Comanche Rose

by Anita Mills

  "All right, give me the tin." While he watched, she dug her spoon into the can and came up with a doughy blob. Carrying it to her mouth, she took a large bite, then held it without chewing. "Here," she said, "your turn." Slowly, she began to work it around between her teeth, then gulped from the canteen, washing it down with the water. "Well, go on," she urged him once she'd swallowed.

  "Yeah." Telling himself he was hungry enough to eat raw horsemeat, he scooped a goodly amount from the can into his mouth. As soon as it touched his tongue, he knew he'd made a real mistake. Rather than chew the stuff, he tried to swallow it whole, but it didn't want to go down. And the little amount that hit his stomach provoked an immediate rebellion. Leaning over the side of the wagon, he spat out as much as he could. "Damn," he said, reaching for the water.

  "You didn't like it?" she asked innocently.

  "You just did that to me, didn't you?" he choked out. "Your turn," he said, mimicking the way she'd said it. "What the hell did I ever do to deserve that?"

  "You bought them."

  "You didn't think much of 'em, either, did you?" he demanded, recovering.

  "Well, I expect they could support life," she allowed. "Want the rest?"

  "No. Not right now, anyway." She eyed the can. "Maybe you were told wrong. Maybe we were supposed to cook them."

  "It'd be a waste of the fire," he declared, glaring at it. "If I was on the trail, and that was all I had left in the pack, I'd catch bugs before I'd eat those things."

  "You obviously haven't lived on bugs," she murmured. "No matter how we fixed them, I couldn't forget what they were. And I've eaten nearly everything these last three years."

  "Then meat biscuits ought to suit you. Here," he said, handing her the tin.

  "I'll get the jerky," she decided. "At least I know what it's made of."

  "Yeah. Too bad oxen only eat grass and grain. If I wasn't afraid of poisoning 'em, I'd try it on 'em, anyway. Damn, but I spent a dollar apiece on those cans."

  "That's robbery."

  "Yeah. Well, I guess I'll just leave the rest out for the wolves. Maybe it'll kill off a few, and we won't have to listen to em."

  "Wolves eat anything, and none of it ever bothers them. They'll probably like it so well they'll follow us all the way to Fort Richardson," she predicted.

  Whatever had been bothering her seemed to have passed. He felt relieved about that, anyway. Leaning over, he scraped the rest of the contents from the tin onto the ground. When he straightened up, she was cutting pieces of jerky with his knife. He could feel his breath catch in his chest. In the dusk, silhouetted by the last bit of light, her face was truly beautiful.

  He lay beneath the wagon, listening to a steady drip of rain. Despite the oilcloth under him, he could feel the water oozing through the dead grass. Above him, in the relative comfort of the wagon bed, he supposed Annie Bryce slept. He couldn't. He was too cold, too wet, and in too much pain to let go of conscious thought.

  Despite the darkness, he should have violated the accepted rule of wagon travel and gone on, even if he'd had to walk with the oxen. They had too many miles to cover to spend any time bogged down to the wagon axles in mud. And if it didn't stop raining, that would happen. He felt it in his bones. No, if the leg was any barometer, the weather was going to be wet for a while.

  In the distance, a rumble of thunder signaled yet another storm about to come through. He rolled onto his side and peered from beneath the wooden frame. Yeah, right now the lightning was flickering like a lantern flame, licking the clouds along the horizon, lighting them for an instant, then fading. As he watched, he traced a flash through a black, roiling mass. The ugly thought of a tornado shot through his mind. It wasn't the right time of year, but then the weather hadn't been exactly normal for November, either. Now he studied the cloud intently, wishing for more lightning. No, there wasn't any tail—not yet, anyway. But by the time it got to them, it was going to pour like a river. Gully washer wouldn't be the word for it.

  He rolled to sit up and rubbed the offending leg. The wind was picking up, blowing a fresh blast of rain against the canvas top. The mule raised its head, its nostrils flared, and snorted nervously. It smelled the storm, too. For a moment Hap considered moving the oxen from the clump of mesquite trees, then decided against it. If lightning struck there, he'd know God didn't intend to let him get Annie Bryce home.

