Warrior Moon Read online

  “This smells delicious, doesn’t it, Vanessa?” Mrs. Whitaker asked in her raspy voice.

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m hungry,” Vanessa replied, taking long strips of beef. She moved around the table, heaping up beans, cornbread, potatoes, and steamed apples. She moved to the edge of the crowd, drifting away from them. No one seemed to pay attention to her, and she turned to hurry to the wagon.

  Making two trips until she had her things out of sight of camp, she began to move the first load toward the place where she had left the child and the horse,

  Feeling cold with the fear of discovery, she looked over her shoulder because the moment Mrs. Parsons discovered she was gone, she would alert the others and the hunt would begin.

  It was dark now, moonlight shedding enough brightness to help her move through the night easily. Her heart raced as she rushed through the woods. Ahead past the trees she spotted the rock where she had left the child, and her heart missed a beat because the girl was gone.

  When Vanessa moved closer, her gaze swept the area and she drew in a swift breath. The paint grazed nearby and a bay grazed only yards beyond it. Two horses?

  The child sat on the ground. A man sprawled beside her, the child’s hand on his chest.

  Two

  Shocked, Vanessa approached them cautiously. Moonlight splashed over a broad-shouldered, black-haired man. Blood-soaked bandages were tied across his shoulder and around his thigh. In spite of his wounds and even though he was unconscious, he seemed formidable.

  Looking wild with his long black hair across his cheek, he was clad in torn buckskins. Terrified that he might stir, Vanessa knelt beside him and she saw he also had a wound in his side. The buckskin shirt was ripped and she glimpsed a bandage around his middle. She lifted the bottom of the shirt slightly and drew in her breath because the bandage was crimson with his blood. Placing her hand against his throat, she felt a steady pulse.

  “Guipago,” the child said, stroking his chest and putting her head against him in a gesture of trust and love. Vanessa hurt for the child.

  “Your papa?” Vanessa bit her lip and studied him. Blood oozed from the wounds, and she didn’t see how he could survive the next few hours. If she abandoned her plans to save Phoebe and took him to camp, she felt certain Sergeant Hollings would not do anything to help him. He might not allow anyone else to give aid to an Indian.

  She bit her lip in indecision. In minutes Hollings and the others might be searching for her. Should she go back and trust some of the people to help the man? She remembered Hollings’ brutality when he had had an Indian beaten so badly at the fort that the man later died.

  Studying the unconscious man, she didn’t think he would live through the night whatever she did, but she suspected his chances were better if he weren’t under Sergeant Hollings’ control. She decided to go ahead with her plans and try to take the man along.

  The Indian wore a pistol on his belt as well as a scabbard with a knife. She removed the pistol and his knife, placing them in her portmanteau. Then she secured her meager provisions on the two horses after hurrying back to pick up the second armload of belongings. The bay was saddled with a rifle in a scabbard. In minutes she had her things secured on the two horses.

  Returning to the man, she leaned forward and placed her hand against his good shoulder to shake him. The moment she touched him, she drew her breath. He was imposing; the solid bulk of his shoulder was hard beneath her hand, the buckskin shirt warm with his body heat. Wounded and unconscious, the man still looked fierce with a hawk-like nose and wide-set prominent cheekbones. She felt reluctant to touch him, yet they had to go.

  Knowing any minute they could be discovered, she was panicky. “You have to get up. Soldiers are coming!”

  She shook him again, patting his cheek, feeling a tremor run through her when she placed her palm against his warm flesh. It was as if she had reached out to touch a wild animal.

  “Please—”

  His lashes raised, and dark eyes focused on her with a piercing intensity that was so startling it made her heart leap in fright. She gasped and drew back, staring into his eyes, feeling as if a hot invisible current coursed between them. Along with a twinge of fear, there was a stronger pull on her emotions; she became aware of herself as a woman, intensely conscious of him as a man.

  In spite of his overpowering presence, she leaned closer to him. “Soldiers come. You have to get on a horse!”

