Comanche Moon, Page 5

  Comanches. She backed from the window and clasped her soppy bloomers to her chest. Was she insane, flitting around naked?

  ‘‘Loretta Jane Simpson!’’ Henry yelled. ‘‘Damn, girl, you’re pourin’ water through the ceilin’ like it’s a bloomin’ sieve!’’

  Leaping back to the window, Loretta knocked the bowl over as she held her underwear out the opening. Oh, blast! She watched the bowl go bumpety-bump down the bark slabs. And stop. Right at the edge of the roof.

  ‘‘What in hell?’’ Footsteps thumped. ‘‘Quiet it down up there, or I’ll come up and shush you good.’’

  Loretta swallowed. The pitch of the roof was steep. How could she retrieve the bowl without telling Henry? He’d be a wretch about it. She just knew he would. Amy moaned and murmured. Tomorrow, she’d find a way to get the bowl tomorrow.

  After throwing on her nightgown, she hung her underwear over the sill to dry and sat on the edge of the bunk to brush and plait her hair. On the bedside table was a portrait of Rebecca Adams Simpson, her mother. In the dim light, her features were barely discernible, but Loretta knew each curve of her face by heart. Sadness filled her, and she traced the scrolled frame with a fingertip. If her father had yelled about water dripping through the floor, Rebecca would have said, ‘‘Oh, pshaw, Charles, don’t get in a fuss.’’ Not that Charles Simpson would have yelled. He had been a small man with a quiet manner.

  Loretta opened the nightstand drawer. Inside, arranged upon a fold of linen, were her mother’s diamond comb and her father’s razor. Two mementos and a portrait, all she had left of her parents. Her mouth hardened. The comb had been one of a pair, her mother’s most prized possessions. Now, only this one remained, the other taken by a Comanche along with Rebecca’s scalp. Tears filled Loretta’s eyes again, making her wonder what had come over her since Hunter’s visit. Seven years, and she hadn’t shed a single tear, and now she couldn’t seem to stop crying. It didn’t make any sense. The time for grief was long past, and Loretta didn’t cotton to weepiness.

  She closed the drawer with a click and wiped her cheeks with the heels of her hands. As she stretched out by Amy, she pulled her rosary from beneath her pillow. Kissing the cross, she whispered her soundless prayers, comforted to know that God could hear her.

  It seemed a long while before the pressure in her chest subsided and an uneasy sleep stole over her. Then, suddenly, she awakened, not knowing why but glad to have an end to her dream. She lay rigid in the bed, her nightdress wringing wet, her throat aching with unvoiced screams, and remembered the Indian of her nightmare. With trembling fingers, she clutched her rosary and stared at the window. Had she glimpsed a shadow there, or was that more of her dream?

  The night wind whispered, rattling the bark on the roof. She strained her ears. A footstep? A rustle of leather? She set her rosary aside and crawled to the window. Silver light shifted in the swaying trees along the river, and she felt a cool breeze.

  Oh, Lordy, her pantalets were gone!

  She clutched the sill and eased her head through the square. What she saw didn’t surprise her. Hunter sat astride his horse, right out in the open, bold and challenging. The wind caught his hair, whipping it about his carved features. He lifted a powerfully muscled arm to her in silent salute, his fist clutching her wet drawers. For several endless seconds they stared at one another, then he wheeled his horse, his arm still held high, her ruffled underwear fluttering like a flag of glory behind him. Loretta watched long after he rode from sight.

  I’m dreaming. He wasn’t really there. I’ve just been dreaming. She had nearly convinced herself when her gaze fell to the edge of the roof. Where was her bowl? Had the heathen lowlife swiped that as well? Then she spotted it sitting under the window. She knew then that the Comanche had been there and had stared at her while she dreamed of him. She couldn’t make herself touch the bowl. He had touched it. Oh, mercy. And now he had her drawers. Had he spied on her while she bathed? The thought made her feel naked as sin.

  She began to shake. She sank back onto the bed and hugged herself, trembling so violently that she was afraid she might wake Amy. Her dream came back to haunt her. She stared at the uncovered window and wondered if she should refasten the membrane and pull the shutters closed. Picturing his huge knife, she rejected the idea. If he wanted in, it would take more than wood to keep him out.

  Her thoughts flew to Tom Weaver. He had to make it back in time. He simply had to.

