He suddenly rose, seeming himself embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go into all of that. You are here to teach.” He walked over to get his slate, while Rachael breathed deeply to make the red in her cheeks go away. She felt as though she had somehow invaded this man’s privacy, had stepped too far into his life. And all it had done was make her want to know more, make her wonder more about what it would be like to be loved by such a man.
“It’s all right. I want to learn, just like you do,” she answered, picking up the carving once more.
“Who told you Jason Brown was afraid of me?” he asked, setting down the slate.
She put down the carving again. “A man who boards at the rooming house where I live. He didn’t tell me directly. He told my landlady, Lacy Reed.” She met his eyes then. “He had been in a tavern, where a Ranger who rides with Jason got drunk and started saying things, something about…” She watched his eyes. “About Jason whipping some old Indian man.” She saw his eyes darken with remembered anger and knew immediately the story must be true. “He said you came along and stopped him, and that Jason acted as if he was afraid of you.” Her eyes teared slightly. “Is it true, Brand? Did Jason really whip an old man?”
He slowly nodded. “It is true.” His green eyes glittered with bitterness. “Jason hates the Comanche—the worst kind of hate, Rachael, for he hates them for no good reason. He simply thinks the white man is superior, and he is a man who likes the power of his job. He has done other things—worse things. That is why I tell you to stay away from him. He might act kind and good in front of you and your people, but I know what kind of man he really is. And I know things about him that could destroy him. I once rode with him, Rachael, when I scouted for the Militia and then for the Rangers. But I quit, after a certain incident involving Jason Brown. He is no good, and if I ever get the chance to prove beyond any doubt that he is still up to no good, I will do it. I would like to see his badge taken from him. He is a disgrace to the Rangers, but they gave him a second chance. If he continues in his wrongdoings, he will lose his job.”
“But why didn’t you tell them about the old Indian man?”
Bitterness still showed in his eyes as he leaned back. “I would have to come to them with something more important to them than one old Indian man. I am a half-breed myself, remember? Atrocities against the Comanche are not enough, not unless they are more openly evil. The old man had stolen a calf. That is enough to keep the Rangers from coming down hard on Jason Brown, even though it was a terrible thing he did.” His jaw flexed in anger. “The old man died in my arms. I took him back to his village.” The last sentences were spoken more softly, and he moved his eyes to the slate, as though he was afraid to let her see there might be tears in them.
“I’m sorry,” she told him gently. “And I thank you for telling me at least that much. It’s all I need to know.”
He kept his eyes on the slate. “Do you love him?”
She reddened a little and looked down at her lap. “No. I never felt I loved him. I felt a little bit obligated. He’s been so adamant about marrying me. The man won’t leave me alone, but then I’ve never given him a firm no either. I can see now that I will have to when he comes back from this latest duty.”
Brand shifted and she could feel his tension. He leaned closer to her. “Be sure you tell him while you are at the boardinghouse, or someplace where there are other people around.”
She frowned, meeting his eyes. “Why?”
“Just do as I say, Rachael. If you anger him, it is hard to say what he might do. Jason Brown doesn’t like to be crossed or insulted, certainly not by a woman. Make sure you are someplace where he can’t hurt you for fear of others being nearby.”
Her eyes widened. “Hurt me? Oh, Jason would never—”
“Don’t underestimate him, Rachael. He puts on a good show when he needs to.”
She blinked in confusion. “But he watches after me—and after my brothers—checks on them all the time to make sure they’re all right.”
“Damn it, woman, will you listen to me? You’ve only seen one side of him! I’ve seen the other side!”
She jumped slightly at the curse, spoken in a louder voice. Their eyes held and his softened.
“I’m sorry, Rachael.” He closed his eyes then and sighed deeply. “You are a fine woman, good and kind. I just don’t like the thought of you in the hands of someone like Jason Brown. You must believe me when I tell you he can be dangerous.”
She swallowed, blinking back tears of disappointment at finding out things were much worse than she thought. “I believe you,” she answered quietly, looking at her lap again. “I just…I guess I just don’t want to believe you. But down deep inside, there has always been something about Jason that frightened me. Lacy doesn’t like him at all, and she’s a woman of keen intuition; and she’s older. She knows people better than I do. Lacy is like a second mother to me, since my own mother is dead.” She met his eyes. “I told Lacy about coming out here to meet you.”
He looked surprised, leaning back again. “You did? Didn’t she tell you to stop?”
Rachael smiled then. “She tried. But it wasn’t anything to do with you. She’s just afraid for me to be walking alone, and afraid of what people will do and say if they find out.” She’s also afraid I’ll fall in love with you, she felt like saying. But she kept the words to herself. “Anyway, she always tells me to do what I think is right, and she’ll support me.”
He smiled himself then. “She must be a good woman.”
“She is. She has seen you. She said she was at the blacksmith’s once getting a horse shod, and you were there. You didn’t speak, but she saw you.”
