Tykota's Woman (Historical Romance) by Constance O'Banyon

sir."
    "You may be a lady, Mrs. Hillyard, but if I
were a gentleman, we'd both be dead back at
Adobe Springs," he reminded her. "You might
want to think about that."
    Insufferable man, she thought heatedly,
wishing he'd fall off a cliff.

     

The heat was so intense that Makinna could
actually see waves rising from the desert floor.
She tried not to think of the lush greenery of
New Orleans or the coolness of the evenings
when she had sat on the porch with her mother.
At the moment, she wished for a downpour,
anything but this infernal heat. She was glad now
of the mud on her face; otherwise, she'd be in
anguish.
    "We will stop here until the cool of the
evening," Tykota told her.
    An overhanging cliff created a narrow
stretch of shade, and Makinna sought refuge
there. But she found no relief from the heat
that burned through her clothing when she
leaned back against the rock.

    Tykota stood so still, peering out over the
valley, that he could have passed for a statue.
But his eyes were alive, and his gaze moved
keenly over the countryside. Makinna could feel
the tension in him until he was satisfied that they
were not being followed.
    Makinna began emptying the sand from her
slippers. When she glanced back at Tykota, she
saw him remove his shirt and tear a long strip
from it. Blushing at the sight of his broad
bronze chest bared to her gaze, she watched
him twist the strip of cloth and tie it about his
brow, like a headband to match the leather
bands circling both of his muscled arms. Even
from her vantage point she saw what looked
like gleaming golden eagles set into each armband. Surely the carvings couldn't be real gold,
could -they?
    Makinna quickly slipped into her shoes.
Tykota now looked even more like the Indian
he was. She had never seen a man in such a
state of undress, not even her brother. She
meant to lower her gaze, but she could not keep
from looking at him. She realized that the
farther they got from her world, the more any
semblance of civilization was stripped away
from Tykota. Layer by layer he became more
primitive, untamed, with a dangerous, tightly
leashed aura about him. Despite his tall boots
and tailored black trousers, he was every inch
an Indian.

    Clearly Tykota was a complex man, but
Makinna was slowly beginning to trust him. She
sensed in her heart that he would never willfully
harm her. Although he might very well leave her
behind as he'd threatened if she didn't keep up
with his pace.
    "I am hungry now," she said nervously. "May
I have some of those plants you offered me this
morning?"
    He turned to her with a fierce expression. But
the fierceness evaporated when he looked into
her sincere blue eyes and saw that she had
moved aside to allow him room to sit in the
shade.
    He reached into his pouch and walked toward
her, then held the food out to her.
    "Tell me about this plant," she said before
taking a bite of the softened mescal. The taste
was not offensive, but neither could she say it
was good.
    "The mescal is excellent food for traveling
because it keeps well dried. The blossoms taste
quite good, but the sap can be an intoxicating
drink. The root can be used for soap. The mescal
plant is as essential to the survival of the Apache
as the buffalo is to the Comanche."
    "And to your people?"
    "No. Not my people. Although we will eat the
plant when forced to, we have other
resources."

    She finished another bite of the mescal.
"Who are your people? From what tribe do you
come?"
    Tykota's gaze slid away from hers. "You
would not know of them."
    She smiled. "Perhaps you come from the
mysterious tribe Mr. Rumford was talking about
on the coach-the one that no white man has
ever seen and lived to tell about."
    Makinna had spoken whimsically, but the
memory of Mr. Rumford made her close her
eyes against the sudden pressure of tears. When
she opened them again, she saw the tightening of
Tykota's jaw. When he did not answer