Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  The thought panicked her as she pushed her dress down her hips and stood to step out of it. She would have to go through this disgusting ritual not just once, but thousands of times. Now she wished she hadn’t tricked him into promising he would take only one wife. Plural marriage might have its benefits. With several wives he might lose track of her in the shuffle and never bother with her . . .

  Watching Loretta, Hunter swallowed an amused chuckle. She looked like a little field mouse about to be eaten by a great hawk. Her blue eyes were enormous and brilliant with fear. A flush crept up her pale neck, as pink as— His gaze dropped to her chemise. Through the thin muslin, he could see the shadowy peaks of her nipples. His belly knotted with longing. Cactus blossoms and moonbeams. Perhaps she was right to feel like a small creature about to be devoured. He yearned to possess her, to suckle her breasts, to nibble tantalizing paths along her thighs, to find the sensitive places on her body and tease them with his tongue and light caresses from his fingertips until her passion peaked.

  As she struggled with the ribbon sash that held up her petticoat, her hands growing more tremulous by the second, Hunter’s amusement changed to a tenderness that nearly overwhelmed him. Though painfully afraid, she was going to honor her promise and give herself to him. His throat tightened, nearly closing off his breath. Memories of Willow by the Stream washed over him, of their first time together and how gently he had eased her into lovemaking. Remembering made him feel ashamed. It had been a long while since he had lain with a maiden, too long if he could be amused by such painful shyness.

  Swinging to his feet, Hunter scattered the fire so the flames licked feebly at the wood and threw the lodge into gentle shadows. Then he turned to regard his wife, forcing his hands to curl loosely at his sides, his stance deliberately relaxed. ‘‘Blue Eyes, come here,’’ he whispered softly.

  She threw up her head like a startled doe, her eyes huge and wary. Hunter’s guts clenched, and with one stride he closed the distance between them. Catching her by the chin, he tipped her head back and feathered his thumb across her quivering bottom lip.

  ‘‘I—’’ Her voice shook and broke. She swallowed and tried again. ‘‘I’m sorry, Hunter. I know I promised. It’s just that—I’m a little nervous.’’

  Hunter bent his head and lightly pressed his forehead against hers, nudging her hands aside so he could untie the pink ribbon that cinched her small waist. With deft fingers he loosened the petticoat and let it fall in a heap at their feet. ‘‘There is nothing to fear,’’ he whispered, ‘‘nothing.’’

  Her breath caught when he untied the first small bow that held her chemise closed. He untied the others quickly and feathered his fingers over her shoulders, skimming the muslin aside and drawing it down her arms. Shame washed over her, hot and pulsating, as the evening air touched her bare breasts. She closed her eyes, wishing she could die on the spot. An instant later she opened her eyes again, terrified of what he might do when she wasn’t watching.

  Loosening the drawstring waist of her pantalets, he crouched before her, tugging the breeches down her legs, pulling off her high-topped shoes as he divested her of the garment. As he stood back up, it was his turn to catch his breath. His memories didn’t do her justice. For a moment he couldn’t drag his gaze from her, so fascinated was he by the glowing whiteness of her skin, the delicate curves, so long hidden from him by chin-high calico and multiple layers of muslin. Settling his hands on her narrow waist, he drew her toward him, his heart slamming as the pebbled tips of her small breasts came into contact with the flesh over his ribs. In the dim light he could see tears shimmering on her pale cheeks. He bent his head to catch their saltiness with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘‘Ah, Blue Eyes, ka taikay, ka taikay, don’t cry. Has my hand upon you ever brought pain?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she whispered brokenly.

  Determined to finish what he had begun, Hunter swept her slender body into his arms and strode to the bed. Lowering her gently onto the fur, he stretched out beside her and gathered her close, his manhood throbbing with urgency against the confining leather of his pants. He half expected her to struggle, and perhaps if she had, he could have continued, his one thought to consummate their marriage, to put her fears behind them and ease the ache in his loins. But instead of fighting him, she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and clung to him, so rigid with fear that she felt brittle, her limbs quivering almost uncontrollably.

  In a voice thick with tears, she said, ‘‘Hunter— would you do one thing for me? Just one small thing. Please?’’

