Comanche Woman

by Joan Johnston

  Cruz touched her arm, and Sloan felt an immediate shiver of response. She jerked away, distressed and frightened by her body’s wayward reaction to this man. “Don’t touch me.”

  “All right, Cebellina. I will not touch you. But listen to me. I must go to Spain. The patent from the king of Spain granting Rancho Dolorosa to the Guerrero family has disappeared from the county land office.”

  “How could that happen?”

  Cruz grimaced. “I would guess Jonas Harper had something to do with it. We will never know for certain now that he is dead. But I must go to Spain and confirm my right to the land, especially since the annexation of Texas is imminent.” He paused and said, “I want you to come with me. I want you to be my wife.”

  “No.”

  His jaw tightened. “I will ask you again when I return.”

  “The answer will be the same.”

  “We will see.”

  “No!”

  Cruz’s gaze was implacable as he said, “We will see.”

  Sloan knew arguing was futile, so she said nothing. He would find out soon enough that she would never agree to be his wife. She would not open her heart for any man ever again.

  “I will walk with you back to the picnic,” Cruz said. “I am sure everyone will be wondering where we are.”

  Sloan could not stay away without causing speculation. And so, reluctantly, she walked beside Cruz back to the gathering.

  Because everyone was having so much fun, the afternoon passed too quickly. As soon as it was fully dark, they lit firecrackers Luke had brought from San Antonio and watched them sparkle and flare against the moonlit sky. Too soon everyone had to say good night and travel home. But they all promised to get together again in the fall, when Cruz would be back from Spain.

  Bay had never felt so full of happiness. Nothing could dim her good mood. She chattered the whole way home about nothing. She darted sultry glances at Long Quiet and found them returned by eyes warm with desire. It had been a long time since they’d been able to love one another, and Bay knew that tonight they would be joined again as one.

  When they arrived at the adobe house, Bay quickly nursed Whipp, fully intending to put him to bed and end the evening in the way that had been denied her for the past few months.

  Only, Whipp wasn’t cooperating. As soon as Bay laid him down in his cradle beside the big bed, he began to cry.

  “Maybe he’s wet,” Long Quiet offered.

  She picked him up to see if he was wet, but that wasn’t the problem.

  “Maybe he’s still hungry,” Long Quiet suggested.

  She offered her breast to Whipp again, but after lipping the nipple once or twice, he opened his mouth and let out a wail.

  Long Quiet chuckled. “Maybe his belly is full of air.”

  Bay glared at him but obediently put Whipp over her shoulder and patted his back. No burp of air was forthcoming.

  All of that had taken the better part of a half hour and Whipp was still whining.

  “Maybe he’s tired,” Long Quiet said.

  “Of course he is,” Bay snapped. “That’s half the problem.”

  The good mood she’d come home with had vanished, and Bay was having to work hard to keep from giving Long Quiet the brunt of her frayed temper. But she still held hope of ending the evening in Long Quiet’s arms, so she swallowed the scream in her throat and said, “Here, you take him.”

  Long Quiet reached out his arms for the tiny baby and felt a glow of warmth for his child.

  Whipp let out a howl.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Long Quiet asked, not completely able to conceal the irritation in his voice. “Is he sick?”

  “I don’t think so . . . unless it’s colic.”

  “Colic? What’s colic?”

  “It’s when a baby cries and nobody knows why.”

  Long Quiet stared at Bay for a moment and burst out laughing. In a moment she’d joined him, curling up on the bed in giggles. “I have a Comanche nickname for your son,” she said between hoots of laughter.

  “Oh really? What is it?”

  “Give him to me.” Bay took the wailing baby from Long Quiet’s arms and held Whipp solemnly above her head. “His name shall be . . . Never Quiet.”

  Long Quiet’s face was blank for a moment before a guffaw burst from deep in his chest.

  Their laughter dissipated the sexual tension that had built between them on the trip home. Surrounded by the sounds of adult laughter and no longer sensing the nervousness in his mother’s body, Whipp abruptly stopped crying.

