Free Comanche Moon by Virginia Brown Page B

could catch you for her.” Sobering, Sunflower said uncertainly, “You would not do that.”
    “Do you wish to test me?” She shook her head, disappointment shadowing her pretty face. “I do not think so. You look very fierce when you speak of Eka-paapi.” Hawk stared at her. Eka-paapi. Red head. It was appropriate enough, but he would not have given her a Comanche name. It was too personal. Too permanent. Irritation made his voice harsher than usual, and Sunflower backed away from him when he spoke to her.
    “Go back to my tipi and stay with her. Do not let her from your sight. It will go bad for you if she leaves here, and you could have stopped her.” Sunflower paused. “That is why you are so angry? Do you think she will leave you?”
    “This is not a matter to discuss with children,” Hawk said stiffly, and saw the hurt flare in his sister’s eyes. He said nothing to ease it. She must believe that he would be very angry with her if Deborah escaped the village.
    That would make her doubly vigilant.
    Hawk watched as Sunflower stomped toward his tipi. It was set slightly apart from the others, and those in the village had come to accept his strangeness. He did not stay with his father, sister, and the old mother of his father’s late wife, but had always kept his own lodge. He liked his privacy, liked being alone. Since Deborah had come to the camp, however, he’d spent his nights in his father’s lodge, or outside on a robe beneath the stars.
    If he went into his own lodge to sleep, he would not be able to resist pulling her beneath his robes, and he had to prove to himself that he could stay away from her. A faint, wry smile slanted his mouth. It had come to this, then, that he would allow a woman to dictate his habits. And she didn’t even try. In fact, she would be astonished if she had any idea that her presence disturbed him to the extent that he avoided her.
    A hard knot coiled in his belly, and Hawk fought a surge of anger at himself and the woman who governed his actions without knowing it. She was a sickness, and he would ease himself on another. That would blunt the edge of his need, and put him in control again. Yes. That is what he would do.
    There were women in camp who found him favorable.

    Sunflower thrust a basket at Deborah. “Kima.” By now, Deborah knew that meant to come. She nodded, and slid her feet into the soft deerhide moccasins she’d been given. Hawk had brought them to her, shoving them into her hands without a word, his face set and hard. Only Sunflower’s muffled giggle had alerted her to the fact that his thoughtfulness meant more than just protecting her feet. It was thought-provoking.
    “Panatsayaa,” Sunflower said when Deborah rose to her feet and took the empty basket.
    Blackberries. Or raspberries. Deborah grew confused at the similarity of names. She assumed it would be blackberries they were to pick. And she was never certain when one of her attempts to mimic Sunflower’s Comanche language would send the girl into peals of laughter. Sometimes, she was able to understand what she’d said wrong—as in wura for “thank you” when it really meant mountain lion. It would be easy to get into real trouble in a conversation, she could see that.
    The sun beat down fiercely, and Deborah wondered with a sigh why Sunflower had chosen such a hot morning to search for berries. Late afternoon would have been better. It was cooler then. Insects buzzed annoyingly close, and she was grateful for the cool clothes she wore. If she’d still been clad in petticoats, drawers, chemise, and high-necked dress, she would have fainted from the heat. There were some things that the women she’d known could benefit from, and that was the comparative freedom of dress the Comanche women enjoyed.
    But Deborah’s simple skirt, blouse, and moccasins kept her much cooler, and allowed her to walk through the high grasses. The blackberry bushes ranged along a crest overlooking the camp. To