Comanche Moon, Page 4

  Rachel, unnerved by the close proximity of the Indians, didn’t seem to register what her daughter was saying. ‘‘Come, let’s get in the house. You never know with those savages. They’re just as likely to double back to catch us unaware.’’

  The door to the cabin stood open, and Loretta followed the others inside. Turning, she faced the men, her eyes full of questions. Henry leaned his rifle against the wall. ‘‘Ain’t no rhyme nor reason to what them critters do sometimes. I don’t reckon they’ll be back.’’

  Tom, still standing by the window, frowned and shook his head, his gaze fastened on the lance in the yard. ‘‘I ain’t so sure. A Comanch’ don’t leave his mark just anywheres. Couldn’t have said it plainer. Loretta’s just got herself betrothed.’’

  Amy giggled, a high, shrill laugh that echoed Loretta’s own feeling of unreality. ‘‘You mean he wants Loretta as a squaw? Why, that’d be worse than her marryin’ up with Mr. Wea—’’ Amy’s eyes bugged, and her cheeks flamed. ‘‘I mean . . . well . . .’’

  ‘‘Hush, Amy!’’ Worrying her apron, Rachel shot Tom a questioning glance. ‘‘What makes you say such a thing?’’

  ‘‘We all heard him lay claim to her and say he’d be back.’’ Tom avoided Loretta’s gaze. ‘‘Comanches don’t make false promises. My guess is he’ll bring a couple of blankets and a horse or two in trade. That’s the way they do things amongst themselves when they buy a wife. Not to say he’ll stay so polite if you don’t accommodate him and turn her over.’’

  Rachel clamped a hand over her heart. ‘‘Oh, mercy, we’ve got to get Loretta out of here then, to Fort Belknap, perhaps.’’

  ‘‘Ain’t no use, Rachel,’’ Tom said softly. ‘‘They’ll have sentries posted. You try to leave with her, and they’ll run you to the ground. Ain’t nobody gonna take a Comanche’s woman.’’

  Hearing herself referred to as a Comanche’s woman made Loretta recoil. She backed up until she stood beside the table.

  ‘‘No Indian’s taking my sister’s daughter, and that’s that,’’ Rachel cried. ‘‘I’d sooner see her dead.’’

  Henry put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘‘Now, woman, don’t get yourself in a dither. Chances are Tom’s wrong and they won’t never come back. It don’t make a lick of sense to me. Why would a no good Comanche worry about bein’ polite? Why, if he’d had it in mind to take her, she’d be bouncin’ around on the back of his horse right now.’’

  ‘‘You got a better explanation?’’ Tom challenged.

  Henry shook his head. ‘‘Nope, but like I said, what them heathens do don’t always figure.’’

  Rachel leaned weakly against her husband. ‘‘Oh, Henry, I think Tom’s right. He’s going to come back and try to take her.’’

  Loretta’s legs buckled. She crumpled onto the planked bench and braced an elbow on the tabletop. A horrible fluttery feeling attacked her belly, the wings of terror batting upward into her chest. Were the Comanches still out there, hidden from sight but watching? Was that lance a message from Hunter to his people?

  I will come to you like the wind. I am your destiny. She visualized the Indian returning with a dirty blanket or two, a scrawny horse he no longer wanted, perhaps a battered pot. And Uncle Henry, coward that he was, would waste no time in handing her over. Loretta Simpson, bought by a Comanche. No, not by just any Comanche, but Hunter himself. It would be whispered in horror all along the Brazos and Navasota rivers. Hunter’s woman. She’d never be able to hold her head up again. No decent man would even look at her. If she lived . . .

  With a whining intake of air, Loretta lunged to her feet and ran to the door. Before anyone could stop her, she was across the porch and down the steps. She’d show that heathen. If this was a message that she belonged to him, she’d destroy it. Grabbing the lance, she worked it free from the earth.

  ‘‘Loretta, you fool girl!’’ Tom came after her, catching her arm to whirl her around. ‘‘All you’ll do is rile him.’’

  Jerking free, she headed for the front gate. Rile him or not, if she didn’t refute the Comanche’s claim, it would be the same as agreeing to it. Maybe he would come back for her, but if he was out there watching, at least he’d know he wasn’t welcome.

