She knelt down and put it in Deborah’s hands. Her dark, liquid gaze would not meet Deborah’s as she communicated her wishes. Deborah understood that she was to sew a dress.
The material was soft and pliable, and she threaded a long needle and began working it through the material, punching holes with swift, certain movements. The stitches were small, the seams neat. She’d been taught well in her childhood, but she’d never dreamed those lessons would one day be performed in a Comanche camp. Sunflower had admired her earlier handiwork and been quick to produce a paper full of silvery needles.
Most of Deborah’s days the past week had been spent in sewing, though occasionally Sunflower brought out a game played with sticks and a blanket.
The object, Deborah had learned, was to be the first one to move her awl—a sharp, pointed instrument used in piercing thick animal hides—all the way around the blanket. Positions were marked, and sticks were tossed to determine the number of points given. It had taken Deborah nearly three days just to understand the rules, and her dismal showing at the game had elicited much laughter from the other players.
Though the days were not as harsh as they could be, it was the nights that tormented her. Frequently, she caught a glimpse of Hawk nearby. He made no overt effort to avoid her, nor did he seek her out. Yet she knew that he had not forgotten her. He was only waiting.
That night, Deborah sat outside Hawk’s lodge with Sunflower. Insects stung her skin, and she slapped at them idly as she watched the men gather in the middle of the camp. There was something going on. Men laughed and talked, and an air of excitement pervaded the entire village.
Hawk stood to one side, his face impassive in the flickering firelight, his features as cold as if carved from stone. Her heart lurched. He was so handsome, and she wondered if she had truly lost her mind as Judith seemed to think. How could she have come to care for a Comanche? A man so far removed from everything in her normal sphere that it was ludicrous to even think of him in any way but as an enemy? Yet she did.
Impossible, of course. He would never fit into her world, and she did not want to fit into his. Though she was truly fond of Sunflower and felt a bewildering lure to Hawk, she knew she could never be content away from everything familiar.
In the past week, the need to flee had grown so strong as to be almost overpowering. Every glance Hawk gave her, every smoldering stare that scorched her soul and left her aching, made her aware that he would not wait much longer. Soon, he would take her. The brief, heated touch of his eyes on her only marked the passing of time.
Beyond the bright fire-glow and leaping shadows, Deborah could see her cousin’s bright head. She stood with some of the other captives, idly for once, watching the activity of the camp. Deborah wished she understood more of their language than she did. Then, perhaps she would understand the reason behind the increased activity.
Weapons were brandished, and horses snorted and pranced nervously, tossing manes and heads and stirring up clouds of dust. The men seemed eager, and Deborah caught a few words that she could understand.
“Kwuhupu. Nabitukuru. Sikusaru. The random words were enough to make her shudder. Captives. War. Steal. It was evident that the Comanche intended to make another raid on unsuspecting victims. And there was nothing she could do.
Distressed, she rose to her feet, and Sunflower looked up at her with a troubled expression. “Ni?yusukaitu?” the girl murmured, and Deborah stared at her blankly. She stood, too, her round, pretty face concerned. As if at a loss, Sunflower put a comforting hand on Deborah’s arm and murmured something she couldn’t hear.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Deborah said. “I don’t understand.” She gave a shrug of her shoulders to explain, then looked past Sunflower to the men again.
Someone had begun to
The material was soft and pliable, and she threaded a long needle and began working it through the material, punching holes with swift, certain movements. The stitches were small, the seams neat. She’d been taught well in her childhood, but she’d never dreamed those lessons would one day be performed in a Comanche camp. Sunflower had admired her earlier handiwork and been quick to produce a paper full of silvery needles.
Most of Deborah’s days the past week had been spent in sewing, though occasionally Sunflower brought out a game played with sticks and a blanket.
The object, Deborah had learned, was to be the first one to move her awl—a sharp, pointed instrument used in piercing thick animal hides—all the way around the blanket. Positions were marked, and sticks were tossed to determine the number of points given. It had taken Deborah nearly three days just to understand the rules, and her dismal showing at the game had elicited much laughter from the other players.
Though the days were not as harsh as they could be, it was the nights that tormented her. Frequently, she caught a glimpse of Hawk nearby. He made no overt effort to avoid her, nor did he seek her out. Yet she knew that he had not forgotten her. He was only waiting.
That night, Deborah sat outside Hawk’s lodge with Sunflower. Insects stung her skin, and she slapped at them idly as she watched the men gather in the middle of the camp. There was something going on. Men laughed and talked, and an air of excitement pervaded the entire village.
Hawk stood to one side, his face impassive in the flickering firelight, his features as cold as if carved from stone. Her heart lurched. He was so handsome, and she wondered if she had truly lost her mind as Judith seemed to think. How could she have come to care for a Comanche? A man so far removed from everything in her normal sphere that it was ludicrous to even think of him in any way but as an enemy? Yet she did.
Impossible, of course. He would never fit into her world, and she did not want to fit into his. Though she was truly fond of Sunflower and felt a bewildering lure to Hawk, she knew she could never be content away from everything familiar.
In the past week, the need to flee had grown so strong as to be almost overpowering. Every glance Hawk gave her, every smoldering stare that scorched her soul and left her aching, made her aware that he would not wait much longer. Soon, he would take her. The brief, heated touch of his eyes on her only marked the passing of time.
Beyond the bright fire-glow and leaping shadows, Deborah could see her cousin’s bright head. She stood with some of the other captives, idly for once, watching the activity of the camp. Deborah wished she understood more of their language than she did. Then, perhaps she would understand the reason behind the increased activity.
Weapons were brandished, and horses snorted and pranced nervously, tossing manes and heads and stirring up clouds of dust. The men seemed eager, and Deborah caught a few words that she could understand.
“Kwuhupu. Nabitukuru. Sikusaru. The random words were enough to make her shudder. Captives. War. Steal. It was evident that the Comanche intended to make another raid on unsuspecting victims. And there was nothing she could do.
Distressed, she rose to her feet, and Sunflower looked up at her with a troubled expression. “Ni?yusukaitu?” the girl murmured, and Deborah stared at her blankly. She stood, too, her round, pretty face concerned. As if at a loss, Sunflower put a comforting hand on Deborah’s arm and murmured something she couldn’t hear.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Deborah said. “I don’t understand.” She gave a shrug of her shoulders to explain, then looked past Sunflower to the men again.
Someone had begun to
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