He grinned and nodded. “I think I know who she is now. I smiled at her, and she gave me a kind smile. She seemed like a spirited white woman who fears no one.”
Rachael laughed lightly. “That’s Lacy, all right.”
Their eyes held again. “You will remember what I told you about Jason Brown?” he asked then, sobering again.
She nodded. “I’ll remember.” She wanted to know more, to know what else this man knew about Jason. But he apparently could not or would not tell her. It was enough to know what he had done to the old man. It was all she needed to know to make her want nothing to do with Jason.
Brand picked up the slate and began writing. “We had better get to the lesson,” he said. “I am anxious to show you.” He was writing the alphabet in longhand without hesitation. Rachael quickly moved him into connecting the letters to write words that he knew, then taught him some new ones, as well as going through a primary reader with him. She dove into teaching, hoping it would help quell the deep feelings that were growing in her heart for him.
The lesson seemed finished too soon. “What do you know about numbers?” she asked him then.
“I can add and subtract.”
“How about bookkeeping? If you’re to deal with white men you should learn bookkeeping. It will help you keep your financial situation in order, help you see where you stand, how much money you’re making.”
He grinned and shook his head. “I don’t know about this thing called bookkeeping. It sounds like more of the white man’s rules that pen a man up.”
She smiled. “I suppose that’s just what it is. But who is to say you can’t learn these things, and still be Brand Selby in spirit? You don’t have to stop believing what you believe about life, Brand, or stop worshipping however you please. Maybe that’s what the Comanche and other Indians need to learn—how to live in the white man’s world and still be Indian. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I suppose it could be. But it would not be very easy.”
“No, I suppose it wouldn’t. But I’ll bet if anyone can do it, you can.” She rose from her chair. “At any rate, I’ll bring some ledger paper the next time I come, and I’ll show you a little bit about bookkeeping. And I’ll leave that reading book here so you can practice. You make note of the words you don’t kno
w or understand. Next time I come I’ll bring a more difficult reader. I think the one I brought is too simple. You know more than I thought you did. Your mother taught you well.”
“She was a good woman, like you.”
She blushed a little. “Well, considering her circumstances, she must have been very strong, very remarkable.”
He rose, coming a little closer, holding her eyes. “The circumstances were not so bad. My father was kind to her. Some captives are not treated so kindly.”
She folded her arms, looking down. “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand some of the things the Comanche do, nor can I ever accept it.”
“It is easy to understand when you look at it from the other side, Rachael. The Comanche cannot understand or accept some of the things the white men do. And their own women have been abused—raped, murdered, sold into prostitution.”
“Don’t,” she almost whispered, turning around.
“I just want you to know that some acts are pure revenge for the terrible hurts we ourselves have suffered. We love our women, too, and our children and our old ones. White men come through our villages and murder, slaughter babies and helpless children; do terrible things to the women and then kill them; kill defenseless old people. Why should we not feel the same hatred, Rachael, the same bitterness, the same need for revenge?”
She swallowed back a lump in her throat. “I know what you’re saying. But it’s still hard to accept—the cruelty, the torture.” She turned to face him, her eyes full of tears. “You’ve never taken captives, tortured anyone, have you?”
His eyes remained gentle and understanding. “No white women. But I did live and ride with the Comanche, Rachael. I was a warrior. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
He read the doubt in her eyes. “You’ve killed white men?”
“Of course I have killed white men. But those days are over for me now.” He stepped a little closer, noticing she stiffened slightly when he took hold of her arms. She kept her head down as he spoke.
“Rachael, I can’t stand here and explain the Comanche ways in five minutes. You could try and try for months, years, and never truly understand why they do some of the things they do—how they believe that to torture a brave man makes their own spirits stronger—how they honor bravery even though they might kill the person—how blood and warfare have been a way of life for them for centuries. How can I explain that to a softhearted white woman who has never known that kind of life? I wish I could make you understand, but I know in my own soul it’s impossible. But remember one thing. There are white captives living among the Comanche who don’t want to go back to their own world. They have learned to love their new way of life, learned to love the Comanche, have become a part of their way of life. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
She raised her eyes to meet his then. “I guess it tells me the way they live is just…just another way of life…and just because it’s different from how we live doesn’t mean it’s wrong or terrible.”
He smiled a little. “That’s good for starters. It also tells you love is the same everywhere; that it’s possible for whites to love the Comanche, and for the Comanche to love a white person.”
His eyes held hers like magnets, and for a brief moment she wondered if he was thinking about kissing her. She had no idea how much he wanted to do just that, and more. But he kept his composure and let go of her arms.
“I didn’t mean to go into all that,” he told her. He moved to the fireplace where he took down the ladle again. “Here. I’ll get you another drink before we go back.” He picked up her cup and went out.
Rachael picked up the second book she had brought along, and the carving, and followed him out, watching the broad shoulders and the strong arms as he lifted a bucket of water from the well. How would it feel to be held in those arms, to be kissed by that perfectly shaped mouth? She wanted to ask him again about having a woman of his own, but again she was afraid it was too bold a question. He approached her with the cup of water. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” She took the cup, drinking most of it down. When she handed it back to him, he drank down the rest.
