Despair brought a glaze of tears to her eyes. She had lost the fight. She had no place to run.
Chapter Eight
Grayhawk stepped outside his tipi. For many moons he had felt neither peace nor harmony within the realm of his existence. Around him were noises and visions, glaring and fearful things he was powerless to control. His Irish ancestry cautioned with dark omens, his Comanche spirit with subtle portent.
Naked except for a breechclout, he stole to the stream's edge and stepped into the chill water. When he emerged from washing himself, he crushed mint leaves against his body. He scooped two fingers into a bowl of paint and drew a broad blue streak down either side of his face. Dipping into the black, he formed a line across his forehead and another across his chin. Moments later, he glided through the brush to find his horse.
He rode until the sun blazed over the canyon rim, circled the midday sky, and dropped toward the horizon. As he rode the anger faded from his face, but the pain remained in his belly. He could hear the warning undulating in the wind, reverberating against the cliffs, whispering in the leaves of the cottonwood. The days of the Comanche warrior were ending.
Loud raucous shouts and a woman's screams wrested him from his reverie. Secluded in a breach of the canyon wall, he watched the woman tear herself away from hated buffalo hunters, unaware that he observed her from the shadow. She ran in his direction, stumbling, sobbing, holding her torn shirt.
The hunters taunted her with obscene threats and ribald promises. Her body would have given them hours of loathsome pleasure. After they tired, if she were not already dead, they would kill her, and like a dog burying a bone, they would hide her beneath the rocks for the wolves to find.
Grayhawk's hard gray glance told him she was brave. He deeply respected and admired bravery even in a wounded coyote. He despised the hide hunters with the same terrible intensity. Because of such men, the great thundering herds no longer roamed the land, his people grew hungry, and the winter cold became more threatening.
A dark frown crossed Grayhawk's brow. The distance between the woman and her pursuers was lessening. The men drew nearer, separated, one going right, the other left, and like a cornered animal, she prepared to fight.
She clasped a rock in each hand and, step by step, backed toward him. Immobile, Grayhawk waited for her, and soon he had only to reach down from the back of his horse.
When she collided with his chest, the breath swooshed from her. Choking, she twisted around to look at him. Her face became bloodless. A scream died in her throat. ''Oh my God," she whispered.
He bore the full weight of her body with her bare shoulder pressed into the hollow of his left arm. Swiftly, he steered his pony through a split in the cliff wall and nudged him into a run. The hide hunters' frustrated threats and curses followed them, and Grayhawk grunted in satisfaction.
Surrounded at last by mesquites and shinnery, Grayhawk looked into the face of the golden woman in his arms. Her hair had taken on the glory of a late sun and streamed over his arm and thigh like burnished gold.
He knew she watched him through the thickness of her lashes. He could feel her heart thumping wildly against his own, as he spoke gently. "Don't be afraid, Bright Hair. You're safe now."
Her lips parted, and she tried to speak. She pulled away from him as far as she could, then without warning, she gave a cry, flung herself out of his arms, and leapt to the ground. She fell, rose to her arms and knees, then managed to scramble to her feet and run.
"Foolish woman," he muttered.
She dashed toward the stream, but he was there to block her way. When she circled to get behind him, he kneed his horse between her and the path. He left her but one course, the one straight ahead.
She darted blindly from the left side of the trail to the right, throwing angry, fearful glances over her shoulder. Several times she tripped over clumps of grass and rocks. Perspiration streaked her dirty face, and her hair lay limply about her shoulders.
Too tired and unsteady to go on, she stopped and leaned against a tree. He didn't let her rest. Guiding his pony with a touch, he rode close enough to reach for her. She threw out her hands to ward him off, then from some reserve strength, skittered into a staggering run.
Soon, she slowed and sank to the ground. Her head drooped in exhaustion. Grayhawk maneuvered his horse closer. Again she struggled to her feet and swayed wearily down the trail. And once more respect welled in his breast. He reached to lift her to the horse's back, and by wrapping one arm about her, he crushed her attempts to fight.
