He cut right, swore at a heifer that started to bolt, forced it back into place. He was about to turn them away from the corral, let them wander lose and forget about them when a flash of yellow caught his eye.
Deborah came barreling out of the house and across the porch. She nearly went down the steps headfirst but caught herself. Then, incredibly, she hiked her skirt up above her knees and kept running.
Somehow she’d overpowered his mother and was making a run for it. He drew his rifle out of the sheath hanging alongside his saddle and was about to take aim when he suddenly realized the girl was headed for the corral gate.
The lead cow was close enough that Joe feared Deborah’s fluttering yellow gown would send the cattle stampeding around the yard. He shoved his rifle back into the sheath and headed straight for the lead cow.
Deborah jumped up onto the lowest rung of the gate, tossed off the loop of rope that held it shut, and the gate swung open wide—with her riding on it. Carried by her weight and its own momentum, the heavy gate picked up speed and, before he could shout a warning, slammed her into the fence behind her.
She hung on tight as the first of the cows charged through the gate and into the pen. Once the cattle were all inside, he blocked the entrance to the gate on horseback.
He broke out in a cold sweat at the realization that he’d almost put a bullet in her, not to mention the fact that if she’d lost her grip, she’d have been trampled.
“Are you all right?” he yelled at her without thought, forgetting she didn’t understand. Though she was still clinging to the gate, she looked no worse for wear.
He reached for the gate post.
“You can let go now,” he told her. “Let go.”
She blinked up at him, but when she failed to get down, he slowly swung the gate closed. She rode it as it shut, hanging on for dear life until he slipped the rope into place.
That done, his fear turned to anger, his blood running cold. Where was his mother? Deborah may not have been escaping, but that didn’t answer the question of what had happened to Hattie.
“Where’s Hattie? Hattie? ”
She finally stepped down off the gate and glanced toward the house, seemingly unaware of the churned mud and muck oozing between her bare toes.
Frustrated, he was tempted to dismount, grab her and shake the answer out of her, until he heard Hattie call out from the porch.
“Sorry, son. I was busy.”
From where he sat in the saddle, he gazed down at the girl standing in the mud as she stroked and nuzzled his horse’s nose and whispered softly to the animal in Comanche. Joe was arrested by the tender way her fingers trailed down the horse’s flanks, the soft caressing sound of her hushed whisper. For a heart-stopping moment he forgot who she was and why he was supposed to hate her.
When he’d left the house that morning, his mother had been trying to fashion the girl’s hair in a topknot of sorts, but her sprint to the corral had loosened the pins. Now her chestnut locks flowed wild and free around her shoulders. Washed and brushed to a high shine, free of the braids, her tresses caught the sunlight, streaked with red and even a touch of gold.
In a week she’d begun to fill out the hand-me-down dress and, from her sprint across the yard, there was high color in her cheeks.
As loath as he was to admit it, no matter how he felt about her, there was no denying her beauty. Without her Comanche trappings, and because of all the care and time his mother had lavished on her over the past week, she was beginning to show the promise of the young woman she might have become had she been raised by her own kin, in her own world.
No matter what she looked like, when push came to shove, he was certain she carried the heart of a Comanche inside her. Countless stories circulated the Texas plains, tales of captives gone savage, of kidnapped whites who rode and fought beside their captors and were every bit as vicious as the raiders that brutalized the frontier.
There were stories of women like Cynthia Parker, a captive who married a Comanche man and bore his children. Stories of women who would rather die than become civilized again.
He realized she was studying him every bit as closely as he was her until they heard Hattie call out again.
“What are you dawdling for? Come on in.”
By now he should have grown used to her silent perusal, but he had trouble breaking Deborah’s stare.
She was driving him crazy, staring up at him that way. Sizing him up. Waiting for him to do something, expecting something from him maybe. What that was, he couldn’t fathom.
“What?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.
A slight frown marred her smooth forehead, then she pointed toward the porch and, clear as a bell, said, “Hattee-Hattee.”