  Bay and Long Quiet looked at each other in amazement and broke out laughing again.

  “I guess he doesn’t like his Comanche name,” Bay said.

  “He’s lucky we didn’t call him Group of Men Standing on a Hill.”

  Bay howled.

  “Or Face Wrinkles Like an Old Man.”

  She fell back on the bed and settled Whipp facedown on her stomach.

  Long Quiet regaled her with funny Comanche names until she laughed so hard she cried. Long Quiet lay down beside her and held himself up on his elbow to enjoy her pleasure. “You’re beautiful, Bay.”

  Bay turned her head to gaze at him. “I love you, Long Quiet. I hoped tonight . . . I wanted . . .”

  “Me too,” he said.

  “But Whipp . . .” Bay looked down to see how Whipp was faring and exclaimed, “He’s asleep!”

  Long Quiet got up and came around the bed to pick up the sleeping baby and tuck him into his cradle.

  “Do you think he’ll ever realize how special he is?” Bay asked. “That he’s part of two very different peoples?”

  “He’ll only know what we teach him,” Long Quiet said.

  “Then I’m glad I married such a wise man,” Bay said with a smile. She reached out her arms to Long Quiet and he came into them.

  Their kiss was gentle at first, but it had been too long for both of them and their hunger made them bold. Clothes were hurriedly removed until their hot flesh was joined from breast to thigh.

  “I’ve wanted to do this,” Long Quiet said as his head dropped to Bay’s breast. “I’ve been jealous of my son.” He sucked gently on her breast, and then took as much into his mouth as he could.

  Bay felt the tingling sensation that told her milk would soon flow into her breasts. She knew from his groan of pleasure when Long Quiet felt the warm sweet spray inside his mouth. He supped where his son had supped.

  Bay had long since lost track of anything except the pleasurable sensations Long Quiet was causing. Her hands were caught in his hair and then strayed to his back, her fingernails scraping his skin as his hands slipped down her belly.

  “I love you,” he breathed. “I don’t want to hurt you, Bay.”

  “I want you deep inside me,” she said.

  Long Quiet groaned in pleasure as she reached for him and guided him slowly into her waiting warmth. When he’d lodged himself deep inside her, Bay moaned with pleasure and gripped his buttocks with her legs.

  His thrusts began slowly, short and shallow as though he feared hurting her despite her reassurance. But Bay sought his mouth with hers and engaged his tongue in a frenzied duel that provoked a corresponding clash between their bodies. Their climax came quickly, strong and violent. Bay muffled her cry against Long Quiet’s chest and he muffled his against her throat. Sated, they both lay panting.

  When Long Quiet would have moved away, Bay held him to her. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  “I’m too heavy.”

  “No you’re not. Stay.”

  And because it was what he wanted as well, he curled his arms around her and held her close.

  “Golden Lady is with foal,” he whispered.

  “That’s wonderful,” she whispered back. She paused for a moment and asked, “Why are we whispering?”

  “So we won’t wake up our son. I don’t want to share you with him right away. I have my own plans for how to keep you occupied.” He traced the shell of h
er ear with his tongue and felt her shiver beneath him. “I want to love you again, Bay,” he whispered.

  “I think I’ll call you Man Who Always Wants His Wife,” she said, muffling her giggle against his chest.

  And in the years that followed, he proved her right.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’ve manipulated the dates of certain events occurring at Castle San Carlos in Perote, Mexico, and taken the liberty of adding another escape to the two that actually occurred during this period.

  In July, 1843, Thomas Jefferson Green and fifteen other Texans held prisoner by the Mexicans dug a tunnel under the prison walls and escaped. Despite heavy Mexican guards and manacles, another sixteen men, Mier prisoners, made an amazing escape in March, 1844, by digging a tunnel underneath a wooden floor in the same cell.