Where had the hide hunters found her? Had they taken her from a ranch house? A wagon train? Where was her man? She lay quietly, but he could still feel her stifled sobs and occasional shudders.
Grayhawk took his time in assessing her. She was young and strong. The tear in her shirt exposed the smooth, full curve of a breast. He could picture a child nursing there. Within him, a slow-burning fire sputtered to life, reminding him of the child-wife who had died in his arms and the tortured nights that had followed. The white woman flinched when he stroked the wisps of hair clinging to her face. It didn't matter. He would take her to his lodge. She would be his woman.
Dazed and disoriented, Elise lay spent in the arms of the Indian. She must have slept, lulled by exhaustion, the rocking motion of the horse, and the murmuring words of her captor. Groggily, she fought the heaviness that kept her eyelids closed. When she forced them open, the savage's face blurred into focus and she smelled the scent of mint. Without strength to fight, she dared not move, lest his flat eyes stare into hers. Beads of perspiration rolled down between her breasts.
After what seemed long wearying miles, she tensed when his body signaled a new awareness. She saw him raise his head and, out of the corner of her eye, followed the line of his gaze. She tried to swallow. They had arrived at his village. Tipis lined the stream bank, ghostly white in the waning light. When tears stung her eyes, she choked back her rage.
The Indian lowered her to the ground and slid down beside her. She should have run, but her feet refused to obey. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow. Remembering the stream, she gave a small cry and tottered to the bank. She fell to her knees and gulped greedily. After stopping long enough to splash water over her arms and face, she drank again.
A guttural grunt caused her to meet the Indian's gaze. He shook his head and tried to force her away. He was too late. She doubled over, the cramp gushing water through her mouth and nose. Again and again, she clutched her stomach, moaning and gasping for breath. When the contractions subsided, she looked up tiredly. Shame colored her face at the hint of humor curling his lips.
She rose on rubbery legs to glower at him. "What's so blasted funny, Red Man? Or do you just enjoy seeing somebody with the bellyache?" She brushed her hand over her face and peered at him through her fingers. The amusement had gone from his eyes.
The savage was playing a cat-and-mouse game. Everybody knew the Comanche tormented and tortured, then left their victims to die or killed them outright. Cold dread snaked through her. If she got lucky, maybe her death would be quick.
"You're the one with the cards, hostile. Better play them close to your eagle plume. I may not be much at arm wrestling, but I can make a chase interesting."
The temperature had dropped, and whether from nervousness or the late afternoon chill, she shivered. Pushing her forward, he pointed toward a tipi sitting well apart from the others and some distance away.
An old woman clutching a blanket about her stood at the entrance. Women and children waited nearby. The savage said nothing to Elise when the chattering group gathered around her, pulling at her hair and clothes.
A young squaw set her baby on the ground; then with her face twisted into a spiteful frown, she ran forward. Elise gasped when the screeching woman wrung a piece out of her arm.
Too much had happened. Her anger exploded into vengeance. Elise raised her arm, and with all the strength, she could muster slapped the woman's face w
ith her open palm. The woman's shriek changed to a howl, and Elise looked at her contemptuously. "Did you think I'd stand here and do nothing? Well, don't bet your wampum on it, Pocahontas."
The Indian chuckled behind her. She whirled to confront him, and still laughing, he threw up his hands to protect himself. He pointed to the tipi flap. When she made no move, his eyes narrowed and a soft command, more frightening than if he had shouted, fell on her ears.
He dispersed the women and children with a wave of his hand and nudged Elise toward the tipi entrance. The old woman followed them in and spoke to the man with nods and grunts. The few words she uttered exposed a toothless mouth. The Indian inclined his head and turned to leave. The woman followed him.
Elise stared at the flap for a long time and wondered if she had a chance to slip away without being seen. Her tension increased. The hostile must have something more frightening in mind than sharp sticks and vicious pinches.
She turned slowly to look around her. The tipi had a hole in the top, where tall poles came together. A small blaze glowed in a nest of rock and flickered shadows on the taut hides of the lodge. She felt no warmth from the fire, only an icy cold in the pit of her stomach.
