Warrior Moon Read online

  “You don’t understand me, but I’m trying to help,” she said, making an effort to look away. She pressed a folded pad of clean cotton against his side and placed his large hand over the bandage to hold it in place.

  “I’m sorry if this hurts you. I’ve run away from my camp and I have to take you and your little girl with me. The soldiers traveling with my wagon train don’t like—” She paused, glancing at him, looking into his unfathomable gaze. “Sergeant Hollings hates Indians, and you wouldn’t want to be in his care.”

  She worked fast, talking rapidly, feeling nervous again. What was it about the warrior that was so disturbing when he regained consciousness? She wrapped strips of the chemise around him, her breasts brushing against his chest as she tried to get the strips in place. Finally she had the bandages secured and she pulled out the bottle of laudanum.

  “This will help you.”

  He pushed it away and stared at her, his dark eyes locking with hers, the air becoming charged again as she gazed at him. Was it anger in him that made every moment volatile? Or was it his virile, powerful male body, his awareness of her as a woman?

  “It’s for pain.” She felt helpless, trying to convey to him what the laudanum would do. She held it to her lips. “You drink. You won’t hurt.”

  When she held it to his mouth again, he pushed it away. His lashes fluttered, and she wondered if he were about to lose consciousness. Holding his broad shoulders, her breasts brushing his chest in a contact she could feel through her shirt and chemise, she eased him down on the quilt. Leaning back, she looked at him. Only inches separated them, and she was caught in another compelling stare.

  “You frighten me,” she said softly. “I want you to live for your child’s sake, but you frighten me.” Even as she said the words, she knew fright wasn’t what she was experiencing. He disturbed her in a way no man had before. He wasn’t touching her, yet her nerves felt as tingly as if he were.

  In spite of his injuries, he was strong and wild and like no man she had known. Savage was the way she had heard Indians described. This one hadn’t acted savagely toward her, but he awed her. His eyes fluttered and closed.

  She stared at him, touching his cheek. He felt hot, and she wondered if he were running a fever. As if she had no control of her hand, her fingers drifted down lightly over the full underlip that was cracked from wind and sun, yet soft to touch. She ran her fingers over his nose, the arrogant arch in the bone. Her hand moved along the plane of his cheek, over his jawbone, and along the strong column of his throat. His pulse was steady and strong, and she felt a flicker of amazement. How could he survive such terrible wounds, the hours of riding, and his loss of blood?

  The white bandages across his shoulder and around his middle were a stark contrast to his dark skin. Blushing, yet yielding to curiosity, she slid her fingers over his chest. She had never touched a man this way and her hand tingled, her nerves quivering as she felt his muscles and ribs. His skin was warm and smooth, his body hard everywhere she touched.

  “You’re a powerful man,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to care for gunshots. I don’t know much about men. And I know nothing about a man like you.” She let her hand slide to his flat stomach, and the touch seemed to sizzle from her fingers up through her arm and down into the center of her body, stirring a heat that suffused her.

  Lone Wolf lay without moving. A steady pain coursed through him while he listened to the woman. Having been an army scout for two years for white soldiers, he spoke English and understood every word, but he didn’t want to let her know yet. Why was she running from her people? She wasn’t running from a husband, because she wasn’t accustomed to a man. Lone Wolf opened his eyes a fraction, gazing at her through his lashes as she slid her hand across his stomach. In spite of his pain, her hand moving low on his bare stomach was stirring his desire.

  The cascade of red hair he had seen at the river was looped and pinned up on her head now. He felt darkness overtaking him and knotted his fists, trying to cling to consciousness. Her voice was soft, and she smelled like spring flowers.

  The darkness passed, and he became aware of her again, her hand moving on his thigh. Suddenly she stilled, and he opened his eyes a fraction. She was staring at him, and then she jerked her hand away. He closed his eyes, knowing she had seen his arousal.

