“why, Maverick? Why should you hate your own people? I hate them, too, but I’ve got good reason. They tortured my poor papa when he went into their camp as a hostage to free the women and children they’d taken. . . . ”
“Joe McBride did that?” She saw the look of surprise on his face.
“Yes, and I hate them for it!” she said with deep feeling, remembering the terrible things they’d done to him. “But Papa says I shouldn’t, that vengeance belongs to the Lord and He’ll repay.”
Maverick snorted and she saw the disdain on his hard features. “Some of us haven’t the patience to wait for the Lord to get around to it! ” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Let’s not stand out here all night,” he snapped. “Get some ’airtights’ out of the packs; see what else you can find in the house while I put the horses away.”
The inside of the small sod shack smelled like dirt and old smoke from the little fireplace. There was only one window with the moon shining in and she stumbled over a chair. Cayenne found the stub of a candle. Before she lit it, she carefully hung a burlap feed bag over the window.
The inside of the place was a wreck, things strewn about. The war party had taken any food supplies. The Indians were hungry, too, she thought, remembering the hundreds of buffalo skeletons and rotting carcasses she’d ridden past that day. And because of that slaughter, two innocent settlers would be laid to rest in Kansas’s red soil.
She found a pan of cold cornbread that the Indians had overlooked and a small jar of sand plum preserves. Whatever else they ate would have to come from their packhorse.
Maverick came in later and sat down to “airtights,” canned peaches, and tomatoes. They ate in the flickering light of the one candle in silence.
Finally, he rolled a cigarette with a sigh and sat down on the cornshuck bed. “I’m so tired my body thinks I’ve died and forgot to lie down.”
She started tidying up the dishes as he pulled his boots off and lay down on the bed.
“You don’t have to bother,” he said. “After all, who’ll ever know whether you straightened up or not?”
She felt suddenly foolish. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “It’s just a habit from being the oldest child, looking after the others. Mama died when the little one, Angel, was born three years ago. I stepped in and took over.”
“How many little sisters you got?”
“Four, all younger. Lynnie, she’s nine. She’s the smart one. Then there’s Steve and Gracious. . . . ”
“I thought you said you only had sisters?”
Cayenne grinned in spite of herself. “I do. But Papa named her Steve anyway. He wanted a boy; never got one.” She watched the big half-breed smoke. “Papa always said he guessed he’d have to settle for a son-in-law to keep the ranch running.”
A troubled look crossed his face. “Then if something happens to your old man, if he got killed, there’d be little kids left orphaned? Who’s running the house now?”
“Old Rosita, the Mexican cook and housekeeper. I had to go off to Wichita to see after Mama’s sister Ella who was dying.”
“Tough,” Maverick murmured. “Tough to be without a mama.”
The sad way he said it told her somehow that Maverick’s mother was dead. Cayenne pictured a gentle Comanche girl with beautiful dark hair and skin. Had his father been a “squaw man,” a gray-eyed gringo who’d taken an Indian girl to warm his blankets for a while, then deserted her when her belly swelled with child?
She looked around. There was only the one bed. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” Surely he would do the gentlemanly thing-give her the bed, take a blanket himself, and sleep on the packed dirt floor.
He crossed his legs at the ankles and grinned at her, propping his head up on a stained pillow as he took his pistol out of its holster and stuck it under the pillow. “We aren’t exactly strangers.”
Now she remembered that same grin as he sat in a bathtub, that dark-haired, pretty whore scrubbing his back. Her indignation returned with the memory. “Since you’re not going to treat me like a gentleman should, I’ll just take a blanket and sleep on the floor!”
With an angry gesture, she jerked a worn quilt out from under his feet, waiting for him to jump up in protest.
But he only shrugged and snuffed out his cigarette. “Suit yourself, baby, I’m too tired to argue. There’s room for both of us here, and believe me, you’re safe as a church tonight.”
