When Loretta awoke to the crackling of a fire, she had no idea how long she had slept. More than likely a few minutes, but it could have been hours. Golden light fell across the small clearing, flickering on the bushes, throwing eerie shadows. The smell of burning mesquite wafted to her nostrils. Hunter crouched over the flames, coaxing them to burn more hotly by shifting the wood and blowing on the coals. When Loretta sat up, he glanced over at her.
‘‘You did not like the robes?’’
Her gaze slid to the pallet he had made for her. It lay in a mussed heap, as if she had lifted the furs and tossed them down carelessly. A prickle of unease ran up her spine as Hunter walked to the pallet and grasped the furs to straighten them. If neither of them had touched the bedding, then who had? A fleeting memory of moccasins and bare legs flashed through her mind.
As Hunter lifted the top fur, Loretta glimpsed something beneath it. Her breath caught. A huge rattlesnake lay coiled on the pallet, hidden from the Comanche’s view by the other buffalo robe. As yet, the rattler hadn’t buzzed a warning. Hunter didn’t realize the snake was there. Loretta shot to her knees, her throat constricting.
In that fraction of an instant, it seemed that the Indian and the snake moved as slowly as cold honey dripping off a spoon. She reached toward her captor, her attention fixed on his wrist, on the bulging vein that ribboned his arm. A venomous bite so close to the heart might be fatal. She saw the snake lift its head, its fangs gleaming in the bright firelight. There was no time to think. Instinct took over.
‘‘Snake!’’ she screamed. ‘‘Snake!’’
Hunter reacted to her cry, not leaping away as she might have, but instantly offensive. Using the robe he held as a shield, he deflected the rattler’s first strike and then lashed out with his other hand, catching it behind the head before it could recoil and strike again. The snake writhed and hissed as Hunter lifted it from the pallet. For a moment he held it aloft. Then he looked at Loretta. After what seemed an eternity, he pulled his knife, beheaded the rattler, and tossed it into the brush.
Loretta knelt in the dirt, clutching her throat. Snake. The word bounced off the walls of her mind, shrill, echoing and reechoing. She had screamed. . . .
Disbelief swamped her. Surely her ears had deceived her. She couldn’t have screamed, she just couldn’t, not after seven years of silence. And never to save a Comanche.
Sheathing his knife, Hunter walked toward her hesitantly. Loretta stared at him—at his long hair, his fringed moccasins, his buckskin pants, his medallion, the gods on his wristband. A Comanche.
She felt as if her insides were shattering into a million shards, slicing her apart. Visions of her parents flashed through her head, her mother lying in a pool of dried blood, her eye sockets and mouth crawling with black flies, her father tied to a tree, his body mutilated beyond recognition and obscenely rearranged in death. Those memories were burned into her mind, never to be forgotten, never. She couldn’t have betrayed her parents like this. She couldn’t have. . . .
‘‘N-no,’’ she croaked. ‘‘No.’’
Hunter knelt on one knee in front of her. As she stared at him, he became a blurred mass of muscle, heathen gods, and stinking leather. A suffocating, claustrophobic feeling hit her. Before he could grasp her shoulders, she swung blindly, clipping his cheek with her fist, the memories rising within her like bile. ‘‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’’
Tightening his jaw against the pain that shot along his cheekbone, Hunter grasped the girl’s shoulders. Even with nothing but firelight to illuminate her face, he could see the shock in her expression, the ache of betrayal in her eyes, her suffering all the more acute because she had betrayed herself. To save someone she hated . . .
Sobbing, she struck out at him again, then again, until she was pummeling his face, her own twisted with hysteria. She had saved his life. Hunter flinched but made no move to stop her or to defend himself. Her eyes had a glazed, unseeing look in them, and her sobs spoke of grief trapped within her for far too long. He knew it wasn’t really him she was striking out at, but herself.
At last he drew her against his chest, and she clung to him as if he were about to throw her off a cliff. He wondered if that wouldn’t be kinder. ‘‘You’re a murderer,’’ she sobbed. ‘‘I hate you, don’t you understand? I hate you!’’