  He splayed a hand on her back and felt the wild hammering of her heart. ‘‘What thing, Blue Eyes?’’

  ‘‘Would you get it over with quickly? Please? I won’t ever ask again, I swear it. Just this time, please?’’

  Hunter buried a smile in her hair and closed his eyes, tightening his arms around her. His father’s voice whispered. Fear is not like dust on a leaf that can be washed away by a gentle rain. The words no sooner came to him than a dozen forgotten memories did as well. For an instant the years rolled away, and Hunter saw himself running hand in hand with Willow by the Stream through a meadow of red daisies, their laughter ringing across the windswept grass, their eyes shining with love as they drank in the sight of one another. He remembered so many things in that instant—the love, yes, but mostly he remembered the friendship he and Willow had shared, the trust, the silliness, the laughter. Ah, yes, the laughter . . . He and his little blue-eyes had laughed together so few times that Hunter had difficulty recalling when they had. Suddenly he knew that without the laughter, their loving would fall far short of what it should be. Especially for her.

  In a voice that rasped with frustration as well as tender amusement, Hunter said, ‘‘You have such a great want for me that we must hurry, yes?’’

  Her spine snapped taut, and she leaned her head back to look at him. He met her gaze with a lazy smile, trying not to think about how her nipples grazed his skin, how torturous it was to feel her hips pressing forward against him. Working one hand loose, he carefully brushed the tears from her cheeks.

  Giving a low chuckle, which he punctuated with a defeated sigh, he said, ‘‘Blue Eyes, we have many nights to lie with one another. Forever, yes? Until we die and rot.’’

  ‘‘Until death do we part,’’ she amended.

  ‘‘Ah, yes, until death do we part.’’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘‘A very long time, yes? If I strike such fear into your heart that we must be quick, it is wisdom to wait. It is enough that you will lie beside me. That I can put my hand upon you.’’

  Her expression went from wary distrust to incredulity. ‘‘And do nothing?’’

  Hunter shared her sentiments. It was the most boisa idea he had ever come up with. Never had he ached quite so sharply with wanting a woman. ‘‘You would like to do something? You say it and we will do it.’’ Hoping to make her feel less self-conscious about her nakedness, he tugged a fur over them and loosened his arm around her, allowing her some room to get comfortable. ‘‘Make a story for me, yes? About my Loh-rhett-ah when she was small like Blackbird.’’

  She stared at him, clearly unable to believe he meant it. He forced a yawn, and from the look that crossed her small face, he knew he hadn’t been very convincing.

  ‘‘You’re not sleepy,’’ she accused.

  ‘‘Ka, no,’’ he admitted. ‘‘I make a lie, yes? To make you easy? My heart is laid upon the ground when you are afraid. Let us be glad, eh? Make me a story.’’

  ‘‘Hunter, I don’t have a stitch of clothes on,’’ she squeaked.

  One of his dark eyebrows flicked upward. ‘‘You must have clothes to make stories?’’

  ‘‘No. I guess I . . . well, it might help me think.’’

  He sighed and rolled onto his back, carrying her along with him in the curve of his arm. Pressing her head onto his shoulder, he made a valiant attempt to ignore the feeling of her silken flesh against his and said, ‘‘This
Comanche wears breeches. I will make the story.’’

  And with that, Hunter began talking, smiling to himself every once in a while because he quickly discovered that he had as much trouble concentrating as she did when she didn’t have clothes on. In a husky whisper he recited the prophecy to her. When he finished she stirred in the crook of his arm.

  ‘‘That is your song?’’

  ‘‘Huh, yes.’’

  ‘‘But, it’s beautiful!’’

  With a start, Hunter realized he thought so, too. ‘‘Since my boyhood, I had much hate for the words.’’ He twined a length of her hair around his finger, smiling. ‘‘And great hate for the honey-haired woman who would one day steal my heart. I wished to kill you, yes?’’

  ‘‘But I’m not the woman in your song.’’

  ‘‘Ah, yes, you are the woman.’’

  ‘‘The song says the People will call me the Little Wise One. They don’t! And they never will. I’m far from wise.’’

  ‘‘It will come to pass,’’ he assured her. ‘‘It must. All of the words must.’’