  She walked beyond the yard fence, then turned and swung the lance against the top rail. The resilient shaft bounced back at her. She swung again. And again. The lance seemed to take life, resisting her, mocking her. She envisioned the Comanche’s arrogant face and bludgeoned it, venting her hatred. For Ma, for Papa. She’d never belong to a filthy redskin, never.

  Sweat began to run down her face, burning her eyes, salty on her lips, but still she swung the lance. It had to break. He might be out there watching. If his weapon defeated her, it would be the same as if he had. Her shoulders began to ache. Each lift of her arms became an effort. Beyond the realm of her immediate focus, she saw her family standing around her in shocked horror, staring as if she had lost her mind.

  Perhaps she had. Loretta fell to her knees, gazing at the intact lance. Willow, green willow. No wonder the dad-blamed thing wouldn’t break. Furious, she snatched the feathers off of it and ripped them into shreds, sputtering when the bits of down flew back in her face. Then she knelt there, heaving for air, so exhausted all the fight in her was drained away.

  He had won.

  Willow leaves swayed before Hunter’s eyes, but his gaze held fast, riveted on the slender girl as she tried to break his lance. With each swing of her arms, he clenched his teeth, growing angrier. Then the absurdity of it hit him, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. She knew he was out here. Grown men quivered in fear at the sound of his name, but a frail girl dared to defy him? He recalled how she had looked when she walked out to face him, golden head held high, big blue eyes meeting his in defiance. How dare she spit at him, not once but twice? He wavered somewhere between outrage, disbelief, and admiration. She might not look like much, but she had courage, he’d give her that.

  His brother, Warrior, hunkered beside him and snorted with laughter, clearly pleased with the situation. Above the roar of the river, he said, ‘‘If she knew who you were, she wouldn’t defy you like this.’’

  Hunter never shifted his gaze from the girl.

  ‘‘Once she knows who she’s up against, this nonsense will stop. If there’s anything I’m an expert on, Hunter, it’s women. They push only when they think they can get away with it. You shouldn’t have let her spit at you. Next time, slap her.’’

  Hunter arched an eyebrow. Given the fact that his brother’s wife was the most spoiled female in the village, he found this bit of advice amazing. He studied Warrior’s solemn expression. ‘‘Is that so?’’

  ‘‘Trust me. She’ll never try it again.’’

  ‘‘How many times have you slapped Maiden of the Tall Grass?’’

  ‘‘I haven’t. She knows who has the stronger arm.’’

  Hunter bit back a grin. ‘‘Yes, she certainly does.’’

  Returning his attention to the girl, he scowled. He would teach her some respect or kill her trying.

  At last the girl’s strength gave out, and she fell to her knees in defeat. A spray of feathers flew up around her. As the white plumes floated downward, her shoulders sank with them. Suvate, it was finished. She had to face her fate and learn to accept it, just as he must. Destiny knew no foe.

  ‘‘It isn’t too late!’’ Hunter’s cousin, Red Buffalo, rode into the small clearing. He leaped off his horse and trotted toward them, his bow and an arrow outstretched in one hand. ‘‘She’s the woman you’ve been seeking. Kill her, Hunter, while you still can. You know how your mother is about the prophecy. Once she sets eyes on her, it will be too late.’’

  Hunter eyed the proffered weapon, then shook his head. ‘‘No. I must remember my duty. It would be madness to kill her. The wrath of the Great Ones would rain down on us. I can’t think only of myself.’’

  ‘‘You despise her! If the prophecy comes to pass, yo
u will one day leave the People.’’ Red Buffalo’s scarred face twisted with disgust. ‘‘How can you bear the thought of taking her back with you? After what the Blue Coats did to your woman? To mine. And my little boy? Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten?’’

  Hunter’s face hardened, and a cold glint crept into his eyes. ‘‘I will never forget.’’

  Loretta had no appetite for supper. She joined the others at the table, but the aroma of venison stew and blackberry-and-maize bread made her stomach roil. Amy’s eyes sought hers across the table. Henry was tipping the mescal jug, and he got ornery when he drank. Poor Amy usually took the brunt of it.

  Loretta sympathized, but tonight she was preoccupied. Plans of escape flitted through her mind, all of which she considered, then discarded. She pictured the plains that surrounded her, feeling as hemmed in by the endless space as she would have by a barred cell.

  Desperate to keep her hands busy and thus stave off panic, Loretta split her wedge of bread and took a bite. It got bigger and drier as she chewed. Tom Weaver fidgeted on the bench beside her. Then she saw his hand flash under her chin. Glancing down, she spied a slice of buttered bread on the edge of her trencher. She gave him a cautious smile, and his crusty lips curved in a shy grin.