She wasn’t sure she trusted him. He’d hurt her feelings badly by being in that whore’s room. Her own stubborn anger made her spread the blanket on the hard dirt. She blew out the candle.
Just as she lay down on the quilt, he said, “Don’t be too nervous if a scorpion or centipede crawls across the dirt. If you brush them off gently, they shouldn’t sting you.”
“My stars! You had to say that, didn’t you?” She jumped up in a fury, sitting down on a rickety chair. Then she wrapped herself in the blanket and pulled her knees up under her chin.
No answer. She waited. Any second now he’d relent and offer her the bed. Every muscle ached from sitting hunched up in the chair. “Maverick?”
In the darkness, she heard his gentle breathing and it dawned on her that he was asleep. Now what was she going to do? She resisted the urge to stride to the bed and attack him with both fists for his lack of gentlemanly concern. He’d threatened to whip her bottom several times already.
She thought about the butchered cowboys lying outside, waiting for burial. Maverick was right. She was childish to make such a big thing over who slept where. Gingerly she crept through the darkness, getting in on the far side of the bed. The rope springs creaked and groaned beneath her, and she held her breath but he didn’t awaken. She clung to her edge of the cornshuck mattress, dropping off into a fitful sleep. Sometime in the night, she thought she heard something and it scared her enough to move closer to the protective warmth. of his big body.
When she woke up just before dawn, she found herself in his arms with her face on his chest. Her eyes flickered open as she realized where she was, and she started. That slight movement awakened him and he came up grabbing for his pistol.
“It’s okay,” she pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Do you suppose I dare make coffee?”
He stood up, stretching. “Let me look around outside.” He reached for his boots, put them on, and went outside. In a moment, he returned. “There’s not a breath of wind to carry the scent of smoke. Make some coffee but don’t build a fire any bigger than your hand.”
“You like your coffee the way all Texans like it?”
“Just like I like my women”—he winked at her—“hot and sweet.”
“I meant strong and dark!” she blushed.
“That’s the way Texan women like it, isn’t it? Just like they like their men!”
Why had she ever thought there was anything salvageable in this savage? She got out a hunk of the stale corn bread and fried some bacon. And when she served up his coffee, she dumped four heaping spoons of sugar in it.
He made a wry face when he tasted it. “You have to be the orneriest little Scots-Irish bitch it’s ever been my misfortune to run up against.”
“It’s the Rebel in me,” she said coldly as she ate. “Of course a damned Yankee sympathizer couldn’t appreciate that.”
He drank the coffee, obviously determined not to lose the round. When he finished eating, he said, “I’m going out and bury those two men.”
“I can help.” She stood up.
“No, Cayenne,” he answered sternly. “There’s some things women shouldn’t have to see. I’ll take care of it.”
She winced at the thought and turned away. Poor devils. She’d say prayers over the graves before they moved on.
Finally they were ready to ride out. She’d tucked the foolish blue gingham dress in her saddlebags, putting on the boy’s shirt and pants she’d brought from Wichita.
Maverick handed her a straw hat. “Found it in the barn; guess it belonged to t
he younger man. It’ll keep the sun off that fair skin. You’re so sunburned your nose is starting to peel.”
At least he hadn’t said, “I told you so.” She accepted the hat and put it on. “I feel funny about taking things that don’t belong to me.”
Maverick shrugged. “One thing’s for certain, those hombres don’t need anything anymore. The Cheyenne saw to that.”
She looked at him curiously. “Are you sure it was Cheyenne?”
He nodded. “Kinda far north mostly for Comanche and Kiowa and too far south for Sioux, although the Sioux’ll be the next to take the war path. Hear Custer’s taking an expedition looking for gold through the Black Hills this summer. And that’s Sioux hunting grounds.”
Only a savage himself could know so very much about the tribes. Without thinking, she asked, “How long did you live with them, Maverick?”
“ ’Til I was almost fourteen.” His tone betrayed nothing.
