by Anita Mills
“What are those things lying on the ground?”
“They’re part of the game. Those who watch can dart between dancers and pick up gift sticks. Everyone who gets one is rewarded with something of value—usually a horse—by the boy’s parents. That way, half the camp comes, and the boy gets recognized for his first big coup.”
“Oh.”
“It’s about cunning and nerve. The more danger, the more honorable the coup, so it is considered more worthy to outwit the enemy in an obvious way than to kill him. To steal a horse beneath a man’s nose is harder than shooting him from a safe distance for it. I once knew a boy who counted coup by taking a rifle from beneath a saddle while a soldier slept on it.”
“And then he killed the soldier, I suppose.”
“No. That would have been too easy. He left him unharmed.”
“For every one they let live, they kill dozens more, and you cannot deny it.”
“No.” He didn’t want her dwelling on that, not now. “Wait here,” he said, letting go of her. As she watched curiously, he ducked between the dancers and picked up two painted sticks. Coming back, he showed them to her. “Now let’s hope there’s a gray horse for Nahdehwah,” he murmured as he shoved them into his pocket.
“Why a gray one?”
“A gray horse brings good luck.”
The big whip began prancing and dancing around Clay, then tapped him on the shoulder with the bone handle. Calling out “Nahakoah! Nahakoah!” he turned to the others, gesturing for them to take up the refrain. “Nahakoah! Nahakoah! Nahakoah!” a number of them shouted.
“Come on—let’s go.” Clay caught Amanda’s hand again, pulling her into the circle of dancers. As the chant grew, he put his hands on her waist. She looked around helplessly, then tried to imitate the others by holding his waist also. The five men pounded the skin-covered drums, increasing the beat, while those in the circle whirled and stomped with abandon.
At first, Amanda was extremely self-conscious, then she realized McAlester was right—there wasn’t much of anything that could be called a dance step. And the combination of heat, mescal, and drumbeat loosened her reserve. Trying to keep up with him, she copied what he did, stumbling a few times until she got the hang of it. Other dancers stopped to watch, clapping in rhythm, chanting sing-song, but she was beyond hearing them. There was too much warmth, too much strength in his hands. And as his eyes met hers, a primal excitement coursed through her, heating her body. Her heart pounded, imitating the heady beat of the drums.
Suddenly the whip master darted out, tapping Clay again, and the music stopped abruptly. A boy ran up with a gourd dipper, offering it to him. Clay drained it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“This won’t take long,” he promised.
“Where are you going?”
Before he could answer, he was pushed into the open center of the circle. Someone else brought another dipper to her, and she discovered it was more mescal. Thirsty and breathless, she gulped it down, then stood there, her eyes fixed on McAlester as he cleared his throat, then began speaking words she couldn’t understand. Several times he turned to a youth she supposed was the boy being honored. And when he finished, there was a collective shout of approval.
At that, the big whip went on to tap a man who sat just outside the circle. The fellow protested, indicating that he had a lame leg, but to no avail. His wife helped him stand, and the pair took their places among the dancers. The drummers began again.
“What was that all about?” Amanda asked when Clay returned to her.
“Before the night is over, every man here will recount his first coup.” He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “How about another try at it?”
Whether it was the look in his eyes or the mescal she’d drunk didn’t matter. His hand touched hers, and she was keenly aware of how warm, how vital he was. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. As he put her hands on his waist, she shivered not from cold, but from the heat passing between them. And all the while there was the wild, unbridled beat of the drums.
They danced into the night, scarce aware when others crept away, some to tipis, some to lie together in the trees, others in the tall grass. As the music paused for a latecomer to be dragged into the circle to speak, Clay stepped back. He stood there, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps. His hands were still on Amanda’s waist, steadying her. He looked into her face, seeing her hair clinging damply to her temples, her dark eyes shining in the moonlight. And from somewhere in his mind came whispered words, telling him she was his destiny.
