Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  He tied the canteen onto his saddle and remounted. As he swung his leg over, he said tersely, “You already are in the way. Come on—I’d like to get another twenty miles up the trail before it gets too hot to ride.”

  It was already too hot, but she forbore saying it. She caught the horn pommel and pulled her aching body up. “Just tell me we aren’t going to trot—that’s all I ask,” she muttered.

  “It’s too hard on the horses. We’ll have to take it slowly for a while.”

  “How far is it to the Llano?”

  “Depends. Without you, maybe a day. With you, maybe two days, maybe more.”

  She eyed the limestone-rimmed ledge around the mesa skeptically. “Well,” she muttered, “it ought to be cooler up there.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  He withdrew behind a shield of silence again. Yet as he rode beside her, his thoughts were on her, not Sanchez-Torres or the Comancheros. Before, it had been the damned vision that plagued him. Now it was her. Long after he’d made the pallet outside, long after he’d put his saddle between his body and hers, he’d lain awake, reliving how it had felt to possess her. He wasn’t even sure he’d actually slept at all.

  All he knew for certain was that she was going to keep making a fool out of him. Hell, she’d shown she could do it. She was in his thoughts and his dreams, and now she was going to be with him in the flesh, night and day. The safety of distance he’d intended to put between them was gone. Just like that.

  But he had no illusions now—no matter what had happened between them, no matter how it had come about, she’d made it abundantly clear afterward that he wasn’t her destiny. No, rather than lying awhile in his arms, she’d plunged into the water to wash the taint of him off her. He even knew her coming with him now really had little to do with him—it was that she was more afraid of a band of Comanches than she was of him.

  To Amanda his silence was becoming intolerable. “This really doesn’t have much to do with me, does it? You’re angry about something more than my coming with you, aren’t you?” she decided.

  “Hap Walker gave me that gun.”

  For a moment she was at a loss. “What gun?” Then it dawned on her. “The one you gave Little Doe?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you traded it for the horse. I didn’t have anything to do with that—I could have ridden your mule.”

  “No. I got the horse at the giveaway dance. It was the saddle I traded for. And you saw what Hannibal’s like—he doesn’t tolerate much handling.” He looked away. “No, the gun was all I had to trade.”

  “Look,” she offered, “when we get back to Fort Stockton, I’ll purchase another one just like it for you.”

  “No.” He took a deep breath, then settled his shoulders. “I reckon a man oughtn’t to hang onto things he doesn’t need. I’ve got two brand-new Colt .45s, and I don’t even have to fool with balls and powder anymore. But in the last fourteen years that old Navy Colt stood between me and eternity more times than I can count. It had the best sight I ever used.”

  “I’m sorry. If I could, I’d buy it back for you.”

  When he turned back, his expression was sober rather than angry. “You know, you are a damned nuisance, don’t you? Back in Boston, it might be enough to be pretty, but out here a woman’s got to pull her own weight or she doesn’t survive. And it takes a whole lot more than money to pull that weight. Frankly, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with you when the shooting starts.”

  “If I’m so utterly useless, why did you bother to stop and help me in the first place?”

  “I didn’t say you were exactly useless. If things were different, I—” He caught himself before he said something stupid. “Well, I guess I’m just going to have to make the best of it, that’s all. What can’t be helped, can’t be helped.”

  “You know, if you really wanted to stop the Comanches from raiding, you’d lead the cavalry to them. Then all of this would be over, wouldn’t it?” she observed reasonably.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “I can try to save them from themselves, but I can’t betray them.”

  “Eventually the army is going to get them, anyway—you know that, don’t you? You could spare everybody a lot of agony—even them.”

  “An army doesn’t know the land as I do—a cavalry troop can ride for days and never catch sight of a Comanche or a Comanchero. They’ve tried before, but they don’t think like Indians. And there’s not a cavalryman alive who wants to go where we may have to go”

  “You make it sound so inviting,” she murmured wryly.

  “No. It’s a job.”

  “For thirty-three dollars a month.”

  “For thirty-three dollars a month. The way I look at it, somebody’s got to do it, and it might as well be me. I don’t have anybody but Hap who’d give a damn if I got myself killed, and he’d get over it.”

  She could see there was no moving him, so she might as well resign herself. Maybe if they were lucky, they’d encounter the Comancheros he was looking for before they reached Quanah Parker. Not that that was really anything to be desired either.

  “Uh … how many others do you expect to come with this Sanchez-Torres?” she found herself asking.

  “I don’t know—maybe a dozen, maybe less, maybe more. But when the shooting starts—and it will—you keep out of the line of fire. I wouldn’t want to be dragging your body back to Stockton in this heat—you savvy?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Mr. McAlester.”

  “You’re green, Amanda—a real greenhorn.”

  “That’s only your opinion of me,” she shot back.

  He wasn’t being fair to her, and he knew it. She’d already shown him she had the grit and will to survive against nearly overwhelming odds. But he was too out of charity with her for costing him his old gun, not to mention the loss of face he’d suffered in Ketanah’s village, to relent just yet.