  Old Red's manner reassured him somewhat. The big roan had his head down, eating in the rain. It took a lot to rile that horse. It always had. He'd once known a fellow who insisted men bought horses that reflected themselves. He guessed there might be a grain of truth in that—everybody said he was easygoing, slow to anger. What nobody realized was there was a reason for it. Once he let go of his temper, there was no getting it back.

  Finally, unable to stand the ache, he pulled himself from beneath the wagon and stood up, gathering the so-called waterproof poncho about his shoulders. Needing to walk, he moved to the small mesquite grove to check the tethers. Yeah, that was better. The leg had been in some sort of bind, that was all. Now that he'd gotten the kink out of it, he could walk all right. The discovery was a great relief to him. Maybe it really was healing right this time.

  The wind was coming cross-wise now, whipping the stiff poncho like a sail, beating him with it. The sky lit up, and the ground shook under his feet from the force of lightning streaking down from the huge thunderhead. The wagon rocked. Hurrying now, almost running, he headed for it. It was as though the sheeting rain pushed him.

  He grabbed the handhold, stepped on the iron bar, and swung himself up through the canvas flap, pulling it closed after him. "Annie?" he asked softly. "It's me, Hap. Are you all right?"

  It was pitch black inside, making sight impossible. But he could hear her. Groping his way between boxes, he found the straw mattress first. Then as he crawled to the end of it, he touched her. Recoiling, she screamed. Cursing under his breath, he dug for dry matches under the poncho, found one, and struck it with his thumbnail. It blazed, sending a flash of light in front of him. Never in all his days had he ever gotten a reaction from anyone like he was seeing now. Her knees drawn against her chest, Annie cowered wide-eyed, her hands held up to shield her.

  "My God." Holding the match, he crept closer to her. "It's Hap. You're all right, Annie—you're all right," he said quickly. As the flame went out, he pulled off the rain wrap, eased his body down next to hers, and threw a comforting arm over her. "It's just a Texas storm, that's all." She went rigid, almost as though she were convulsing. He caught her clenched hand, forcing it down beside her.

  "That's better, a whole lot better. Now you just lay there." Pulling the blanket from between them, he turned her away from him, then drew her backside against his stomach. It was like wrestling a board. "Now, I'm just going to do like Claude, I swear. I'm just going to hold you."

  She was panting from panic, and he could feel her heart pound beneath his arm, but he lay still, holding her, saying nothing while the canvas above beat the iron frame and the wagon bed creaked and groaned. Outside, the storm hit with full force, raging and railing like an angry god. As the noise grew worse, he bent his head to her ear, saying, "It'll be over in a little bit, and I'll turn you loose. Everything's going to be okay. I won't let anything hurt you, Annie—not even me."

  His breath was warm, his voice soft and reassuring, but the arm across her chest was strong, tight against her breast. A low sob formed deep within her. Drawing her clenched hand to her mouth, she bit on her knuckles, trying to stifle it.

  "Everything's going to be okay," he said again. "Don't do this to yourself, Annie."

  "I-I can't help it!" she sobbed, letting go. "I can't help it! Nothing's ever going to be all right again!"

  "Shhhhhh."

  "You don't know—you don't know!"

  "Take it easy—just take it easy." Still holding her tightly, he tried to smooth her hair with his other hand. "You're not with them anymore. You're with me, Hap Walker—the happy fellow, reme
mber?" Afraid he was making it worse by holding her arms down, he relaxed his embrace. "Better?"

  Instead of pulling away, she turned into him, burying her head in his chest. His arms closed around her again. There wasn't anything more he could say. All he could do was let her weep against him as she'd done at the Sprengers. He felt completely helpless in the face of her pain.

  Closing her eyes, she clung to him, seeking the comforting warmth of his body. Spent, she went limp. He was almost afraid to breathe lest he set her off again. Despite how little she weighed, his arm beneath her was going numb. To ease it he stroked her hair where the pins had fallen out, tumbling part of it over her shoulders. It felt like satin beneath his callused fingers.

