against her back. He bent his knees so his thighs cradled hers. For several seconds Loretta held herself rigid, not sure what to expect next, imagining the worst.