  She was too beautiful to be without a man—had the war or a protective father or brother interfered with her life? Why would she leave the people she knew and go with an Indian child and man who didn’t speak the same language? She had to be desperate. What was the woman running away from?

  When she had offered laudanum, he had been tempted because the pain was bad. His side burned and throbbed; his shoulder and leg hurt as well, but he wanted to stay conscious. He needed more help than the woman could give. He glanced at her and saw her remove his pistol from a saddlebag. She stretched out on a quilt only a few feet from him with the pistol close at hand.

  In minutes she was quiet, and he turned his head to look at her. She lay on her side, White Bird pulled close against her. He felt a peculiar rush of sympathy for the woman because she must love children greatly. Her care for White Bird was constant, and he was still amazed that a white woman would be so loving with an Indian child. Vanessa. The name played in his mind. Locks of her hair had come undone and fallen over her shoulder. His pistol was near her head. He reached up to move it where he could get it if necessary, yet he wondered how much longer he could stay conscious.

  If he didn’t survive, she had promised to care for White Bird, but how could a woman alone take care of an Indian child? And the woman knew nothing about traveling across country this way. As soon as they had left the river and she had taken the lead, she had said she wanted to go south, but she was angling to the west. She seemed determined to get to a certain destination—was she riding back to a lover?

  His people were to the north and if he could get to them, he would get the help he needed for his wounds. But right now he was too weak to protest and could only ride in silence. He needed the woman. When he regained his strength, he would go north and take her with him to his people. His love was still with Eyes That Smile, his wife killed savagely by whites after they had used her for their pleasure. Thus he could take the white woman and use her in turn, taking a measure of revenge.

  A wave of pain came, and darkness enveloped him.

  The soft cry of a dove woke Vanessa. The cool morning air was fresh; and when she stretched, she was startled by a warm body moving against her. She looked down at the small child. Hope. She remembered and glanced only a few feet away at the man. His chest rose and fell steadily, and Vanessa let out her breath in relief. He was still alive.

  All her life her father had talked about savages. Abbot Sutherland hated Indians and had battled them viciously when he started to build his railroad in Kansas. Too well she remembered his offer to the men who worked for him of ten dollars bonus for any dead Indian they brought in. When she had asked him about it, reminding him the Indians were humans, he had flown into one of his rages, shouting about savages and telling her she knew nothing about Indians or about building a railroad.

  The wounded warrior did not seem savage, yet she knew he was too weak from his injuries to cause harm.

  Vanessa extricated herself from Hope and sat up, stretching and looking around. The sky was lightest behind her, a star still twinkling in the dark sky ahead, and she realized she was facing west. She stood up to get her bearings and then looked down at the unconscious Indian. Her gaze ran over the man’s long length, and a shiver coursed through her as she looked at his bronzed skin and powerful muscles.

  When the wagon train had left Fort McKavett, they had taken a trail north into isolated land beyond the frontier. Sergeant Hollings had protested because, he’d said, they were riding into a vast desert where only tribes of savages roamed; but the wagon master had been adamant about avoiding Comancheros. Now how far would she have to ride to find a settlement? The man
had made it through the night, but could he last another day—or days—until they reached a town and a doctor? Her gaze returned to the man, who stared back with an enigmatic gaze.

  “You’re awake!” she exclaimed, startled to find him watching her. In the light of day he looked younger than she had guessed last night.

  “I’ll get water.” She stood and went to get a canteen, returning to kneel beside him. Acutely conscious of touching him, she raised his head onto her lap and held the canteen to his mouth. His hand curled over hers as he held the canteen while he drank, his blunt, well-shaped, brown fingers covered her pale hand.

  “You’re as tough as this land,” she said quietly. “I didn’t think you’d make it through the night. For the child’s sake, I’m glad you did.”

