Comanche Sunset

by Rosanne Bittner

  “They usually have quite a few supplies. You probably won’t be the only woman there.”

  “Oh, I hope you’re right. I’d be so lonely without a woman to talk to.”

  He met her eyes, studying her quietly for a moment. “If, uh, if things don’t work out for you there, you don’t have to stay, you know. The stage runs through there every week.”

  She looked down at a bar of soap she had retrieved from her bag. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  He came closer. “Not crazy—just ignorant of what it’s like out here—and what most men at those forts are like.” He sighed and gave her a smile. “But maybe it will all work out. I hope it does.”

  She met his eyes. I would rather stay with you, she felt like saying. How she wished she understood men better, wished she could be sure what he was really thinking and feeling inside. Could he read her own thoughts? He had taken a towel from his own gear and he picked her up. She wanted to put her arms around his neck, to cling to him and beg him not to take her to the fort. When he held her this way, she could catch his masculine scent, was too close to his full lips, too overwhelmed by his strength and closeness. Was it her wounds and dependency that made her feel this way?

  “I’m sorry I pretended not to know you and couldn’t talk to you earlier,” she told him. “I didn’t like doing that, but you and Nick insisted.”

  “It was best.”

  “I don’t care any more. It was rude and wrong. I’m not made that way, and I don’t care what it costs me, I’ll never behave that way again, not after what you’ve done for me.”

  He stopped near the stream, still holding her. He looked down at her, thinking how light and pretty she was, how close her lips were to his own. She was young and ignorant enough of life out here that she found nothing wrong with being friends with a half-breed. In fact, he was sure he had caught something more than gratefulness in those green eyes; but he didn’t dare allow himself the luxury of contemplating anything romantic with this lovely creature. It would mean hell for them both. He told himself she was just feeling afraid now, and she needed him. In three or four more days they would make the fort, and that would be the end of this strange encounter.

  He set her down then, irritated at the feelings the thought of her being with another man brought him. He knew what men at those forts were like. It was highly unlikely her Sergeant Enders would be patient and kind with her. In one night he would destroy her sweet innocence, and her trust. The thought of some man rushing her and being cruel to her tore at his insides, but he kept reminding himself it was not his business. Still, whenever he stole glances at the milky white mounds of her full, firm breasts that peeked from the ruffled bodice of her camisole, the thought of another man ravishing such beauty and being cruel about it tore at his guts like a knife.

  “I appreciate your kindness,” he told her, “but once we reach the fort, I wouldn’t display too much affection if I were you. We simply survived a raid and you had no choice but to let me help you. In fact, you’d be best to act as though you’re glad to finally get there and not have to be alone any more with a half-breed man.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” She looked at him with a scowl. “I can’t be that cruel and ungrateful, and I won’t lie. Now please help me wash my hair.”

  He sighed deeply, setting her on her feet. She set down her clothes, finding it strange that she felt less uncomfortable in front of Wade Morrow in only her underwear than she had felt fully clothed in front of Uncle John.

  Wade spread a blanket near the edge of the stream. He picked her up again and lay her down on her back, her head at the edge of the water. “Just put your head back and I’ll take off this bandage and wash your hair,” he told her. He wondered if she had any idea what torture this was for him, her lying back, her head arched back in the same way it would be if she lay beneath a man, taking him inside herself. He took off the bandage to see the cut at her head was already healing. He soaped her hair, enjoying the exquisite pleasure of tangling his fingers in the thick mane. He dipped her head into the water and rinsed it as best he could, and she screamed lightly at how cold it was. He squeezed the water from it as she sat up then, and he put a towel around it.

  “The cut is healing,” he told her. “I don’t think it will leave much of a scar. You want me to unwrap that arm and shoulder?”

  “I think you’ll have to, so I can wash better.”

  “Just don’t get water on that leg. Can you manage all this alone?”

  She felt the crimson coming to her cheeks then. Seeing her partially clad and wounded was one thing. But much as she needed the help, she could not imagine letting him see her naked. Still, the thought made her realize that she had a terrible desire to please this man, a longing to be touched by him in special ways. But she had no idea how he really felt, or what he would think of her if he knew her thoughts.

  “I’ll be fine,” she answered, as he unwrapped her shoulder. “You…you promise to stay turned away, don’t you?” He laughed. “I promise. I’ll go make a fire.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that I don’t trust you.”

  “I know what you meant.” He frowned again at the scars on her back. “You mind my asking what happened to your back?”

  She reddened more, taking the towel from her hair and holding it over the front of her chemise. “My parents were killed when a steamboat exploded. I was with them. It all happened so fast that I don’t remember much about it. One minute we were standing on the deck, and the next thing I knew I was in the water and someone was helping me into a boat. I don’t even remember getting burned, except the pain of it later, after the shock wore off.”

  He sat down beside her on the blanket. “I’m sorry. How old were you?”

  She met his eyes. “Ten.” Please hold me again, she wanted to tell him. “My uncle, John Andrews, took me in.” She looked away then. “He stole everything from me—everything that should have been mine. My father was in the merchant business. He was quite wealthy, but I never saw any of it. In fact, I had to sell some of my mother’s jewelry to have enough extra money for this trip. I was hoping to have enough to pay back Sergeant Enders if I decide not to marry him, but I’ll only have about half what I need.”