  On the same July 4, 1844, that the Stewart family was celebrating with a picnic and fireworks, the commandant of Castle San Carlos issued a no-work order and allowed the surviving prisoners of Mier to celebrate the day of American independence by buying mescal, eggs, asses’ milk, and a loaf of sugar, which they used to make eggnog. The prisoners borrowed dresses from the soldiers’ wives and to the tune of fiddle music proceeded to get drunk, dance, and celebrate. The next day they were back at hard labor.

  More than twenty Texans died from the vómito epidemic that raged through the prison in October, 1843. By the date of their release, only 110 Texans remained of the 176 originally recaptured after their ill-fated escape attempt in February, 1843.

  The Mier prisoners were not released until September 16, 1844, when annexation negotiations between the United States and Texas took a favorable turn. The Texans had been held in Castle San Carlos for a year and absent from their homes in Texas for more than two years. According to one account, when finally released they “sprang like wild beasts from a cage. . . .”

  Dear Readers,

  I hope you enjoyed Bay and Long Quiet’s story. You can find out what “deal” Sloan made with Cruz in Texas Woman, available soon wherever books are sold.

  The modern-day descendants of the Creeds and Coburns are featured in my Bitter Creek series, The Cowboy, The Texan, and The Loner. If you like contemporaries in a western setting, you might also enjoy my Hawk’s Way series, which focuses on another modern-day ranching family, the Whitelaws. Watch for Sisters Found in stores now.

  I love hearing from you! You can e-mail me through my web site at www.joanjohnston.com. Be sure to sign up at my web site for my mailing list, so you can receive a postcard when new books are published. If you’re using snail mail, a reply might take a bit longer—and I appreciate your patience. Enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope with your letter to P.O. Box 8531, Pembroke Pines, FL 33084.

  Happy trails,

  Joan Johnston

  December 2002

  When we left Sloan at the end of

  Frontier Woman, she was unwed and

  pregnant, and the father of her

  child had just been killed . . .

  Here’s a preview of Sloan’s story,

  which is told in the third book of the

  Sisters of the Lone Star series.

  TEXAS WOMAN

  IT WAS HARD FOR SLOAN TO REMEMBER THE INITIAL JOY SHE HAD felt at finding out she was pregnant with Tonio’s child. Hard to remember the hours when she had pressed her hands against her belly and thought with wonder of their child growing within her. She should have realized something was wrong when Tonio did not immediately offer to marry her when she told him she was pregnant.

  “We must wait, chiquita,” he had said. “There will be time enough to marry and give the child a name.”

  Of course he never intended to marry her. It had been devastating to discover he was a traitor, that he had been murdered by one of his own men, Alejandro Sanchez, and that she must somehow bear on her own all the sorrow of his death, the shock of his betrayal, and the shame of being pregnant and unwed.

  It had not taken long for her sorrow and shock and shame to become hate and anger and resolution. She had thought it out, weighing every detail, and made the only rational decision possible: She would not keep Tonio’s child.

  She was bitter and angry for what Tonio had done. She did not think she could love the child of such a man, or even maintain indifference to it. She was afraid she would blame the child for the sins of the father, and she feared the hateful emotions she felt whenever she thought of Tonio and the bastard child she was to bear him. So, to spare the innocent child, she had sought out Tonio’s elder brother Cruz, and they had come to an agreement.

  Sloan sighed and shook her head. She still could not believe she had acted as she had. She could only blame her actions on the turbulent emotions she had felt at the time. She could vividly recall the disbelieving look on Cruz’s face when she told him what she wanted to do.

  “You will give away your own child?” he had exclaimed in horror.

  “It would bring back too many memories to keep Tonio’s baby,” she had replied.

  “But surely in time the memories will fade,” he had said, “and you will want your son or daughter—”

  “I will never forget Tonio. Or what he—”

  “You loved him, then,” Cruz had said, his voice harsh.