When he finally dropped his hands, she brushed her hair back with her fingertips. “I … uh … well, that was something, wasn’t it?” she managed self-consciously.
“Yes.”
He didn’t want to stay there. He wanted to be alone with her. His eyes searched the crowd for Two Owls. The tall Kiowa saw him and began pushing his way through those who still wanted to listen.
Standing beside him, Amanda stole a glance at him. His long blond hair framed his chiseled face, his blue eyes were pale with reflected moonlight, and his shirt clung wetly to his heaving chest. He wasn’t a pretty, petulant boy like Ramon Sandoval, nor did he possess the brash confidence of Patrick Donnelly, but he was without doubt the most fascinating man she’d ever laid eyes on. And she wasn’t ready for the night to end yet.
“You dance well, Nahakoah,” Two Owls said.
Clay held out the two gift sticks. “Pick out a gray horse for Nahdehwah if you can. The other one you can have for keeping my woman safe while I am gone.”
“It is not necessary—no one will harm her when she is in my tipi.” “I want you to have it.”
The Indian regarded him gravely for a moment, then said only, “I will choose for you.”
“Good.”
Despite a faint summer breeze, the air was still warm. Clay looked up, seeing a clear, cloudless sky, one filled with what seemed to be a hundred white-hot stars. As Two Owls returned to the crowd, Clay began walking, and a silent Amanda fell in beside him, following the path toward the spring. He was so aware of her, so tautly strung he was afraid to speak. When he dared to look at her, her face was averted, her thoughts hidden from him.
He ought to be exhausted, but he was more exhilarated than he’d been in years. As they approached the springs, it was so quiet now that he could hear his own heartbeat and the sound of water rushing over rocks. He stopped. His fingers touched hers, and her breath caught audibly, but she did not pull away.
“Amanda—” The word was somewhere between a whisper and a croak. “God, but you’re beautiful—you know that, don’t you?” he asked huskily.
There was no mistaking the desire in his voice. She knew she ought to turn back while she could, and yet as his hands slid up her arms, her pulse pounded, reverberating in her ears, drowning out reason. All that mattered was that he was going to kiss her, and that she wanted him to do it.
Her eyes were large and luminous in the darkness, then they closed as his arm tightened around her shoulders, holding her. His other hand lifted her chin. “So beautiful,” he whispered thickly.
As his head bent nearer, she could feel the soft warmth of his breath against her cheek. A shiver of anticipation raced through her. In that moment it was as though they were the only people in the world, as though time itself paused. His lips met hers with surprising gentleness, touching, tentatively tasting. She hesitated, uncertain of what to do, then she slid her arms around his waist, returning his embrace.
It was all the encouragement he needed. She was soft, yielding, and so close he could feel the swell of her breasts pressed against his chest, her heartbeat through his shirt. And he forgot who she was and what she stood for. Tonight she was the woman of his vision, and that was all that mattered. His mouth hardened against hers, and his tongue sought the hot, inner recesses of her mouth, demanding more.
Despite the shock of it, she liked the feel o
f what he did to her. Her hands caught at his shoulders, clasping them, holding him lest she lose her balance. His kisses were hot, eager, as intoxicating as the mescal. She felt giddy, almost dizzy with an answering desire. She was shameless, abandoned, and beyond caring.
A couple, whispering and giggling, stumbled past them, and Clay pulled her into the shadows, pressing her against the sheer rock wall a few feet from where it touched the water. He could feel the length of her now, and it wasn’t enough. His breathing ragged, he whispered against her ear, “Let me love you, Amanda.”
She pressed her lips into the hollow of his neck, tasting his hot, salty skin. His hips rubbed against hers, tantalizing her with his hardness. While some small voice of reason told her what she did was wrong, he eased her into the tall, cool grass, going down with her.
She didn’t have much of a notion about it, but she’d heard her aunt’s maids whispering enough to know that he shouldn’t be lying over her. She rolled from beneath him onto her side, where she faced him. His eyes glittered, almost frightening her with their intensity.
