“Tosahwi,” she repeated slowly, nodding. “It’s a pleasure having you here, Tosahwi.”
He imitated her nod, still grinning, although she knew he had no idea what she said. “At least I have a name I can call you that isn’t ‘hey, you.’”
Her mother appeared in the doorway, looking wan and pale, but the smile she offered them was genuine, not feigned. “Mother, this is Tosahwi.”
Charlene pointed toward her. “Olivia.”
The Comanche boy grinned, nodding. “Olivia. Charlene.”
“How wonderful.” Her mother clapped her hands. “Are you hungry, Tosahwi?”
She made a gesture of picking up food and putting it in her mouth, then pointed to Tosahwi. He nodded, and rubbed his stomach, grinning hugely. Charlene chuckled.
“I will accept that as a yes. Sit with him, Mother, while I get him some food.”
Olivia took her chair as Charlene vacated it, talking to the Indian with both words and gestures in an effort to communicate. Leaving them alone, she went to the kitchen to fry Tosahwi some ham and potatoes with onions, the smell of the cooking food reminding her at last that she had not had lunch.
Her own stomach rumbling, she added bread and butter, then took the plate of hot food into the bedroom. She handed Tosahwi his plate, then observed him wolf the food down with his fingers. “Are you sure you fed him today, Mother?” she asked dryly.
“Twice, dear. He’s a growing boy, remember, and recovering. He’s going to have quite the appetite for a long time.”
Hearing a knock at the door, Charlene went to answer it. Jean and Harold stood on the porch, his arms filled with a huge box of enough food to last them a month, even with Tosahwi’s appetite. She opened the door for them, inviting them inside.
Jean gave her a hug. “How are you, Charlene? You are looking much better than you did earlier.”
“Thank you, I am doing better. Come in. Mother, we have visitors.”
Olivia emerged from the bedroom, smiling when she saw who had come. “Jean, Harold.” Embracing them both, she invited them to sit down in the living room. “I was just in with Tosahwi. He is well on his way to recovery.”
“That is his name?” Jean glanced at Harold. “He speaks English?”
Olivia sat down as Charlene took the box into the kitchen to put their supplies away in the pantry, and the perishables down into the root cellar where they would remain good despite the summer heat. She half listened as Olivia explained how they had come to learn the boy’s name.
“My, my,” Jean said, marveling. “It’s best you have the extra goods, then, with such an enormous appetite to fill.”
“Our own two boys eat like young horses,” Harold said. “They have only one to feed.”
Charlene froze for a moment, fearing the reference to the Maple’s sons would upset Olivia, who had lost her own sons as well as her beloved husband in the fire. But her mother merely laughed, a sound Charlene had not heard since before her father and brothers died. “Yes, boys do need to eat a great deal,” she said.
Warmth filled Charlene. Tosahwi was indeed a blessing in their home, for his presence and his need for care had brought Olivia out of her shell and gave her a new reason for living. She hoped and prayed that this new zeal would not depart once he healed and returned to his Comanche people. “But going home is not the same as death,” she murmured. “He can return for a visit if he wishes.”
Sticking her head out of the kitchen, she asked, “Jean and Harold, are you staying for supper?”
Jean stood up. “Yes, since you asked. And I will prepare it. Please offer your guest a piece of my delicious apple pie.”
Taking a knife, Charlene cut a wedge of pie from the dish and put it on a plate, then poured a glass of milk to take to Tosahwi. She found him drowsing, but he woke when she entered.
“Charlene,” he said, his grin wide.
“I brought you some dessert,” she said, putting the plate in his hands, and setting the milk where he could reach it. “Jean’s apple pie is renown around Bandera.”
He gobbled the pie down, licking his fingers, and drank the milk with enthusiasm. Chuckling at how cheerful he was despite his obvious pain, she rose. Taking the dishes from him, she said, “I’ll bring you your laudanum.”
He nodded as though he understood, setting his head back on the pillows. Setting the plate and glass in the sink, she eyed the meat pie Jean was concocting. “I need to take the boy his laudanum, then I’ll help you.”
“No, you won’t.” Jean eyed her sternly. “You will bring the boy his laudanum, then you will pour everyone a glass of wine. After that, you will sit down.”
Charlene sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear.”
Tosahwi took his laudanum laced wine with reluctance but obediently swallowed it down. Charlene took a moment to stroke her hand over his cheek, as though he were her son, yet he had been under her roof for only twenty-four hours. How fond will I be of him after twenty-four days?
Leaving him to sleep, she kept the window wide open to catch the evening breeze, then returned to the kitchen. “Are you sure I cannot help?”
Jean pointed with a knife at the door. “Wine. Then go.”
Charlene poured four small glasses of her red wine, left one for Jean on the counter, and took the other three out to the living room where her mother and Harold chatted. “I have been exiled from the kitchen,” she began.