  She took the canteen away and glanced at the girl, who was still asleep. As the man watched her, she stared back at him, her gaze drifting over him. “We’ll have to travel soon because the soldiers will be searching for me. If my father learns I’m with you—” She paused, looking into his dark eyes. “He would kill you, and I don’t know what he would do to me. If I’m caught traveling with you, my reputation will be ruined even though there is no real reason for it to be.”

  When she started to move away, the warrior caught her wrist. Surprised, she looked at him as he struggled to sit up. She leaned against him, taking his weight; his shoulder pressed against her soft breast as Vanessa helped him.

  Amazed that he was able to sit up, she stared at him. The bandages held dark stains of blood, and his shoulder and side had the bright red of fresh blood seeping from the wound.

  “You should be careful,” she said, knowing it was useless to warn him. He ignored her, putting weight on her as he rose to his feet and swayed.

  “You can’t—” He turned his head to look at her, and she bit back her protest. As wild and fierce as he looked, he was also ruggedly handsome with an air of determination that was impossible to ignore.

  “You don’t understand what I say, and even if you did, I know you wouldn’t obey me,” she added swiftly, “but you should get off your feet.” She pushed against him gently and motioned toward the ground. Her fingers were on his right arm and his good side, and she yanked her hand away as soon as she touched him.

  “I’m glad you don’t know that you frighten me,” she said, trying to get some force into her voice. “You should sit down.”

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. “I won’t get my strength back.” His voice was deep and strong and clear.

  Three

  Shocked, she stared at him while her mouth dropped open. He stared back, and her cheeks flushed with heat. “You speak English!”

  “Not as well as you do,” he said.

  “You made me think you didn’t know what I was saying—” She bit off her words, angry that he hadn’t told her sooner.

  “You said nothing that should worry you,” he stated. “Now I will tend to myself for a few moments. I’ll need your help later because my injuries pain me.”

  As he struggled to remain standing, she reached out to steady him; and the moment her fingers touched his warm skin and her arm went around his waist, she drew her breath. He looked at her, his dark brows arching.

  “It was easier to care for you when I thought you didn’t comprehend what I said to you!” she snapped, flustered.

  “My understanding should make it easier, not more difficult,” he remarked dryly.

  He moved away in an unsteady limp, disappearing behind a bushy mesquite. She turned her back, looking through her portmanteau for food. She was stunned that he had understood everything she had said to him, and she remembered babbling when she had tended his wounds.

  In minutes he returned. In spite of walking slowly with a limp, he was formidable, and her heart beat faster. When he approached, she stood up to help him. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, and she was aware of her disheveled appearance as he watched her walk to him.

  “Why did you leave your people?” he asked. Before she could answer, he stumbled and she caught him, feeling his weight come down on her, his arm circling her shoulders and his body pressing against hers, sending shocks of awareness through her everywhere she touched him. She helped him ease down onto the quilt.

  “I have some food,” she said, ignoring his question and getting out beef, apples, and cold cornbread from the night before. She handed him the canteen, and he tilted it up to drink. Her gaze ran over his chest; she was mesmerized by the play of muscles as he lowered the canteen. She looked up and found him watching her while he handed her the water.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you leave your people?”

  “My father intends to place me in a convent. He wants me to become a nun. Do you know what a nun is?”

  “Yes. Why would he do that?”

  “He didn’t know what else to do with me,” she answered bluntly, looking beyond him and thinking about her father. “He travels a great deal, and my mother is dead. My brother is in Virginia; Papa thought I should go into a convent in Denver.”

  “Why didn’t you marry someone instead?”

  She blushed, looking into the warrior’s dark eyes. “My father wanted me to marry one of his friends, but none of them would have me.”

  The dark eyes raked over her, settling on her burning face. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “They said I was too strong-willed.”

  He studied her. “That wouldn’t stop many men.”

  “It stopped the ones my father would have approved of, and the others he kept from courting me. What is your name?”

  “I am Lone Wolf, Vanessa,” he said, her name rolling across his tongue with the accent on the first syllable, sounding different from the way anyone else said it and sending a rush of warmth through her.