Caught completely by surprise, Joe threw back his head and laughed. It was a rusty sound and just for a heartbeat, Deborah’s expression mirrored his own shock.
A moment later, with Worthless trailing along behind, Hattie joined them. She was smiling at Joe in a way she hadn’t in a long while.
“I heard you laugh all the way across the yard. It’s been a long time since you’ve laughed like that.”
Joe turned away, taking his time tying his reins to the fence post as Hattie fawned over her charge.
“Can you believe it? She knew exactly what to do when I told her to run out and open the gate.”
Joe had a hard time forgetting the scare they’d given him, the panic he’d experienced when he saw Deborah run out of the house on her own.
“Where were you?” Joe demanded. His mother looked flushed and tired, and the idea that something might be wrong with her scared him. “I thought she might have hurt you.”
“I’ll forgive your tone, seeing as how I know that your impatience stems from worry and not orneriness. I was up to my elbows in flour. What was so funny, anyway?”
“She thinks your name is Hattee-Hattee.”
“She spoke? Why, Joe, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”
Hattie touched Deborah on the arm, then pointed to herself and waited for the girl to say her name.
Deborah looked from Hattie to Joe and back.
Hattie smiled and nodded encouragement. Joe crossed his arms and figured the girl was out to prove him wrong—or crazy.
“Hattee-Hattee,” the girl whispered.
The years seem to drop away when Hattie laughed and clapped as if it were the greatest feat ever accomplished.
“I’m so proud of you, child!”
“Don’t you think just one Hattie would do?” Joe leaned against the fence post, watching the exchange, afraid his mother’s joy might actually seep into him—if he let it.
“Hattee-Hattee is close enough for now,” she said. “Close enough, that’s for certain.” She reached for Deborah, wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
Deborah slipped out of her grasp and gathered the hem of her dress up to her knees again.
Joe couldn’t help but look down. It was a moment before he caught himself.
“You’d better teach her not to do that,” he advised Hattie before turning around to focus on the cattle milling in the corral, trying to forget the sight of the girl’s well-turned calves and ankles.
“She’s making progress, though. Isn’t she, Joe?”
“Except for the fact that she keeps lifting up her dress. She’s doing better than I expected,” he admitted grudgingly.
“But…?”
“I’m taking a wait-and-see attitude, Ma.”
“Uh-oh,” Hattie muttered.
Joe followed her gaze. Deborah was on her way back to the house on her own.
“If I don’t stop her, she’ll track mud right into the house.” Hattie hurried across the yard, then paused to call out, “I have a feeling she’s going to surprise you.”
As he watched Deborah walk away holding her skirt above the mud like a barefoot queen, he couldn’t help muttering to himself.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Ma. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Seven
T he white woman was ill.
Eyes-of-the-Sky saw it in the way her steps slowed as the day wore on, in the way she kept touching her forehead.
That evening, Hattee-Hattee ignored her when she grew frustrated at her awkwardness, put down the metal fork and spoon, and ate the evening meal with her hands.
The man ignored her, too, which was good. While his interest was on his food, Eyes-of-the-Sky could watch him without being watched.
His hands were hard and brown, his fingers long and graceful. He was not a small man by any means. His shoulders were strong and thick beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. When he moved, whenever more than just the base of his throat showed beneath his shirt, his skin was pale as the moon.
His hair amazed her. That it was black was nothing out of the ordinary, but the way it rippled and waved, the way it curled away from the neck of his garment made her want to touch it, to see if it would spring to life beneath her hands.
He had laughed today when she said the woman’s name. Laughed and shamed her. She realized she must have misunderstood and even now her face burned with shame at the memory.
She made herself a promise. She would never say his name aloud.
What did it matter if he understood her? Why should she care? She didn’t wish to please him. Not in any way. She learned their words for one reason only. Knowing their words would give her power. She would learn of their plans for her, know what they were saying and make plans of her own. She didn’t need to speak to him for this to happen. She only needed to watch and listen.