“Can’t waste a precious thing like water,” he told her. He walked over to his horse, untying it and leading it to the well. He poured water from the bucket into a trough near the well and let the animal drink. He turned while the gelding guzzled, pointing to a nearby corral where several horses roamed lazily. “That’s part of my herd, my best horses. They’re on feed right now. I’m giving the grass in my best grazing pasture time to get a little higher before I turn them out. What do you think?”
Rachael watched them, walking a little closer. “They’re beautiful. Are they all broken?”
“No. Only a couple of them. I have my work cut out for me, but I won’t let it interfere with my lessons.”
She kept watching the horses, several sizes and colors, most of them looking strong and healthy. “Mustangs?”
“Mostly. I bought a few from the man I used to work for. Then I went out and chased down a few more, weeded out the weaker ones. Some mustangs aren’t in very good shape. And I traded some supplies to Comanche friends for those two big Appaloosas.
She looked at him. “You aren’t afraid they’ll be stolen whenever you’re gone?”
He grinned. “Most horse stealing around here is done by Comanche. They won’t steal mine, so I’m pretty safe. I do pay two young Comanche boys in candy and supplies to watch the ones I keep out on the grazing land where I can’t see them. They stay out there most of the time. They don’t like being inside a building—scares them.”
Rachael frowned. “Scares them?”
He nodded. “Bothers me a little, I have to admit. I sleep outside more than inside.” He went and got his horse, leading it over to where Rachael stood. “There is something about being enclosed that gives an Indian the jitters, for the spirits of the land and animals can’t get to him, maybe not even his own spirit. Inside you’re separated from nature, the sky, the sun.” He looked down at her. “I don’t suppose you can understand that.”
She looked up at the sky, watching puffy clouds float by, seeming whiter than white against the brilliant blue. “Oh, I think I can, to some extent. It must be a form of what we call cabin fever.”
“Cabin fever?”
She laughed lightly. “Yes. When we’re confined inside for too long because of bad weather, we get sick of looking at the same four walls and feel a little crazy. We call it cabin fever, a kind of depression and craziness that sets in because we feel a need to get out.”
He grinned. “Well, maybe there is more Indian in you than I thought.”
She frowned in thought, looking up at him. “Maybe it doesn’t matter what color our skin is, or what nationality we are or whatever, Brand. Maybe it’s simply a matter of how we’re raised. And if that’s the case, then down deep inside we are all of the same spirit. My father was white, but deep inside he had the spirit of an Indian.”
He sobered, studying her with admiration in his eyes. “You are beginning to understand, Rachael Rivers. But most whites don’t understand that at all. We are all brothers here.” He put a hand to his heart. “Inside. But we live differently, and each thinks his way of living is the only right way. The only difference is the whites try to force their way of living on everyone around them. The Comanche don’t ask the whites to live as they live. They only ask that the white men leave them alone and respect their way of life and let them live the way they choose, the way that they are happiest.”
He reached around her waist and lifted her onto the horse. “I have said far more than I intended to say. What is it about you that makes you so easy to talk to? I am usually a very quiet man.” He eased up behind her.
“Maybe I just ask too many questions,” she told him.
“No. It’s more than that. You are easy to be with. And you are a good listener. You care. You want to learn.”
“Yes, I truly do want to learn, Brand.�
� She watched the strong arm come around her, astounded that she felt safe alone with this man who had once ridden with the Comanche on raids against her own people.
Brand rode off with her, wishing with all his heart that she did not have to leave, wishing she could stay forever, share his nights as well as his days. Rachael Rivers would make a good companion; and he knew instinctively that here was a woman who would go to great lengths to please the man she truly loved. The thought of Jason Brown pestering her made him want to kill the man, and he suddenly realized how dangerous it would be for her if the man found out she was coming out to see him.
“Maybe you should stop coming,” he said aloud. “That Lacy Reed was right to warn you to stop. It would be bad for you if anyone found out, especially Jason Brown.”
Rachael pouted. “I don’t care what Jason Brown thinks of anything I do. I never have. My life is my business. He can’t tell me what to do. He doesn’t own me.”
He grinned at the words. “You just remember what I told you. Don’t let yourself be alone with him, not if he finds out about this, not even when you tell him you will not marry him and you no longer want to see him.”
“I’ll remember.”
They rode for a few minutes in silence, Rachael in turn wishing she didn’t have to leave. She cradled the beautiful carving close to her breast, knowing that no matter what happened, she would treasure it forever.
“There must be many men in Austin besides Jason Brown who have their eyes on one so beautiful as you,” he said then.
She laughed lightly. “Thank you. But I’m not sure. No one has bothered coming around since I’ve been back because the whole town thinks I belong to Jason—not because of anything I’ve done but because that’s what he tells everyone.”
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