Wild Is My Heart (25 page)

“But you have a brother, Fawn, a true brother. I must tell Colt, he’ll be overjoyed to find his little sister after all these years.”

“No.” The girl shook her head emphatically. “It will serve no earthly purpose. By now Steve, or Colt as you call him, has all but forgotten his sister Laura. She ceased to exist years ago. He always hated Indians. He will despise what I have become. Besides, if he values his freedom as highly as you say, I will only complicate his life.

“You misjudge Colt, Fawn … Laura,” Sam corrected, preferring to use her American name. “From the beginning I sensed a restlessness in Colt, as if he had been searching for something to make his life complete. I think finding you is just what he needs.”

Laura shook her head, objecting vigorously. “No! I owe my life to my adopted father. I will marry Long Bow as Black Bear wishes and become a proper Comanche wife. I know nothing of the white man’s world. My life is with the Comanche. Please, Violet Eyes, promise you won’t tell my brother.”

“Don’t ask that of me, Laura.”

Laura shrugged. “You will have no chance to speak with my brother before his confrontation with Brave Eagle. If he still lives after tomorrow, I will simply express my desire to remain with my adopted family. My father will respect my wishes.”

When Sam tried to persuade her to reconsider, Laura turned a deaf ear, leaving the lodge and the subject behind.

Overwhelmed, Sam slid to her knees, wondering how it would affect Colt when he learned his sister was alive but wanted nothing to do with him or her former life. Sadly, Laura had become thoroughly Indian. Suddenly a devastating thought assailed her. How would Colt react when he learned that she, Sam, was half Comanche? Knowing his hatred for the Indian race, it took little imagination for Sam to realize he would despise her for something she had no control over.

From that terrifying thought her mind skipped to the confrontation tomorrow between Colt and Brave Eagle. Equally matched, both men possessed bravery and cunning, both were superbly conditioned and mentally and physically fit. Sam found it impossible to predict the outcome, nor did she wish to contemplate what would happen to Colt if Brave Eagle became the victor. Life without Colt seemed bleak and dismal. The thought of another man touching her intimately was repugnant to her. If she couldn’t have Colt, opinionated and arrogant though he might be, she wanted no one.

Chapter Twelve

E
nsconced in Spirit Dancer’s lodge, Colt was provided with a substantial meal and told to eat hearty, for no food would be forthcoming the next day until the winner partook of the feast prepared in his honor. Then he bedded down while the old shaman sat cross-legged beside him, seemingly in a trance. Sleep skittered around Colt but did not claim him, though he desperately needed to restore his strength and stamina.

Colt did not fear the fierce warrior, but he did respect his formidable strength. Defeating Brave Eagle would not be easy, and it was a battle he could not afford to lose. He already had lost one loved one to the savages and wouldn’t give up another. The thought of losing Sam to that redskin made him break out in cold sweat. And his own survival rested on his ability to outwit the proud Comanche.

In Colt’s rather tarnished estimation, Indians were the world’s worst abomination. Nothing could persuade him to take an Indian woman to his bed. He hated to think of Sam being forced to share that savage’s mat. On that note he fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams fraught with visions of Sam. Making love beside the stream, in her bed, in his room above the Palace. In her arms he had found something that had been missing from his life. A love to compensate for the pain of losing Laura. Was his life to end before those tender feelings could be thoroughly explored?

Dressed simply in breechclout and moccasins, Colt stepped outside Spirit Dancer’s lodge. The old man pointed him toward an open area in the center of the camp where the entire population of the village had gathered in avid anticipation of the fight. The sun was directly overhead, its white-hot glare heating the trodden earth beneath Colt’s feet. By the time he reached the designated area, beads of sweat dampened the ropy muscles of arms and torso, turning his bronzed skin slick and shiny. He might have been mistaken for Comanche were it not for his shock of wheat-colored hair and tawny eyes.

Brave Eagle awaited him in the center of a large circle formed by excited spectators acting like children about to be given their favorite treat. He was similarly clad in breechclout and moccasins. Impressive, powerful, lean, Brave Eagle’s impassive features wore an inscrutable mask. Both men resembled well-oiled fighting machines; both determined to win, neither willing to abandon Sam to the other.

