Читать книгу Homecoming - Jill Landis Marie - Страница 13

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.

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?