  Gradually he became conscious of her breasts pressed against his chest, of the woman's curve to her thin shoulders, but as long as she lay quietly like that, he couldn't push her away. He was a man, not an animal, he reminded himself. And she was like a lost child. She needed to be healed, not seduced. She had enough trouble in her life. But there was no denying she was a woman, and it had been a long time since he'd held any woman like this. He'd never gotten this close to Amanda.

  Forcing his thoughts away from the woman in his arms, he tried to focus on what he was going to tell Clay. Since this last thing with his leg, he'd pretty much made up his mind he didn't want to sell cattle for anybody. Life was too unpredictable, too short to spend it doing something he had no real feeling for.

  No, he wasn't being honest. He hated it. Whether it was because he had to look at Amanda every day he stayed at the Ybarra, or whether it was because he found the business boring, he hated it. Clay was going to be disappointed in him, but dammit, the job wasn't much more than a pension in disguise. Besides, Diego Vergara was a whole lot better at selling cattle than he was. It wouldn't be like he was leaving Clay in the lurch.

  Rangering was out, he knew that. Even if he could regain his commission, it wouldn't be fair to those asked to serve under him. A man needed to be able to keep up with his men, and his days of living weeks on end in the saddle were pretty much over. But it had come to him last night as he'd stared up at the stars. The way Texas was being settled, there was a real need for a different breed of lawman. And it wasn't impossible to see himself as a sheriff somewhere. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to climb boulders and ford rivers and ride for days.

  He still had fast hands and a sharp eye—and he still had the nerve to kill a man if he had to. Yeah, last night he'd made up his mind: He was going to spend the winter working with the leg. Then, come spring, he was going to look for a town that needed him. To survive, a man like him had to be needed, or he might as well shrivel up and die.

  The wind was tapering down, the rumble fading, but Annie Bryce didn't move. He was beginning to think she'd either passed out or exhausted herself into sleep. Very gingerly he eased his arm from beneath her, then edged away to sit up. Leaning over, he pulled the blanket up over her shoulder. It wasn't until he was creeping from the wagon that she spoke.

  "I'm sorry," she said, low.

  "For what? For something you can't help?"

  "For being a burden."

  "Don't ever say that, Annie. Don't ever say that again," he said almost harshly. "It's their fault, not yours. It's what they did to you."

  Unable to deal with his own turmoil, he quickly swung down. The rain had been so heavy the water stood several inches deep. By morning, when it sank in, the ground would be soaked to mush, he reflected wearily.

  He walked to the mesquite grove again and found the animals had survived. Circling it, he came back to face the wagon. There was a hole in the sky where the storm had been, and the shadow of the moon was visible above a feathery haze. A couple of brave stars peeked cautiously from behind a few remaining, far more benign clouds. God willing, it'd clear up completely.

  The oilcloth was still beneath his bedroll, but water stood on top of it. He stared at the soaked blankets for a moment, then sighed. It was too damned cold to spend the night in wet bedclothes. He'd have to sleep inside.

  This time he mounted the step slowly, crawling into the musty depths of the wagon bed. He pulled off his muddy boots and his damp flannel shirt, then felt in the dark for the box Doc Sprenger had loaded. Finding it, he took out two wool blankets and a heavy quilt, which he carried to the straw mattress. On his knees, he rolled one of the blankets in the darkness, then found Annie. She flinched as his hand brushed her bare leg, but didn't actually move away. She was clinging to the edge of the mattress.

  "It's all right," he assured her, laying the rolled blanket the length of her back.

  "No," she choked out.

  "Here." Unbuckling his gun belt, he reached over her and placed it in front of her. "That's a brand new spanking Colt revolver with five .44-caliber shells in it. If you find me on your side of the bundle, use it." When she didn't respond, he shook out the quilt and other blanket, covered himself, and lay down, his back to hers. "Now, let's get some shut-eye. Come morning, we're going to have one helluva time getting this wagon out of here."

  Her hand on the holster, she lay awake long after he fell asleep, listening to his strong, even breathing. Beyond the fact he was a man, she had no reason to fear him. And given all he'd already done for her, she wanted desperately to trust him. But he was so different, so unlike Ethan. He'd been a Texas Ranger. And a man didn't get to be a ranger captain with kindness. Beneath Hap Walker's kindly, almost folksy, easygoing manner, there had to be a pretty rough man.