  ‘‘I think one of us ought to ride to Belknap and get Loretta an escort to the fort,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Better me than you, Henry, ’cause I got no womenfolk. It’ll take time, but the border patrol is there, and I’ve heard tell that several families have built houses with picket bastions. Loretta would probably be safe enough if we could get her there.’’

  ‘‘Question is, how many men could you get?’’ Henry’s cheek bulged. He chewed and swallowed. ‘‘Half the time, they’re out ridin’ Indian patrol, and what happens if that there Indian does come back? If he don’t find Loretta here, he’s gonna be hoppin’ mad.’’

  ‘‘My gawd, Henry!’’ Tom cried. ‘‘You ain’t seriously sayin’ you’d keep her here?’’

  A flush crept up Henry’s neck. ‘‘Of course not.’’

  Rachel glanced uneasily at her husband, then back at Tom. ‘‘How long would it take for you to round up men and get back?’’

  ‘‘I figger a day, ridin’ hard and barrin’ trouble. It’d give us a fightin’ chance, Henry.’’ Tom shrugged. ‘‘She wouldn’t have to stay there for an unbearable long time. Hunter is bound to start ruttin’ after some purty little squaw sooner or later and forget Loretta. Just a matter of waitin’ him out.’’

  ‘‘And if the Indians return before you get back?’’ Not a trace of color showed on Rachel’s lips.

  Henry shoved his trencher to the center of the table. ‘‘You just git out your beads, woman, and pray that don’t happen. Ain’t no way I can hold off a hundred Injuns alone.’’

  Tom gave Loretta a pat. ‘‘Don’t you worry. I’ll git back. You’re almost my promised. A man takes care of his gal if he’s worth his salt.’’

  ‘‘Whether or not she’s your promised is still undecided,’’ Henry inserted. ‘‘I ain’t spoke to her about it yet. If there’s Injuns out there—and I ain’t so sure there is—don’t go riskin’ your neck ’cause you think it’ll gain you favor. I’m not so averse to Loretta stayin’ on that I’ll marry her off against her will. She’s got a home here if she wants.’’

  Loretta stared at her uncle. For weeks she had been living in dread, afraid he would make her marry Tom. Now that she knew he wouldn’t, she felt off balance. She turned her attention to Tom’s gnarly profile. If he tried to get her an escort and the Indians guessed his intent, his life would be at risk. Until tonight she had seen only his filth and ugliness, but there was more to him than that. He was a good man, too good to end up dead over a woman who didn’t care for him. But she knew Tom was her only hope. She would be the world’s worst fool if she discouraged him from riding to Belknap.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, Tom swung his legs over the bench and stood up, avoiding her gaze. ‘‘Well, I should head home if I’m leavin’ out at dawn.’’

  Loretta rose with him, wiping her palms on her skirt. Tom shuffled to the door and took his hat off the peg. Placing the hat at a jaunty angle upon his head, he flashed a smile at her and reached for his rifle. ‘‘G’night, Miz Masters. Fine meal you served up there.’’ With a cursory nod, he said, ‘‘Amy, Henry.’’

  Knowing what she had to do, Loretta followed Tom out to the porch, closing the door behind her. He ignored her for a moment, tightening his horse’s saddle cinch and stowing his rifle. When he turned to look at her, the brim of his hat shaded his face, so she couldn’t read his expression even in the bright moonlight. He propped a boot on the top step, draping his arms on his knee.

  ‘‘I’d like to think you came out to say good-bye, but I’ve got a hunch that ain’t it. Am I right?’’

  A hundred words gathered in Loretta’s throat.

  ‘‘Honey, if you’re wantin’ to tell me you don’t love me, I already know. I’ve got a few years on ya, but I ain’t senile.’’ He chuckled and nudged his hat back so he could see her better. ‘‘And if you’re out here to tell me I shouldn’t go to Belknap, that you won’t marry me anyways, then don’t bother. I’d go if you was ugly as a post and had three husbands. Understand?’’

  Loretta felt a rush of tears welling in her eyes. Angrily she dashed the wetness from her cheeks.