  “Why did you leave St. Louis in the first place? Even if your uncle stole everything, you surely could have found some kind of work there. Did you hate him so much that you couldn’t live in the same town with him?”

  She looked down at her bandaged leg. “It wasn’t that. I could have overcome the loss of my property and such. It was Uncle John himself I had to get away from. He…he used to scare me…the way he would…look at me. I never worried about it until my Aunt Esther died. She was a saint. I loved her very much.” Her eyes teared. “But I knew that once she was dead, I wouldn’t be safe in the same house with Uncle John. I also knew I wasn’t safe anyplace else in town. You have to understand, my uncle is a very wealthy, prominent man in St. Louis. Wherever I went, he would have found some way to make me come back home. I couldn’t have complained to anyone about him, because no one would believe he was anything but a fine, upstanding citizen.” She shivered. “But I know different.” She met his eyes. “You saw how far his power reaches. Somehow he figured out my fake name and sent those men for me in San Antonio.”

  His blue eyes were full of sympathy. “I think I understand.”

  Wade put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. Seems like sometimes the wealthy men in this world get away with murder. My pa is wealthy, but he isn’t like that at all. He’s the finest man I know.”

  She met his eyes, her own showing tears. “It shows in you,” she told him. “Why did you defend me that day, Wade? You must have known it would only get you in trouble.”

  He shrugged. “I had every intention of staying out of it. But the way those men were dragging you off—I don’t know. Nobody else was doing anything, so I figured I would. Besides, you remind me of someone.”

  “I do? Who is th
at?”

  His eyes softened, and she saw there a look of affection that stirred her deeply. “It was a long time ago,” he answered. He rose then. “You get washed. Yell if you need me.” He bent down and picked up her clean bloomers, taking out his knife and slitting off the left leg near the crotch. “Sorry about that,” he said, putting back his knife and walking off.

  Jennifer realized he did not want to talk any further about whoever she reminded him of. But she knew without asking it was someone he had loved. So, she must have been white! He had loved a white girl once, and something terrible had happened, she was sure. Her curiosity ran wild, and her heart ached for him—such a fine, brave man, treated so cruelly for no reason other than he looked Indian. It infuriated her.

  With great effort she managed to get off her underwear and wash, having no fear that Wade Morrow would stand and gawk at her, or come and attack her while she was in such a compromising situation. She bathed under her arms and around her neck, careful to keep from getting the strips that were wrapped around her ribs wet. She washed private places and pulled on the clean underwear, stepping gingerly on the injured leg, and grimacing with the pain in her shoulder. By the time she slipped her dress over her head she felt weak and light-headed, and her stomach churned. Her leg felt on fire, and she sank onto the blanket, calling for Wade.

  In a moment he was at her side, pulling her dress the rest of the way on and buttoning it for her. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” she told him, taking deep breaths against the pain.

  “I probably shouldn’t have let you do this at all,” he answered. He worked his way up the front of the dress, unable to keep his knuckles from touching her breasts as he carefully closed each button. The urge to gently cup those breasts in his hands brought near pain to his insides.

  Jennifer reddened deeply, at the same time feeling a rush of desire sweep through her at the light, teasing brush of a man’s hands against forbidden territory. “I need to comb my hair,” she said, keeping her eyes averted.

  “I’ll do it for you. I don’t want you to do anything the rest of tonight but eat something and rest.” He finished buttoning the dress, then pushed up the skirt of her dress to check the bandage on her leg. “A little new blood. I don’t want you on your feet any more tonight. Come on. I’ll come back for the rest of your things and I’ll comb your hair.” He picked her up again. “I hope you don’t mind beans and biscuits tonight.”

  “Anything would be fine. And I’m the one who should be doing the cooking.”

  “I’ve been camping out most of my life. Doesn’t bother me a bit to do the cooking.” He carried her to a bedroll he had made up for her near the camp fire, setting her down. He rose, looking around, suddenly seeming to take on the cunning of an animal.

  “Do you think they’re out there watching us,” Jennifer asked, feeling sick again at the memory of the raid.

  “I don’t think—I know they are. For some reason they’re still leaving us alone.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions.” He walked on long, powerful legs back to the stream. She could not get over how such a big man who hardly knew her was being so kind and attentive. He could have his way with her and kill her, and it would be blamed on the Indians. No one would ever know the difference. How strange that he looked so much like those who had murdered all those poor men on the coach and nearly murdered her, yet was so different.

  Her eyes teared again at the thought of Nick and Adam and Will and the others. She rummaged through her bag to find her book of Jane Eyre, thinking that if she read for a little while, it would help her forget the bad memories and her pain. But she could not concentrate. Wade returned with her things and sat down to jam open a can of beans with his knife.

  “I’m glad those Comanche fled too soon to find all the food,” he told her, dumping the beans into a small black frying pan sitting on the fire. “We’ll eat, then I’ll wash up myself. I could use a shave, too.” He glanced at her, his eyes falling to the book. “So, that’s where Charlotte Eyre came from,” he said with a soft smile.

