Comanche Eagle Page 13

  The next day beneath a hot sun, Travis shoveled dirt, moving with a steady rhythm as he shoved the tool into the black dirt, scooped up a shovelful, and tossed it into a wheelbarrow. He was building a dam for the swift-running creek so he would have a wide pond of drinking water for his cattle and horses. At the lower end of the pond, he would leave a small spillway so water could continue downstream, but not at the rate it did now.

  Zachary brought back an empty wheelbarrow and picked up the handles to the one Travis had filled, wheeling it away to dump the dirt. Travis paused and picked up a canteen to take a long drink, letting water spill down his chin and over his chest.

  He watched Zachary, who was changing daily. Travis felt a mild amusement when he watched Zachary with Crystal. Zachary couldn’t tear his gaze from her and was obviously suffering with infatuation, but Crystal seemed completely unaware of any effect she had on Zachary. Travis suspected if she knew, she would be distraught. She did nothing to cause such feelings; there wasn’t a fraction of flirtatiousness about her.

  He studied Zachary, who wore a shirt to protect his tender back from the sun and a broad-brimmed hat to shade his face. Travis could swear the boy had grown two inches since they had carried him home that first night. Travis’s gaze ran over Zachary’s long slender arms and he saw the bulge of muscle that hadn’t been there before.

  Zachary had to ache from all the physical labor, yet he had never complained or to shirked any task. Far from it. He was more than eager and willing to help, starting to work beside Travis far sooner than Travis had thought he should. Travis felt the same flush of anger that came every time he remembered how badly Zachary had been beaten when they found him. He would never allow Zachary’s father to take him back without a fight.

  Travis capped up the canteen and bent to dig again. Later, when Zachary appeared to get another load of dirt, Travis paused to watch him, seeing the play of muscle in his arms and looking again at the lad’s height.

  “You’ve grown.”

  “Yes, sir. I know I have. Those pants you gave me don’t have to be rolled up as much now,” Zachary said with a grin.

  “It was your father, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, all cheer leaving his voice. “I won’t ever go back.”

  “You’re under age, and by law, he can take you home with him. There’s no law to protect you.”

  “I won’t go back.” He seemed to change the subject. “I told you once before, I’d like to learn how to really shoot. As soon as I earn money for ammunition, I’d like to use your revolver to practice.”

  Travis studied the boy, pondering his request. Was he planning to learn to shoot better to defend himself or to revenge himself? Too well, Travis knew the trouble the boy could get into if he relied on guns.

  “Zachary, do you know how to fight to protect yourself?”

  The boy blinked. “I’ve been in a few fights. Not with my father. He’s bigger.”

  “How big?”

  Zachary wiped sweat from his brow and studied Travis, his gaze sweeping from Travis’s head to his toes. “Not nearly as big as you. The top of his head would come to your chin, probably. And he’s soft because he doesn’t like to work. He’s full of whiskey half the time.”

  “When we stop work tonight, I’ll show you how to fight to protect yourself. Remember, you’re taller now and stronger than when you left home. And you get stronger every day,” Travis added quietly.

  “I’d never get strong enough to stop him,” Zachary said bitterly.

  “You might be surprised.” Travis turned back to work; but that night when they headed home, the two of them went around the shed, out of view of the house. Turtle River came to watch, rubbing down his horse and keeping an eye on Zachary.

  Two nights later Travis leaned against a post at the pen and scratched the pinto’s nose. Wind sighed across the plains while silvery moonlight spilled over the pen. He tried to keep his mind blank, to feel the sleek short hairs of the pinto as he slowly rubbed his hand down its neck.

  “Night, boy,” he said softly to the pony and turned, jamming his hands into his pockets and stepping into the shed where he picked up a blanket and went back outside. The ground was wet from another heavy rain. After Elizabeth’s death he’d hated going to bed alone; now he hated the thought of going to bed with someone. It was the wrong woman. Yet when winter set in, he couldn’t stay out on the ground unless he put up a tipi like Turtle River’s.