  Tom sighed, and before she knew what he was about, he stepped onto the porch and took her in his arms. ‘‘Ah, Loretta girl, don’t cry. I’ve got hide thicker’n a buffalo’s, and I’m twice as ornery. Ain’t no dad-burned Injun gonna get the best of me. I’m goin’ to Belknap because it’s gotta be done. When I git back, we’ll take up right where we left off, me bein’ a pest, no obligation on your part. I understand that, and I’m goin’ anyways. Clear? Take a herd of horses to stop me.’’

  Loretta wrinkled her nose. The smell of his shirt stifled her. His hand on her back was gentle, though, reminiscent of her father’s when he had held her this way. She twisted her face to one side to get some air, her cheek to his chest.

  He gave her a fierce hug, then grasped her firmly by the shoulders and set her back from him to study her face. There was a curious gleam in his eye that made her uneasy. Catching her chin, he tipped her head farther back. As if reading her mind, he said, ‘‘Don’t be afraid of me, Loretta Jane. I’d never set out to hurt you.’’

  His voice rang with such sincerity that Loretta relaxed. She no sooner did than she saw his head bending. Here it came, the dreaded kiss. . . .

  Chapter 3

  LORETTA CLAMPED HER LIPS TOGETHER. The next second, Tom’s beard touched her skin, coarse as a wire scrub brush, and from its bushy center protruded hot, wet lips that smacked down on hers with bull’s-eye accuracy. His arms tightened and pulled her flat against him. Then he darted his tongue past her lips and licked her teeth. Was this how people kissed? He tasted of sour tobacco, and her gorge rose. By the tense way he held her, she knew he was trying to elicit a response. She hated to hurt his feelings but couldn’t pretend she liked any part of what he was doing. What little bit of dinner she had managed to swallow earlier was working its way back up her throat.

  Just when she feared her convulsing stomach might humiliate them both, Tom gave her a pat and turned her loose, smiling as if he had done himself proud. His eyes glowed with fondness. ‘‘I thank you for that, Loretta. It was mighty fine, and even if you don’t never marry me, I’ll have it to remember.’’ He gave her a little push toward the door. ‘‘You git on back in the house now.’’

  As revolting as she had found his kiss, Loretta hesitated. At times, her silence rose around her like a wall.

  ‘‘I’ll be careful, and there’s no need for thanks.’’ He flashed a grin. ‘‘Don’t stand there lookin’ silly. You only think you can’t talk, girl. Them there eyes of yours never shut up. Now, go on, git. I can’t leave with you standin’ out here.’’

  In a swirl of skirts, she turned back and h
ugged his neck, surprising herself as much as him. Before she lost her nerve, she kissed his cheek. Then she dashed into the house, her heart pounding like a kettledrum. Through the door cracks, she heard Tom chuckle. She swiped the back of her hand across her lips to get rid of the tobacco taste. Only then could she smile.

  As soon as the dishes were washed, Loretta climbed the ladder to the loft where she and Amy shared a bed. The fading light of the downstairs fire shone through the cracks of the planked floor, shooting shafts of muted gold clear to the rafters. Amy’s soft, regular breathing whispered in the semidarkness. She slept in a sprawl with the gray down quilt thrown off her hot little body, the hem of her nightdress riding high on her skinny thighs. Loretta went to the foot of the bunk and unfastened the doeskin membrane on the window to let in some air. The child sighed in her sleep and muttered something.

  A breath of coolness touched Loretta’s bare limbs when she peeled off her clothes. It felt so good that she lifted her arms and turned a full circle, allowing the night air to wash over her before she hung her dress on the hook and slapped at it to get the wrinkles out. Every little crease showed on homespun. Remembering better times, mostly in Virginia, but some here in Texas when her parents had still been alive, Loretta sighed and went to the nightstand. Sloshing water from the pitcher into the washbasin, she added a dash of lavender, then carried the bowl and her washcloth to the windowsill.

  Leaning her head back, she began her nightly ritual, wringing the rag to trickle the scented water along her throat and over her breasts. In summer, the customary week between tub baths seemed like an eternity. Running the cloth slowly over her body, she closed her eyes. Lands, it was so hot. A female could cook in this country, wearing all those clothes.

  She had finished bathing and was rinsing her drawers in the leftover water when a coyote wailed. She poked her head out the window to watch the full moon. A wisp of cloud drifted across the moon’s milky face, casting ghostly shadows on the ground. A Comanchemoon. Uncle Henry said it was called that because the Indians often raided on moonlit nights. Good light to murder by, she guessed.