Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “No, it’s not the worst.”

  Afraid she was going to tell him she regretted sinning with him, he persisted, “Tell me something more about Boston.”

  “It’s a big city. If you go there, you can see the church where the lanterns signaled to Paul Revere. And you can see his house, though where he put all those children is a mystery to me.”

  “What else?”

  “About Boston or me?”

  “You.”

  “I excelled in literature and mathematics, but did poorly in needlework—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Anything. I like the sound of your voice,” he murmured.

  “I sing soprano.”

  “Know any lullabies?”

  “What? You mean like ‘Lullaby and Goodnight’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.” He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, and she knew if he touched her, she’d want everything he could do to her, and she knew also it wasn’t the time nor the place, not with so much at stake. “No, I don’t sing softly enough.”

  “That’s about all I remember from my mother. A lullaby. That and she smelled of roses—or at least I think she did. It might have been someone else with the roses.”

  “They’re my favorite flower. I like the big red ones best, but I’d take any of them.”

  He reached out, touching her arm lightly with his fingertips, tracing along the sleeve of her dress. An involuntary shudder went through her. She sat very still, afraid to move lest her composure shatter like an egg shell. The back of his hand brushed across her breast, and her nipple tautened.

  “Amanda,” he whispered.

  “What?” The word came out like a sob.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want you now.”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “Shhhh.” His fingers touched her lips, silencing her. “I just have to go in while it’s dark—and the night’s only begun,” he said softly.

  Knowing there might never be another time for them, she allowed him to pull her down beside him. As his mouth sought hers, she twined her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. And when he left her lips to trace hot, eager kisses along her jaw to her ear, she whispered, “Just love me tonight, Clay—just hold me tonight.”

  This time there was no furtive coupling, no furious passion. Only the bittersweet tenderness of a night that might be their last. He caressed and explored, heightened every sensation, taking and giving full measure, until she clung to him, gasping and sobbing, as he came within her. And when it was over, he lay back, holding her, watching the stars light the sky.

  She must’ve fallen asleep like that, for it seemed far too soon when he nudged her. She sat up groggily, then came fully awake with the realization that he was dressed, that he had his gunbelt on. When she turned away, she could see the twinkle of lanterns below. She felt him press something into her hand.

  “Give me three-quarters of an hour,” he said, his voice low. “If you haven’t heard anything, and if I’m not back by then, take Sarah and ride back to Hap.”

  “I don’t—” She looked down, seeing the white face of a watch. “But—”

  “No, listen to me. I figure it’ll take me ten or fifteen minutes to get down there on foot, ten or fifteen minutes to look around, and maybe that much to get back.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  It depends on how they’ve got everything arranged. Right now, I’m just going to take a look around.”

  “If they catch you—”

  “If they catch me, don’t come down—you hear that? Don’t come down.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m leaving the shotgun with you. If you see me hightailing it up here with some Comancheros behind me, don’t hesitate to use it. I’ve got it loaded up for you, and here’s more shells.” His hand closed over hers for a moment. “And if it looks like they’re going to capture you, you might want to save a shot for yourself. Otherwise, they’ll sell you right along with the guns.”

  She held on. “Don’t go—please. There’s got to be some other way—there’s got to.”

  He lifted her chin with his free hand. “Whatever you do, don’t come down. Go over the back and out that way.” Leaning, he brushed his lips against hers, then drew back. “I don’t have any regrets, Amanda—not now.”

  Before she could stop him, he was going. In the darkness she could hear rocks slide, a mumbled curse, then silence. She couldn’t even tell if he got all the way to the bottom safely. Crossing herself, she whispered a prayer, then picked up the shotgun and found herself a place to sit.

  In other circumstances she could have discovered beauty in the small yellow balls of light, but not now. Now they represented an alien enemy, something so vile that the struggle was literally between good and evil. And Clay McAlester, heathen, savage, and anything else people called him, on this night at least, was the only man standing between an uneasy peace and an outright bloodbath.