Black Bear approached. From the corner of his eye Colt saw Sam standing with an Indian maiden at the edge of the crowd. Then the chief began to speak, and Colt had to satisfy himself with a brief glimpse of Sam’s worried face.

“The rules are simple,” Black Bear intoned. “You will each be armed with a knife. You may also use any part of the body to defend yourselves. If one is disarmed by the other, the weapon cannot be replaced by a spectator though it may be retrieved by a combatant. Upon the death of one, the other will be declared winner and claim the reward. Are you ready, my son?”

Colt did not miss the pride in the chief’s voice or the look of confidence bestowed upon the young warrior. When Brave Eagle nodded eagerly, Black Bear turned to Colt, his dark eyes hooded. “Are you prepared, Lion Heart?”

“Ready,” Colt said, his voice taut.

Each man was handed a Bowie knife, a weapon thoroughly familiar to Colt, who gripped it firmly with one hand and saluted cockily with the other, a mocking grin on his mouth. The circle around them widened, allowing ample space for the combatants though little leeway for intricate maneuvering. It took skill and concentration to fight in such a manner, and no one was more aware of it than Colt.

Colt circled Brave Eagle warily, feeling, testing, taking full measure of the Comanche’s strengths and weaknesses. Both men moved cautiously, each deliberately postponing the initial moment of contact yet knowing it was unavoidable. Brave Eagle looked awesome and dangerous stripped down to breechclout, his muscles rippling under a fine sheen of sweat. His stoic features revealed nothing of his thoughts or the turmoil churning his guts. Colt was equally imposing, his face harsh with the need to win.

Of the two, Colt was taller by an inch or two, but their bodies were similar in size and strength. When Brave Eagle launched the attack with a sudden slashing motion, Colt anticipated the move, easily deflecting the blow. Since the sun was directly overhead, neither had the advantage over the other when it came to avoiding the blinding glare, and Colt began to appreciate Black Bear’s sense of fairness by arranging the match at high noon. Then Brave Eagle crouched low, but once again Colt was ready, warding off the attack with a counterthrust of his own.

Deflecting Brave Eagle’s attempt to emasculate him, Colt danced around the brave, confusing him, then lashed out with a speed born of desperation. Colt drew first blood with the tip of his Bowie, a superficial cut that caused Brave Eagle little concern. The Comanche retaliated by viciously kicking out at Colt with a moccasined foot, catching him in the groin. Though Colt turned aside at the last minute, avoiding the brunt of the blow, it nevertheless brought a grunt of pain from his lips. He recovered before Brave Eagle could move in for the kill, but not fast enough to entirely avoid the flashing knife. A jagged line of red appeared across Colt’s chest—not deep but bleeding freely. From somewhere behind him Colt heard a stifled scream. Sam?

Eyeing Colt’s wound with a measure of satisfaction, Brave Eagle made the mistake of pressing closer, wielding his knife in a wide arc aimed directly at Colt’s heart. Naturally ambidextrous, Colt slapped his blade into his left hand and blocked with the right, at the same time nicking Brave Eagle’s right thigh. By now both men were covered in sweat mixed with blood, and Colt swiped at his eyes with a forearm in order to clear his vision.

Suddenly Colt found himself on the ground, pinioned by the Comanche’s considerable weight, a brawny arm pressing against his throat For long suspenseful minutes they grappled in the dirt as Colt grasped Brave Eagle’s wrist, suspending the knife just inches from his face. Exerting all the strength he could muster, Colt slowly turned the advantage in his favor as he reversed their position, straddling the Comanche’s hips while his legs thrashed wildly in an attempt to dislodge Colt’s bulk. Not really knowing how it all came about, both men were on their feet again, circling, feinting, retreating. Colt’s face wore a grim smile—more like a snarl with teeth bared and lips a taut slash across his face. Brave Eagle’s expression was equally intense, his features carved in stone, eyes cold as death.

