was sitting in the place where the food was prepared—the kitchen —when she recognized his whistle. It was his way of letting the woman know he was nearly there, that he had returned with more cattle.
It was Hattee-Hattee’s task to meet him at the corral, to lift the rope, push the heavy wooden gate wide, so the cattle would run into the enclosure.
But today the woman was making bread, the food that she enjoyed most of all. She loved the taste of it in her mouth, the warm comfort and softness of it. The magic way it melted on her tongue. She loved to inhale the scent of it as it grew plump and hot inside the iron beast with fire in its belly—the stove. The woman’s hands and arms were covered in the white powder— flour. Mixed with yeast, it magically became bread.
Outside, the whistle grew sharper, louder, as the man brought the cattle closer and closer to the house. So close that she could feel their hooves against the earth.
Hattee-Hattee was speaking to her, saying the words Joe and gate among others that she didn’t understand. Suddenly, Hattee-Hattee turned to her and commanded her to go.
She leaped to her feet and ran for the door, then outside into the blinding sunlight. Shielding her eyes with her arm, she tripped over the edge of her long garment and almost fell headlong down the steps but regained her balance just in time.
The long skirt was always in her way. It was a useless garment, one of flimsy, shiny cloth, not of sturdy, tanned buffalo hide. It was easily soiled and torn. Not only did all the whites’ garments have to be washed, but Hattee-Hattee would sit with them on her lap and repair them after all the outdoor and kitchen work was done.
Across the open yard, the first of the cattle neared the corral. She grabbed handfuls of the long gown in her hands, lifted it high above her ankles and started running.
Joe whooped and slapped his hat against his thigh to keep the cattle moving, then wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve.
The first thing he noticed when he scanned the yard was that the women weren’t in the garden. Nor was his mother waiting at the corral gate. He was close enough to be heard from inside the house, so where was she?
He’d been so vigilant early on. Had he dropped his guard too soon? Had his mother’s trust in the girl and in God been misplaced again?
If anything happens to her—
Joe let go another sharp, shrill whistle. If it wasn’t for the line of twenty cows he was pushing, he’d have kicked his horse into a canter and headed for the house.
He cut right, swore at a heifer that started to bolt, forced it back into place. He was about to turn them away from the corral, let them wander lose and forget about them when a flash of yellow caught his eye.
Deborah came barreling out of the house and across the porch. She nearly went down the steps headfirst but caught herself. Then, incredibly, she hiked her skirt up above her knees and kept running.
Somehow she’d overpowered his mother and was making a run for it. He drew his rifle out of the sheath hanging alongside his saddle and was about to take aim when he suddenly realized the girl was headed for the corral gate.
The lead cow was close enough that Joe feared Deborah’s fluttering yellow gown would send the cattle stampeding around the yard. He shoved his rifle back into the sheath and headed straight for the lead cow.
Deborah jumped up onto the lowest rung of the gate, tossed off the loop of rope that held it shut, and the gate swung open wide—with her riding on it. Carried by her weight and its own momentum, the heavy gate picked up speed and, before he could shout a warning, slammed her into the fence behind her.
She hung on tight as the first of the cows charged through the gate and into the pen. Once the cattle were all inside, he blocked the entrance to the gate on horseback.
He broke out in a cold sweat at the realization that he’d almost put a bullet in her, not to mention the fact that if she’d lost her grip, she’d have been trampled.
“Are you all right?” he yelled at her without thought, forgetting she didn’t understand. Though she was still clinging to the gate, she looked no worse for wear.
He reached for the gate post.
“You can let go now,” he told her. “Let go.”
She blinked up at him, but when she failed to get down, he slowly swung the gate closed. She rode it as it shut, hanging on for dear life until he slipped the rope into place.
That done, his fear turned to anger, his blood running cold. Where was his mother? Deborah may not have been escaping, but that didn’t answer the question of what had happened to Hattie.
“Where’s Hattie? Hattie? ”
She finally stepped down off the gate and glanced toward the house, seemingly unaware of the churned mud and muck oozing between her bare toes.
Frustrated, he was tempted to dismount, grab her and shake the answer out of her, until he heard Hattie call out from the porch.
“Sorry, son. I was busy.”
From where he sat in the saddle, he gazed down at the girl standing in the mud as she stroked and nuzzled his horse’s nose and whispered softly to the animal in Comanche. Joe was arrested by the tender way her fingers trailed down the horse’s flanks, the soft caressing sound of her hushed whisper. For a heart-stopping moment he forgot who she was and why he was supposed to hate her.
When he’d left the house that morning, his mother had been trying to fashion the girl’s hair in a topknot of sorts, but her sprint to the corral had loosened the pins. Now her chestnut locks flowed wild and free around her shoulders. Washed and brushed to a high shine, free of the braids, her tresses caught the sunlight, streaked with red and even a touch of gold.
In a week she’d begun to fill out the hand-me-down dress and, from her sprint across the yard, there was high color in her cheeks.
As loath as he was to admit it, no matter how he felt about her, there was no denying her beauty. Without her Comanche trappings, and because of all the care and time his mother had lavished on her over the past week, she was beginning to show the promise of the young woman she might have become had she been raised by her own kin, in her own world.
No matter what she looked like, when push came to shove, he was certain she carried the heart of a Comanche inside her. Countless stories circulated the Texas plains, tales of captives gone savage, of kidnapped whites who rode and fought beside their captors and were every bit as vicious as the raiders that brutalized the frontier.
There were stories of women like Cynthia Parker, a captive who married a Comanche man and bore his children. Stories of women who would rather die than become civilized again.
He realized she was studying him every bit as closely as he was her until they heard Hattie call out again.
“What are you dawdling for? Come on in.”
By now he should have grown used to her silent perusal, but he had trouble breaking Deborah’s stare.
She was driving him crazy, staring up at him that way. Sizing him up. Waiting for him to do something, expecting something
