“No, let’s try. There’s no time.” She was right. The Comanche crested the hill and saw the soldiers at the same time as the cavalrymen saw them. The charge immediately changed direction, with the Indians now interested in the armed soldiers. The cavalrymen swore loudly; their oaths were accompanied by the clang of sabers and sounds of pistols being drawn.
“Run for it!” one of the soldiers called to Deborah and Judith. “We’ll try to cover you!”
Shots rang out, and Deborah squeezed her eyes shut in panic at the same time as she made a decision. Leaning over, she slapped her cousin’s horse on the rear, sending it in a leap forward.
“Ride!” she screamed at Judith. “I’ll try to divert Hawk . . .”
“Don’t be foolish,” Judith began, but her words were lost as her horse, panicked, bolted down the slope with the last of its strength.
Deborah swerved her mount to one side, hoping to distract Hawk from her cousin. One saved would be better than neither of them.
She rode at an angle away from her cousin and the soldiers, riding as fast as she could, not daring to look back over her shoulder. The thunder of pursuing hooves drew closer and closer, and a dry sob tore from her throat.
Her fingers tangled in the whipping mane of her horse, and her legs slid on the sweaty back of the chestnut as she tried to grip more tightly. Fear was an almost tangible rider, choking her. For some reason, her senses were sharpened to her surroundings; she could hear the rasping efforts of her mare, smelled the sharp scent of horse and sage and heat, felt the slap of tall grasses on her bare legs with almost separate distinction. They all blended, yet remained as sharply distinct as if she was experiencing them separately.
Then she heard the slap of leather against horse and knew that her pursuer had caught up to her. She glanced back briefly and saw Hawk.
Astride his huge gray stallion, he looked as fierce and brutal as anything she could have envisioned in her worst nightmares. His long dark hair was caught back with a leather strap around his forehead, whipping in the wind. A hawk feather fluttered over one ear. Paint streaked his bronzed face in jagged smears that lent him an air of savagery, and she had the fleeting thought that he’d hardly needed it to seal that impression.
Hawk leaned from his horse, reaching out for her reins.
One last desperate effort to escape him spurred her to rein her mount in a circle, but she was easily overtaken. Hawk’s muscular arm shot out and coiled around her waist to drag her from the horse in an effortless motion.
There was the brief sensation of falling before he caught her to him, and though she struggled, he managed to drag her face-down across his thighs and hold her.
Her legs dangled on one side, her head and arms the other, and she tried to breathe. It was difficult, since her stomach was pressed against his iron-hard legs and the croup of the horse. His firm hand in the middle of her back held her still, and he growled something at her that she was glad she didn’t understand. His voice was harsh, angry, rough.
Grass swirled just below her face; she could see the thrust of the horse’s hooves, smell the rich scent of sage and animal and man all mingled together.
Shouts filled the air, and loud pop-pop-pops exploded. Deborah tried to lift her head, but Hawk slammed it back down again.
“Puaru,” he snarled, and she recognized the order to stop. Her struggles ceased. It would be dangerous to keep resisting when so much else was going on.
In the chaos, she heard Judith scream, heard a man break into familiar curses. Everything was a blur of time and motion as Hawk kneed his stallion through the tall grass, and she bounced head-down. The shooting grew louder, and she felt Hawk shift, saw the brief flash of gunmetal pass her eyes as he brought up his rifle, heard a loud explosion.
“No!” she screamed, trying to lever her body up. “You might hit Judith!”
Uttering a rough comment, Hawk held her down with one hand. She heard him shout something at the others, heard the gunfire slow, then stop.
Another scream split the air. A last shot was fired, the whine echoing through her head.
Hawk was wheeling his mount and riding back down the slope at a fast pace. Deborah was afraid to move, afraid she would slide from the horse and be trampled. She curled her hands into the edge of the grass-stuffed pad that was used as a saddle, and clung tightly. The jolting rhythm of the horse settled into a smoother pace, muscles bunching and stretching out, legs moving up and down. Finally, when she thought her ribs must be broken or cracked, Hawk reined his mount to a halt.