He ate with purpose, finished his food long before the woman, who had pushed her dish away and was content to sit there with her hands in her lap. Usually she jumped up and collected everything, carried it inside and started to clean it with the soap that clouded the wash water.
“Youallrightma?”
Eyes-of-the-Sky dropped her gaze when the man lifted his to speak to Hattee-Hattee.
She listened intently. The words you and ma were becoming familiar to her. Joe often said ma when he spoke to Hattee-Hattee. It was one of the white man’s words that bothered her the most.
Ma.
Ma. Ma. Ma. Mama.
The word rubbed at her like an ill-cured moccasin. Irritated until deep inside, where her spirit dwelled, she felt raw. She knew not why but was not able to think about it for long. The man pushed back the chair and stood. He was looking down at her now.
“Youwashthedishestonight,” Joe said.
“Shedoesntunderstand, Joe.” Hattee-Hattee started to rise. She reached for her dish full of food.
“Gotobedma.”
“But…”
Eyes-of-the-Sky watched the exchange with interest. Joe would not let Hattee-Hattee pick up the things and wash them as usual, though there was water boiling on the big metal stove.
The woman’s skin was pale and yet her cheeks were bright red. Her eyes were exceptionally bright, too, though her lids were drooping.
Eyes-of-the-Sky knew the signs. The woman was not hungry. She kept rubbing her stomach. Hattee-Hattee had the burning sickness and soon she would be too ill to do more than sleep.
When Hattee-Hattee walked out of the room without looking back, Eyes-of-the-Sky began to worry for her own safety. If Hattee-Hattee died, then she would surely become Joe’s slave, and from what she had learned of him so far, there was no kindness in the man. There was none of Hattee-Hattee’s gentleness at all.
Surely he would beat her. Maybe even blame her for the woman’s illness.
“Deborah.”
He was standing across from her now. She lifted her face and stared squarely into his eyes.
“Washthedishes.”
She understood dishes. He pointed to the empty container across the room and then to the boiling water on the stove.
“Wash—” He started to repeat himself, but before he said any more, she jumped to her feet and started gathering up the remains of the meal. Back and forth, she carried things over to the metal container, scraped the scraps onto a pile for the pigs as she’d seen Hattee-Hattee do. Then she began to pile the things into the empty tub. As soon as she wrapped a piece of cloth around the kettle of hot water and started back to the container with it, she heard him clear his throat.
She turned around.
He nodded, said one word. “Good.”
Then he walked out, following the path Hattee-Hattee had taken into the larger dwelling.
She did as the woman had done every evening, rubbed the dishes and eating implements clean. White men made much work for themselves, as if there wasn’t enough already. Not only did they prepare and cook their food, but they spent precious time washing everything.
Why not just eat out of the pots with their hands?
Then she carried the heavy container to the door, across the porch, and tossed the water over the side. She heard Joe’s voice in her head. Good.
Hattee-Hattee often spoke the word. Good job. Good girl. Good Book. Good.
She did as Joe commanded and he said, “Good.”
He was pleased.
For the first time since the raid, she felt lighter inside.
When she reached the main dwelling, the lamp was lit in the big room, but neither the woman nor Joe was there. She heard him speaking softly to Hattee-Hattee in the woman’s sleeping place but couldn’t make out their words, just the hushed sound of their voices.
It was the first time she’d ever been alone in this part of the dwelling without one of them watching her. She walked over to the flame inside the glass, the lamp, and held her hand above the opening, felt the heat. She had seen them turn the small golden wheel on a stick around, saw how the movement made the flame grow and shrink.
She glanced over her shoulder and listened.
Then she reached out, touched the end of the little wheel and turned it slowly. When the flame captured in the glass grew taller, the room became brighter.
Quickly she turned the wheel the opposite way and the flame shrank down and the shadows expanded in the corners of the room.
She clasped her hands behind her and continued to walk around the room, exploring, learning without having to be watched like a curious child. She fingered the cloth hanging from the round table near Hattee-Hattee’s moving chair. Then she placed her hand on the back of the chair and gave it a slight push.
