Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  I will know the song your heart sings, eh? And you will know mine.

  The joy of Loretta’s homecoming was overshadowed by Henry’s rage. Friends with a murderin’ savage, was she? A Comanche slut, that’s what, kissin’ on him in broad daylight, comin’ home to shame them all with her Injun horse and heathen necklace. His land looked like a bloomin’ pincushion with all them heathen lances pokin’ up. He was gonna get shut of ’em, just like he had those horses. Half of ’em stole from white folks! Some trade that was! Loretta listened to his tirade in stony silence.

  When he wound down she said, ‘‘Are you quite finished?’’

  ‘‘No, I ain’t!’’ He leveled a finger at her. ‘‘Just you understand this, young lady. If that bastard planted his seed in that belly of yours, it’ll be hell to pay. The second you throw an Injun brat, I’ll bash its head on a rock!’’

  Loretta flinched. ‘‘And we call them animals?’’

  Henry backhanded her, catching her on the cheek with stunning force. Loretta reeled and grabbed the table to keep from falling. Rachel screamed and threw herself between them. Amy’s muffled sobs could be heard coming up through the floor.

  ‘‘For the love of God, Henry, please . . .’’ Rachel wrung her hands in her apron. ‘‘Get a hold on your temper.’’

  Henry swept Rachel aside. Leveling a finger at Loretta again, he snarled, ‘‘Don’t you sass me, girl, or I’ll tan your hide till next Sunday. You’ll show respect, by gawd.’’

  Loretta pressed her fingers to her jaw, staring at him. Respect? Suddenly it struck her as hysterically funny. She had been captured by savages and dragged halfway across Texas. Never once, not even when he had just cause, had Hunter hit her with enough force to hurt her, and never in the face. She’d had to come home to receive that kind of abuse. She sank onto the planked bench and started to laugh, a high-pitched, half-mad laughter. Aunt Rachel crossed herself, and that only made her laugh harder.

  Henry stormed outside to get ‘‘those dad-blamed Indian lances’’ pulled up before a passing neighbor spied them and started calling them Injun lovers. Loretta laughed harder yet. Maybe she had gone mad. Stark, raving mad.

  Aunt Rachel moved the bed to let Amy come up through the trap. Loretta managed to regain control of herself in time to catch the child in her arms when she cannoned across the room.

  ‘‘Loretta! Loretta!’’ Amy clung to her neck, sobbing and laughing. ‘‘They didn’t kill you. I knew they wouldn’t!’’

  ‘‘How’d you know?’’

  Amy pulled back and grinned. ‘‘ ’Cause I couldn’t have stood it, that’s how. And I prayed you home. Two rosaries a day, faithful! You can ask Ma.’’

  ‘‘No cheating? I don’t believe it. You always skip Hail Marys.’’

  ‘‘Nary a one.’’ Amy trailed a finger along Loretta’s cheek. ‘‘The old toad! He gave you a shiner, sure as rain. I hate him.’’

  ‘‘Amy!’’ Rachel admonished.

  Loretta ruffled her little cousin’s hair. ‘‘You don’t even seem surprised that I’m talking.’’

  ‘‘That’s ’cause I ain’t. I heard you talk out in your sleep, remember?’’

  Loretta did remember. She hadn’t believed Amy then; she did now. Sighing, she released the child and threw a lingering look at the room. Aunt Rachel’s patchwork, Amy’s primer, the Godey’s Lady’s Book, the scarred old rocker. Home. Even with Uncle Henry to spoil things, it was heaven to be back.

  Questions flooded Loretta’s mind. How had Tom Weaver fared during his journey home? How many men had gone searching for her? Where were the horses Hunter had left? How were the chicks doing? Had the jerky Loretta had put up dried to a turn, or was it tough?

  Rachel answered each question as it came, unable to keep her hands off Loretta as she talked. Tom was fine. About thirty men had tried to track the Comanches, but the Indians had split into groups, making false trails.

  ‘‘Which explains why Tom wasn’t with the same group I was.’’ Loretta frowned. ‘‘Who’d think it? Those Indians have more brains than we credit them with.’’

  ‘‘The first day there were at least a hundred of them,’’ Rachel replied. ‘‘I figure there were sixty when they came back, give or take. The other forty split into groups and led the border patrol a merry chase, dang near all the way to the Colorado River in one direction, toward the Staked Plains in another. The other group rode in circles.’’

  ‘‘Well, while they were chasing around, I was right here on the Brazos!’’ Loretta rolled her eyes. ‘‘I prayed and prayed someone would stumble across us, but no one did.’’

  Loretta leaned her head sideways to press her cheek against her aunt’s hand, forcing the memories from her mind. ‘‘I’m so hungry, I could eat the south end of a northbound mule. What’s for supper? And please don’t say pecans or buffalo meat.’’