She caught glimpses of other horses bunching around them, saw fringed leggings and moccasins, heard the harsh, guttural sounds of the Comanche.
Her spirits drooped badly. She fought to breathe, and heard Hawk give a command to the men with him.
“Pitsa mia?ru. Notsa?kaaru.” Her eyes closed briefly. She understood go and take. She shuddered. Not that she’d hoped they would release her. It was just that they’d been so close, so very close. They’d failed. And now they had their angry captors to deal with. What had seemed to last forever, had taken only a few minutes. Hawk bunched a fistful of her blouse in one hand and hauled her backward off his lap. He released her, and Deborah plummeted to the ground with a soft cry of alarm.
She sprawled on her hands and knees, but struggled to her feet as quickly as possible. She pushed at the hair in her eyes and tilted back her head to look at Hawk. He was a dark silhouette against the bright, burning sky, and she flinched.
Deborah’s heart constricted. Even with his features in shadow and the sun in her eyes, she could see the fury in his face. His eyes were so cold they were almost black, and his mouth was a straight, savage slash across his face that made her shiver with apprehension.
A glance beyond Hawk showed her the other Comanche and her cousin.
Judith struggled and sobbed in front of a lean young brave who held her firmly. He grinned as he ran his hands familiarly over Judith’s body, ignoring her frantic efforts to avoid him. One of the men watching said something, and they all laughed. It was ugly laughter, filled with tones that made Deborah shudder.
Judith glanced up, saw Deborah’s gaze on her, and bent her head again, drooping in her captor’s grasp. There was an air of defeat about her, of hopeless resignation and shame. Deborah felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
All was lost. Lost, lost, lost, and her fate was now in the hands of a cold-eyed man with murder in his stare.
Chin lifting, Deborah waited silently.
Chapter 11
“Miaru!”
Deborah stared up at Hawk silently, afraid to move. When he lifted his rifle and pointed it ahead of them, repeating, “Miaru!” she reluctantly turned and began to walk. She straightened her spine, refusing to allow him to see how frightened she was as she moved through the tall grass.
The rough edges of the grasses sawed at her hands. and arms mercilessly. It even grazed her chin a time or two, but she did not pause. She could hear their horses following, the soft shunk of hooves cutting into the soft ground, and a low murmur of voices muffling Judith’s faint sobs.
Her throat tightened. The sky was still a bright, hot blue, and the wind bent the grass in places. Perspiration began to trickle down her face and wet her blouse so that it stuck to her in damply uncomfortable patches. Deborah tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the line of Comanche ranging behind her.
Ruts cut through the slope at an angle, and stones caught at her feet as she trudged through the grass. The soles of her feet in the soft moccasins scraped against sharp edges of the rocks, scrunched dried grass and shifted in the soft earth. She stumbled several times, but managed to keep going.
When she finally began to slow, Hawk rode up close behind her and nudged her with the muzzle of his rifle. By that time, fear and anger were an even mix. Blood pounded in her ears so hot and loud that she could barely hear his growled commands for her to go, hurry.
How dare he do this! To pretend to kindness as he had done in
the past, then switch so abruptly and confusingly to a man without mercy, was more than she could endure. Not after all the terror and trials she’d been through.
Only a finely developed sense of survival kept her from wheeling on him and shouting the few Comanche words she knew.
That sense of survival abruptly deserted her when she stumbled over a dry rut and sprawled headlong in the grass. Hawk merely leaned over and hauled her carelessly to her feet by the back of her blouse and a long strand of hair. The unexpected pain made her gasp, and catapulted her into rage.
As he set her on her feet she whirled, lashing out with one arm and spooking his horse. It reared, squealing, and she had to step back out of the way of the lethal hooves as Hawk reined it back down. His movements were so swift and harsh that the animal almost sat back on its haunches, sleek muscles quivering.
A long, lean leg arched over the horse’s back, and Hawk slid to the ground, holding the stallion with one hand and reaching for Deborah with the other. She dodged his grasp and turned to run, but a Comanche warrior cut her off. When she turned another way, she was cut off again by a skilled rider, and jerked to a halt. She would not provide them with sport.
