“Your father, he isn’t still living?”
The shuttered look came down to claim Lance’s expression, and his terse “No” was all the answer he gave.
When he fell silent, Summer let the subject rest for the time being, realizing she might be probing painful memories.
And yet her curious questioning seemed to bear fruit. Lance didn’t seem as angry with her when they stopped at noon to rest the horses and eat beneath the questionable shade of a mesquite tree, nor did he snap at her when she asked him what he was doing. He had fished in his saddle pouch for several items and was now sitting cross-legged, braiding two long ropes of what looked to be horsehair and buffalo sinew into his own hair.
“Yeah, it’s horsehair,” Lance replied evenly. “A Comanche’s hair is his pride, and mine’s too short.” His mouth quirked. “I’m not just doing this out of vanity. I’ll fit in better this way, wearing braids.”
She had to smile at the notion of Lance doing anything out of vanity. She had never met anyone so hardened to public opinion, or so determined to ignore what other people thought of him. If he was concerned about his appearance, it had to be because he considered it important to their chances of success. It struck Summer as rather sad that he should have to go to such lengths to be accepted by his own family. But then, that was the same dilemma Lance had always faced. He was an outcast in two societies; he fit into neither.
Just now, though, he looked very much like a Comanche warrior. Today he wore fringed buckskin leggings as well as his breechclout and moccasins, but his chest was still bare except for the necklace.
Summer watched curiously as he tied an eagle feather to a lock of hair high on his scalp. “Shouldn’t you wear paint on your face?”
Lance’s white teeth flashed in a grin, the first real smile she’d seen since they left his friend Deek’s trading post. “Comanches only paint their faces when they raid or hunt, or when they have something to celebrate.”
At the mention of raiding, Summer was the one to fall silent. It was during a raid that her sister had been taken captive. A massacre where three people had lost their lives.
Her unguarded mood abruptly vanished. Lance might jest about Comanche customs and even make light of their brutality, but the Comanches were killers who hated whites with a blind passion. She couldn’t forget that. Her fear had diminished somewhat over the past few days—partly, she was certain, because Lance had downplayed the danger, and partly because they had encountered no trouble. But they were deep in Comanche territory now, and the risk of death was real.
Biting her lip, Summer forced herself to begin gathering their belongings for what she hoped was the final leg of their journey. Perhaps she’d been foolish to insist that Lance take her with him, but it was too late to turn back now. Besides, she still would prefer to entrust her fate to Lance Calder than be left behind as prey for the Yarby brothers. Even if at the moment her husband was looking less and less like the stranger she knew, and more and more like a hostile Indian.
* * *
Her tension grew as the afternoon wore on, as did her headache. The heat didn’t help. The air had turned sweltering, with little shade and no water in sight, only endless miles of flat grassland sparsely dotted with mesquite. Lance had made her take off her head covering since no Comanche woman would be afraid of sunburn, a
nd the September sun beat down on her mercilessly.
She was grateful when he allowed them to stop a few minutes to rest. Lance had vowed not to spare her any sympathy, but when he saw the way she was wilting, he evidently took pity on her and poured some water from the leather water bag onto a cloth, telling her to hold it to her brow and throat.
It was midafternoon when they entered the hills again where it was slightly cooler. Shortly after that, Summer became aware that the atmosphere had suddenly changed.
“We’ve got company,” Lance said quietly. “Just keep riding till I tell you to stop.”
Alarmed, Summer sat upright in the saddle and gazed around her, but all she could see was a hill up ahead. It was at least ten more minutes before Lance’s theory proved out. Without warning, an Indian warrior mounted on a painted pony suddenly appeared at the rise of the hill.
Summer couldn’t quite manage to stifle a gasp as he rode down directly in their path and halted, his feathered lance raised as if daring them to proceed.
“He’s likely a scout for a band camped near here,” Lance murmured to her. “Don’t worry. If he’d meant us harm, he would never have shown himself. He would have shot us first.”
His reassurance gave her little comfort.
“Stay here, and don’t say anything,” Lance ordered. “Keep your eyes lowered, and let me handle it. I’ll see if he knows where Fights Bear is camped.”
Handing her the reins of the packhorse, Lance rode forward with a gesture of greeting, a gesture that, to Summer’s immense relief, was returned. She sat rigidly waiting while they held a conversation, using a mixture of speech and hand signs.
Finally Lance looked over his shoulder at her and motioned curtly for her to join him. Swallowing the dry fear in her throat, Summer nudged her mount into a walk, leading the packhorse.
When she reached the two men, Lance brought his horse alongside her and kept riding. Summer could almost hear her heart pounding as they passed, and she could feel the warrior’s fierce black eyes following them all the while.
“Relax, princess,” Lance said when they were out of hearing. “He’s not going to hurt you. A Comanche won’t attack another Comanche unless it’s for blood vengeance.”
She didn’t bother reminding him that she wasn’t a Comanche, but he seemed to understand her fears.
“He thinks you’re my white slave,” Lance explained, his tone holding an edge of amusement.
“Oh, well,” Summer said with forced gaiety, “naturally, that relieves my mind. As long as I’m your property, he’ll spare my life.”