  She saw shadows creep into his eyes. ‘‘What is it? Why are you so sad?’’

  The muscles along his throat knotted. ‘‘My song says I will one day leave my people. I am Comanche. Without them, I will be as nothing, Blue Eyes.’’

  Loretta stared sightlessly into the shifting shadows, watching the play of firelight. ‘‘It’s only a legend, Hunter. A silly legend. Hatred going away on the wind? High places and great canyons of blood! New tomorrows and new nations?’’ She turned her face toward him. ‘‘Look into my eyes. Do you see a new morning with new beginnings?’’

  He searched her gaze, and then, in a husky voice that reached way down inside her, he whispered, ‘‘Yes.’’ He drew out the word until it seemed to echo and reecho in her mind.

  It was then that Loretta knew. He had fallen in love with her. She stared up at his dark face, so close to her own that they breathed the same air, and her heart broke a little, for him, and for herself. She would never love him in return. A canyon of hatred and bitterness separated them. In that, at least, the prophecy was correct.

  ‘‘Oh, Hunter, don’t look at me like that.’’

  In one liquid movement he rose on an elbow above her, his broad chest a canopy of bronze, his shoulders eclipsing the light so only her face was illuminated. ‘‘You have stolen my heart.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she whispered rawly. ‘‘Don’t say that, don’t even think it. Can’t you understand? I’ll never love you back, Hunter.’’ Her pulse started to slam. ‘‘I’m terrified of—’’

  He crossed her lips with a gentle finger, his eyes clouding with warmth. ‘‘Of lying with me? I am not blind, Blue Eyes. Your heart is laid upon the ground with memories. That will pass. You will come to me. You will want my hand upon you. It will be so. The Great Ones have spoken it.’’

  She wrenched her face aside. ‘‘I’ll lie with you because I promised and because I vowed to before God and a priest. But I’ll never want to, never.’’ A sob caught in her throat. ‘‘Oh, God, what am I doing here? I don’t want to hurt you, Hunter, truly I don’t.’’

  He lay down beside her and pulled her back into the crook of his arm, pressing her fair head to his shoulder. ‘‘Ka taikay. Sh-hh, Blue Eyes. Do not weep. It will be well.’’

  ‘‘How can it be? I’m trapped here. I can never leave. I’ve made promises I’m not sure I can keep. I’m frightened, Hunter, of you and your people—even of myself. How can all be well?’’

  ‘‘It will be well. My people will accept. You are one with them now, the wife of a warrior. In time, you will want to be beside me. Your fear will leave. You will see. Until then, this Comanche will wait, eh?’’

  ‘‘Wait?’’ she whispered. ‘‘You mean you won’t—’’ She broke off and looked up at him. ‘‘You won’t— force me?’’

  Hunter’s throat tightened. ‘‘I make no promise for you. I wait now, yes? We will see where our moccasins fall.’’

  To soothe her, he began telling her stories about his childhood, about his first bow, leaving out the part about shooting his father, about his first fight, about his first hunting trip. He had come to the tale of his vision quest when he felt her slender body relax against him and heard her breathing change. His voice trailed off. He stared upward into the darkness, filled with a yearning that couldn’t be slaked. It would be a very long while before he followed his blue-eyes into the black depths of slumber. A very long while.

  When Loretta awoke the next morning, Hunter and her discarded clothing were gone. Beside her on the fur lay a doeskin skirt and blouse and a beautiful pair of moccasins. With trembling hands Loretta unfolded the blouse, recognizing it as the one Maiden had been making. ‘‘Ein mah-heepicut,’’ Maiden had whispered. Now Loretta knew the words meant ‘‘it is yours.’’ Tears filled her eyes.

  As she lifted the skirt to examine it, Hunter stepped into the lodge, sending her scurrying for cover under the buffalo robe. Flashing her a mischievous smile, he said, ‘‘Maiden sent the clothes. Next time, you will not be wrapped in so much wannup, yes? It will take us much less time to do nothing.’’

  He turned and left the lodge before Loretta realized he had made a joke. It took even longer before she smiled. There was a promise behind the lightly spoken words. Next time, it would take them much less time to do nothing. With a new lightness in her heart, Loretta sprang from the bed and slipped into the beautiful outfit Maiden had made for her. It fit perfectly.