Deborah folded her arms over her chest and waited. She didn’t wait long. Hawk gave another terse command, and the men with him nudged their horses into a brisk walk, then to a canter. She saw Judith still struggling against her captor, her golden head bright and tangled, her cries muffled. A feeling of helpless misery welled in her, and Deborah could not answer when her cousin called out to her.
“Deborah!”
That one word held a wealth of emotion.
Hawk seemed not to notice. His eyes had darkened to a blue so deep as to be indigo, and were fastened on her face with such an icy glare that Deborah shivered despite the searing heat of the sun. He must have noticed.
A faint smile curled one corner of his mouth into a hateful smirk.
She wanted to hit him then, rage at him and provoke him into getting it over with. Her fate would not be changed by anything she did. It was obvious he’d already decided upon it.
Fear, anger, and despair had wrought havoc with her nerves. They were raw, lacerated with constant strain. Her mood could only be a little less dangerous than his.
“You are nothing more than a savage,” she said coldly, injecting as much scorn in her voice as possible. She wanted him to understand the meaning if not her words. “You are beneath contempt. Aitu! Evil, mean, cruel—a heathen. Nothing you do to me will make a difference. You can hurt my body, but you cannot touch my soul—not without my permission, and I will never give that.” Her chin lifted so that she met his eyes, saw the flicker in them that told her he recognized her contempt. A mocking smile curled her mouth. “Ah, I see that you can at least understand that. I don’t wonder. A man who has no scruples should be accustomed to contempt.” For a long moment he didn’t move. The wind lifted his hair in a slight shifting motion, and the hawk feather spun against the harsh angle of his cheekbone. His gaze stabbed at her with a ferocity that made her wish suddenly she’d not spoken out, and Deborah tried not to tremble.
His proximity was almost like a physical blow; his body radiated raw power, masculinity and hostility, and it took every ounce of determination she possessed to keep from attempting mad flight.
For a moment, Hawk stared at her without reacting. Then, before she could move, his hand flashed out to grasp her by one arm. She pulled back, her arm uplifted and between them as she stared at him defiantly, half-daring him to hurt her, half-pleading with him not to. Her heart thudded painfully against her rib cage, and the tightness in her throat seemed to be squeezing it shut. Slowly, relentlessly, with the hot sun beating down and the wind whispering around them, Hawk drew her to him and held her against his hard body. Deborah could see the rich black flecks in the pitiless blue of his eyes, could distinguish each spiky eyelash. His gaze held her mesmerized; she noted distractedly the faint scars that creased his eyebrow, his cheek, his jawline. She could smell him, smell the musky male scent of him mixed with a hint of tobacco and leather and wind and sun, all combined to throw her senses into disorder.
And, suddenly, she was afraid, terribly afraid. Of him. Of herself. Of all that had brought them to this moment, at this time and place. Death wasn’t what she feared, but the searing knowledge of her desire for this man, this hard-faced Comanche who swung from gentleness to brutality as quickly as the wind shifted. It was an inexplicable emotion that left her feeling somehow ashamed of her weakness. But God help her, all she could think of when he held her so close to him was how he’d kissed her and touched her and made her body ache for him in ways she’d never dreamed.
Anger fled, and the terrible weakness remained. Time ceased to exist; only the heat from the sun and his touch filled her now. Dry grasses rustled around them, and his horse stamped its hooves impatiently. Hawk’s fingers still cut deeply into the fragile bones of her wrists, and his mouth was a straight, taut line in his face.
Without warning, his arm flexed, and he lifted her effortlessly into his arms and tossed her atop his horse. Vaulting up behind her, he reached around her for the reins as the horse started off at a brisk trot. Deborah didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
It was obvious he’d come to some kind of decision about her, and she wondered what he meant to do as they caught up with the others.
Nothing was said, no explanation or even a threat as the small band rode hard and fast over the plains and back up into the mountains. The only stops were brief pauses to water and rest the horses, and Deborah and Judith were not allowed close to one another.