  He’d skinned his hand when he lost his footing, but otherwise he’d made it down all right. He stood for a moment, taking stock of the wagons. Sanchez-Torres hadn’t bothered bunching them defensively, which was going to make everything more difficult. Now he was going to have to figure out which ones he had to hit.

  Most of the camp was quiet as he approached, but somewhere someone, probably one of the guards, played a mouth harp. Another man shouted at him, telling him to pipe down, and an argument ensued. Moving toward the far end, Clay walked carefully, his moccasins silently scuffing the dirt. Twice when he heard noises, he stopped, once to check again that he’d brought the powder, the oiled rags, and the ramrod he’d broken into five pieces. They were all in his coat pocket.

  Just before he reached the shadows, a guard stepped out, took a long drag on a cigarillo, then tossed the butt. Clay froze, his hand on his Bowie knife. If the fellow moved any closer, he was going to have to cut his throat. He couldn’t risk anything else. The Mexican looked straight at him, then walked on down the line of wagons. He must’ve been more than half blind, Clay decided.

  Another man came out, spoke to the first one, waved him on, then walked a few feet to relieve himself in the dirt. Clay crouched low, ready to take him, but he moved on also. The mouth harp stopped.

  He gained the shelter of a wagon and crawled underneath. Feeling along the boards with his hand, he was able to thrust his fingers inside. He touched the heavy, solid sacks, and guessed he’d found flour. Dropping flat onto his belly, he edged his way past the wagon tongue, crawled several feet in the open, then went under the next one. This time, he felt something wooden and solid, which could either be boxes of guns or ammunition. And he had to know which.

  Someone walked past, but didn’t stop. As Clay watched, he climbed into a wagon at the other end. A woman giggled, and he knew there probably weren’t any guns in that one. He pulled himself up for a better look and felt inside for the boxes. They were long.

  As he was groping along the second wagon tongue, he came face-to-face with a lean, rangy dog. The animal bared its fangs and growled low. If ever he needed wolf medicine, it was now. Rather than cower, he stood up, staring the dog in the eye. It couldn’t have been for more than a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. The growl faded to a whimper, and the animal turned and hiked off, its tail down between its hind legs.

  The third wagon held what he’d been looking for—barrels. He felt along the staves, then drew back his hand, smelling his fingers. Gunpowder. Paydirt. A grim satisfaction took hold. Old Sanchez-Torres might be one wily Comanchero, but this time he’d been downright stupid. He’d put his gunpowder in the middle of his line. And that was one hell of a mistake. Clay backed away.

  “Que dow!” somebody called out.

  He’d been spotted, and he was on foot. The guard he’d seen earlier grabbed for him, and Clay dropped his rifle while coming up with the Bowi
e knife. There was a low, guttural sound, then a whoosh as the Comanchero fell to the ground. But he’d got him too late. Two others were running toward him.

  Never make a stand if you can’t hold it, Sansoneah once told him. He scooped up his rifle, ducked between two wagons, grabbed a horse, and swung up by its mane. Now it was do or die. They knew he was there, and they’d be sure to track him. Only right now they didn’t know whether he was one man or ten, and he was going to make damned sure they didn’t find out.

  He kicked the horse and turned it, galloping the length of the wagons, coming up the other side, whooping a Comanche war cry, as men ducked for cover. At the end he dropped from the animal, hit it on the rump, and sent it back. A dozen shots hit, killing it. Now they were all shouting at one another.

  Clay knelt, took out the oiled rag, the powderhorn, and a piece of ramrod. Sprinkling the powder on the rag, he used the ramrod to push it up the rifle barrel. Just as they saw him, he fired at the third wagon. The shot split the air, then the rag flamed as the rod hit a keg of gunpowder. The first explosion shattered the wagon, then spread to the other kegs, lighting the night sky with one fireball after another.