  “I did,” she admitted. “More than my own life,” she finished in a whisper. That was what had made his betrayal so painful. It did not occur to her that Cruz would not realize her love for his brother had died with Tonio.

  She had watched Cruz’s lips flatten to a thin line, watched him frown as he came to his decision.

  “Very well. I will take the child. But he must have a name.”

  “You may call him whatever you wish,” she said, in a rush to have it all done and over.

  “My brother’s son must have his name.”

  “If you wish to call the child Antonio—”

  “You misunderstand me,” Cruz interrupted brusquely. “My family possesses a noble Spanish heritage. My brother’s child must bear the Guerrero name.”

  Sloan had not imagined how difficult it was going to be to go through with her plan. She swallowed over the painful lump in her throat and said, “If you wish to adopt the child as your own, I will agree.”

  “That is not my intention,” Cruz said.

  She felt the warm touch of Cruz’s fingers as he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were dark with some emotion she refused to acknowledge. He could not feel that way about her . . . not when she had been his brother’s woman. What she could not accept, she ignored.

  His gaze held hers captive as he said, “My brother’s child will bear the Guerrero name because you will be my wife.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she blurted, pulling away from him.

  “Not at all,” he countered, his voice firm. “If you wish me to take the child and raise it as my own, you will marry me.”

  “That’s blackmail. I won’t do it.”

  “Then find another solution to your problem, Señorita Sloan.”

  The tall Spaniard had already turned on his booted heel before she found her voice. “Wait! There must be some way we can work this out.”

  He pivoted back to her, determination etched in his features. “I have stated my condition for taking the child.”

  His arrogance infuriated her, and she clasped her hands to keep herself from attacking him. She held her anger in check, knowing that however satisfying it would be to feel the skin of his cheek under her palm, it would be a useless gesture. She had nowhere else to turn.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

  Before his triumphant smile had a chance to form fully, she continued, “But it will be a marriage in name only. I will not live with you.”

  “That is hardly a proper marriage, señorita.”

  She snorted. “I don’t care a worm’s worth about a proper marriage. I’m trying to find a way to compromise with you.”

  “As my wife, you will live with me,
” Cruz announced in a commanding voice.

  “If I marry you, I’ll live at Three Oaks,” she snorted.

  “Unfortunately, that would make it quite impossible for us to have the children I desire.”

  Sloan flushed. “I won’t live with you.”

  “Then we can come to no agreement.”

  Once again, Sloan was forced to halt his departure. “Wait—”

  “You agree, then?”

  Sloan raked her mind for some way to put off the inevitable and finally came up with an idea. “I’ll agree to marry you . . . but I’ll live with you as your wife only after Alejandro Sanchez is brought to justice.”

  Cruz grimaced in frustration. “My brother’s murderer may never be caught.”

  “I know,” Sloan replied. “But that is my condition.” She said it with the same intractability he had used when he laid down his own demands.

  “I agree to your suggestion,” Cruz said at last. “We will be married now, and I will take the child when it is born and raise it as my own. Ours will be a marriage in name only—until such time as Alejandro Sanchez shall be brought to justice.”

  It was obvious to Sloan when she shook hands with Cruz to seal their bargain that he expected to find Alejandro within days. But her luck had held. Alejandro had remained elusive, and she had remained at Three Oaks. Over the years, while Cruz had hunted diligently for the bandido, he had kept their bargain and raised her son as his own. Now, at long last, Cruz had found Alejandro. Now, at long last, the arrogant Spaniard would expect her to fullfill her part of their bargain.

  And for reasons she could never explain to him, she knew she could not do it.

  Sloan jumped away from the adobe wall as Cruz’s voice startled her from her reverie.

  “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  “The law will avenge Tonio’s death,” Sloan said.

  “Only if Alejandro is still in jail when the time comes to hang him.”

  A frisson of alarm skittered down Sloan’s spine. “You don’t seriously believe he can escape, do you? He’s tied hand and foot, and he’ll be guarded by Texas Rangers.”