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

should be leaving
very soon."
    She stood up and placed a hand on his arm. He
looked down at her hand and then into her face
questioningly.
    "I have a favor to ask, Tykota."

    He silently waited for her to go on.
    "I have decided to let you cut my hair."
    She could tell nothing from his expression,
but he laid the gourds on the ground and
unsheathed his knife. Then he looked from
her hair to the knife and back. To Makinna's
surprise, he begun to prowl back and forth
with the grace of a mountain lion and the
intensity of a man with a heavy decision to
make.
    "Why do you worry so? It's my hair, not
yours. And it was your idea to cut it."
    At last he stopped in front of her and grasped
her shoulders, turning her back to him.
    Makinna squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
    Tykota lifted some strands of her golden hair
and raised his knife, but when the tendril
curled around his finger, he hesitated. The
texture was like silk. Something within him
resisted the thought of cutting off anything so
beautiful. He raised the strand to his lips and
closed his eyes.
    "Do it quickly," she said, her eyes still
squeezed shut.
    His hand actually trembled as he sliced
through the curls. Then he sliced another and
another, cutting it to the top of her shoulders.
When the ground about them was littered with
gold, he retrieved one of the curls and slipped it
into his pocket.

    Makinna turned slowly to face him. "Do I
look awful?"
    Tykota's gaze went from her hair to her
startlingly blue eyes, which held an almost
childlike expression.
    "Do I?"
    She must know she was beautiful; she did not
need him to tell her. "You will be more
comfortable this way. The tangles can now be
easily worked out with your fingers."
    Makinna looked worried, and her bottom lip
trembled a bit. "And in time it will grow back,"
she reassured herself.
    Tykota swept away the cut hair to leave no
evidence of their passage. Then he lifted the
water gourds and moved away. "You will want
to eat quickly and make yourself ready for a long
trek. Tomorrow night we cross the worst of the
desert."
    She began working the worst tangles out of
her hair. "I wish we could stay here."
    He didn't answer.
    Makinna bent to gathering the pouch of meat
and the canteen. She sighed heavily. Tykota
was the most complicated man she'd ever
known. It must be because he was an Indian.
They came from different worlds, and she
didn't understand him any more than he
understood her.
    But what did it matter? When this was over, if it ever was, their paths would never cross
again.

    So why did that thought bring such a pain to
her heart that tears sprang to her eyes? What was
happening to her?

     

As Makinna stumbled forward, the scorching
wind that blistered her face seemed to be borne
on the wings of hell. Only the hardiest plants
clung to life here in this wasteland, and they
were dry and brittle, creeping through the baked
cracks of the hardened earth.
    Makinna shaded her eyes against the intense
afternoon sun. She squinted toward the sky and
counted five buzzards circling above them,
waiting for them to die so they could feast on
their flesh. She shivered, thinking the birds
might just get their meal. The earth burned
through the thin soles of her shoes, which now
had countless holes in them. But she trudged
onward, her eyes on Tykota's back as she
wondered again where his strength came from.

    At last she fell to her knees. She felt water on
her parched lips and knew that Tykota had lifted
her head and was offering her a drink. She drank
deeply of the life-giving nectar, but it did little to
ease her torment. She felt something cool against
her face, and she realized that he had used some
of their precious water to make mud to protect
her from the sun.
    "You must go on, Makinna. If you do not, you
will die."
    She barely had the strength to shake her head.
"I can't..-You-must go on without me."
    He lifted her to her feet and supported her