Comanche Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

took the bundle held out to him. He flipped back the edge of the woven blanket, smiling when he saw a rifle shining dully in the folds. For him, it seemed as if the bargain was sealed.
    Deborah watched tensely, saw the blue-eyed Comanche turn toward her, his eyes glittering with hot lights. She knew in that instant what had happened. A protest at being sold as casually as that welled up in her throat.
    There was no time to voice it before he said something in the rough, growling language they used.
    When she shrank back, her captor shoved her forward again, speaking sharply and leaving her in no doubt that she was being given away. Bargained for, she corrected silently, watching as the rifle and horses were examined by the buckskin-clad woman who must be his wife.
    What did it really matter? She wondered wearily in the next instant. One captor was much like another. And perhaps this one would at least feed her and allow her to tend her needs.
    Fear, exhaustion, and deprivation had left her strangely compliant. She offered no more protest or resistance as the blue-eyed Comanche curled a hard hand around her still-bound wrists and took her with him. He was firm, but not rough, not like the other had been. And he led her to a tent set back apart from the others. It was larger, with painted figures on the cone-shaped exterior. Tall poles rose from the center where the smoke from a fire curled upward. Deborah could smell something cooking in the pot outside the lodge, and a young girl looked at her curiously as she was pulled forward.
    After a brief exchange of words between the young girl and her new captor, Deborah’s bound wrists were placed in her custody. The girl spoke softly, smiling somewhat shyly, and motioned that she was to follow. It was the first time she’d been offered any choice instead of pushed or pulled one way or the other, and Deborah went willingly.
    Then she was glad she had. The girl took her to a clump of bushes some distance from the camp, and indicated she was to tend to any private needs. It was difficult with her bound hands, but Deborah managed to lift her skirts.
    As her fine cotton drawers had been removed that night in the arbor with Miguel, her skirts and a single petticoat were all she wore.
    When she stepped out from behind the bushes, she gave the girl a smile of gratitude at her tact. The girl nodded gravely as she beckoned her forward again. Deborah was led to the edge of a swiftly running stream, and would have bent down to drink if the girl had not stopped her. Dark hair swung in two neat plaits over her shoulders as she shook her head and said something in Comanche. Then the sharp blade of a knife slashed upward, slicing the tight ropes around Deborah’s wrists.
    Deborah couldn’t help a gasp of pain as blood flowed through her constricted veins back into her abused flesh; the girl replaced the knife in the sheath at her side before taking Deborah’s wrists between her small, callused palms and rubbing them briskly to restore circulation. Then she indicated with a smile that Deborah was to wash herself.
    The water was icy but clear and felt good on her dry skin. Hitching her skirts up as high as she dared, Deborah waded out into the shallows, letting the water swirl around her bare calves.
    She knelt and cupped her hands, drinking deeply of the cool water, letting it slide down her parched throat and wet the front of her dress. She didn’t care. It seemed like days since she’d had her fill of water. Finally she felt the girl touch her shoulder and shake her head, motioning for her to drink more slowly.
    After she’d quenched her thirst and washed every place she could reach without totally disrobing, Deborah waded back to the muddy bank and stepped up on the grass beside the silently watching girl. She dried her hands on her damp skirts.
    “May I take some water to the others?” she asked, pantomiming drinking and pointing toward the village.
    A quick shake of the girl’s head