  Travis crossed the soft, wet ground. The smell of damp earth and wet grass filled the air. He was exhausted; the lack of sleep over the past weeks was taking a toll.

  At the prospect of bedding on the wet ground he studied his house speculatively. He had to sleep if he wanted to continue to work as hard as he did. He had slept one night in the bed, waking with Crystal fully-dressed, sleeping on the far edge of the bed away from him. He hadn’t known she was there until he was awake. If he slept beside her tonight, she would never know and he would be up and gone long before she awoke in the morning.

  His log house was darker than the moonlit night, and Crystal probably slept peacefully. He hoped she would learn to cook; but if she didn’t, he would survive. She seemed to take to the baby like a bird to the air, and that was what was important.

  He strode toward the house and wondered whether she slept fully clothed every night. It would not surprise him except she was so orderly. Whether it was day dresses or nightclothes, whatever she changed into, it would cover her from her chin to her toes. He had noticed, however, that when she was hot, she unbuttoned the first buttons of her dress and he wondered whether she was even aware of what she did. He suspected that if she were made aware of it, she would keep her dress completely buttoned—even if it meant she would faint from the heat. Prim and straitlaced, she seldom laughed, but she was good with Jacob and all he had to do was remind himself of how she dealt with the baby and he was satisfied.

  He stepped inside and dropped the horse blanket on the floor. Leaning against the piano, he tugged off his boots and placed them by the door. He hung his hat on a peg and yanked his shirt over his head, dropping it carelessly on the floor. Wyoming nights were cool, but he had spent most of his life out-of-doors and was accustomed to cool air. The warmer air of the house was hot and stuffy, especially on nights Crystal had cooked for hours.

  He turned toward the bed. Moonlight streamed through the window and splashed over the bed, revealing the curving mounds of her shoulder and hip.

  Longing for Elizabeth struck him with such force that his knees almost buckled. He tightened his fists and clamped his jaw closed, staring at the sleeping woman in his bed, knowing she was little more than a stranger, not his love. But the shapeliness of rounded hip and tuck of narrow waist was pure woman and called up memories instantly.

  Elizabeth was gone forever. How many times would he have to remind himself? He started to turn to stride outside, even if he had to sleep in a puddle, but he stopped, steeling himself. He had to go on with his life and he couldn’t spend the winter sleeping elsewhere.

  He brushed at his eyes, feeling the sting of hot tears. When he reached the bed, he glanced again at the judge. A sheet was pulled to her waist. He had guessed correctly; she was covered in a white gown that had sleeves to her wrists.

  If he lay down carefully, he didn’t think she would ever know he was there. He was hot and longed to shed the rest of his clothing, but he would have to go back outside if he did. He had to grin at the thought of the judge finding him naked in her bed. She would either faint or grab that revolver and aim it at him.

  He reached the bed and halted in surprise as he looked down at her. Moonlight spilled over her, revealing her unbraided hair. Silver beams caught red-orange highlights in the mass of rich auburn hair that spread over the pillow and her arm and shoulder. The curling locks partially hid her face, the waves in the long strands a testament to the curls that could be there if she didn’t wear her hair constantly pulled tight in a bun or a braid
. Short curly tendrils framed her face and he supposed he had never noticed them before. The wild mane of hair was a surprise and seemed incongruous, as if it could not possibly belong to her. He couldn’t take his gaze from it.

  Her slender hand lay on the pillow, the golden wedding band he had fashioned for her gleaming dully in the light. He noticed that Crystal’s lashes were thick and long, slightly curled above her cheek. His gaze returned to her hair. He couldn’t resist and reached out and touched the locks. Silky strands slid through his fingers while he stared at her in shock, as if it were the first time he’d realized Crystal was a woman.