  While he stared at her, she took his hand and slipped an arm beneath his good shoulder. Every touch was like taking hold of a burning branch. What was it about him that conveyed a searing awareness even when he was wounded and next to lifeless?

  She glanced at him again to find him studying her with a steady dark gaze that made her feel as if a predatory lion watched her. Judging from appearances, the man was too weak to do anything, yet Vanessa felt at any moment he might overpower her.

  “Please get up,” she said, trying to lift him, terrified Hollings might come riding out of the woods after her. As she tugged at the warrior, she felt as if she were struggling to pull a tree from the ground. Then suddenly he shifted and sat up, his side pressing against her breast, a solid, hard pressure that was disturbing. She put his arm across her shoulders and tried to stand.

  With a grunt of effort he came up beside her. He was taller than she had guessed; her head only came to his shoulder. He stared ahead, his jaw set. Was she making the worst mistake of her life by running away from the wagon train and the safety of the people she knew? Her gaze drifted to the child, and Vanessa knew she wouldn’t leave the little girl for the man might not live through the next hour.

  “I’ll help you get on your horse,” she said, waving her free hand. “Only a few more steps.” She felt compelled to talk to him, even though both he and the child could not understand her. “That’s it,” she encouraged his faltering steps. “I know you hurt. I’ll try to take care of your wounds when we get away from here. Soldiers are with my wagon train and they’ll come looking for me. I’ll take care of your little girl.”

  His horse was only a few feet away; and as they progressed slowly to the animal, she was aware of the warmth of the man’s body against her, of the tight muscles in the arm that circled her shoulders. Along with the sour smell of blood, the scents of gunpowder and leather were on him. The bay loomed like a mountain, and she didn’t know how she could get the man into the saddle.

  “Here we are. This will hurt you, but we have to go. There is a soldier who hates Indians with the wagon train,” she said, peering at him, wondering if he understood that word or had heard a white use it. Without a change of expression he stared down at her, and she motioned toward the saddle. For the first time she noticed the U.S. Cavalry insignia on the saddle, and she glanced at him. He was riding an army horse—he had to have taken it in a battle of some kind.

  He wrapped his hand around the horn and cantle, then placed his foot in the stirrup. His moccasins were high and made from hides with fur lining the inside. Feeling inadequate and knowing he must be in terrible pain, she placed her hands on his good side and tried to lift him. He pulled up toward the saddle, half up in the air, and she saw him start to sag. She placed one hand on his hip and the other on his buttocks, pushing him. Heat flooded her as she felt his hard buttock beneath her palm, but he didn’t look back as he swung his leg across the horse. He swayed and straightened in the saddle, looking down into her eyes.

  She held up her palm, hoping he understood she wanted him to wait. She gathered the reins to the paint. Picking up the child and placing her on the paint, Vanessa mounted behind the little girl and put her arm around her.

  She looked at the man, who watched her with that same steadfastness that made her pulse flutter every time she encountered it. His steady, direct stare was like a clash with something fiery, causing her nerves to prickle. Did he hate whites and was merely tolerating her because he knew he needed help? He looked as if he could easily wrap his fingers around her throat and
choke her. His gaze raked boldly over her and she flushed, knowing that if he weren’t wounded, she would be a captive by now. His bandaged shoulder and side were blood soaked. How he was still conscious, she couldn’t imagine.

  When he motioned and urged his horse forward, she felt a surge of relief because he must have understood that she was trying to help. Then it occurred to her that he could be leading her to his people. She had heard tales of savages and their treatment of women, and she stared at him. She remembered the sun setting to her left when she had been standing in the river. Glancing back at the river, she calculated directions and figured the man was heading north. She caught his reins and pointed the opposite way, tugging on her reins and his to turn them.

  “We have to go south. South,” she repeated, as if it might help him comprehend. “We have to get away from my camp.”