  “Yes. I love this story.”

  “I’ve read it.”

  “You have!”

  He laughed harder. “Don’t look so surprised. I told you I’ve had some schooling. I’ve even studied Shakespeare. How do you like that?”

  She smiled. “Do you remember any of it?”

  “Sure I do, especially a sonnet I used to read over and over.”

  “Which one? I don’t believe you.”

  He grinned, beginning to look embarrassed. “You don’t want to hear it.”

  “Oh, but I do. Please recite it. It will help me forget some of the ugly memories of the last two days.”

  He shrugged, looking at the flames of the fire. “Well, let me see. It starts out, Live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dales and fields, and all the craggy mountains yields. There will we sit upon the rocks, and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, by whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals.”

  He stirred at the beans, staring absently at them as his voice lowered, taking on an almost sorrowful tone. “There will I make thee a bed of roses, with a thousand fragrant posies…” He paused. “I forget a little bit of it right there. Something about myrtle and a belt of straw and ivy buds.”

  He was silent again for a moment, as dusk brought on the sound of thousands of crickets. “And if these pleasures may thee move,” he continued then, “Then live with me…” He stared at the dancing flames of the fire. “And be my love.”

  A cool, soft night breeze brushed Jennifer’s face as she watched him, realizing sadly he was thinking of someone special. Was it the woman she reminded him of? “That was beautiful,” she finally spoke up, suddenly forgetting her pain and the ugly horror of the raid.

  The sonnet had brought forth a picture of mountains and roses…and love. What an unusual man he was, to be so skilled and strong and wild-looking, yet to be able to quote Shakespeare. Her heart swelled with a feeling she knew bordered on love. Was it so foolish and impossible to feel this way so quickly? “Who was she, Wade—the woman I remind you of. I have a feeling you think of her when you think of that sonnet.”

  He kept staring at the fire. “Her name was Rebecca.” He sighed deeply and cleared his throat. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.” He stirred the beans. “Find your comb and I’ll get the tangles out of your hair.”

  How she wished he would tell her more about Rebecca. She retrieved her comb and handed it to him. He smiled almost nervously when he looked at her, and she was sure she detected a watery look to his eyes. She said nothing as she turned around. A wonderful warmth moved through her when his fingers moved into her hair to grasp it while he began gingerly pulling a comb through it. She winced at the tugs, but knew it was necessary.

  “Why are you going to Fort Stockton?” she asked, deciding she had to quickly change the conversation and get him talking about something else.

  “Personal reasons,” he answered. “But then I know you’re dying of curiosity, and I guess we’ve been through enough together that we can share a few personal things. After all, you told me about your parents and your uncle.” He thought how beautiful and shiny her hair was, in spite of the primitive conditions for taking care of it. “Of course I intend to buy a horse when I get there. But my main reason for going is to find out the situation with the Comanche, where the renegades generally hole up, that sort of thing.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  He managed to get the comb to the end of one section of hair and started on another. “Well, I am going to try to find some long-lost relatives, if that’s possible. I’ve never known my Indian side, or if I might have brothers and sisters—a mother.”

  She turned, interrupting the combing. Her eyes were wide with concern. “You mean, you intend to ride right into a Comanche camp?”

  “Somethi
ng like that.”

  “But, you can’t! It would be suicide. You’ve already seen what they can do!”

  “They spared me, remember? That gives me all the more reason to follow through with my plans. There is something going on that I need to know about. I already know they don’t want to harm me, for some strange reason. Turn your head back around, and don’t concern yourself with my problems. You have enough of your own.”

  She obeyed, and he began combing her hair again. “But I care,” she replied. “I would worry about you.”

  “Worry about yourself. Besides, I couldn’t bring myself to change my mind now for any reason—not after those Indians stared at me yesterday like I was a ghost and kept muttering the name Wild Horse. Wild Horse is the leader and instigator of most of the raiding that goes on around here, so I’m told. I’m also told he’s a half-breed—with blue eyes. If you were me, wouldn’t that get your juices going to find out what this is all about? I have a past I don’t know anything about, Jenny, a side of me that belongs to the people who raided that stage coach yesterday. I’m ridiculed and condemned for being Indian, when I’ve never even lived like one and know very little about that side of myself. It’s time I got some questions answered.”

  “But what does it matter any more?”

  “It matters because I was abandoned by my Indian mother. Contrary to what most white men believe, Indians do have feelings, Jenny—and children, especially boy children, are of primary importance to them. They are loved very much, and an Indian mother wouldn’t leave a baby behind without damn good reason.”

  Jennifer’s heart felt heavy with the realization of how determined he was. As soon as they reached Fort Stockton, he would leave, probably to die. The thought of it made her want to weep. “Maybe…maybe it was a white woman who had you…a captive,” she said cautiously.

  “I’ve thought of that.” He stopped combing for a moment. “But twenty-six years ago there were very few white women this far west. Most came no farther than San Antonio or Austin. It’s more likely I’m the product of some white trader or hunter and a Comanche woman. Back then most captive women were Mexican or women from enemy tribes, like the Apache.” He began combing her hair again.