Brave Eagle attempted another well-aimed kick, but this time failed to connect. Once again the knife slid into Colt’s left hand as he delivered a hook to the Comanche’s chin that left him shaken. Though he was trained in wrestling and adept at fighting with his feet, fisticuffs were relatively unknown to Brave Eagle. Sensing his confusion, Colt carried through with another righthanded blow, quickly followed by a third. A low murmur rippled through the crowd, which was clearly displeased by Colt’s unorthodox tactics.

Colt could feel the strain, his muscles screaming in protest at each violent jolt, each precise movement. His body was on fire, his heart pumping at a furious pace, every motion an agony of pain. Despite their herculean efforts, neither of them appeared to be gaining an advantage over the other. Suddenly it occurred to Colt that the only way to defeat this apparently indefatigable savage was by cunning and a whole lot of luck.

Though it tore Sam apart to watch the terrible punishment the men inflicted upon one another, she was unable to turn away. Each time Colt sustained an injury, no matter how minor, she flinched and clung tightly to Fawn’s hand. It seemed impossible that one man could win when they were obviously so evenly matched. She inhaled sharply when Colt and Brave Eagle grappled in the dirt, pummeling each other furiously, neither willing to give an inch. Brave Eagle used his feet to advantage, but Colt’s fists proved just as lethal.

Drained by the relentless sun and battered by Brave Eagle, Colt grew desperate, and out of that desperation an idea was born. If it worked, it could mean the difference between death and walking out alive with Sam. If it failed, in all likelihood he and Brave Eagle would kill each other, or else still be fighting when the moon came up.

Warily the men circled, Colt carefully observant as he maneuvered Brave Eagle into a position favorable for his purpose. A little good luck wouldn’t hurt either. Brave Eagle thought nothing of Colt flashing the blade over his head and from hand to hand. He assumed that the White Eyes was merely trying to impress him with his prowess—until he discovered that the blade was catching and reflecting the glare of the sun directly into his eyes. He cursed himself for failing to recognize the man’s cunning and fought to overcome the disadvantage. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t escape the debilitating blindness that stalked him at every turn.

When Brave Eagle ducked, the sun followed. His eyes burned, not only from sun blindness but from sweat and blood. Instinctively, he blinked, and in that brief instant Colt reacted. He leaped at Brave Eagle, sending the knife flying from the Indian’s hand. It lay at the fringe of the circle and according to rules must remain there until Brave Eagle retrieved it. The chief’s orders had been explicit. Before strength returned to the Comanche’s limbs and breath to his lungs, he was forced to the ground by the sheer weight of Colt’s surprise attack. So quickly that no one actually saw the movement, Colt’s knife pressed against Brave Eagle’s throat, only one swift stroke away from death.

There was no fear in Brave Eagle’s eyes, for fear was unknown to a Comanche warrior. He could laugh in the face of pain and scorn death, for it was but an adventure into another world. The pressure increased, and Brave Eagle sought his father’s eyes. He saw fierce pride in their black depths—a hint of regret and overwhelming sadness. Colt followed the direction of Brave Eagle’s gaze and realized that father and son were silently communicating their love and bidding one another good-bye.

“Colt, please, don’t kill him!” Over the stunned silence of the crowd, Sam’s voice soared out to stay Colt’s hand.

It was fully within Colt’s right to end Brave Eagle’s life—expected, actually. The warrior wouldn’t have hesitated to deliver the fatal blow were the circumstances reversed. Yet Sam’s plea stopped him, even though he hated the Comanches enough to kill each one single-handedly.

Why did Sam plead for Brave Eagle’s life? Colt wondered angrily. Did she harbor tender feelings for the savage? Jealousy jolted through him as the knife bit deeper into Brave Eagle’s throat. The Comanche’s black eyes did not waver from Colt’s face. But for some unexplained reason Colt postponed the fatal slash. Maybe it was Sam’s plea that stopped him, but he didn’t think so. Some sixth sense told him that one day Black Bear might prove useful to him, that sparing his son’s life would cost him little and gain him much.

Undaunted, Brave Eagle watched the play of emotion across Colt’s face. His lip curled derisively. “Kill me, Lion Heart. Were I in your place I would not hesitate. My intuition tells me you have killed many times in the past”

“Many times,” Colt concurred, his own breath harsh with fatigue. “And I’ll kill again, but not today.”