  Loretta awoke the next morning to find Amy’s face hovering above hers. The girl’s blue eyes were wide with questions, her bow-shaped mouth agape. It was barely dawn, that eerie, quiet time when the sun still strained to peek over the horizon. Shafts of blue-gray light slanted through the loft window, but beyond their anemic glow, the room was still dark. Loretta scuttled deeper under the quilt.

  ‘‘You woke me up,’’ Amy accused in an emphatic whisper. ‘‘You talked out in your sleep and woke me up.’’

  Loretta stifled a yawn and blinked.

  ‘‘You talked! Dad-blast if you didn’t!’’

  Dad-blast? If Aunt Rachel got wind of the language Amy was using, she would scour her mouth with lye soap. Coming wide awake, Loretta rolled over on her side. Amy shifted on her knees, pressing her face so close that Loretta’s eyes crossed.

  ‘‘Do it again,’’ she insisted. ‘‘Say somethin’. I knew I heard you make a noise yesterday. Boy, won’t Ma have fits? Talk, Loretta. Say my name.’’

  Nonplussed, Loretta decided that she wasn’t the only one who had been dreaming.

  ‘‘Come on, Loretta, you ain’t tryin’ by half. Say my name.’’ A determined glint crept into Amy’s eyes. ‘‘Say something—or I’ll get Ma’s hatpin and give you a poke.’’

  A tense silence followed. Then, in a hoarse, terrified whisper, Amy cried, ‘‘Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, there’s Injuns in the yard!’’

  Loretta catapulted upward and landed on all fours in the middle of the bed. Peeking out over the windowsill, she looked at the yard and saw—just that: the yard. Not an Indian in sight. Amy reared back, her eyes the size of cow pies. Loretta skewered her with a murderous glare.

  ‘‘Well, it might’ve worked.’’

  Relief made Loretta giddy. She flopped down on the mattress and hugged her pillow. Her heart felt as though it might pound its way up her throat. Hunter. When Amy had said Indians were outside, Loretta had pictured him as he had looked yesterday, high atop his horse with a hundred warriors behind him, his broad chest and corded arms rippling in the sunlight. She had never seen such fierce, burning eyes.

  ‘‘I—Loretta, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that bad a turn, honest. I was just funnin’ you.’’

  Loretta clenched her teeth and burrowed her face deeper into the pillow. She wanted to throttle Amy for her foolishness.

  ‘‘Loretta, please, don’t be mad. I never thought you’d believe me. Where’s your sense of humor? You don’t really think that ol’ Injun will come back? What would an Injun want with a skinny runt like you? They like fat, brown girls who smear bear grease all over themselves. You’re probably downright ugly to his way of thinkin’, the drabbest-lookin’ female he ever saw. No gee-gaws. Stinky, too, with that lavender smell on you. And no creepy-crawlies in your hair.’’

  Loretta kept her face buried, determined not to laugh.

  ‘‘And sayin’ he liked you? There ain’t no such thing as a polite Comanche. He wouldn’t buy you! He’d just steal you. He came to look at you, that’s all. Maybe he thought he had a hankerin’ for ya and decided different once he got here.’’

  Turning her head, Loretta cracked an eye, smothering a grin.

  ‘‘Come to think of it, you do look sort of pitiful,’’ Amy teased. ‘‘That’s probably why he rode off. He took one look and got such a fright, he still ain’t stopped runnin’.’’

  Springing to her knees, Loretta grabbed her pillow and whacked Amy over the head. Amy, well aware that Henry would tan both their fannies if they woke him
, smothered a shrill giggle, dove for her own pillow, and came up fighting. For several minutes they pummeled one another. Then exhaustion took its toll, and they collapsed upon the bed in a heap, their gowns damp with perspiration, their cheeks rosy from suppressing laughter.

  When she caught her breath, Amy whispered, ‘‘I guess maybe I dreamed you was talkin’. You reckon?’’

  Nuzzling her cheek against the quilt, Loretta smiled and nodded. With the golden streaks of dawn behind her, Amy looked like an angel, her hair a molten halo about her heart-shaped face, her eyes big and guileless. What an illusion.

  Amy fiddled with the corner of her pillow, her small, freckled nose wrinkling in a frown. ‘‘You ever heard tell of blessed release?’’ she asked softly.

  It was Loretta’s turn to frown. Talk about out of the blue. Who had told Amy about such a thing?