It started to rock back and forth. She pushed it again.
It continued to rock. She waited until it was still again and then, taking a deep breath, she turned her back to it, grabbed the sides the way Hattee-Hattee did, and sat down. Hard.
The chair flew back so far that she gasped. She clutched the sides of the chair and when it settled down without bucking her off, when her feet were safely on the ground again, she bit back a smile.
Then she lifted her heels, pressed her toes against the floor and shoved. The chair flew back again, this time so far that a sharp cry escaped her. For a moment she seemed suspended in air and knew that she was about to go over completely backward.
Instinct made her rock her head and shoulders forward to protect herself from the crash. The chair obeyed, followed her movement, and settled back into place. It was not unlike taming a wild pony, she decided. And almost as thrilling.
Feeling quite proud of herself, she was about to make the chair rock again when she realized Joe was at the far end of the room, watching her.
His face was in the shadows and, though she couldn’t see his expression, she knew he would be angry. She braced herself for his wrath and slowly stood, careful to hang on to the chair so that it wouldn’t buck her off.
She waited, frozen in front of the rocking chair.
He took a step into the room and she knew the moment he remembered the rifle. His gaze shot to the entrance of dwelling, to the place where he always left the rifle when he came inside. She knew he took it to bed with him. Knew he would not hesitate to use it if she gave him cause.
His eyes shifted back to hers. No words were needed for her to know that he was upset that he’d left her alone with the weapon.
That he’d dropped his guard.
And what of her? What kind of a Comanche was she that she hadn’t thought to use it to destroy her enemies?
Her stomach lurched. She’d been here fewer nights than all the fingers on both hands.
When had she stopped thinking of these people as her enemies? When had the idea of escape slipped to the back of her mind?
Even now, she was closer to the rifle than he. In two steps it could be in her hands.
Silence lengthened between them. She reminded herself to breathe. Could he hear the frantic beating of her heart?
He did not move, but watched, tensed and waiting for her to move first.
The silence stretched between them.
He might be across the room, but still he towered over her. Tall as the man who was to have been her husband. Broad and strong. She might be able to grab the rifle, but she would need time to raise it to her shoulder, to aim and fire.
He’d be on her by then, be able to throw her to the ground.
And then what? He would beat her. Kill her. Or worse.
Their fragile truce would end if Hattee-Hattee were to die.
“Hattee-Hattee?” she whispered.
As soft as they were, her words filled the room. He did not laugh at her speech this time.
“In bed,” he said.
She understood his words and the same exhilaration she’d felt while taming the chair that rocked and the flame in the lamp swelled inside her. She understood. Hattee-Hattee was asleep.
But she had no idea how to ask after the woman, no words to aid in finding out if Hattee-Hattee was ill or simply weary.
Was a white woman allowed to sleep before her work was through simply because she grew weary? If so, Eyes-of-the-Sky could not comprehend such a thing.
Hattee-Hattee’s Good Book sat on the table beside the rocking chair. Eyes-of-the-Sky turned slightly, touched it, then looked to Joe.
He shook his head and then rubbed his hand across his jaw before he said, “Nottonight.”
He spoke too quickly and confused her, but she recognized the head shake, a sign for no, and understood that Hattee-Hattee would not be holding the Good Book and speaking in her singsong voice tonight.
The disappointment she experienced surprised Eyes-of-the-Sky. The words the woman spoke over the Good Book were incomprehensible, and yet, whenever Hattee-Hattee held the Good Book on her lap and looked down at the marks upon it, a calmness came over Eyes-of-the-Sky and she knew she would be able to face another day of imprisonment with these strangers.
“I’ll be all right. Don’t worry, Joe.”
It was nearly midday on the next morrow. The sun beat down on the plain, drying out the sodden land.
“I know you will, Ma.” As he said the words he wanted to believe they were true, and yet Joe knew well enough how fragile life was here on the Texas plain.
His mother was feverish, lying on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest beneath the heavy wool quilt she used as a winter spread. There was nothing left in her stomach, but now and again, spasms still racked her body. She’d been dry heaving into the bucket he’d left beside her bed when he walked in.