He reached for her, pulling her over him, and somehow that seemed less dangerous, less sinful. “Kiss me,” he urged her.
She bent her head, letting her hair fall over his face and shoulders, then touched her lips to his, parting them to give him access to her mouth. She felt a sense of power as his hands moved over her back, downward to trace fire over her hips. His mouth left hers to trail eager kisses along her jaw to her ear, then to nuzzle the soft, sensitive hollow of her neck. She arched her head, savoring the exquisite feel of his mouth.
Her hair was like silk where it brushed against his skin, just as it had been in his vision of her. His hand worked the shirt loose and slid under the hem to touch her bare skin, then moved down over her rib cage to the swell of her breast, cupping it in his callused palm. Something very like a sob escaped her when his thumb found her nipple. It hardened like a knob.
“Please,” she whispered in anguish. “No …”
“It’s all right,” he reassured her.
Sliding down beneath her, he pushed up her shirt and rubbed his face against her breasts. His tongue teased the hardened nipple, drawing it into his mouth. He couldn’t see her face, but he could feel the intensity of the shudder that passed through her. Her hot skin turned to gooseflesh beneath his fingers.
It was as though her whole being was centered where he touched. And no matter what happened, she didn’t want him to stop, not now. His hands moved again to her back, then slipped beneath the waistband of her drawers, easing them down. One hand went under her, dipping between her legs, finding the wetness there. His fingers probed, then withdrew when she stiffened. His mouth left her breasts, returning to possess hers eagerly now.
His desire raged like a fever, and he could not wait. He fumbled with his pants, freeing himself. He thrust his tongue between her teeth, grasped her hips with his hands, and thrust upward. As she felt him breach the soft, wet thatch, she panicked and tried to pull away. He threw his leg behind hers, catching it, and rolled over her, pinning her beneath him. As her legs splayed, he guided himself inside. Her flesh resisted momentarily, tore, then closed around him.
Her eyes flew open, and there was a wild, frantic look in them. “Hold me,” he rasped.
She was searing, sundered, and shocked to the very core. He began to move, tentatively at first, then with deliberate rhythm, stroking her, filling her, renewing her desire. Conscious will ended, replaced by overwhelming need. Her slack legs tautened, then wrapped around his, and her hips rocked and bucked beneath him, desperately straining for more and more of him. Her breath came in great, gulping gasps.
Mindless, aware only of the blood pounding through his body, of the near agony of impending release, he rode her hard, scarce hearing when she cried out. He was almost there. Ecstasy came in pulsing waves. Satiated, he collapsed over her, his body hugging hers.
As the heat ebbed slowly from her body, she realized what she’d done. Where there had been desire, now she felt only acute shame and a need to hide. Still pinned beneath him, his body still within hers, she was afraid to move, to open her eyes. She’d never be able to look at him again, she was sure of that.
He could feel himself shrink within her, yet he was loath to leave her. It had been too good, too complete. He looked down, his face nearly touching hers, and he saw her swallow. He reached to smooth her tangled hair back from her face, to touch her cheeks with the back of his hand. They were wet, and he knew she cried. The exhilaration he’d felt deserted him.
He rolled off her and lay there, at a loss for anything to say to her. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly.
“Amanda … don’t …”
She didn’t answer. Instead she lay there, listening to the steady beat of Comanche drums, wishing she’d never danced to them, wishing she’d never drunk any mescal. But it was too late now, and nothing would ever be the same. She’d given herself to Clay McAlester like a common harlot. And she couldn’t even truthfully say she’d been seduced.
“I suppose I ought to say I’m sorry, but it’d be a damned lie,” he told her.
“Don’t.” She swallowed again. “Please don’t.”
She was making him feel like the lowest creature on earth. It was the damned civilized rules he was supposed to live by, and he knew it. A gentleman did not take advantage of a lady, no matter what she’d had to drink. If he did, he was expected to pay the price.
“Look … I’ll marry you, if that’s what you want.”
