Steal Me Away (8 page)

Grunting in satisfaction, he told her not to move.

Leaving her, he stood outside the tent and called for White
Hawk. Fancy ached to be set free, but more than that, she pulsed to have her
two men ravish her.

She did not wait long.

White Hawk appeared at the foot of the cot, surveying the
woman bared before him and grinning at his prospects.

Bull Elk waved a hand and White Hawk removed his
breechcloth. He palmed his length, standing ripe and ready for her, his seed
beading on the head of his cock. Fancy wiggled in expectation.

“Please her,” Bull Elk ordered his brother.

White Hawk licked his lower lip. Then he went to his knees.
The cool night air chilled Fancy’s wet pussy. Her flesh, so slick and swollen,
pounded for White Hawk’s touch. His blue eyes on her own, he bent and with a
long, lavish swipe of his tongue he licked her button.

She keened and shook, tilting up her hips to offer him more.
More.
More!

He smiled, the fiend. Then repeated his affectionate touch.

Her head lolled against the cot. Her hands clenched into
fists. “Do this for me!”

White Hawk covered her hands with his own and then feasted
on her. Sucking her and licking her, he turned her crazy with his loving.

She whimpered and moaned, her hips jerking in need.

“Take her,” Bull Elk ordered.

And as White Hawk’s fine long cock slid inside her soaked
woman’s core, Bull Elk grabbed her by the hair and kissed her deeply. She came,
silently crying her delight into her husband’s mouth. White Hawk rode her like
a devil, jamming his lance into her with a rocking rhythm that thrilled her. As
he pinched her button and jammed his girth inside her, she came and yelled like
a banshee with the joy of it. He slowed to a halt, caressing her breasts.

Bull Elk watched her enjoy herself, smiling until the moment
when White Hawk touched her nipples as if he owned her. At once, her husband’s
umber gaze shot to his brother’s and he murmured a low warning.

White Hawk nodded, pulled out of Fancy’s body and stood, his
head hung. With a furtive glance at her eyes, he left her.

Through her sensual haze, Fancy knew that White Hawk cared
for her. Perhaps more than Bull Elk wanted him to. More than White Hawk should
care about his brother’s wife.

But Fancy settled into her husband’s bold caresses knowing
one more fact. White Hawk would protect her. Perhaps more than custom required.

And she trusted him to do it.

After that incident, White Hawk became polite but distant
with her. Never again did Bull Elk invite him to make love to her. Nor did her
husband go out to count coup on overnight raids. If he planned it that way so
that she made love to him only, she did not know or ask. If she wished that he
would invite his younger brother to ravish her, she knew better than to say.
Bull Elk had shown his jealousy. She had shown her enjoyment. That was enough
to cause trouble between two brothers in any culture. Meanwhile Fancy had to
think of nurturing her own body to develop a healthy baby.

Bull Elk never again displayed the displeasure with himself
or his braves as he did that night when he returned from a raid. Instead, he
came home with little gifts for her. A coffee pot. A pillow. Blackberries and
peaches. As summer turned to fall, he went on daytime raids and came home with
squash and one large potato. Fancy saw the joy on Bull Elk’s face when he
presented these to her. The fruit and vegetables she adored and ate quickly.
The pillow she used. The coffee pot she wished she could use and she explained
to her husband that to use this item she needed a certain kind of bean, plus a
grinder. He shook his head, unable to understand her since he had never seen
dark beans.

One morning when the days grew cooler and shorter, a cry
went through the camp. Women and men gathered in the center of the tipis and
Bull Elk, who had been with the elders at the smoke lodge, came to stand among
them.

At the end of their discussions, Bull Elk faced Fancy and
told her their concerns. “A Ranger comes. You know him.”

Fancy rested a hand on her swollen stomach as a shiver of
apprehension traveled her spine. “Ranger MacRae?”

“He has been at the powwows. He had eyes only for you.”

She nodded, remembering the darkly handsome man whom long
ago she had dreamed of as her beau. Oh, to run to him and climb up on his
horse, ride home and become his…
No.
He came because it was his duty as
a lawman to search for her. He did not want her for himself. Neither did his
brother, Cole. They had each been kind to her but never gave any hint of
interest in courting her. Besides, she had no idea if either man was as good,
as kind, as passionate as her Bull Elk. She knew only one thing about him.
“Wyatt MacRae is persistent.”

Bull Elk tipped his head toward the hills. “He comes through
the far pass with four men.”

Her husband’s passivity did not escape her. She understood
his careful watch of her. She knew his unspoken question for her.
Would she
throw herself on the Ranger’s mercy? Would she leave Bull Elk?

She hung her head, stroking her large abdomen. This child
was hers and Bull Elk’s, created in tenderness. What life could she offer the
chief’s baby in her own world? Why would she want to?

She had asked herself this often. Sitting by the river in
the morning, or cooking a haunch of white tail deer or mending Bull Elk’s
moccasins, Fancy had pondered this.