  Reloading, Clay fired again, this time into the next wagon. It caught on fire, but didn’t explode, telling him it was trade goods. While those Comancheros still standing tried to move wagons away from the conflagration, Clay’s third shot got the ammunition. The shells started going off, igniting a chain reaction. Debris from the gunpowder kegs rained down, and flames began engulfing the canvas covers on all the remaining wagons.

  With the screams of men and the popping of bullets filling the night air behind him, Clay started walking back to Amanda. He ought to feel exultation or something very like it, but he didn’t. It wasn’t lost on him that it had been Sansoneah who’d taught him to make fire like that. And now he’d used it to destroy that last hope of The People. As he crossed that ancient plain, the bridge was burning behind him. The drums would never call him again. He could never dream of going back again, and for that he felt an acute sadness.

  At the bottom of the layered limestone hill he turned back for one last look. Flames licked the bare canvas supports, making them stand out like iron ribs above collapsed, burning wagons. If his Aunt Jane had been here, she’d have said it looked like Armageddon.

  When she’d seen the fireballs shoot into the air, Amanda had panicked, certain no one could have survived the inferno. For a long moment she’d sat there, too stunned to move. And then the tears came, pouring from her eyes, the sobs racking her soul. She cried so hard she couldn’t see as she stumbled toward the horses. Somehow she managed to get into Sarah’s saddle and make it to the base of the escarpment. She forced herself to look toward the fire, and her heart nearly stopped. Silhouetted against the fiery sky, Clay McAlester walked almost slowly, his head bowed, his rifle in his hand. He stopped, turned back for a few seconds, then came on. He’d made it out. Somehow he was walking out of hell unscathed.

  She nudged the horse out the shadows. “Are you all right?” she managed to ask.

  He looked up and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get Hap and head for Fort Griffin. As soon as I tie up a few things there, I’ll take you to the Ybarra.”

  Acutely conscious of the man beside her, Amanda smoothed the dress she’d reluctantly borrowed from Louise Baxter over her knees. She was going home, she told herself, and that was all that mattered. No, that wasn’t true. More than anything she wanted to marry Clay McAlester. But something was wrong between them now, and she was at a loss to understand what.

  Maybe it was that Hap Walker and Romero Rios were with them. Maybe the reason Clay hadn’t touched her since that night he’d blown up the Comanchero wagons was because he didn’t want them to think badly of her. She racked her brain, trying to come up with an answer, but she was afraid she grasped at straws. For whatever reason, the intense intimacy they’d shared on the trail was gone. And the closer they’d gotten to Ybarra-Ross, the harder it was to conceal the hurt she felt.

  Oh, sometimes she recognized desire in his eyes, but his manner now was guarded, almost distant, as though he were trying to forget what had happened between them, as though none of it mattered. But it did to her, and fool that she was, she desperately wanted him to tell her he loved her. And then she wanted him to tell the world he loved her—in church. Instead, he was turning away.

  It began when they’d stopped first at Fort Griffin, where they’d bought the wagon, and continued later at Stockton, where Louise had smothered her with insincerity. At both places Clay had behaved with an almost ludicrous propriety, as though he wanted to protect her reputation. It had been she who shamelessly sought him out at the Comanche Springs, and then before he could even kiss her, Romero Rios had come looking for him. She, who’d prided herself on being sensible, had cried herself to sleep that night.

  She cast a sidewise glance at him, taking in the handsome profile, the set of his shoulders, and she had to close her eyes to hide the longing that washed over her. Surely, he had to feel it also. Surely, now that they were home, he would love her again.

  Beside her, Clay kept his eyes on the narrow, rutted lane leading to the house. Since midafternoon the day before, they’d been on her land. Her land. Despite what he’d told Hap earlier, he’d never really thought all that much about the Ybarra. Now it was overwhelming him, making him all too aware of how little he had to offer her.