Now she really wanted to bawl her eyes out. “No,” she managed painfully. “No. It wouldn’t work out—you’re not the sort of man I’d want for a husband. And I don’t think I’d make you a very good wife.”
Turning away from him, she sat up and pulled the borrowed shirt down, covering her breasts. Her drawers were another matter. She stood and yanked them up at the same time. A warm trickle ran down her inner thigh. Not knowing what else to do, she walked to the spring pool, and waded in. As the cold water closed around her, she told herself she’d been utterly foolish, that she couldn’t even blame him for taking what she’d so freely offered. She’d behaved like a complete trollop, and she knew it. The only things that made her any better than those girls in border bordellos were that she was John Ross’s daughter and she owned the Ybarra.
He sat there, feeling at a loss to comfort her. It was done, and there wasn’t any way to change that. Now, if he were a gentleman, he’d tell her that her wet clothes were transparent. But he wasn’t.
He heaved his body up and peeled his shirt off. Going to the other side of the pool, he knelt and washed his face, his arms, and chest, letting the cold water sober him. When he was done, he walked to stand over her.
He held out his shirt. “I’d put this on before we go back if I were you.”
She looked down, seeing the dark outline of her nipples beneath the wet cloth. Still not daring to meet his eyes, she climbed out and took the shirt. Turning her back, she took off his wet shirt, wrung it out, and put on the other one. Without a word to him, she started back toward the village.
He followed her, making no effort to catch up. He was still going to have to spend what was left of the night beside her, but in the morning he’d be going. Maybe by the time he came back for her, she could at least look at him, even if he wasn’t the sort of fellow she could marry. Maybe by then he wouldn’t feel so much the fool himself.
Something startled her, and Amanda roused. Already the rosy light of dawn cast an aura of unreality over the silent village. Her head ached, and her body was stiff, almost sore as she stretched her legs. And then she remembered. Shame flooded over her. Very gingerly, she turned her head to look at McAlester, and her stomach knotted.
He wasn’t there. Fully awake now, she sat up. Her heart pounding, she looked around. The saddle that had been between them was gone, as was his bedroll. Her gaze sought reassuran
ce in the cottonwood thicket where his horse and mule had been tied. They weren’t there either. But hanging from a low-lying limb, something fluttered in the early morning breeze.
Panicked, she scrambled to her feet and ran to look at it. It was the dress she’d been wearing when Ramon Sandoval abandoned her. And on the ground below, her petticoat lay neatly folded with a weighted paper on it. Her breath caught painfully in her chest.
In the dim light she read the note aloud once, then silently again.
Amanda, by the time you read this, I expect to be well down the trail. As soon as my job is done, I’ll be back. Until then, I’ve made arrangements for Two Owls to look after you, and he has promised me that both of his wives will treat you well. Nahdehwah did what she could for the clothes I found in the desert. If you get the chance, I hope you’ll thank her for it. As for last night, don’t be hard on yourself. The fault lies in the mescal and me, not you. I still think you are very much a lady.
He’d signed it simply “Clay McAlester.” No sincerely, no yours truly, only his name.
She stood, rooted to the ground, her heart sinking. He was gone—he’d left her alone and defenseless in the Comanche camp. He’d used her and left her. Her fingers crushed the paper, then let it fall to the ground. Despite the awful headache, she felt numb all over.
Then her mind began to race. Maybe he hadn’t left yet. Maybe he was somewhere within the camp, waiting to eat before he left. Maybe he still filled his canteens at the spring. She grabbed her dress and petticoat and ran toward Two Owls’s tipi.
A sleepy Little Doe already had a fire going, and a slab of animal ribs hung from an iron fork braced over it. When Amanda came up to her, she was stirring cracked corn into a pot of water.
Forgetting their fight, Amanda demanded breathlessly, “Where’s McAlester? Where is he?”
The woman looked up blankly, then said something in Comanche. She hadn’t understood.
She had to think. “Nahakoah? Where Nahakoah?”