Homecoming

He ran smack into her, nearly knocking her to the floor. As she reeled backward, he lunged and managed to grab hold of her with both hands before she fell. Momentum drove her hands straight into his diaphragm and she knocked the air out of him.

Unable to let go, he gasped like a fish out of water but came up short for a couple of seconds. Deborah reared back and wriggled out of his hold. When he finally recovered, he noticed she was watching him with a new wariness in her eyes.

“It’s all right,” he told her, trying to allay the fear he saw on her face, even as he wondered why assuring her suddenly mattered. He was turned around, headed for the barn again when there was another tug on his sleeve.

“What?”

Mute, she silently stared up at him. He waited.

“Hattee-Hattee,” she said softly.

“It’s Hattie. Just Hattie. Not Hattee-Hattee.”

She nodded. “Hattee-Hattee.”

“She’s sick.” He mimed shivering, then puking.

The girl looked at him as if he suddenly had mind sickness himself. Finally, understanding dawned and she nodded. “Sick.”

He started toward the corral again. She tugged on his sleeve.

“What?”

She tapped her bodice where her heart was, just the way Hattie did when she taught the girl her name.

“I heelp.”

“No. You’re Deborah.”

“Deborah heelp.”

“You what?”

“Heelp.” She tried again. “Help.”

Then she pointed toward the open rangeland. “Go. Help.”

He lifted his hat, raked his fingers through his hair in exasperation, certain she’d like nothing better than to leave.

He was just as certain that he’d like her gone. For a moment when he’d been tending to her hands he’d realized she was too close for comfort. Caring for her, touching her, he’d almost forgotten that she was the enemy.

It was plain to see how the girl had wormed her way into his mother’s heart this past week. She’d gained Hattie’s trust by obeying, by playing the innocent.

No female captive could have lived with the Comanche even for one night and remained innocent.

He decided then and there that if he wasn’t careful, if he let down his guard, that this unexpected physical attraction to her might blossom into something far more dangerous.

“Help Hattie,” she said.

She didn’t look like she would budge until he responded.

“She needs to sleep.” He folded his hands beneath his cheek and closed his eyes as if sleeping.

Deborah shook her head. She opened her mouth, pointed to her tongue, then pointed to the open prairie again.

“Help.” She frowned, folded her lips together, then tried again. “Get. Go. Help.”

“You want me to go for help? I just bet you do.” He slapped his hat against his thigh. “I’ve got work to do.”

She pointed to his shirtfront and said, “Work.”

Then she pointed to herself again. “Go. Help.” Then she folded her arms, rooted to the spot. Worthless had planted himself at her feet and was staring at the girl as if she hung the moon.

Joe cast his eyes skyward. “I don’t need this at all.”

When he looked at the girl again, she was impatiently tapping her bare foot in the dirt.

Eyes-of-the-Sky knew exactly what Hattee-Hattee needed. The fever weed was plentiful, especially this time of year, but how was she ever going to make the stubborn white man understand that she wanted to go and hunt some down, gather and brew it in hot water so that the plant could work its magic on Hattee-Hattee?

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