He tightened his arms around her, awash in painful memories of his own. She didn’t hate him, not anymore. That was why she cried. The blood of her people called out to her for vengeance, as his did to him. And her heart had turned traitor. ‘‘Toquet, it is well.’’
‘‘No!’’ she wailed. ‘‘My parents . . . oh, God, my parents. You killed them—butchered them.’’ He ran a hand up her spine. Beneath his palm, she quivered. ‘‘You k-killed them.’’
‘‘No, no, I did not. It is a promise I make for you, Blue Eyes. I did not kill them.’’
Beyond the light of their fire, Hunter saw shadows shifting. He lifted his head. Several of the other men, drawn by her screams, stood outside his camp. He recognized Swift Antelope and Warrior, thought he saw Old Man. Red Buffalo and his friends lurked off to the left, almost indiscernible in the darkness. Hunter waved them away. The girl had enough to contend with.
He understood how she felt, better than she knew. Oh, yes, he understood. . . .
Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the pallet. The moment he laid her down, she huddled in a ball, great sobs shaking her shoulders. Hunter knelt beside her. How could he comfort her when he couldn’t comfort himself? They were sworn enemies, but somehow their hatred had become lost in the weave of their emotions like a single thread in cloth.
She buried her face in the crook of her arm. The sound of her weeping made him feel sick. He rose and walked slowly around the pallet, searching the ground for telltale footprints. Nothing. Had the snake slithered into his buffalo robes on its own? And if it hadn’t, who had put it there? Someone who hated the yellow-hair. Someone who had hoped she would climb into the bed without looking. Hunter sighed and lifted a weary gaze to scan the darkness. Suspicion gnawed at him. The snake could have gotten into the bedding on its own, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened.
Hunter lay down on the pallet and pulled the girl into the curve of his body. She huddled with her back to him, shivering and sobbing. He wrapped a length of her silken hair around his wrist and covered her with the fur.
‘‘Don’t touch me. Please, don’t. I can’t bear it.’’
Her voice cut into him. He released her and rolled onto his back to study the starlit sky, wondering about her mother, her father, the horrors she must have seen. He was no stranger to the atrocities committed during raids. True, he had made a pact with himself to make war only on men, but he had ridden with hundreds of braves who had no such compunction.
After a long while the girl’s sobbing subsided, and her breathing became slow, measured. In her sleep she scooted her rump toward him, seeking warmth.
He rolled onto his side and curled an arm around her. Slipping his hand under the shirt she wore, he pressed his palm against her feverish midriff and traced the ladder of her ribs with his fingertips. She was as soft as a pelt of ermine. He could feel the rhythmic thump of her heart, the warmth of her just beneath her skin. He closed his eyes. Her voice rang in his mind, as clear as a morning bird’s. I hate you, don’t you understand? I hate you.
When the sun rose, she would have even more reason to hate him. If she didn’t drink soon, she would die. He couldn’t allow her to go another day without water. Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Where was his anger? His hatred? He wasn’t sure when it had happened or how, but the small woman beside him was no longer his captive; he had become hers.
Loretta was awake long before the first pink shafts of sunlight streaked the horizon. She lay on her back with the Comanche’s arm flung across her. His large hand cupped her breast, the warmth of his palm seeping through the leather of her shirt. His s
hirt. She didn’t try to move. What difference did it make? Today, a week from now, sooner or later he would take her.
The dry lining of her throat protested when she tried to swallow, but even so, there was a different feeling down inside her, an alive feeling. She could scream if she wanted. The realization frightened her; she didn’t know why.
The Comanche stirred beside her. She concentrated on the sky, her senses numbed to him and anything he might do. Death loomed before her, beckoning, peaceful. In heaven there wouldn’t be any Indians. It wouldn’t be heaven if there were.
Hunter sat up and swept back his hair. Smoke from one or two fires already drifted on the air. The morning was cool and crisp. He settled his gaze on the steel-blue horizon, relieved he was no longer hemmed in by trees and undergrowth. Out here a man could see his enemy coming.
Stretching, he glanced over his shoulder. The girl’s eyes had a hollow look, and she seemed unaware of him. He passed a hand before her and was relieved when her gaze sharpened. He pushed to his feet. The others were beginning to stir. If he planned to get any water down her, he had to begin.