  CHAPTER 13

  The muddy road had made for hard traveling, and several times they'd had to unload the wagon, push it through the mire, then reload it. Once, when even that failed, they'd stood calf-deep in mud and dug it out. When they finally rolled into Fort Richardson two days late, they were filthy and exhausted. While Annie waited in the wagon, Hap met with the commanding officer to arrange for her stay there. Coming back, he told her he'd found a place with people the colonel characterized as "a nice young couple, a lieutenant and his wife, both of whom come from Arkansas."

  But as soon as Annie met them, it was immediately apparent that Lulene Davis was no Cora Sprenger. Despite Frank Davis's assurances otherwise, his wife was obviously less than enthusiastic about welcoming a fallen woman into her home. Upon introduction she smiled thinly, looked her guest up and down with raised eyebrows, murmured something about "your unfortunate experience," and quickly turned her back, leaving the lieutenant to show her undesirable guest to her room.

  Having nowhere else to go and not wanting to burden Hap, Annie spent most of the next two days there while he continued living in the wagon, affording her only an occasional glimpse of him from the window. She felt somewhat abandoned, but as Mrs. Davis failed to invite him to call or dine with them, there wasn't much she could do about it.

  As nearly as she could tell, he was spending most of his waking time either at the post store or off the fort at what Mrs. Davis characterized as "an extremely unsavory can-tina." When the lieutenant attempted to defend the place, his wife wouldn't hear of it. "Everyone knows what those painted hussies are, and everyone knows exactly why the men go there," she retorted. "I'm quite certain it isn't for drink, which can be bought from the sutler."

  Lulene rarely spoke to Annie, preferring to direct her conversation to her husband, saying such things as "Pray ask Mrs. Bryce to pass the potatoes, will you?" or "I'm sure Mrs. Bryce would prefer to retire when dinner is over." Trying to make up for his wife's ill manners, he took it upon himself to be a gracious host, which only increased the woman's dislike. It was so uncomfortable there that Annie desperately wanted to leave.

  No one came to call, not even the colonel's wife, and while that wasn't entirely unexpected, it was hard to deny the anger Annie felt. As unjust as it was, she knew she was considered no better than those cantina girls Lulene Davis condemned. That it had been against her will didn't seem to matter. She'd been with an Indian, and that made her unfit for white society. She'd heard it in Sarabet
h Hughes' voice, and she was seeing it in the Davis woman's manner.

  Wednesday evening, supper was early, and Lulene came to the table dressed in a pretty braid-trimmed basque jacket, striped silk weskit, frilled lawn waist, and demi-bustled skirt. Taking off matching navy gloves, she laid them carefully beside her plate.

  "You look fine tonight, Lu," Davis murmured appreciatively."

  She flashed a smile at him. "Thank you."

  "I take it you don't mean to sit at home like that, my dear?"

  "Of course not. Really, Frank, if you paid any attention to matters of your soul, you'd know that it isn't our Mr. Johnson tonight."

  "Oh? I must've missed the notice."

  "You ought to come, you know."

  "Lu—"

  "Well, you ought to," she declared positively. "You haven't set foot in church since last Easter."

  "And Johnson talked for two solid hours," he reminded her.

  "Probably because he knew it was his only opportunity to instill any godliness in half the men there. I know at least ten of them had never been before."

  "And after that sermon they haven't been back since."

  "No. Really, you'd like tonight's preacher—he's from the Baptist Speaker's Bureau in Little Rock. He's from home, Frank."

  "Christmas and Easter, Lu, that's all I promised you."

  "Yes, I know, but—"

  "No buts," he said, interrupting her. "You look after your soul, and I'll look after mine."

  "Well, you cannot stay home. I mean—" She cast a significant look toward Annie. "Well, you know what I mean."

  "No, I don't. I fail to see what Mrs. Bryce has to do with my going to church, my dear."

  "Frank!"

  "Well, I don't. If you want to drag somebody with you, why don't you take her?"

  The woman reddened, and the expression on her face looked as though she'd just sucked on a persimmon. "Really, Frank, I don't think that would be at all wise," she said tightly. "But as I don't have all evening to sit here and argue with you, I shall just go by myself—as usual, of course."