From the bedroom down the hall, she heard the sound of a thump, the scrape of a chair across wood, and a soft cry. Instantly, Charlene bolted for the hallway and the door of the room. Though it was dusk, there was still enough daylight for her to see by, and she saw easily. Tosahwi lay on the bed, gasping for breath, his dark eyes glassy, as a shadow leaped through the window to vanish.
Chapter Six
Tyler watched as Miss Quinn, escorted by the two old biddies, left the Apple Tree store. He eyed Victor sidelong and lifted his brow. “Beer?”
“You buying?”
“This time.”
Both he and Victor made their farewells to Mr. and Mrs. Maple, then followed the women out onto the wooden sidewalk. He observed the trio headed toward the Quinn residence and wished he could have been the one to escort her home. He recalled the horror that leapt in his throat when he saw Miss Quinn under attack by a lunatic with a knife.
Keeping them in sight for as long as possible, Tyler walked with Victor to the saloon. It wasn’t much cooler inside than out, but at least the sun no longer beat down on his head. He lifted his fingers to the barmaid, who immediately nodded and drew two foaming beers. Setting his hat on the table, he dropped into the chair with a sigh.
“So, what’ll happen?” he asked.
Victor watched the beer arrive with keen eyes. “So, what will happen?”
Tyler scowled. “With this Johnson fellow.”
“Oh, him.”
Victor waited until the barmaid set the beers down on the table and Tyler paid for them, then picked up his to take a long drink. He wiped foam from his mustache with a happy sigh. “I got one piece of cow dung off the street for a while.”
Then his happy mood passed, he frowned sadly into his beer. “Now I gots to feed him. That’s no fun.”
“What’ll happen to him?” Tyler drank his beer before the heat got to it and made it nasty.
“When the circuit judge comes around, he’ll be judged guilty and maybe sent to prison for a while,” Victor answered. “Attempted murder, that’s a bad ‘un out here in Texas.”
“He deserves it,” Tyler said, heat in his voice. “He almost killed her, Vic. If she hadn’t moved faster than he did –”
“Yep. That’s one lucky gal.”
“Lucky?” Tyler stared at his friend. “Vic, you didn’t see her. She moved like, I don’t know, greased lightning.”
“Even luckier.”
Baffled, Tyler scratched his head. “How can one little girl evade a knife like that?”
Victor stared into his beer. “I dunno, Tyler,” he said slowly. “She was the younger of them three kids, the boys that died. Maybe she learned to play rough with them, got agile, fast, I dunno. But she’s alive and he’s in jail. That’s all that matters.”
“You knew the family?”
“Yep. I did. Good people.” Victor nodded wisely. “Hardworking, good Christians. I ain’t a bit surprised that Miss Quinn took in that injured Comanche. Not at all, no sir.”
“I found him on my property,” Tyler said, drinking his beer, reflectively. “Brought him to town. Had no idea what I’d be bringing down on that girl’s head by leaving him with her.”
Victor scowled, pointing his finger at Tyler. “Now, don’t you be getting all guilty over it. This ain’t no one’s fault except old Johnson’s. He shoulda known better. But he never has been right in the head.”
“Will someone else, who isn’t right in the head, decide that killing Miss Quinn is like killing the boy?”
Victor looked away. “Lord, I hope not,” he muttered.
“That’s helpful,” Tyler snapped.
“What do you want me to do? Put round the clock surveillance on the Quinns?” Vic demanded.
“It’ll do for a start.”
Victor muttered what sounded like swear words under his breath and drank his beer. “After today, no one will be that stupid.”
“You hope.”
“Hope is all I got. I ain’t got any deputies.”
In companionable silence, they drank their beers, sweat trickling down Tyler’s back. “Had I known it was so hot here, I might not have bought property.”
“You said you like the heat.”
“Now, I don’t.”
“Better get used to it, son,” Victor advised. “All we got out here is heat, prickly pear and javalinas.”
* * *
Feeling weary and hot, Tyler rode back to his ranch at a slow pace to spare his horse in the late afternoon heat. He had hoped an excuse might come up that would enable him to pay a call on Miss Quinn, but none did. Returning to his ranch, he pondered the events of that afternoon and how he had come to look in a new light at the girl with the huge hazel eyes
Still stunned by her incredible speed and agility in avoiding the slashing knife that could easily have slit her throat, he smiled with no little satisfaction at the thought of his horse striking Johnson and sending him flying. Nor did he feel any guilt at spurring his horse, reining him at the last second so the bay could not jump the man on the ground as his instincts tried to tell him to do, forcing him to trample Johnson instead.
“Serves you right for attacking a tiny, defenseless woman,” he muttered under his breath.
Reaching home, he unsaddled his weary gelding, curried the sweat from his hide as best he could, then turned him loose in the corral. Leaning on the split rail fence, he watched his stock roll the sweat from their skins in the dirt and thought of his cattle roaming the hills. And all the work ahead of him. “Gonna be a long, hot summer,” he said aloud, turning toward the house.