  She glanced at the child. “What’s her name?”

  “White Bird.”

  “Where is her mother?”

  “She’s dead,” he answered flatly. “She was killed by white soldiers in a battle yesterday,” he said, the anger unmistakable in his voice.

  “That’s where you were injured.” Vanessa looked at White Bird and felt saddened by the little girl’s loss. “What tribe are you?”

  “Kiowa,” he answered. “We were camped for winter with the Comanche. In the winter we don’t move around as in warm weather when we follow the buffalo.”

  “I suppose you want me to take you back to your people.”

  When he didn’t answer, she looked around. He was sprawled on the quilt and she moved beside him quickly, seeing he had lost consciousness again. She knelt over him, knowing he must have been incredibly strong and fit before he was wounded.

  His anger toward the white soldiers had been obvious. How would he feel toward her when he learned she was the sister of an officer in the Union Army? She prayed he would never learn how her father hated Indians and had offered money to have them killed. Vanessa heard White Bird stirring and turned to find the child rubbing her eyes.

  Within the hour she had fed White Bird apple, cornbread, and damson jam. Fascinated by the little girl, Vanessa brushed White Bird’s hair, plaiting it into one long braid.

  The moment Lone Wolf regained consciousness, the child ran to him. She knelt beside him, and he hugged her with his good arm while the two of them talked in harsh sounding words that Vanessa couldn’t understand.

  His eyes fluttered and closed; White Bird sat quietly by him, stroking his chest, and Vanessa felt another wrench to her heart. The child had already lost her mother; now she was likely to lose her father, and Vanessa hurt for her.

  A bird flapped noisily skyward and Vanessa came to her feet, chilled with fear as she looked back the way they had come. Since soldiers might not be far off, she hurried to pack. In another ten minutes they were ready to mount up. Lone Wolf was conscious again, and she knelt down beside him. “We have to keep moving because we’re still close enough to my wagon train that the soldiers might find us.�
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  “We go north. We can get to my people, who will tend my wounds,” he answered.

  Intimidated by him, but knowing he was too weak to cause her trouble, Vanessa shook her head. “I have to go south to Fort McKavett.”

  “I can’t get any help if we go south. You’ll be riding through Comanche territory, so you can’t go without me.”

  “I’m not going north with you,” she said, feeling the clash of wills, seeing the anger coming to his eyes, and feeling another chill because if he were well, she couldn’t oppose him.

  “You can’t go alone; and if I lose consciousness, White Bird needs you,” he said.

  “If I have to leave you behind, I will,” she replied forcefully. “You can’t travel without me, and White Bird won’t be safe going with you because you’re too weak to protect her. I have to go south to get back home to get my sister.”

  “I won’t survive if we ride south.”

  “You’ll be as likely to survive as you will if we ride north,” she persisted, feeling desperate to get back to Phoebe.

  “Why do you have to get to your sister?”

  “My father has promised her to Major Thompkins, a man she doesn’t love. I told her I would come back and get her and we would go west where Papa can’t find us. The major is cruel and selfish, and Phoebe is terrified of him.”

  “Why would your father promise his daughter to a man like that?”

  Hurting, Vanessa looked away, knowing that their father did not care for any of his girls. All his love had always gone to his golden-haired son, never to his daughters. “My father doesn’t want us around now, and the major is wealthy and powerful. As far as my father is concerned, this is a good match. I have to rescue Phoebe!” Lone Wolf stared at her, and she felt his anger and frustration. “You don’t have a choice,” she added quietly. “This is one time you’re going to have to do what someone else tells you.”

  Fury blazed in his dark eyes, but she stared back steadily in spite of her pounding heart. Suddenly his hand shot out and closed around her wrist, pulling her close to him. He caught her off balance, and she threw her other hand up against his chest to brace herself. She yanked her hand away as if she had touched burning coals instead of his warm, bare skin.