  The white wash of moonlight bathed her face clearly, her lashes dark smudges above her cheeks. Startled, he stared at her smooth skin. He was wrong about her age. He leaned closer, really looking at her. With her hair down, she was transformed; her pale skin was smooth. The woman was far younger than he had guessed. She must be only twenty-three or twenty-four, he decided.

  He straightened up, standing over her. Why hadn’t she ever married? The war had taken so many men away; perhaps that was what had happened. He could remember Ellery talking about her occasionally, but he hadn’t ever paid much attention to what he’d actually said. Travis reached out once more and touched her soft hair.

  If she had let down that mass of hair once or twice and let the men of Cheyenne have a glimpse of it, she would have had more proposals than his to consider.

  Travis sat down gently and stretched out, trying to avoid disturbing her.

  The bed creaked as he straightened and shifted. Suddenly she sat up, gasping and scrambling away from him.

  Nine

  “Crystal,” he said quickly, taking hold of her arm lightly, trying to reassure her. “It’s Travis. Remember?”

  She blinked and stared at him. Her face was in the shadows, yet his eyes had fully adjusted to the dark and he could see clearly her wide eyes and her slightly parted lips. Her thick cascade of hair tumbled over her shoulders and once again he was amazed by the transformation of her looks when her hair was down. She held the throat of her gown. She looked young, frightened, and pretty. He realized he was staring and checked the urge to reach out again and touch a silken curl. He became aware of his fingers closed around her slender wrist.

  “The ground is wet and I came in here to sleep.”

  She nodded. “You startled me,” she whispered and ran her fingers across her forehead.

  “Go back to sleep,” he said. She nodded, but she didn’t move. He caught the faint tea rose scent that he detected so often when he was around her. The darkness and her hair falling over her shoulders changed her dramatically. It was difficult to equate the female creature only a few feet from him with the stern, black-robed judge he knew so much better.

  As the silence lengthened between them, he realized he was staring again. He stretched out, turning on his side with his back to her. His ears prickled as he waited, listening to hear the rustle of her moving around, waiting for the shift of the mattress as she settled. When there was no sound except her breathing, he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Dammit, there’s only one bed,” he said when he saw her still sitting there, staring at him. “I told you I wouldn’t touch you.”

  “I know you won’t,” she said quietly. “For a few minutes I just couldn’t remember where I was.” She turned and lay down on her side with her back to him. He looked at her hair fanning out on the pillow and spilling over her shoulders.

  “Crystal, why didn’t you marry someone when you were in Baltimore?”

  She twisted around to look at him and then rolled over onto her back. Moonlight spilled across her, outlining the shape of her breasts beneath her gown. He was astounded how womanly and pretty she looked. Why did she constantly hide it?

  She turned her head toward the window, her fingers plucking nervously at the throat of her gown. “There was never a man who wanted to marry me,” she answered stiffly, and he wondered whether his question had stung.

  “Well, maybe if you had let your hair down and hadn’t covered up so much, that would have been different. Why do you hide how you look?”

  She glanced at him sharply, throwing her face into the shadows. “I don’t.”

  He sighed, losing interest in the conversation and turning away from her. He should be thankful she dressed severely and kept all that riot of red curls hidden from view. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been available for him and for Jacob.

  Prickly with awareness of him, Crystal stared into the darkness, wondering whether he was already asleep. She carefully turned on her side to stare at him. Moonbeams played across the bed and over his shoulder and back. His broad shoulders were solid and powerful. His black hair was as dark as a moonless night, but silvery moonlight outlined the taut muscles in his back. She watched the slight rise and fall of his ribs and knew he was asleep. He had startled her and she had come awake, uncertain whether she was in Baltimore or back in the small house in Cheyenne. The wild-looking man facing her in the darkened bedroom had momentarily frightened her, a cry locking in her throat when she recalled where she was and it was Travis Black Eagle before her.