  Personally, she thought he probably considered any one unwilling or unable to live as he did almost too weak to live. Well, she wasn’t, and she was going to prove it to him. Someway or somehow she was going to prove it to him. Redoubling her effort to keep up, she resigned herself to a long, miserable day.

  They’d picked their way over at least twenty of the most harrowing miles she’d ever traveled, she was sure of that, and she was thirsty, hungry, unbearably hot, and almost exhausted. Clay McAlester, on the other hand, seemed impervious to any human weakness. She cast a surreptitious glance his way, but his face was impassive, revealing nothing. Surely to God, behind that set face of his, he had to be as miserable as she was.

  She wanted to ask for water, but she’d made up her mind that she could hold out as long as he did. She leaned forward to wipe her sweaty face with the hem of the shirt. It had to be the hottest day she’d spent on earth. She looked at him again, seeing the sweat that soaked his back. Her eyes traveled upward, taking in the trickle of moisture from his shaded forehead, the wetness above his mouth. He had a decidedly masculine, well-featured face, with a straight nose, chiseled chin, and solid jaw. So much so that he made Patrick Donnelly seem almost effeminate in comparison. No, there was no denying that Clay McAlester was a handsome man.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, remembering the feel of his body against hers, the strength of his arms holding her, the heat of his breath against her ear, and she was almost weak from the memory. And she knew it had been more than too much mescal. It had been her own desire that had led her astray. That and the heady, powerful beat of those drums.

  Resolutely, she returned her attention to the present. If the heat didn’t break somehow, and if she didn’t get a drink soon, she was going to faint. She was already more than a little dizzy from loss of water. Above her, the sun was merciless, almost burning through her clothes, while under her, the Indian pony sweated heavily, soaking her legs through her drawers. She looked up, wishing that somehow it c
ould rain, but there wasn’t a cloud in the whole white-hot sky. She bit her dry, cracked lip and told herself she could wait a little longer—not much, but a little longer.

  Just as she was going to give in and ask, he finally stopped. “I don’t know about you,” he said, swinging out of his saddle, “but I’ve got to stretch my legs.”

  The relief she felt was nearly overwhelming, but she tried not to show it. “Yes,” she responded simply.

  “Thirsty?”

  “A little,” she lied. If he’d have given her the canteen, she’d have drained it on the spot.

  He eyed her oddly, but said nothing.

  While she dismounted, he picked his way around scattered boulders and walked into a clump of cedar trees. She stood there, fanning herself with the tail of his shirt, trying to create enough of a breeze to dry her wet face. This couldn’t be Texas—it had to be hell, she reflected wearily.

  “Your turn,” he said when he came out. “I’ll get the canteen while you take care of your business.”

  “All right.”

  He waited until she was nearly even with the trees before warning her, “Look where you walk—and if anything buzzes, you can bet your life it’s not a bee. Try to stay away from the rocks.”

  “Thank you for that comforting thought, Mr. McAlester,” she said under her breath.

  She walked carefully, keeping her eyes on the ground until she reached the wet spot he’d left in the dirt. Casting a nervous glance over her shoulder, she pulled her drawers down and squatted. Pulling up a sparse clump of dead grass, she made quick use of it, then hastened back to where he waited.

  “At least you’re prompt, and that’s something,” he said when she emerged. He took another swig from his canteen, then passed it to her. “Drink up—you’ve sweat a lot.”

  She could almost hear her aunt tell her, “Ladies don’t sweat, dearest—they perspire.” But the niceties of Boston had no meaning to him, she was sure. She wiped the mouth of the canteen on his shirt and drank greedily from it.

  “Thank you,” she said, handing it back. As he walked toward the mule, she blurted out, “How much farther do we have to go today? I mean, surely it’s been more than any twenty miles, hasn’t it?”

  He swung around, taking in the damp wisps of hair clinging to her temples and forehead, and he felt anew a heat that had nothing to do with the weather. He forced himself to look away.

  “Well,” he said, scarce recognizing his own voice, “I was thinking of staying here until sundown. I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I’m about as tired as you are.

  She could feel her face burn. “Yes … well, neither did I,” she managed.

  He’d not meant to bring it up, but now it hung between them like a gaping chasm. If he were going to share his days and nights with her, he was going to have to get past that. “It was the mescal, I expect,” he said finally. “We both had too much of it.”

  “And the drums.”

  “And the drums. There’s something about a Comanche drum that puts fire in the blood.”

  “Yes.”

  So she’d felt it also. He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly. “Look—I’ll try my damnedest to keep my distance, if that’s what you want. All you’ve got to do is say it.”

  She couldn’t look at him. “I think it would be wise, don’t you?” she answered, her voice scarce above a whisper.

  It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and he knew it. “You’re the keeper of the gate, not me.” He turned his back to her and began unloading his packs. When he finished, he felt sure enough of himself to look at her.

  She was lifting her long hair up, trying to cool her wet neck. As she leaned back slightly, her breasts strained against his buttoned shirt. His mouth went dry, and his pulse pounded in his temples.

  “Don’t do that,” he said harshly.

  “What?” Startled, she let her hair fall.

  “Nothing.” He took another breath. “Look—I’m a man. You can’t say you don’t want my attentions if you’re going to do that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Keep your arms down, will you?”