After fetching the canteen, he approached her. ‘‘You will drink, Blue Eyes?’’
She gave her head a shake. Her sunburn was beginning to heal, and without the flush she was pale. Soon all the dead skin would be gone.
‘‘You must drink.’’
Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘‘No.’’
Hunter dropped to his knees beside her. He didn’t want to do this. . . . Laying the canteen on the fur, he launched himself at her. Before she realized what he planned to do, he seized both her wrists and straddled her waist.
‘‘Wha— Let me go!’’ she croaked.
She bucked beneath him, but he had the advantage of weight. When she tried to knee him in the back, he remembered the night the cowardly White Eyes had attacked her in the wagon. He pinned her arms beneath his knees, hating himself for hurting her.
‘‘You will drink.’’ Picking up the canteen, he uncorked it and leaned forward. ‘‘My way or yours?’’
She thrashed, trying to avoid his hand. ‘‘I—no!’’
Grasping her chin, Hunter dug his fingertips and thumb into her cheeks. When at last her jaws parted, he held the canteen over her yawning mouth and began trickling water down her.
To his surprise, she went perfectly still. By breathing carefully through her nose, she was able to let him fill her mouth without swallowing. The excess water sluiced out onto her cheeks and ran into her hair. Hunter couldn’t plug the canteen and lay it down, not without turning her loose. And if he turned her loose, she’d spit out the water.
‘‘Warrior!’’ he yelled.
Several fires away, Warrior shot up from his bed. After looking around in befuddlement, he spied Hunter and broke into a run. Within seconds he was standing by the pallet, his sleepy brown eyes riveted on the yellow-hair.
‘‘Tah-mah, what are you trying to do, drown her?’’
‘‘Yes. Squeeze her nose.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Do it!’’
Warrior knelt at her head. ‘‘Hunter, are you—’’
‘‘Do I have to call Swift Antelope?’’
Warrior pinched the girl’s nose. ‘‘If she dies, it is your doing.’’
‘‘She isn’t going to die. I’m trying to make her drink.’’ Hunter watched the girl’s face turn red from lack of air. After a few seconds the muscles in her throat became distended. Then, at last, she swallowed part of the water and began to choke. ‘‘Turn loose. Warrior, turn loose!’’
Warrior, who always seemed to be one thought behind everyone else, finally released her nose and sat back on his heels. The girl gasped and sucked water the wrong way. Grimly, Hunter watched while she fought to get her breath.
When at last she stopped coughing, he said, ‘‘You will drink?’’
Her eyes glittered up at him, so filled with hatred that a chill ran up his spine. Hunter grasped her chin again. ‘‘Her nose, Warrior. And this time, turn loose when she starts to swallow or we will drown her.’’
‘‘You will drown her. I’m just helping.’’
The process was repeated. When she had stopped choking the second time, Hunter once again offered her the chance to drink on her own. She refused. Two swallows of water were not enough, and Hunter knew it.
By the time the tenth swallow had been accomplished, Hunter dripped sweat, Warrior looked sick, and the girl was limp with exhaustion. Yet still she fought. Hunter’s admiration for her grew. She had great courage—Comanche heart, his people called it.
Hunter hoped ten swallows would suffice. He would stop midmorning and make her drink more. The thought made his guts clench. She would fight him again. And again. Perhaps when they reached his village and she saw that he would not allow the people there to harm her, she would give up. His mother, Woman with Many Robes, had a gentle, loving hand. If anyone could reassure the girl and bring her around, it would be her.
If he could get the yellow-hair there in time.
Echoing his thoughts, Warrior said, ‘‘She’ll die if she won’t drink. Half of what you poured into her got spit out.’’
‘‘She isn’t going to die,’’ Hunter hissed. ‘‘I won’t let her. I’ll make her drink often. What I get down her will be enough.’’
A troubled frown pleated Warrior’s brow. ‘‘Hunter, what if she isn’t the woman of the prophecy? Have you thought of that? She doesn’t seem to like you very well.’’
‘‘She’s the woman of the prophecy. I’m sure of it.’’ Hunter lifted his knees off her arms and pushed to his feet. ‘‘She will stop fighting soon. No one can fight forever.’’