The Comanche's footsteps sounded on the gravel, and he opened the flap and stepped inside. He turned his gaze on her, his eyes gleaming feral in the dancing light. He had removed the blue and black streaks from his face.
Elise refused to shrink from his dark scrutiny. Whatever happened, she'd die fighting. He stepped toward her, close enough to touch her tangled hair, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body.
She knocked his hand away. "Careful, savage. If it's manly pride you're hiding behind those deerskin breeches, you'd better watch out. I've a few tricks of my own."
He smiled and lifted a questioning brow. He was tall, almost as tall as T.K. With the thought of T.K., pain constricted her chest. Blast him. If he was so all-fired eager to protect her, why didn't he show up?
She faced the Indian contemptuously. "You're grinning like a jackass eating cactus, and you don't understand a word I'm saying."
His smile vanished by degrees. He turned from her and picked up a buffalo skin, laid it near the fire, then pointed toward it. Speaking in his own tongue, his voice low and commanding, he waited for her to obey.
She thrust out her chin. "If you think I'm going to make it easy for you, think again."
Not a whisper of emotion crossed his flat mask like features. When he advanced toward her, she tensed. What would he do? Beat and rape her? She snuffed back threatening tears and prepared to fight.
Calling out, the ancient crone backed through the flap, her hands full. Elise closed her eyes and swayed. The squaw had saved her.
The woman bore a steaming earthen pot. She set it down near the fire, then looked questioningly at the brave. When he nodded, she left the tipi as quietly as she had entered.
Elise tried to stifle the rumble in her stomach. She had heard the Comanche starved their victims. Would her captor offer her food? And if he did, should she eat it? The aroma smelled delicious, but what if they put in disgusting things like frogs and lizards and grasshoppers? She couldn't bear to speculate.
When the Indian spoke, he left no doubt that he expected her to obey. She sank slowly to her knees, and he seated himself. He filled a round clay bowl for himself and shoved another toward her. When she hesitated, he quirked a black brow, giving her time to think it over.
"Thanks. As your reluctant guest, I don't have much choice but to eat what's put in front of me." She crossed her legs and took the food. "As hungry as I am, I'll eat whatever it is."
He grunted and turned to feeding himself. Elise cast a dubious look at the steaming food. She put in a tentative finger, then placed it in her mouth. The pot contained a grain and a meat she hoped was beef. The concoction was surprisingly good. Failing to get the food out of the bowl with her fingers, she brought the dish to her mouth.
The savage didn't look at her again until she finished; then he nodded approvingly. There was something morbidly fascinating about a man who would offer her food, then look forward to torturing and raping her.
"The stew was good, but the Comanche's reputation for hospitality is as questionable as a crapshooter with loaded dice."
By a sudden lift of the head, she knew he recognized the word Comanche. "No offense meant. To tell you the truth, it seems to me, so far, of course, the wrong men are called savage. You saved me from the hide hunters, and you've fed me." She shivered. "What comes next?"
The Indian turned his dark gaze on her, then rose lazily from his cross-legged position to sit beside her. He slid his hand over her hair. His low voice communicated his fascination. When she pulled away, he circled her arm with fingers of steel. His voice became a harsh whisper in her ear.
Terror, stark and naked, filled her. She felt as if her breath had been sucked from her body. Tears came slowly tracing a ragged path down her cheek. "If you rape me, and if I survive"
The thought stunned her. Would T.K. marry her if she survived the rape? She'd heard of a man who had refused to recognize his wife after she had lived with the Indians.
Unwilling to see her own fate, she stared unblinking at the empty bowl in front of her. The Indian tried to force her to turn and look at him, but she rigidly held herself erect. "Let me alone, Indian. I'm not your squaw. I'm not a whore for hide hunters. I'm not Toddie's mother. I'm not Patrick Burke's woman. And I don't suppose I'll ever be T.K. Burke's wife. Some white men look on women who've lived with Indians as prostitutes, as if the women got themselves abducted." She sighed wistfully. "I don't think T.K. would feel that way. I wish he were here now."