It took the Comanche only eight hours to travel the distance it had taken Deborah and Judith three days to cover. At times they traveled in a wide circle, it seemed, as if trying to cover their tracks. They crossed and recrossed their trail several times. Deborah’s brief hope that the soldiers would be able to follow them began to fade.
Most of the time, Hawk sat stiffly behind her, his arm coiled around her so tightly that her least movement or struggle cut off her breath. She quickly learned that he felt no compunctions in restricting her breathing, and did not offer more than that first, cursory resistance.
As the familiar valley came into view again, and the line of men rode down at a swift pace, the setting sun diffused the jagged peaks of the mountains in a blaze of crimson and deep purple. Night insects had begun their song in the tall grasses, and the rush of the mountain stream grew louder and louder.
Slowly, the weary horses stirred up dust as they rode into the village, threading between the tipis to the growing curiosity of the residents.
Deborah saw flaps thrown back, heard hushed voices reporting of their arrival. At the far end, she saw Hawk’s lodge, and fastened her gaze on it.
This arrival was different from the last, when the women and children had rushed out in excitement to greet the homecoming raiders. This time, solemn faces stared up as they passed through the staggered lines of tipis.
Deborah knew that the punishment for escape would be severe, and she prayed for the courage to face it.
Someone asked Hawk a question as they passed, and his snarling reply made Deborah shudder. There was nothing in his tone to indicate leniency.
Sunflower awaited them in front of her father’s lodge, her huge liquid eyes filled with anxiety. She called out as they approached, “Ahó, samohpu.” Her words were hopeful, but cautious.
Hawk replied in a growl and did not stop there but rode past to his own lodge, where he swung down from his horse and pulled Deborah with him.
She stumbled and half-fell, and the quick arm he put around her waist was less than gentle.
“Tahkamuru,” he muttered in a savage tone that made her throat close with apprehension. His meaning was clear, and she could feel Sunflower’s anxious gaze on her. Deborah did not dare move while he tied his stallion to a sapling by his lodge. She waited quietly, and when he turned back to her, she met his cold g
aze steadily.
He grunted something she didn’t hear, grasped her by the arm, and shoved her ahead of him into his tipi. With a quick motion, he lowered the flap and tied it. No one would dare enter a man’s lodge when the flap was lowered.
As soon as he released her wrist, Deborah took several steps away from him, her eyes fixed on his implacable features. She inhaled deeply, hoping he would understand some of what she said.
“This escape— kuaru—was my idea. Nue. Uh, no —nu.” She tried to remember the proper inflections to convey her meaning to him, the right words that would convince him it had all been her idea and not Judith’s. The Comanche words would not come, the few she had learned eluding her as she faced him. In a stumbling, halting monologue, Deborah did her best to save her cousin from enduring harsh retribution.
“Hawk—Tosa Nakaai—please . . . keta tsahhuhyaru . . . this was all my fault. Don’t . . . don’t hurt her—” Her voice broke off abruptly when he made a sharp, impatient sound, and his brows dipped low in a scowl over his eyes. Grabbing her wrist when she began to back away at his fierce expression, Hawk’s voice was low and rasping.
“Subetu— it is finished, Deborah. You had best plead for yourself instead of your cousin.”
Deborah blinked. She stared up at the lustrous velvet of his indigo eyes, the mocking line of his mouth, the primitive masculine beauty of his face. His harsh words made perfect sense, and it took her a moment to realize why.
He’d spoken English!
She went hot, then cold, then hot again, her face suffusing with color.
“You speak English.”
“Haa— yes. And Comanche, and Spanish, and a bit of Apache and Cheyenne as well as Shoshone.” Silky filaments of raven hair swung with the motion of his shaking head. “You have a good grasp of the obvious.” His sneering contempt lashed at her. Deborah’s fear for herself and her cousin vanished in a sweep of hot rage. Her small hand curled into a fist, and she saw that he noticed the involuntary reaction. A hard smile slanted his mouth, and he tightened his grip on her wrist.
Comanche Moon Page 12