‘‘How can you be sure? That she’s the right woman, I mean?’’
Hunter capped the canteen. ‘‘I know, that’s all.’’ The girl rolled onto her side and hugged her belly. Warrior studied her, his expression unreadable. ‘‘We will have to ride hard if you want to get her home alive.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ Hunter sighed. ‘‘Go tell the others, eh?’’
It seemed to Hunter that time became measured by the steady and ceaseless clop of his horse’s hooves on the marbled earth. The sun hovered endlessly in one place, a burning circle that gilded the azure sky with silver. The girl rode cradled in his arms, her head lolling on his shoulder, her hands curled limply in her lap. As still as death. . . . He wanted to spur his horse forward so they could reach their resting place on the South Fork of the Pease River more quickly. This time he would make sure she drank enough that he wouldn’t fear for her life.
Warrior rode to Hunter’s right, Swift Antelope to his left. They seemed to sense his mood and spoke infrequently. Hunter didn’t encourage conversation. Doubts tortured him. Should he turn back? What did the Great Ones expect of him? Would the girl die if he pressed onward? And if he took her home to her people, what then? What of the prophecy? What of his people?
As if he heard Hunter’s thoughts, Warrior moved his pony closer and said, ‘‘You must trust the Great Ones, tah-mah. If you are certain she is the woman of the prophecy, then all will be well. The song cannot come to pass if she dies.’’
Hunter tucked in his chin to study the girl’s mud-streaked face and found himself wondering how he ever could have thought her ugly. Could a shaft of sunlight be ugly? A sparkle of moonlight upon water? ‘‘I’m certain, Warrior. She is the woman. Already, part of the prophecy has come to pass, eh? Her voice has been returned to her.’’
‘‘And she has stolen your Comanche heart, has she not?’’
‘‘She has great courage for one so small, but my heart is my own. As it will always be.’’
Warrior leaned sideways to peer over Hunter’s shoulder at the yellow-hair’s face, his own creasing in a grin. ‘‘Yes, there is something about her, is there not? The mud, I think. It does something for her.’’
Hunter smiled in spite of himself. ‘‘She looks like She Who Shakes got ahold of
her. Remember when Ki-was, Rascal, let her make his war paint?’’
Warrior chuckled. ‘‘The time she mixed it too thin? The three red stripes on his chin dripped, and he rode into battle looking like a People Eater. Yes, I remember.’’
Hunter flexed his tense back, letting the sound of Warrior’s laughter soothe him.
‘‘She sleeps like a baby, Hunter. That’s a good sign, no? She must be starting to trust you. She’ll begin eating and drinking soon.’’
‘‘She’s just exhausted and weak from thirst. Too weary to be frightened. Or to give me trouble.’’
Warrior sighed. ‘‘We will stop soon. I’ll help you get some water down her, eh? She will be all right.’’
Swift Antelope nudged his pony into a gallop and, hooking a leg through the strap on his surcingle, slid sideways to ride horizontal along the animal’s belly so he could snatch up a clump of snakeweed. After righting himself, he waved his prize in the air, yipping shrilly at Warrior.
Hunter smiled again. ‘‘Go show our young friend how to ride, eh? He grows bored.’’
‘‘You need company right now.’’
‘‘I am fine. Go.’’
A plume of dust rose behind Warrior’s pony as he rode off to race with Swift Antelope. Hunter chuckled when his brother flipped sideways to ride beneath his horse’s belly. Swift Antelope took up the challenge and did likewise, touching his sagging rump to the ground only once. Hunter could remember a time when the boy had been dragged while riding that way, one foot hung up in a surcingle strap. Now it wouldn’t be long before he could accurately shoot his bow from that position.
Not to be bested, Warrior launched himself out of the saddle to stand on his horse’s back while at full gallop. Soon, several other braves joined in the competition, the stunts becoming more difficult as the number of participants grew. High-pitched voices echoed and reechoed over the rolling grassland.
Hunter felt the girl stir and glanced down to see that her eyes were open. The yipping and hollering had disturbed her. As if she felt his gaze, she looked up, her expression quizzical. He wondered how long it would take before she became accustomed to speaking.