For several seconds, immersed in her grief, she failed to notice the Indian had slowly released her. He sat quietly, his legs crossed, thoughtfully watching her. Self-consciously, she pulled her torn clothing together and held it. His gaze traveled over her, down to her boots and back again. He rose and placed a blanket about her shoulders. When she licked her parched lips, he filled a gourd with water and handed it to her. She emptied the dipper and set it down. He was a stranger, a savage, and a Comanche, yet he treated her with respect and courtesy.
"Read a man's cards by watching his face," she mumbled and looked up at the hole in the top of the tipi, where a thin column of wispy smoke escaped.
He turned at the sound of her voice and spoke something in his own tongue.
"Papa used to say that," she explained, "but I'm not sure of the truth of it. Right now, I'm having trouble reading your cards. I don't know how I'd feel if you understood English. Talking to you is surprisingly easy. Maybe it's because I may not live to tell the truth to someone else. Kind of a deathbed confession."
Elise felt the tension edge up again. "I want so much for T.K. to care for me and respect me. But it seems I'm always casting a doubtful shadow."
The Indian shrugged, and she felt he was trying to put her at ease. "I'll tell you something, Red Man. Until recently, I had never been kissed by a man not even when I was in school, unless you count a groom at a riding stable. He didn't know as much about kissing as I did."
The hostile turned quickly to pick up more sticks for the fire. He was clad only in long-fringed pants made from skins, and his bare bronze chest glistened in the firelight. His movements were fluid and graceful. And like some pagan king, he wore dignity as a shield.
Elise selected a stick from the pile and absently drew his face in the dirt. It was a crude attempt, but a likeness nevertheless. She leaned back in order to look at it, then reached forward to curl the corners of his mouth. "You have no idea how good it feels to talk without being afraid I'll spring my own trap."
His gaze dropped to the sketch in the sand, then up to meet her eyes. A muscle leapt in his otherwise expressionless face. Was he angry? A touch of panic caught in her throat. What savage superstition had she challenged?
"I didn't mean any harm. When I need to relax, I draw pictures. Sometimes, I discover a tru
th. Sometimes a lie or a contradiction. Other people handle their tensions in different ways, but this is the way I handle mine."
The wait seemed interminable. Elise remained quiet, afraid to move, terrified of what the hostile would do. He kept his flat eyes on her. When she felt she couldn't endure another moment, his lips curved and he chortled.
Her relief was exquisite, almost palpable. "Thanks."
His words began to flow, rising and falling in gentle cadence, sometimes so low she had to lean forward to hear, more often lifting in a soft lilting chant. His bland expression took on a look of conspiracy, as if he were entrusting his thoughts to her in the way she had done with him.
He extended his hand, and reluctantly, she placed hers in it. After a moment, he smiled and released her.
Was she too trusting? She tried to read his face. "Ever notice how we hide the things we desperately want to share? It's been a long time since I had a friend and none whom I could confide in about' intimate, close-to-the-heart things."
They didn't speak for a while. He seemed to be waiting for her to resume the conversation. "When T.K. and I marry" She choked up again and started over. "If I get out of this Indian camp alive and become T.K.'s wife, and if he should want me to go to bed with him"
With a strangled grunt, the savage interrupted her. He poured himself a drink, gulped it, pointed to his throat, and coughed.
"The water went down the wrong way," she said, nodding sympathetically. "Sometimes it helps to take another sip or two.'' She waited until he recovered. "My stepsister said a man can tell if a woman is experienced, not only when he kisses her, but especially in the marriage bed. If that's true, and T.K. should want me to go to bed with him after we're married, you understand, which of course you don't because you don't know what I'm saying T.K, will find out" she spread her hands helplessly "that not only am I not Toddie's mother, but I've never been loved by a man."
She hesitated, then met his bemused glance. "I don't know what a man and woman do when they go to bed together. If I knew what to expect, I could be prepared. My stepsister said that a man likes to caress his wife." She made a halfhearted gesture toward her body. "I think I'd like it if T.K. wanted to." Heat suffused her face.
A Leaf in the Wind Page 12