But she had no idea how to ask after the woman, no words to aid in finding out if Hattee-Hattee was ill or simply weary.
Was a white woman allowed to sleep before her work was through simply because she grew weary? If so, Eyes-of-the-Sky could not comprehend such a thing.
Hattee-Hattee’s Good Book sat on the table beside the rocking chair. Eyes-of-the-Sky turned slightly, touched it, then looked to Joe.
He shook his head and then rubbed his hand across his jaw before he said, “Nottonight.”
He spoke too quickly and confused her, but she recognized the head shake, a sign for no, and understood that Hattee-Hattee would not be holding the Good Book and speaking in her singsong voice tonight.
The disappointment she experienced surprised Eyes-of-the-Sky. The words the woman spoke over the Good Book were incomprehensible, and yet, whenever Hattee-Hattee held the Good Book on her lap and looked down at the marks upon it, a calmness came over Eyes-of-the-Sky and she knew she would be able to face another day of imprisonment with these strangers.
“I’ll be all right. Don’t worry, Joe.”
It was nearly midday on the next morrow. The sun beat down on the plain, drying out the sodden land.
“I know you will, Ma.” As he said the words he wanted to believe they were true, and yet Joe knew well enough how fragile life was here on the Texas plain.
His mother was feverish, lying on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest beneath the heavy wool quilt she used as a winter spread. There was nothing left in her stomach, but now and again, spasms still racked her body. She’d been dry heaving into the bucket he’d left beside her bed when he walked in.
Deborah hovered behind him. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her presence. He’d kept her nearby all morning long.
Afraid to leave her in the house with his mother so ill, he’d made the girl work beside him the way Hattie had done all week.
Earlier, when he set up the milking stool beside the cow and motioned for her to do Hattie’s usual morning task, she did so without hesitation. And she did as expert a job as his mother.
He thought of having her weed the garden while he worked in the barn, but didn’t want her wandering around alone with access to the horses. So he showed her how to muck out the stalls and she worked alongside him.
Her face remained expressionless as she mastered the heavy shovel and then spread fresh hay with a pitchfork.
It wasn’t until he looked over his shoulder and saw her wince that he remembered how she’d burned her palms earlier in the week.
He cursed himself even as he took away the pitchfork. Setting it aside, he turned his palms up, then signed for her to do the same. In the square of light streaming in from the small window over the stall, she looked young and vulnerable, but there was no fear in her eyes.
The shadowed confines of the barn seemed to shrink around them as he stared down into her unfathomable, sky-blue eyes. His heart stuttered and then found its rhythm again.
Thankfully, her lashes lowered as she looked down, cutting off the startling connection between them. She rotated her hands until they were palms up and he noticed that she’d reopened two blisters, one on each palm.
Hattie was not going to be pleased.
He motioned for her to follow him and led her out of the barn. Back in the house, he heated water and made her wash her hands with strong soap while he went after Hattie’s rag bag and bottle of linseed oil.
He had her sit on the edge of the settee. Although he’d tended many wounds—those of hired cowhands, Hattie’s, his own—he hesitated before taking Deborah’s hands in his.
He chose the softest rag to apply some of the oil to the palm of her hand. At first she flinched, but he held tight to her hand and she gradually relaxed as he spread the oil lightly over her palm. Even kneeling before her, he was still taller. He stared at the part in her hair.
With Hattie down, the girl had combed and braided her hair in the Comanche way—parted down the middle. She’d wrapped the ends with white twine.
He reckoned Comanche women were not unlike their white counterparts when it came to gewgaws. Even the precious Comanche clothing she’d tried to save had been adorned with fringe, shells and colorful beadwork.
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