Comanche Moon by Virginia Brown

a gleaming fall that hid his face, and when he straightened, she flushed at the look he gave her. A faint half-smile touched the corners of his hard mouth.
    “Sua yurahpitu.” He said the words slowly, distinctly, as if to reassure her, and for some reason, Deborah’s fears began to fade. Maybe he wouldn’t harm her now. She wasn’t certain why he’d stopped, but gratitude made her nod slowly in reply to the questioning look he gave her.
    He bent, grasped a blanket from the neat stack at one side, and flung it over her. She grabbed it gratefully. He tied the strip of cloth around his waist again, picked up his knife, and left.
    Deborah stared after him. Her body ached from their struggle and his brief invasion of her, but she knew that there was much he could have done.
    Had wanted to do. Why had he stopped?

    Hawk wondered that himself. Why had he stopped? Because she was stil untouched there, still a virgin? He’d been too startled to react at first. Spotted Pony was obviously wrong about what he’d seen. That didn’t surprise him. In the chaos of a raid, many things could be misinterpreted. But she had said her husband was dead, and he knew that Deborah Hamilton was not the kind of woman to lie without reason. Perhaps she’d thought he would not hurt her if she could gain his sympathy, but that idea was as farfetched as the notion that she could be a married virgin.
    He didn’t understand it.
    And more—he didn’t understand why it had made a difference to him.
    Maybe he wasn’t as callous as he thought. Maybe there was a part of him that remembered the early lessons his mother had taught him long ago. Oh, so long ago. Too long to remember, he’d thought until today.
    Twelve years. Twelve years of riding, looking, running, and riding again.
    The only respite had been here, in the camp of his father, where he’d gained some acceptance at last. It had meant putting his white blood behind him, forgetting what he’d done and who he’d been, but he’d managed to do it. Not many in the camp had been inclined to challenge White Eagle’s son to prove himself, though there had been those warriors who had tested his strength.
    Tested his prowess as a man and the son of the chief. So far, he’d managed to prove himself.
    Yet even here, lost in the cool mountains of New Mexico, where no white man could find their camp, Hawk often questioned his own motives.
    Why was he here? He had another life in the white man’s world, one that had earned him a certain notoriety. But it had not eased that restless yearning inside him, that need for something that he couldn’t even name. Here, at least, he was not constantly badgered with choices.
    Until now.
    Until this one woman had come into his life and presented him with an unexpected choice.
    Hawk walked upstream, stripped, and went for a swim in the icy waters of the stream.

    “If you want her, my tua, take her.” White Eagle looked at his only son with a trace of amusement glittering in his dark eyes. “A man should not deny himself the comfort of a woman’s company. Especially that of a captive.”
    “If she were—” Hawk stopped and looked away.
    “If she were not white?” His father laughed softly. “You have strange requirements, Tosa Nakaai.” Hawk flinched. His father had used his name, a very personal, private thing to do. No Comanche would presume to use his name thusly, so White Eagle must be trying to make a point of the differences between their cultures. He looked away when his father spoke again.
    “Would you feel better if she were wia?” Hawk’s mouth tightened. The Mexican-Comanche women were available to all, unless taken to wife. No, his father knew very well that he would not feel better if Deborah were one of those women.
    “Kee!” he spat, and White Eagle shrugged.
    “Then take her. Make yourself feel better. It is only because of your past that you do not do so. If she were wia you would have already taken her.” He looked off