Deborah hovered behind him. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her presence. He’d kept her nearby all morning long.
Afraid to leave her in the house with his mother so ill, he’d made the girl work beside him the way Hattie had done all week.
Earlier, when he set up the milking stool beside the cow and motioned for her to do Hattie’s usual morning task, she did so without hesitation. And she did as expert a job as his mother.
He thought of having her weed the garden while he worked in the barn, but didn’t want her wandering around alone with access to the horses. So he showed her how to muck out the stalls and she worked alongside him.
Her face remained expressionless as she mastered the heavy shovel and then spread fresh hay with a pitchfork.
It wasn’t until he looked over his shoulder and saw her wince that he remembered how she’d burned her palms earlier in the week.
He cursed himself even as he took away the pitchfork. Setting it aside, he turned his palms up, then signed for her to do the same. In the square of light streaming in from the small window over the stall, she looked young and vulnerable, but there was no fear in her eyes.
The shadowed confines of the barn seemed to shrink around them as he stared down into her unfathomable, sky-blue eyes. His heart stuttered and then found its rhythm again.
Thankfully, her lashes lowered as she looked down, cutting off the startling connection between them. She rotated her hands until they were palms up and he noticed that she’d reopened two blisters, one on each palm.
Hattie was not going to be pleased.
He motioned for her to follow him and led her out of the barn. Back in the house, he heated water and made her wash her hands with strong soap while he went after Hattie’s rag bag and bottle of linseed oil.
He had her sit on the edge of the settee. Although he’d tended many wounds—those of hired cowhands, Hattie’s, his own—he hesitated before taking Deborah’s hands in his.
He chose the softest rag to apply some of the oil to the palm of her hand. At first she flinched, but he held tight to her hand and she gradually relaxed as he spread the oil lightly over her palm. Even kneeling before her, he was still taller. He stared at the part in her hair.
With Hattie down, the girl had combed and braided her hair in the Comanche way—parted down the middle. She’d wrapped the ends with white twine.
He reckoned Comanche women were not unlike their white counterparts when it came to gewgaws. Even the precious Comanche clothing she’d tried to save had been adorned with fringe, shells and colorful beadwork.
Despite the fact that she’d been exposed to the sun and was no stranger to work, her small hands were feminine. As he held them gently and slowly wrapped them in strips of cloth, he found it wiser to think about the thick braids draped over her shoulders than the warmth of her flesh against his.
Though he had dispensed with the chore as quickly as possible, by the time he went to see to Hattie, half the day was gone.
A sensation of helplessness assailed him as he watched his mother shiver uncontrollably.
“Deborah?” Hattie asked after the girl through chattering teeth.
“She’s right here, Ma.”
He motioned Deborah forward and noticed she kept her bandaged hands behind her back. While the girl stepped up beside the bed, he hurried down the short hallway to his own room, ripped the top quilt off his bed and carried it back to drape over his mother.
Deborah was leaning over Hattie with her hand pressed to his mother’s forehead.
“She’s…opened her blisters? They were almost healed.” Hattie’s eyes were closed but she’d felt the rag bandages.
“I rewrapped ’em.”
“I see.”
Had his mother just smiled? He wondered if the fever was making her delirious.
“You want anything to eat?” he asked her. “I can make you some broth.” He glanced at the empty teacup on the spindle-legged table beside the bed. “How ’bout some more chamomile tea?”
Hattie bit her lips together and shook her head no.
“Just leave me be. I’ll be fine once this passes.”
He knew what to do for wounded stock. Knew how to mend fences and ride herd. He could add a room to the cabin, plow up her garden plot, even cook up a meal of beans and corn bread.
Right now, though, he was at a loss.
“I’ll be fine, Joe. Just let me sleep.”
With a sigh, he gave up. He was halfway out the back door and headed for the corral when he realized he’d forgotten all about the girl. He made a quick about-face and realized, too late, that she was still dogging his heels.