  ‘‘Last week after we run into them Injuns by the river, Ma was talkin’ to old lady Bartlett, and they was sayin’ a decent woman was better off seekin’ blessed release than bein’ took by Comanches. What’s that mean? It’s somethin’ bad, ain’t it?’’

  For an instant Loretta considered lying. Then she forced herself to nod. This was hard, cruel country, and young or not, Amy should know certain things.

  ‘‘If them Comanches come back and steal you, is that what you’ll do, seek blessed release?’’ Fear chilled the blue depths of Amy’s eyes. ‘‘It’s killin’ yourself, ain’t it?’’

  Loretta’s neck felt brittle when she nodded this time.

  For once, Loretta was glad she couldn’t talk. Amy would demand answers if she could, and Loretta wasn’t sure there were words to describe the horrors she had seen.

  ‘‘I know they did bad things to your ma. My ma wouldn’t never tell what, but she looked funny when I asked her about it. You saw, didn’t you.’’ It was more statement than question. ‘‘That’s what you have nightmares about. Not about your ma dyin’, but about what they did to her.’’ Amy seemed to ponder that a moment. ‘‘I wonder why they do such mean things? How would they like it if we did the same back?’’

  Loretta closed her eyes, appalled by the thought. White men would never retaliate in kind against the Indians. And therein lay the difference between human beings and animals. A picture of Hunter’s dark visage flashed in her mind, his blue eyes glittering. For a moment such an overwhelming fear swamped her that she couldn’t breathe. Oh, God, what did he want with her?

  The sun was setting that same evening when Henry stomped in from the fields and announced that Loretta could take care of the horse and mules for him that night. Loretta clanked the lid back on the pot of beans and whirled from the hearth. She wasn’t afraid of work, but it was liable to get dark if she started the chores so late. This morning she had written a message on Amy’s slate about Hunter’s nocturnal visit. Had Henry forgotten?

  ‘‘You can’t send her out alone,’’ Rachel cried. ‘‘Those Indians might be nearby.’’

  Loretta made fists in the gathers of her skirt and pulled the material taut against the backs of her legs.

  ‘‘If there was Injuns out there,’’ Henry hissed, ‘‘they’d have showed themselves by now. Tom’s got you girls all upset over nothin’. Loretta had a nightmare last night, that’s all. I checked the yard below her window for hoof marks, and there ain’t a sign of nothin’ out there. I’m flat tuckered. You got no idea what it’s like workin’ them dad-burned fields in this heat.’’

  Rachel glanced out the window uneasily. ‘‘Couldn’t we leave the animals in the pasture for tonight?’’

  ‘‘And have ’em git stole?’’ Henry snorted with disgust. ‘‘That’d be dandy, right when Ida’s finally gonna foal. And what would I do without them mules? You think I’m gonna pull that plow by myself? It ain’t gonna hurt that girl to pack a little water and pitch some straw. That mare could drop anytime, and I want her in a clean stall when it happens.’’

  ‘‘I’ll go along and help.’’ Amy, who was laboring over her nightly spelling lesson, glanced up from her slate with an eager smile. ‘‘I’m almost as good as Loretta with the pitchfork. And if we see anything, I can holler and she can’t.’’

  ‘‘Some help hollering would be,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘Those Indians’d be after you girls like bears after honey.’’

  ‘‘I just said there ain’t no Injuns out there,’’ Henry growled. ‘‘Don’t you listen, woman? Lord A’mighty, I been out there all day! If there had been a Comanche within a mile, I’d be a dead man. I got Loretta’s welfare at heart, too, you know. I wouldn’t send her if I thought she’d come to ill.’’

  Not wanting to be the cause of a fuss, Loretta headed for the door. Her aunt Rachel would get the worst of it if tempers flared. There was nothing to be scared of. The barn wasn’t that far from the house. Besides, if Hunter wanted to kill her, he had already had opportunity last night while she lay sleeping. No, he had other plans for her. Probably something far worse than dying, but she wouldn’t think about that right now.

  ‘‘Loretta, you wait,’’ Rachel called. ‘‘I’ll get the rifle and come along.’’

  ‘‘Oh, tarnation!’’ Henry exclaimed. ‘‘Damned fool woman, you’ll work me into my grave yet.’’ Reaching to the door peg for his hat, he dusted it on his trouser leg and clamped it on his head, falling in behind Loretta as she stepped over the threshold. ‘‘I’d like to have my dinner sometime before midnight, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll go with her. At least it won’t take so long with her helping.’’