  She ran her hand over the soft supple leather that skimmed her chest, her cheeks flaming. She might as well be naked. The tail of the blouse scarcely reached past her waist, falling in a straight sweep from her bustline, loose and airy. Knowing Hunter’s penchant for reaching under her clothes, she couldn’t imagine herself wearing this around him. And the skirt wasn’t much better, hitting her at the knees, with a tease of fringe around the bottom. No underwear, not a stitch! It was scandalous.

  A tight little lump rose in Loretta’s throat as she gazed down at the graceful cut of the skirt, at the beautifully beaded moccasins. Maiden had worked so hard. Loretta knew her feelings would be terribly hurt if she refused to wear these things. And she couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  Loretta thought of her mother, how she would feel about her daughter being dressed like a Comanche squaw. The image brought home the fact that, like it or not, she didn’t just look the part, she was a Comanche squaw, married to the infamous Hunter, his to do with as he wished, whenever he wished, until she died and rotted.

  Chapter 21

  OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, LIFE IN the village settled into a routine that Loretta found to be, if not pleasant, at least bearable. Thus far Hunter hadn’t exercised his conjugal rights. Red Buffalo, much to her relief, went on a hunting trip with a group of his friends, so she was spared his unsettling presence, and as Hunter had promised, Loretta found she could come and go in the village as she wished.

  Since her marriage to Hunter at the central fire, the attitudes of the villagers had changed. Everyone she encountered went out of his or her way to help her adjust to her new surroundings. With help from Maiden of the Tall Grass and Hunter’s mother, Loretta was slowly learning to speak more Comanche, which opened a line of communication with the other women and allowed her to make friends. She Who Shakes, an elderly woman who lived several lodges down from Hunter, took Loretta aside one afternoon to show her how to make pemmican, a mainstay of the Comanche diet, a mixture of powdered meat, fat, and dried fruit. As unpleasant a chore as it had been, Loretta also assisted the women in scraping and curing hides after a large buffalo kill, and now she was making her first pair of moccasins from an old piece of leather Maiden had given her.

  Being actively involved in the day-to-day routine of the village gave Loretta a much needed sense of belonging. She was included in the women’s nightly sojourns to the river for baths. It was reassuring to look across the way and see faces she recognized, to
smile and receive a smile in return.

  Another uplifting development was Amy’s recovery from her ordeal. Loretta could scarcely believe how quickly the child was regaining her former gaiety, and she soon realized Swift Antelope was the cause. The young warrior clearly adored Amy and spent hours roaming the river with her, forging a friendship that set Amy’s cheeks aglow.

  Hunter, quite the opposite of Loretta, found this same period of time a trial. While Swift Antelope made steady progress with Amy, he couldn’t see himself making any headway with Loretta. She still went to great lengths to avoid sleeping beside him, choosing instead to share Amy’s far less comfortable pallet. To complicate matters further, there was Bright Star’s campaign to make Hunter take notice of her.

  It seemed to Hunter that every time he turned around, Bright Star hovered nearby, fluttering her lashes and blushing, making such an obvious play for Hunter’s affections that he knew it couldn’t escape his wife’s notice for long. Hunter didn’t want to shame Bright Star by scorning her. At the same time, he didn’t want Loretta to believe he was encouraging the girl. He already had enough problems.

  While he mulled the situation over, trying to think of a kind way to discourage Bright Star, the young maiden intensified her campaign, and, as Hunter had feared, Loretta at last realized what was going on. When she did, Hunter took the brunt.

  ‘‘Who is that girl?’’ Loretta demanded one evening.

  ‘‘What girl?’’ Hunter felt heat rising up his neck and avoided meeting his wife’s flashing blue gaze.

  ‘‘That girl, the one who seems to have something in her eye.’’

  Hunter obliged Loretta by giving Bright Star a bored glance. ‘‘She is sister to my woman who is dead.’’ He bent back over the arrowhead he was sharpening. ‘‘She is called Bright Star.’’

  ‘‘She doesn’t look very bright. Is that a tic, or does she always blink that way?’’

  Hunter smothered a snort of laughter. ‘‘She makes eyes, yes?’’