Each time, she had the same answer. This time, she spoke it
aloud to her husband. “I have nothing to say to him.” She turned away.

He caught her wrist. His deep gaze scoured hers, seeking
confirmation.

She nodded and slid from his grasp.

Inside the tipi, she hovered near the entrance. She heard
the horses’ hooves as the white men rode into camp. She peeked out and
recognized the tall, imposing Texas Ranger Wyatt MacRae and his equally
impressive brother, the Bravado County Sheriff, Cole. Both men appeared weary,
dusty from the trail, their horses wet with sweat from their long ride. The
commotion of Comanche whoops and greetings and the booming bass voices of the
Anglos had Fancy clutching her arms and rocking to and fro. She must not run out.
She feared how the Anglos would treat her once they knew—
once they saw
—that
she was Bull Elk’s mate.

“Good day to you, Chief
Patuwa kum
,” she heard Ranger
Wyatt MacRae greet her husband. “My men and I have been looking for you for
many months.”

“We have been here, Ranger.”

“My brother and I and our men search for a young woman
stolen from her ranch last spring.”

“I wish you good hunting,” her husband responded.

“You have seen no white woman taken in by any of your
braves?” another man asked and Fancy knew from his baritone voice that this one
was Cole.

“No white woman has been taken by any of my braves,” her
husband said.

Fancy noted that Bull Elk had not lied either.

“Do you know of any other tribes near us who would do this?”
Wyatt asked.

“I do not.”

A silence came over the camp. Only the sound of the horses
prancing in the dry earth met Fancy’s ears.

“The woman who was taken was a blonde. Very pretty.”

“I see,” said Bull Elk.

“Her name was Francine Turner,” said Cole. “Fancy, her
family called her.”

“She came to the powwow in Fredericksburg.” Wyatt added,
“She was one who served you lemonade, Chief.”

“I remember that,” Bull Elk said.

“And you have no knowledge of what happened to her?” Cole
sounded mighty ticked.

“We know,” Wyatt added, “that your tribe has abducted our
women before.”

“Sometimes,” Cole said, “your men have skinned them alive.”

“We hope for your sake, Chief,” Wyatt sounded threatening,
“this has not happened to our Fancy.”

“We do not torture Anglo women,” her husband told him.

“Better not have done it to this woman, Chief,” Wyatt warned
in a snarl. “She was a beauty, kind and smart. Many men had in mind to make her
a wife.”

Fancy clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her sob. If
that had been so before, it was not now. She had lost her world, through no act
of her own, but she had accepted her new one. Bull Elk was a kind mate, gentle
and passionate. She had adapted. She would live and live well as a Comanche
chieftain’s wife. She caressed her stomach. Now she was a different woman, soon
to be a mother to a baby who would need her.

She stood like that for many minutes as she listened to the
men ride out of camp. Bull Elk whipped back the flap to the entrance and took
her in his arms.

His lips against her temple, he spoke quietly to her in his
own language. In her heart, she understood his relief and gratitude that she
had decided to stay with him.

With infinite tenderness, he lifted her dress and dropped it
to the floor of their tent. Pulling her near, he possessed her mouth in a
gentle kiss. His hands drifted to her swollen breasts. Plucking her nipples, he
moaned as he pressed her against him.

“My wife,” he murmured. “I will show you the stars while the
sun shines.”

Smiling at him, reveling in his delight in her, she watched
him untie his breechcloth. His cock stood ready to claim her. She stroked his
length, eager, ravenous to take him inside her. “I am yours. I have been from
the first moment you rode off with me.”

He sank to his knees, parting her pussy and savoring her
slick lips with searing licks and little love bites. “Before that, the Great
Spirit made you for me.”

Gulping in air, fighting to remain standing, she swayed as
he supported her with one arm around her thighs and fingered her cunt. “Thank
him for me.”

Her husband paused to look up at her, his eyes limpid with
love and raw desire. “I have. Now, my beloved wife, let me thank you.”

He devoured her pussy, bringing her up quickly to a full
keening joy. Weak with ecstasy, her core pulsing with delight, she dug her
nails into his shoulders. He picked her up into his arms. How she adored this
man’s ferocity. How had she been so fortunate to be captured by him, body and
soul? She had no answer for that, save to thank his Great Spirit and her own
god, both of whom had guided and protected them.

Bull Elk took two strides to place her on their cot and he
followed her down, covering her with his warm solace and scorching passion.
There, as the sun drifted toward the west and the light cast dimming shadows
over their naked bodies, Bull Elk suckled her sensitive breasts and shaped her
nipples with long slow pulls of his lips. He praised her full belly bearing his
child and bathed her in lavish strokes of his hands. He played in her female
folds with his fingers, his lips, his tongue and finally, with his magnificent
cock, he filled her with rapture. This, Fancy knew, was how a man who feared
his love may fly away took a woman to his heart and praised her for her care of
him and thanked her for her loyalty.