  She kept pointing and he only stared at her, so she didn’t know whether or not he understood what she was saying. There was a ruthless expression in the set of his jaw and his dark eyes that gave her a chill. Would he try to kill her if he got the chance?

  He must be the child’s father, but where was the mother? They had to have come from a battle, although no one in the wagon train had heard anything about a battle in the area. Motioning his horse to follow hers, Vanessa turned and rode south through the trees, then climbed a rise.

  Leather creaked and the horses’ hooves were noisy. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she had been missed yet, knowing the soldiers would search all night. Her father’s wrath would come down hard on any man who let her escape, for while her father was no longer in the army, but a railroader now, he had powerful connections in the military who would see to it that his wishes were carried out. Hollings and his men wouldn’t give up searching for her until they were told to stop.

  The land sloped upward and finally leveled, and she glanced behind again. Now the river was lost from sight as they rode over ground sparsely covered with cacti and junipers and grass.

  Looking as if he would topple from the horse, the warrior swayed and slumped, but in minutes he straightened again. During the early years of the war she had assisted at the hospital in Shreveport where her father was working and she had tended wounded soldiers. With the terrible wounds this man had, he would likely lose consciousness soon and not revive. They had to get away from the wagon train before she could try to change the bandages on his wounds. But by then, it would probably be too late.

  She looked down at the small child nestled against her and stroked the girl’s head, lifting long strands of raven hair. The child looked up and smiled, twisting around to hug Vanessa, who squeezed her in return, her love pouring out to the child. Vanessa closed her eyes, imagining for a moment that the little girl belonged to her. To get Phoebe to safety and someday to have her own family, her own children to love and care for, was all Vanessa wanted. And when she went back to Fort McKavett to get Phoebe, they would take their youngest sister, ten-year-old Belva with them because their father had never cared for any of his daughters. They wouldn’t leave Belva behind to be sent to a boarding school and then later be given in a loveless marriage.

  Would their lives have been different if her mother had lived? The only person her father had ever seemed to truly love was her older brother, his firstborn, Ethan.

  Rustling noises around them set her nerves on edge. The moon rose, a big white ball sliding above the horizon, looking as if it hovered close to earth. As it climbed in the sky, its size diminished, seeming to withdraw in distance to a full white brilliance high overhead. The earth was bathed in its light and she felt exposed on the open stretches of land.

  They rode down into a wash, following the dry bed with arroyos carved in either side. Prickly pear and mesquite abounded. The man lay on the horse now, his long arms clinging to his mount, and she took the lead. Trying to use the stars as a guide because she knew the north star, she hoped they were continuing south, but she was uncertain. The child was quiet, riding easily, and Vanessa wondered if she were accustomed to traveling like this.

  Suddenly the man toppled to the ground. Moonlight spilled over his still form, his outflung arms.

  Vanessa’s heart missed a beat as she tugged on the reins. Feeling a sense of reluctance, she dismounted. She was certain he was dead. She left the child on the horse as she knelt beside the warrior and placed her hand over his heart.

  His chest rose and fell in quick short breaths, and she felt a surge of relief. She went back to the child.

  “We’ll camp here tonight,” she said, wondering if talking helped calm the child’s fears, curious if the girl felt any fright. She seemed to accept with stoicism everything that had happened except for the moment she had placed her head on the man’s chest. “I’ll tend your father’s wounds, and we’ll sleep and ride again in the morning.”

  “Kkaw-Kkoy’,” the child said, looking at Vanessa. “Kkaw-Kkoy’?”

  “Love, I don’t know what you want,” Vanessa said, hoping her tone of voice was soothing. She stroked the child’s head and in minutes the little girl became interested in the buttons on Vanessa’s riding habit.

  Setting down the child, Vanessa spread out the quilts, trying to get her bedded down because if she worked on the man’s injuries, she was going to cause him more pain and she didn’t want the little girl to witness his suffering. Vanessa took down the canteen of water and held it out to the child.

