Jill Landis - Homecoming

Despite the fact that she’d been exposed to the sun and was no stranger to work, her small hands were feminine. As he held them gently and slowly wrapped them in strips of cloth, he found it wiser to think about the thick braids draped over her shoulders than the warmth of her flesh against his.

Though he had dispensed with the chore as quickly as possible, by the time he went to see to Hattie, half the day was gone.

A sensation of helplessness assailed him as he watched his mother shiver uncontrollably.

“Deborah?” Hattie asked after the girl through chattering teeth.

“She’s right here, Ma.”

He motioned Deborah forward and noticed she kept her bandaged hands behind her back. While the girl stepped up beside the bed, he hurried down the short hallway to his own room, ripped the top quilt off his bed and carried it back to drape over his mother.

Deborah was leaning over Hattie with her hand pressed to his mother’s forehead.

“She’s…opened her blisters? They were almost healed.” Hattie’s eyes were closed but she’d felt the rag bandages.

“I rewrapped ’em.”

“I see.”

Had his mother just smiled? He wondered if the fever was making her delirious.

“You want anything to eat?” he asked her. “I can make you some broth.” He glanced at the empty teacup on the spindle-legged table beside the bed. “How ’bout some more chamomile tea?”

Hattie bit her lips together and shook her head no.

“Just leave me be. I’ll be fine once this passes.”

He knew what to do for wounded stock. Knew how to mend fences and ride herd. He could add a room to the cabin, plow up her garden plot, even cook up a meal of beans and corn bread.

Right now, though, he was at a loss.

“I’ll be fine, Joe. Just let me sleep.”

With a sigh, he gave up. He was halfway out the back door and headed for the corral when he realized he’d forgotten all about the girl. He made a quick about-face and realized, too late, that she was still dogging his heels.

He ran smack into her, nearly knocking her to the floor. As she reeled backward, he lunged and managed to grab hold of her with both hands before she fell. Momentum drove her hands straight into his diaphragm and she knocked the air out of him.

Unable to let go, he gasped like a fish out of water but came up short for a couple of seconds. Deborah reared back and wriggled out of his hold. When he finally recovered, he noticed she was watching him with a new wariness in her eyes.

“It’s all right,” he told her, trying to allay the fear he saw on her face, even as he wondered why assuring her suddenly mattered. He was turned around, headed for the barn again when there was another tug on his sleeve.

“What?”

Mute, she silently stared up at him. He waited.

“Hattee-Hattee,” she said softly.

“It’s Hattie. Just Hattie. Not Hattee-Hattee.”

She nodded. “Hattee-Hattee.”

“She’s sick.” He mimed shivering, then puking.

The girl looked at him as if he suddenly had mind sickness himself. Finally, understanding dawned and she nodded. “Sick.”

He started toward the corral again. She tugged on his sleeve.

“What?”

She tapped her bodice where her heart was, just the way Hattie did when she taught the girl her name.

“I heelp.”

“No. You’re Deborah.”

“Deborah heelp.”

“You what?”

“Heelp.” She tried again. “Help.”

Then she pointed toward the open rangeland. “Go. Help.”

He lifted his hat, raked his fingers through his hair in exasperation, certain she’d like nothing better than to leave.

He was just as certain that he’d like her gone. For a moment when he’d been tending to her hands he’d realized she was too close for comfort. Caring for her, touching her, he’d almost forgotten that she was the enemy.

It was plain to see how the girl had wormed her way into his mother’s heart this past week. She’d gained Hattie’s trust by obeying, by playing the innocent.

No female captive could have lived with the Comanche even for one night and remained innocent.

He decided then and there that if he wasn’t careful, if he let down his guard, that this unexpected physical attraction to her might blossom into something far more dangerous.

“Help Hattie,” she said.

She didn’t look like she would budge until he responded.

“She needs to sleep.” He folded his hands beneath his cheek and closed his eyes as if sleeping.

Deborah shook her head. She opened her mouth, pointed to her tongue, then pointed to the open prairie again.

“Help.” She frowned, folded her lips together, then tried again. “Get. Go. Help.”

“You want me to go for help? I just bet you do.” He slapped his hat against his thigh. “I’ve got work to do.”

She pointed to his shirtfront and said, “Work.”

Then she pointed to herself again. “Go. Help.” Then she folded her arms, rooted to the spot. Worthless had planted himself at her feet and was staring at the girl as if she hung the moon.

Joe cast his eyes skyward. “I don’t need this at all.”

When he looked at the girl again, she was impatiently tapping her bare foot in the dirt.

Eyes-of-the-Sky knew exactly what Hattee-Hattee needed. The fever weed was plentiful, especially this time of year, but how was she ever going to make the stubborn white man understand that she wanted to go and hunt some down, gather and brew it in hot water so that the plant could work its magic on Hattee-Hattee?

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