  ‘‘Oh, thank you, Henry.’’

  Henry grunted and turned to shut the door. ‘‘You jist be sure my dinner’s ready when I git back. If it ain’t, there’ll be hell to pay.’’

  Aware of how fast the sun was disappearing, Loretta crossed the porch and descended the steps. As she walked across the yard, she searched the dust for the hoofprints the Indians had left yesterday. Nothing. The wind had obliterated them. Which explained why Henry had found no evidence of Hunter’s visit last night. Her uncle was many things, but smart wasn’t one of them. Nightmare, my foot. Since when had she been one to raise an alarm over nothing? It infuriated her that Henry thought she was such a dimwit.

  Since they had only two buckets in which to haul water, Henry’s offer to accompany her was suspicious. He was the most economical man she knew when it came to work and too big a coward to come along as protection. She sneaked a glance at him. He looked harmless, but Henry was at his most dangerous when he was acting nice. She went out behind the chicken shed to fetch the pails and then returned to fill them with water from the well.

  To her surprise, Henry offered to carry one. His loose-hipped gait caused water to slosh over the bucket’s rim as he walked beside her in the wagon ruts that led out behind the barn. Loretta kept her head down and darted glances at him as he opened the gate to the barnyard. Ida, the barrel-bellied mare, whinnied and pushed her nose through the fence rails. Since Henry had been giving her grain each evening, she was far more anxious than usual to be let in from the pasture. The mules, Bessy and Frank, didn’t appear to share in her enthusiasm and continued grazing.

  After they had emptied the pails into the trough, Henry said, ‘‘I’ll pack the second round of water by myself. You stay here and start tossin’ the straw.’’

  Loretta relinquished her hold on the bucket and gazed after him as he strode out the gate and around the corner of the building. It seemed she had misjudged him. She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  One of the mules snorted, and the sound gave Loretta such a start that she jumped. Bessy had both ears thrown forward and was staring at a thicket along the left perimeter of the fence. Loretta made a dive for the pitchfork where it leaned against the hay wagon. She studied the riverbank. To avoid having to haul water out into the fields to the livestock, Henry had fenced the acreage at an angle, the back closer to the river than the front, the grazing pastures bordering the stream. That put the barn less than a stone’s throw from the thick lin
e of trees. In this poor light, she wouldn’t notice someone coming until he was on top of her. With the aid of the pitchfork, she vaulted into the wagon to see better.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary lurking in the shadows. With a sigh, she forked some straw and threw it in a wide arc over her shoulder, long practice taking it to her mark inside the lean-to stall. The mules relaxed and lowered their heads to eat again. A moment later Ida ambled over to join them. The sound of their grinding jaws was soothing, but even so the hair on the back of Loretta’s neck tingled. She paused in her work to check the trees again. She felt as if someone were watching her. Detecting no sign of movement, she forced herself to stop dawdling and get back to work.

  Henry took so long getting the second load of water that Loretta was nearly finished pitching straw when he returned. He emptied the buckets into the trough, set both on the ground, then stepped into the wagon and smiled at her. Taking off his hat, he dropped it on the tailgate and asked, ‘‘Need a hand?’’

  Uneasiness washed over Loretta. As he stepped toward her, his teeth flashed in another broad grin. She angled a puzzled glance at his shadowed face as he took the pitchfork from her. To her surprise, he tossed it over the side of the wagon.

  ‘‘Sure you need a hand, sweet thing, sure you do.’’

  His tone made a shudder run up her spine. He used that same syrupy-sweet voice trying to catch a chicken for supper. Loretta had watched him do it a hundred times, tiptoeing around in the pen and wriggling his fingers as if he were dropping seed. When an unsuspecting chicken ran up to peck the ground at his feet, he grabbed it by the head and wrung its poor fool neck. Loretta shrank back. Whatever it was he had in mind, it was sure as rain going to be ornery.

  His gaze swept slowly down her body, then returned to her face. ‘‘You’re ripe for pickin’, and that’s a fact,’’ he said in that same chicken-killing voice. ‘‘Have been for a good long spell. Yesterday when those Injuns came, all’s I could think about was that I should’ve had you whilst I could. Tom callin’ you his promised last night cinched it. I’ll be damned. I didn’t bust my ass raisin’ you so somebody else could reap the crop. The only reason I let him come around was so you’d see how good you got it here.’’