  Brushing the girl’s head with her hand, she spoke quietly. “I’ll call you Hope. You’re hope for me, hope for a new life, hope that I escape the convent. Hope that I get Phoebe safely away from Fort McKavett. Hope,” she said. “Vanessa,” she said and touched her own chest. Vanessa touched the child. “Hope.” She took the child’s hand and placed it against her cheek. “Vanessa. Van—ess—a.”

  “’Nessa,” the child repeated solemnly.

  “That’s it! Very good. Hope.”

  “Hope,” the little girl repeated, handing back the water. As soon as Vanessa had unsaddled and tended the horses, she unpacked the food she had brought from dinner, holding out the cold beef to share with the child.

  Finally she had Hope bedded down, pulling a quilt over her and crooning softly until she knew the child was asleep.

  With a feeling of dread she stood up and glanced at the unconscious man who hadn’t moved since he’d fallen from the horse. She didn’t know how much she could help him, but she knew something about tending wounded men. She tore a clean chemise into strips.

  Next she spread a quilt on the ground and knelt beside him, staring at his powerful body and feeling hot with embarrassment and a deep reluctance to touch him. However, she placed her hands on his uninjured shoulder to ease him up and slid the quilt beneath him.

  Thankful the nights were only mildly cool for the time of year, she began to cut away his shirt. He groaned, and she felt a stab of regret because she knew he was hurting dreadfully.

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help,” she whispered, leaning back to look at him. Her breath caught as moonlight spilled over his broad, muscled chest. In spite of his wounds, he still looked powerful.

  She frowned as her gaze roamed down the length of him. His waist narrowed and the buckskin pants were tight across his slender hips. She looked at the bloody wound on his thigh and clamped her jaw closed, taking the knife and cutting away the pant leg, trying not to think about the muscled flesh beneath her fingers. He groaned once, and her gaze flew to his face; but he lay with his dark lashes against his cheeks, his eyes closed.

  “Sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m trying to take care of you,” she whispered and bent to her task.

  Finally she had his leg bare to his groin. Her gaze drifted over the front of the buckskin pants and she felt her cheeks flame even though he was unconscious. She let her hand drift across his chest. “You frighten me,” she whispered. “I want you to live; but if you do, I hope you won’t hurt me.”

  Steeling herself for the task ahead, Vanessa turne
d to unpack one of the portmanteaus. She had brought a small bottle of smelling salts, a bottle of alcohol that Mrs. Parsons had packed away, and a bottle of laudanum. With water from the canteen, Vanessa washed his wounds. He gasped and stiffened.

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help you,” she whispered, leaning close to his ear. She continued, finally pouring alcohol on the wound. All three wounds had torn through his body from front to back. She wasn’t certain if that meant the shots had passed through him and nothing was lodged in him. If he had a shot still remaining in his body, she did not have the experience to try to cut him open and remove it.

  As she poured alcohol on his side, he groaned. “I know this hurts,” she whispered. “I’ll be through soon. You must be terribly strong to have survived this far.” She leaned closer to him. “If anything happens, I will take care of your little girl. I will love her as if she were my own,” she said, feeling a tightness in her throat because she already loved the child. “I call her Hope and I think she’s precious.”

  Vanessa sat up and cleaned the wound in his thigh. Finally she bandaged him, winding the strips of her white chemise over his shoulder. She bandaged his thigh next, blushing again as her hands moved on his leg. She had never touched a man intimately. Even when she had tended the wounded soldiers, she never had taken care of them in the manner she was helping this man.

  She stared at his side and knew she had to get him up to bandage it. She leaned down to tug on him, placing her face beside his, her mouth at his ear. “You have to sit up for me to bandage you.”

  She pulled on him and felt his muscles tense as he sat up. Surprised, she leaned back and gazed into black eyes that made her want to jump away from him. Dark as a moonless sky, his eyes seemed to pull and tug on her senses and hold her captive. Again, she had that intense awareness of herself as a woman as he studied her.