After that, whether it was her melancholy at the approaching
pain of childbirth or her acceptance that this child tied her to a life here,
she grew subdued. Bull Elk, sensing her change of temperament, made love to her
with an intensity that thrilled her flowering body. If now, he took her to the
heights of bliss less frequently, she was content with that. His affection, she
knew by his touch and the hunger in his gaze, never wavered. He loved her.

And if she could say the same to herself, she declared it
with joyful recognition. She was his. He was hers. And now, she belonged only
here with him and her child.

In rare moments of melancholy, she pined for her family, her
home and her Anglo way of life. Those reflections were so bittersweet that she
learned to control them and dismiss them before they eroded the joy she found
in her husband and her impending motherhood. By the time her days were numbered
until she gave birth, she had no more yearnings for the past. She lived for
today, her husband and her child.

One night when a rare snowstorm blanketed the rocky earth of
the south Texas plains, Fancy gave birth to her child. A boy, he came forth
within a few hours with a shock of midnight-black hair, a fat little body and a
bellowing cry that made his father grin.

“He is my arm, my weapon. Blade shall be his name. Thank
you, my moon, for my son.” Bull Elk kissed her on the forehead as he took the
child to have the medicine man bless the new addition to the tribe.

Willow Talks, who now spoke more English thanks to their
exchange of language lessons, smiled at Fancy and helped her recover her
strength. For the next month, Fancy did little cooking or mending. Willow Talks
brought her and Blade all they needed, including the tribal gossip.

“The Ranger MacRae and his brother still search for you,”
her sister-in-law told her one day as she brought a ration of roasted deer for
supper. “White Hawk saw him on the road to San Antonio yesterday and the Anglos
are angry that they cannot find you.”

Fancy shrugged and pulled the blanket higher over her son’s
tiny head. “This is as it must be.”

“You do not wish to return?”

Fancy stared at her, awash in a sisterly affection that far
outpaced her mixed emotions for her own blood sister Collette. “All I love are
here. You are my family now.”

Willow Talks nodded, but Fancy could see in the young
woman’s drooping mouth her understanding of what Fancy implied. “I know we do
not live as you. You have been brave to be Bull Elk’s wife. And you are wise.”

Willow Talks never discussed Fancy’s choices again. But as
the weather warmed and the sunshine of spring returned to the Hill Country,
Fancy noted that Willow Talks grew quiet, even somber.

“What bothers you, Willow Talks?”

“Bull Elk does not tell you about the Anglos’ talk in the
towns of Fredericksburg and Boerne. Your white family makes trouble. You have a
brother, don’t you?”

“I had a brother,” Fancy corrected Willow Talks, remembering
Jeremiah’s surly behavior these past few years.

“He asks the Ranger MacRae and his brother to raid our
camp.”

Jeremiah had become a hothead by following Collette’s
example. But he had always been a troublemaker as a child, lighting fires in
the barn and hurting kittens. Then, when the war started and he was too young
to join up with General Hood’s Texas Regiment with their older brother Amos, Jeremiah
had become a hothead, picking fights and boasting of his prowess with his
fists. “I pray they do not.”

“
Why
? I could not live among the Anglos.”

“My dear, I am happy here. And safe. Bull Elk has made it
so.”

Willow Talks dropped her gaze.

Fancy felt a chill up her spine. “What is wrong?”

“Many braves among us speak of you.”

How?
“What do they say?”

“That you bring bad medicine. The snow, they say it is your
fault.”

Fancy stilled. “Do they also say I brought the mild summer
months ago? That I brought the good rains that made the grasses grow high and
strong?”

Willow only stared at her.

And Fancy knew the answer to her questions. Hatred put no
bounds on silliness or meanness. “Bull Elk will protect me. I trust him.”

That was another truth.

While the winter had been very cold, the spring brought a
quick flush of flowers on the hillside, birds by the droves singing in the
trees and then the sun burned the land and dried the creeks.

The entire tribe had to move camp many times. Fancy hated
the constant travel, disliking the discomfort of her spare Comanche saddle.
Riding with Blade in her arms, she hated to trot her mustang because it jounced
Blade so much. He cried. Others in the tribe, especially the braves, urged her
along and did so in unkind tones. The men began to raid local settlers’ homes.
Some of them Fancy knew and she hated the idea that her friends suffered so
that she and her new family might have fresh water from their wells and meat
from their cattle. The raids became fiercer and a few braves did not return
home.

Once more Fancy saw the frightening displays of grief by the
Comanche. Brothers and sisters beat their chests, crying and dancing all night.
Wives cut their hair and their bodies. Two widows killed themselves before her
eyes, plunging knives into their own bodies. Fancy recalled that Knows Brown
Bear’s wife had been ordered to kill herself.