“Why did you leave? Come back to the whites?”
“Baby, you ask too many questions,” he snapped, and his hand seemed to go automatically to the jagged scar on his face as he dug his spurs in the gray. “Let’s get out of here. By the way, I found a little jar of butter cooling in the well that the braves overlooked.”
Butter. It seemed almost comical to be thinking about butter with the country swarming with Indians and with two fresh graves in the yard behind them. She followed him and the packhorse away from the ranch.
She had more and more misgivings as they rode out to the southwest. Up ahead of them somewhere lay the Cherokee Outlet of the Territory and even more Indians.
“Maybe we should go back to Wichita and wait this out like you said.”
He turned in his saddle, frowning at her. “A little late to decide that now. That war party may be combing the area between us and Wichita for buffalo hunters, any poor traveler, or wagon train they can raid.”
“But what about the soldiers at Fort Dodge and the other forts? Why don’t they do something?”
“What would you suggest?” He raised one eyebrow sardonically. “There’s a thousand miles of wide-open country and the army can’t be everywhere.”
It must have been about noon when they crossed the dry stream and found the shade of the wild sand plum bushes. They ate their fill of the ripening fruit and rested. Maverick dug down in the dry sand until he’d formed a little well that gradually filled full of water. He filled their spare canteens before leading the eager, thirsty horses over to drink.
“You’re a wonder,” she said respectfully. “I feel more and more confident traveling with you.”
He laughed and sat down next to her in the shade. “You’ll think confident if we cross the trail of a war partly.
She watched the horses drink. “Maverick, what do war parties do for water in a dry place?”
He hesitated as if he didn’t want to relive that part of his life. “They say when a white man gives up on a horse, a Mexican can get on him and ride him a few more miles, and when the Mexican can’t get anything else out of him, a Comanche can get on it, make it go a few more miles. When the horse finally stumbles and dies, a Comanche’ll take the horse’s guts, fill them with muddy water, wrap them around his body for the extra supply, and keep riding.”
She shuddered. “What terrible memories you must have.”
He looked at her and the gray eyes softened. “They are, except for Annie Laurie. . . . ”
She waited curiously for him to go on, wondering if the emotion that took hold of her was jealousy. She suddenly remembered his talking of a white captive. Had she been his woman? No, he’d only been fourteen when he left them.
Maverick stared into her face, abruptly frowning as he reached out to touch the tip of her nose. “By damn, baby, you’re sunburned all down your neck, your arms. »
Was he going to say, “I told you so”? “It’s not bad,” she insisted.
He got up, went over to the grazing packhorse, took out a little tin, and came back.
“I was planning on using this to make that stale hardtack worth eatin’,” he said, “but I think you need it worse.”
Her face felt as if it were on fire, but she’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing that. The first day of July, she thought wearily, watching him dip his fingers in the melted butter, and oh, the weather was so hot; she was so weary.
He rubbed the butter on her face with hands so gentle, a touch so sensitive, it surprised her. But she knew she must protest. “I can do that myself.”
“I know that. But I’m going to.” His tone told her he expected no argument. She closed her eyes, enjoying his stroking the butter all over her burned face.
Maverick made a little sound of disapproval. “Reb, you’re burned worse than I thought. I think we’ll stay here and rest ’til this evening, travel after dark.”
“You don’t have to baby me,” she bristled, not opening her eyes, enjoying the touch of his fingers on her face, “I’m perfectly capable of going on!”
“Then let’s just say I’m tired,” he chuckled as his fingers spread the butter down her throat. “I have to say your name suits you, Cayenne. You’ve got more fire and pepper to you than most women.”
She caught the hint of admiration in his voice and was pleased, although she reminded herself that he was faithless, that she meant nothing to him. “Well, okay, if you’re tired,” she said, leaning back against the grass with a sigh. “But, remember, I offered to go on.”