The daylight edged away from the coming dusk as Tyler pumped cool water from the well and dumped the bucket over his head. It made him shiver after the intense heat, but it felt oh, so good. Dripping, not feeling hungry, he sat on the porch to watch the shadows fall long before him.
He didn’t know when he fell asleep.
Waking suddenly in the near absolute dark, he knew instantly he was not alone. Reaching for his rifle, he cocked it, and held it in his lap, but remained where he was. He listened hard and heard nothing. No crickets, no birds settling into the trees for the night, no buzzing insects. His instincts on high alert, he waited, patient, knowing that whoever was out there would come to him.
They did. Shadows emerged, darker than the night behind them, from the thickets of mesquite and thick cedar trees. Five of them, on foot, walking slowly, cautiously toward him. One raised his hand in the air, palm toward Tyler, in a gesture of peace. Though the motion assuaged his instincts, he remained alert, careful.
He, too, raised his hand, his empty palm toward his visitors. With the nearly full moon and the stars shining down on the clearing in front of the house, he saw them fairly easily. Five Indian warriors, their rifles cradled in their arms and not pointed toward him, walked across the open. He rose from his chair and strolled down the porch steps to greet them.
Hoping at least one of them spoke English, Tyler offered them sober nods, observing the lack of war paint on their faces. “Welcome to my home.”
The one in front made an obscure hand gesture, a slashing movement sideways. Thinking it best to repeat it, Tyler did. He then waited to see what would happen. He suspected that if these people wanted him dead, they would have shot him on his porch while he slept.
“I have come seeking my son,” the leader stated. “We have tracked him here but cannot follow him.”
Tyler nodded. “A boy of about thirteen years?”
The Comanche lifted a brow. “You have seen him?”
“I found a Comanche boy in the river with a broken leg,” Tyler replied. “I took him into the town to be healed. He is fine, he has not been harmed, and is staying with some kind people.”
The Indian turned and spoke to his companions in his own language for a time, apparently answering their questions, discussing the situation. At last, he turned back to Tyler. “I would see him. Will you take me to this village of white men?”
“In the morning, yes.”
The Indian spoke again with his friends, then nodded to Tyler. “Then, I will return at dawn.”
He made the slashing gesture again, and then he and his companions returned the way they came and vanished into the dark. Though he wasn’t concerned about them coming back to kill him, Tyler dragged his pallet out onto the porch to sleep. It was far cooler outside than in, and he truly did not want the Comanche sneaking up on him. With his rifle close at hand, he lay down without a blanket and continued his interrupted sleep.
* * *
Tyler woke as the first light of dawn broke over the cedar and mesquite trees, discovering the Indian he had spoken to the night before on his horse, watching him with calm dark eyes. Like many Indians, he rode bareback with a simple bridle, symbols of strength and speed painted on the mount’s chestnut hide. Wondering how long he had stood there, waiting for Tyler to wake up, Tyler had no clue.
Yawning, he rose from his pallet, then stretched. Waving at the Comanche, he said, “Be with you in a few minutes.”
Taking his rifle into the house with him, he made himself a quick breakfast of biscuits and leftover bacon and put more in a small cloth sack. After changing his shirt for something that didn’t look like he slept in it, Tyler went back outside. The Indian still stood where he was, mounted on his horse in the middle of Tyler’s yard.
He held out the sack to him. “Breakfast?”
The Indian peered in, then accepted the food, nodding gravely. He tapped his chest. “Wintonta.”
“A pleasure, Wintonta. I am Tyler.”
“Tyler.”
As Wintonta ate the breakfast Tyler offered him, still aboard his mount, Tyler saddled his bay horse. Tying his rifle’s scabbard to his saddle, he shoved his rifle in it, then mounted up. The Comanche turned his chestnut to follow, quickly catching up as Tyler nudged his horse into a trot down his lane toward the road.
What is your son’s name?” Tyler asked.
“Tosahwi.”
“His leg was broken pretty bad,” Tyler went on. “I couldn’t fix him up myself, so I paid the doctor in town to set his leg. He might be able to go home with you, but he’s probably still hurting.”
Wintonta, a tall, broad-shouldered man who wore leggings similar to the boy and no shirt, nodded. “He cannot ride with a broken leg.”
“The doctor set it, so he should be fine in a few weeks.”
Not having much experience with Indians, Tyler eyed the man sidelong, observing his black hair trailing down the sides of his
head in braids, the eagle feather tied into it. “How did you happen to lose your son?”
“He went hunting and did not return,” Wintonta replied. “We feared that perhaps he drowned in the river when we lost sight of his tracks.”
With the new day not yet truly hot, the air felt soft against Tyler’s skin as they trotted and cantered down the road toward Bandera. Keeping his fingers crossed that the townspeople would not overreact to the presence of a Comanche warrior riding down the main street, Tyler ignored the sharp stares he and his companion engendered as they entered the town.
An Unconventional Bride For The Rancher (Historical Western Romance) Page 6