  “Oh, now that’s too much! Surely you don’t think … you don’t really believe that I deliberately … that I …?”

  It was a situation he couldn’t win, he could see that. “No, of course not,” he said wearily. “I guess I’m just going to have to learn to look the other way.”

  “I can’t help what goes on in your mind, Mr. McAlester.”

  “I told you—the name’s Clay—Clayton McAlester, if you want the whole of it.”

  She’d been using the mister as a means of distance. “All right—if it offends you—”

  “It does.” He felt at a distinct disadvantage just now. “I guess I’ll get out the food,” he decided aloud. “You can make a tent to suit you.”

  “There’s a tent?”

  “No, but you can use the blanket off my bedroll. Just hang it on something to make some shade.” He opened the parfleche Walks With Sunshade had given him. “It’s too hot to make a fire, so you’ll have to be satisfied with jerky—unless you want some mesquite pudding.”

  “I’ll take the jerky.”

  “Want any pulke?” As she eyed him balefully, he offered, “Before we leave tonight, I’ll make you some coffee.”

  She could still remember the awful taste of his strong coffee coming up. “I’d rather have water, if there’s enough. I’m not much for coffee either.”

  “Help yourself to the canteen. Tonight you can cook up something before we leave. You can cook, can’t you?”

  “A little, but it was always on Aunt Kate’s modern range.” Afraid he’d think her useless, she hastened to add, “I guess I can try using an open fire.”

  “Ever make stew?”

  “No.”

  “Boil any hardtack?”

  “No.”

  “Roast any wild game?”

  “No.”

  The corners of his mouth quivered as he fought a smile. “All right—maybe it’d be a whole lot easier if I asked what you can make.”

  “Pea beans in molasses.”

  “Pea beans in molasses,” he repeated. “What else?”

  “Pies and tarts, when cherries are in season.”

  “Yeah—well, that sort of lets you out as a cook,” he observed wryly. “I’m all out of molasses—not to mention pea beans and cherries.”

  She took his smile as making fun of her. “I wasn’t expected to cook, Mr. McAlester,” she retorted defensively. “Aunt Kate employed a woman named Sally Paries to do that.”

  “I don’t like the mister—remember?”

  “Clay, then. Anyway, it wasn’t part of my upbringing. Aunt Kate always assumed I would marry well, so the emphasis was on planning the meal rather than cooking it.”

  There it was—another reminder that she was too good, too rich for him. Rather than respond, he divided up the jerky and handed her her share. “Chew it slowly, drink a little water with it, and it’ll fill you up.”

  “Thank you.”

  He dropped to sit cross-legged and opened a smaller container. Taking out a beat-up spoon, he scooped something up with it. She watched as he took a bite.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mesquite pudding.”

  Considering that she hadn’t eaten all day, the jerky looked woefully inadequate. “What’s it taste like?” she asked curiously.

  “Sweet. Comanches make it by mashing mesquite beans and bone marrow together with a little tallow.”

  “Oh.”

  He held out the container. “Here—try it. It’ll surprise you.”

  “It’d have to.”

  “Go on,” he urged her. He dipped some more and carried the spoon to her mouth as though she were a child. “If you don’t like it, spit it out.”

  She hesitated, but her hunger won. She nibbled the end of the spoon, getting the smallest
amount possible. It wasn’t anything comparable to what anybody would called pudding, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She nodded.

  “Like it?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to eat it every day,” she murmured diplomatically. “But it does taste sweet, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s the mesquite beans.”

  “Do you eat like this all the time?”

  “Mostly. Sometimes when I get to San Antone, I get a good shave, dress up, and buy a meal or two at one of the hotels. A man gets tired of his own cooking.”

  “But not a haircut? You never get a haircut?”

  “Only enough to see out.” His mouth twisted into the semblance of another smile. “Hap’s always riding me about that.” He looked off for a moment, then settled his shoulders. “I guess it comes from living too many years with Comanches. A man’s hair is his pride—-he spends hours combing and greasing it to make it shine. It’s sort of a disgrace to have it cut off.”

  “But you aren’t a Comanche, Clay.”

  “I don’t know what I am. I guess I just kind of pick and choose what I want from both sides.”

  “And you feel you don’t fit in either,” she murmured sympathetically.

  “Maybe. I never quit wanting to go back, anyway—not even when I was in Chicago.”

  “You were in Chicago?” she asked incredulously. “When?”

  “Uh-huh. I lived there for almost four years while my Aunt Jane tried to civilize me. That was before I came back to fight Yankees with Hap.”

  “What was she like—your Aunt Jane, I mean?”

  “I don’t know.” The image of Jane McAlester stood before his eyes. “I guess you’d call her determined.”

  “That’s all—determined?”

  He shrugged. “She was a strong-willed, religious woman, hell-bent on saving my soul, but she had a good heart to go with all that determination.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “You must have been quite a challenge.”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. When I look back, I think she must’ve been a saint to try it. She took in a long-haired, wild-eyed kid, who could barely speak English, with the notion that if she tried hard enough, she could make a gentleman out of him. Hell, it took her half a year to get me to sleep in a bed instead of under it.”