“Sure, baby, sure.” She felt his fingers rub the warm butter into her throat, work their way down into the neck of her shirt. “By damn,” he muttered, “you’re burned worse than I thought. Next time, do like I tell you.”
“Stop bossing me like I belonged to you.”
His voice was almost a caress as his fingers fumbled with the top button of her shirt. “Don’t you?”
She started to argue with him, to protest his unbuttoning that top button. But now his fingers moved still lower, lightly stroking her lower throat with the warm, rich butter. Cayenne sighed. She hadn’t realized it would feel so good on her sunburned skin.
“You’ll stain my shirt.”
“I need to doctor that sunburn.”
She let her eyes flicker open, look at him. She hesitated a long moment before she unbuttoned the second button, pulling the shirt off her shoulders so he could stroke there. It felt so good, his fingers caressing her skin as he smeared hot butter on them.
“I need to get your arms.” His gaze on hers was intense as he stroked her shoulders.
She shuddered all over at the gentle stroking of his hands on her skin. Then, without opening her eyes, she reached to unbutton the shirt all the way to the waist and jerked it open. She couldn’t keep from arching up for the touch of his hands as they came down on her breasts.
Chapter Six
She closed her eyes, leaning back and relaxing as he rubbed the warm butter into her sunburned breasts.
“Roll over,” he ordered. “Let me do your back.”
Obediently she rolled over, shivering at the feel of his fingers massaging the hot, melted liquid into her shoulders, along her spine. Without thinking, she made a sound of animal pleasure.
“Your skin’s so dry it’s chapping from this hot I, wind,” he complained. “I’d better oil you down all over. Unbutton your pants.”
“I don’t know-”
“I’ve seen everything you’ve got,” he snorted. “Unbutton ’em.”
Lying on her belly, she reached under herself and unbuttoned them. She felt Maverick jerk her boots off, then her pants. Before she could protest, he pulled off her lace drawers.
If she’d felt embarrassment, she forgot it as his hands crept lower down her waist, massaging the warm butter into her hips.
“Kid, you’ve got the best-lookin’ bottom I’ve ever seen on a woman.
She stiffened, unsure whether to be insulted or complimented. “And I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot of them!”
He po
pped her smartly on the rear. “Relax! I’ve seen my share,” he admitted, “none so fine as yours.”
She tried to remember she was angry with him, but it was hard to do with his strong hands gently massaging the butter the length of her back, caressing her hips. “Better than that saloon girl’s?”
He laughed. “You still het up over her? I swear I haven’t touched another woman since the first time I saw you, wanted you.”
His hands were kneading the back of her thighs now, working their sure way down her calves. He was flattering her, she thought. “When was the first time you saw me?”
“From the upstairs window at the Red Garter.” His fingers caressed the back of her calves, sending little shivers of pleasure all over her. “I’d gone up there with Molly, but once I saw you standing down there in the street, I couldn’t take her. All I wanted was you.”
His hard, sure hands rubbed the butter into her feet, between her toes.
She rolled over and looked up at him. “Are you lying to me to get me over my mad?”
He shrugged and began rubbing her throat, working his way down toward her breasts. “Cee Cee, I don’t care whether you believe me or not. I’m just tellin’ you how it is.”
She looked into the gray eyes and they were soft, warm for once, like a gray kitten she’d once owned. Somehow she knew he spoke the truth. She was taking him back to face three gunfighters who were probably going to kill him. Cayenne felt such shame she couldn’t look at him. “Rub me all over,” she sighed, closing her eyes.
She heard him dip his hand in the butter again, and then his calloused hands cupped her breasts, massaging the hot butter into the skin, into her nipples. She took a deep breath and felt her nipples harden into erect pink buds as he caressed them, moved down to her belly.
“Umm, baby,” he murmured as he stroked her, “with that vanilla scent and all this butter, you’re good enough to eat!” She felt him lean over and his tongue licked the butter from the hollow of her navel. That sent sensations of pleasure tingling through her very being.
Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) Page 10