Ma.
Ma. Ma. Ma. Mama.
The word rubbed at her like an ill-cured moccasin. Irritated until deep inside, where her spirit dwelled, she felt raw. She knew not why but was not able to think about it for long. The man pushed back the chair and stood. He was looking down at her now.
“Youwashthedishestonight,” Joe said.
“Shedoesntunderstand, Joe.” Hattee-Hattee started to rise. She reached for her dish full of food.
“Gotobedma.”
“But…”
Eyes-of-the-Sky watched the exchange with interest. Joe would not let Hattee-Hattee pick up the things and wash them as usual, though there was water boiling on the big metal stove.
The woman’s skin was pale and yet her cheeks were bright red. Her eyes were exceptionally bright, too, though her lids were drooping.
Eyes-of-the-Sky knew the signs. The woman was not hungry. She kept rubbing her stomach. Hattee-Hattee had the burning sickness and soon she would be too ill to do more than sleep.
When Hattee-Hattee walked out of the room without looking back, Eyes-of-the-Sky began to worry for her own safety. If Hattee-Hattee died, then she would surely become Joe’s slave, and from what she had learned of him so far, there was no kindness in the man. There was none of Hattee-Hattee’s gentleness at all.
Surely he would beat her. Maybe even blame her for the woman’s illness.
“Deborah.”
He was standing across from her now. She lifted her face and stared squarely into his eyes.
“Washthedishes.”
She understood dishes. He pointed to the empty container across the room and then to the boiling water on the stove.
“Wash—” He started to repeat himself, but before he said any more, she jumped to her feet and started gathering up the remains of the meal. Back and forth, she carried things over to the metal container, scraped the scraps onto a pile for the pigs as she’d seen Hattee-Hattee do. Then she began to pile the things into the empty tub. As soon as she wrapped a piece of cloth around the kettle of hot water and started back to the container with it, she heard him clear his throat.
She turned around.
He nodded, said one word. “Good.”
Then he walked out, following the path Hattee-Hattee had taken into the larger dwelling.
She did as the woman had done every evening, rubbed the dishes and eating implements clean. White men made much work for themselves, as if there wasn’t enough already. Not only did they prepare and cook their food, but they spent precious time washing everything.
Why not just eat out of the pots with their hands?
Then she carried the heavy container to the door, across the porch, and tossed the water over the side. She heard Joe’s voice in her head. Good.
Hattee-Hattee often spoke the word. Good job. Good girl. Good Book. Good.
She did as Joe commanded and he said, “Good.”
He was pleased.
For the first time since the raid, she felt lighter inside.
When she reached the main dwelling, the lamp was lit in the big room, but neither the woman nor Joe was there. She heard him speaking softly to Hattee-Hattee in the woman’s sleeping place but couldn’t make out their words, just the hushed sound of their voices.
It was the first time she’d ever been alone in this part of the dwelling without one of them watching her. She walked over to the flame inside the glass, the lamp, and held her hand above the opening, felt the heat. She had seen them turn the small golden wheel on a stick around, saw how the movement made the flame grow and shrink.
She glanced over her shoulder and listened.
Then she reached out, touched the end of the little wheel and turned it slowly. When the flame captured in the glass grew taller, the room became brighter.
Quickly she turned the wheel the opposite way and the flame shrank down and the shadows expanded in the corners of the room.
She clasped her hands behind her and continued to walk around the room, exploring, learning without having to be watched like a curious child. She fingered the cloth hanging from the round table near Hattee-Hattee’s moving chair. Then she placed her hand on the back of the chair and gave it a slight push.
It started to rock back and forth. She pushed it again.
It continued to rock. She waited until it was still again and then, taking a deep breath, she turned her back to it, grabbed the sides the way Hattee-Hattee did, and sat down. Hard.
The chair flew back so far that she gasped. She clutched the sides of the chair and when it settled down without bucking her off, when her feet were safely on the ground again, she bit back a smile.
Then she lifted her heels, pressed her toes against the floor and shoved. The chair flew back again, this time so far that a sharp cry escaped her. For a moment she seemed suspended in air and knew that she was about to go over completely backward.
Instinct made her rock her head and shoulders forward to protect herself from the crash. The chair obeyed, followed her movement, and settled back into place. It was not unlike taming a wild pony, she decided. And almost as thrilling.
Feeling quite proud of herself, she was about to make the chair rock again when she realized Joe was at the far end of the room, watching her.
His face was in the shadows and, though she couldn’t see his expression, she knew he would be angry. She braced herself for his wrath and slowly stood, careful to hang on to the chair so that it wouldn’t buck her off.
She waited, frozen in front of the rocking chair.
He took a step into the room and she knew the moment he remembered the rifle. His gaze shot to the entrance of dwelling, to the place where he always left the rifle when he came inside. She knew he took it to bed with him. Knew he would not hesitate to use it if she gave him cause.
His eyes shifted back to hers. No words were needed for her to know that he was upset that he’d left her alone with the weapon.
That he’d dropped his guard.
And what of her? What kind of a Comanche was she that she hadn’t thought to use it to destroy her enemies?
Her stomach lurched. She’d been here fewer nights than all the fingers on both hands.
When had she stopped thinking of these people as her enemies? When had the idea of escape slipped to the back of her mind?
Even now, she was closer to the rifle than he. In two steps it could be in her hands.
Silence lengthened between them. She reminded herself to breathe. Could he hear the frantic beating of her heart?
He did not move, but watched, tensed and waiting for her to move first.
The silence stretched between them.
He might be across the room, but still he towered over her. Tall as the man who was to have been her husband. Broad and strong. She might be able to grab the rifle, but she would need time to raise it to her shoulder, to aim and fire.
He’d be on her by then, be able to throw her to the ground.
And then what? He would beat her. Kill her. Or worse.
Their fragile truce would end if Hattee-Hattee were to die.
“Hattee-Hattee?” she whispered.
As soft as they were, her words filled the room. He did not laugh at her speech this time.
“In