  Why do you hide how you look? She didn’t hide anything. She kept her unruly hair braided as was the fashion. There were other styles; but many women wore their hair as she did, and for a judge it was seemly to look proper. And when loosened, her hair had a life of its own and was difficult to keep secured beneath bows and ribbons. She had once wanted to wear her hair with ribbons and let the curls fall freely down her back, but what had it brought her? Only humiliation and rejection.

  Why had he asked her why she hadn’t married? Perhaps the cruel remarks in town had raised his curiosity about her past. Her answer had been the truth, yet guilt burned inside her because she had avoided a complete answer.

  She pushed her hair away from her face and looked at his smooth back, tingling, all too aware that only inches separated them. She could reach out so easily and touch him. She slid her hand toward him carefully, touching the hair that lay on the pillow. The strands were different from her own, thicker and coarser, black against her pale hand as she let them fall over her palm.

  It made her breath catch to touch him, even the strands of his hair when he was asleep and knew nothing about what she was doing. Her gaze drifted down to his back and she wanted to trail her fingers over his smooth skin, to feel the hard muscles.

  She pulled her hand away and turned on her side with her back to him to try and stop the torment she was experiencing, yet suspecting sleep was gone for hours now.

  She lay still in the moonlight and thought back to that night Harvey had awakened her, tapping on her window. His blue eyes were wide and his blond hair slicked down neatly. Shocked to see him, she had dressed before going outside to talk to him.

  Their fathers had once been partners, and then Harvey’s father had opened his own law practice. The families had decided that Harvey would marry Crystal when they were educated and grown. And it had remained that way. She expected to marry Harvey and she knew he expected to marry her. And then Harvey had gone away to school and he had acted nervous around her the few times they were together in his school years. Just before his graduation, while she had two more years of school, her grandfather had begun to talk to Harvey’s father about a wedding.

  Then on a cool spring night Harvey had called her out and he had told her that he regretted what he had to do, but he had fallen in love and he had his father’s blessing. They would announce Harvey’s engagement to Abigail Potter within the month.

  Crystal could still remember the humiliation and hurt, and seeing her dreams crumble. The next day her grandmother was livid and her grandfather charged off to talk to Harvey’s father and was gone for over an hour.

  Crystal had begged him not to go. She couldn’t bear for Harvey to feel forced into marrying her. And he was not. Her grandfather was no match for Harvey’s father and he was back, saying there was nothing to be done. Harvey would marry Abigail
Potter early in October.

  Crystal remembered the smirks of other young ladies, the whispers behind her back at parties. Except for Ellery and herself, the last survivor of her family had been her grandfather; and when he died, she sold the house and moved to Wyoming with Ellery because if she stayed in Baltimore, she would always feel the disgrace of Harvey’s rejection. She was not a woman men wanted. Her experiences in Baltimore and Wyoming had confirmed that too well.

  She turned her head to look at the handsome, virile man asleep beside her. Their bargain was a good one for her. She had tied her life to a strong, ambitious man who had a beautiful baby that now was hers, too. She had a responsible, important position in town, the only woman here to have such a task. She sighed. Life should have been perfect and she should have been filled with joy. Instead, longings were awakening, yearnings that she had never really experienced. There was so much more that life could hold. She turned on her side to face Travis and reached out cautiously again to touch his hair, wondering how much regard he would ever come to have for her.

  She saw little of the men that week. The next two mornings Travis was gone long before she was awake; after that he slept outside and she saw him only at supper when she saw Turtle River and Zachary.

  As they sat around the supper table, Travis cut into his meat and glanced at her. “Tomorrow morning Lester Macon is coming to buy a mare and foal. I’ll work around the shed so I’ll be here when he arrives.”

  She nodded, barely hearing Travis while she watched Zachary clutching his knife and sawing the tough meat she had cooked. Would she ever master cooking enough to put a meal on the table where nothing was tough, stringy, mushy, or burned?

  “I’m sorry the meat is tough,” she said quietly. “I never have learned to cook.”