  He knew she thought she wanted him now, but he was almost equally sure that once she was among her own kind again, she’d come to regret everything that had happened between them. She’d been dependent on him before, but that was over. Then she’d been in his world; now she was returning to hers, and he knew he was going to lose her. Sooner or later he was going to lose her. She had the money, the ranch, the big house, the good breeding. And before long she was going to figure out that she didn’t need a half-wild ranger.

  That was already eating at his soul. At night he lay awake, burning for want of her, yearning to hold her, telling himself he hadn’t had the right when he’d taken her, that he didn’t have the right now. No, he could spare both of them a lot of pain if he just got out of her life. Then she could find someone of her own kind, someone who’d fit in at the Ybarra.

  He looked up, seeing the tile-capped walls surrounding a big, sprawling house that seemed to rise from nowhere, like an Atlantis in the desert. It was an adobe palace that made his aunt’s neat, lace-curtained house in Chicago seem paltry and insignificant.

  He straightened up on the hard, wood seat, stretching the tired muscles in his back and shoulders. No, he thought he’d prepared himself—but he’d never expected anything like this. For the difference between them, she might as well have been royalty. Even if she’d marry him, it would be like the queen of England choosing a footman for consort.

  “Mighty big place, the Ybarra,” Hap observed, breaking into Clay’s thoughts.

  “Yeah.”

  “A man could get lost in it.”

  “Yeah.” Clay sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly. “I’d say so.”

  Hap turned his attention to Amanda. “This about the way you remember it?”

  “Yes, but it seems like Mama ought to be there waiting for me. Instead, it’s going to be Alessandro Sandoval—and Ramon.”

  Hap leaned forward. “I reckon you got a little surprise for Ramon—it ought to make for an interesting family reunion.”

  “I hope so.” She fidgeted with a lace-edged handkerchief, twisting it around her finger. “I want to see his face when you put the handcuffs on him,” she admitted. “It’ll be almost worth everything I’ve been through. I want to see his face when he realizes I’ve survived.”

  “When it dawns on ’em they’re going to jail, they get a funny look to ’em, don’t they, Clay?”

  “Usually when they see him, they just go for their guns,” Rios pointed out. “I don’t think it’s jail crossing their minds. It’s survival.”
<
br />   “Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” Walker conceded. “Maybe you ought to make the arrest, Romero.”

  “Sandoval’s mine, Hap.” The faint, wry smile twisted Clay’s mouth. “I want to enjoy that look.”

  “You’re going to kill him,” Rios decided dispassionately.

  “Maybe. If he goes for his gun.”

  Walker was more cautious. “There’s no telling what you’re going to run into. His old man may want a say in it, and you don’t know but what there’s a dozen more that’ll stand with him. They ain’t seen Miss Ross in years, and Sandoval probably hired ’em.” He shifted his weight on the hard seat, moving his leg. “Damn,” he muttered. “I know one thing—I ain’t going to be much use to you.”

  “You should have had the doctor at Fort Griffin look at that leg,” Clay said.

  “Why? Not much anybody can do about it—bullet’s out, splint’s on—takes time to heal, that’s all. I just appreciate having a place to stay while I’m laid up.” He moved again, wincing. “Be kind of good to be out of the saddle for a while. I was beginning to grow to it.”

  “You are welcome to stay as long as you want,” Amanda was quick to assure him.

  “Mighty kind of you—might be taking you up on that.”

  Somehow the notion that Hap was going to be there did nothing to improve Clay’s mood. If anything, it made him more tense. “I don’t know why you didn’t want to stay at Griffin or Stockton,” he muttered. “You’ve got no business being out on that leg at your age.”

  “At my age?” Hap fairly howled.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got some sort of burr under your tail, son?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Danged if I know what ails you, but you’re turning downright mean on me,” the older man complained. “You’ve not said ten straight pleasant words since you blew up Sanchez-Torres. You know what I think? I think it’s eating on you. You got some notion you betrayed the whole Comanche nation, don’t you?”

  “I’m tired, that’s all.”