  Rachel laughed and released her. ‘‘A bath?’’

  Loretta stuck out a leg and grimaced at her filthy bloomers. No wonder Hunter had told her to make them nice like flowers. She must reek to high heaven. ‘‘A tub bath? You reckon I can? It isn’t Saturday, is it? Uncle Henry might get into a snit.’’

  ‘‘It’s Tuesday, and he won’t get in a snit.’’ Rachel handed Amy the bucket to start hauling water. ‘‘A bath and a good currying.’’ She lifted a hank of Loretta’s hair. ‘‘If we can’t get those tangles out, I may have to cut it.’’

  Loretta glanced down at the web of curls on her shoulder, once golden, now dull with dust, and wrinkled her nose. Lilac water. It would be paradise to soak in a hot tub and scrub until she squeaked. She could scarcely wait.

  That night, long after Henry and Amy were asleep, Aunt Rachel came up to the loft and sat on the edge of Loretta’s and Amy’s cot. Loretta rolled onto her side and took her aunt’s hand, thinking how beautiful she was. Fragile, like porcelain, and shimmering in the moonlight like intertwined gold and silver with her white skin and unbound flaxen hair.

  Rachel sighed and patted Loretta’s wrist, smiling yet not smiling, her expression taut and frightened. ‘‘Loretta Jane, we have to talk.’’

  Loretta’s chest constricted. ‘‘Aunt Rachel, he didn’t violate me, I swear it.’’

  ‘‘If he did, would you say?’’ Rachel smoothed Loretta’s hair. ‘‘It’s a terrible, terrible thing that’s happened to you, darling. But it wasn’t your fault. I love you, you know, like you were my own. You don’t have to hide anything from me.’’

  ‘‘I’m not.’’

  Rachel sighed. ‘‘Loretta Jane, I’m a firm believer in the power of prayer, and God knows Amy and I prayed our hearts out. But, honey, Comanches don’t haul a woman halfway across Texas and leave her untouched! You’re either lying or you’ve blocked the horror out of your mind.’’

  Loretta gazed out the window. Memories played through her head, some so bad they made her shiver, others strangely sweet. ‘‘He’s not like you’d think. He’s—’’ She frowned. ‘‘He’s not cruel, Aunt Rachel, just different.’’

  ‘‘One of the men in the border regiment that rode out with Tom to look for you—he told us some stories about Hunter, stories that’d turn your blood cold. From what he said, the man’s a monster. He ran a soldier through with a lance . . . lengthwise. Skewered him, Loretta Jane, and left his—his—’’ Rachel passed a hand over her eyes. ‘‘He left his pride dangling on the lance tip.’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe it!’’ Loretta cried shrilly. ‘‘How does he know if it was Hunter’s lance?’’

  ‘‘He said the lance carried Hunter’s mark. He seemed to think it was retaliatory—vengeance over an attack some U.S. Army deserters and some civilians made on a village a few years back. The murdered man had ridden on that raid. He carried an Indian woman’s necklace on him—used it for a watch chain— a souvenir, he called it, taken off a girl in the village. When his body was found, the watch chain was gone. It’s only conjecture, but this fellow seemed to think Hunter might have known the girl
who had worn the necklace and flew into a rage when he saw it.’’

  ‘‘Not Hunter. Trust me, Aunt Rachel, he isn’t like that. I was in his tepee for three days! I’d have seen evidence. There wasn’t even a scalp!’’

  Rachel tipped her head back, not speaking for a long time. When at last she did, her voice was strained. ‘‘I just want you to know that, for better or worse, I love you, and I’ll stand by you. If—well, if you’re carrying any baggage from the experience, you don’t need to worry. Any child of yours has a home here. I don’t care what blood it has. Henry can either accept that or get to packin’.’’

  Though she knew Aunt Rachel’s promise was more bluster than fact, Loretta sat up and enfolded the older woman in her arms. ‘‘I appreciate that, Aunt Rachel. It’s good to know you love me so much. But trust me, I’m not in the family way. Couldn’t be.’’

  Rachel returned the embrace. ‘‘If the time comes you need to talk about it, you can share anything you need to with me. I won’t judge you—not for anything.’’

  Loretta stiffened. ‘‘What could you judge me for?’’ She pulled away.

  Rachel averted her face.

  ‘‘Oh, Aunt Rachel, not you, too? Is it a crime to live through something like this and emerge unharmed? I did starve myself. I chose death, just like any self-respecting woman would. But then he promised to bring me home, and I started eating again. He hadn’t harmed me, and I figured—’’ Loretta broke off. It was clear as rain Aunt Rachel didn’t believe her. ‘‘Merciful heaven, would you rather I was dead?’’

  Amy groaned and tossed her head.

  Lowering her voice, Rachel replied, ‘‘No, I wouldn’t rather you were dead!’’ She lifted trembling hands to her face. ‘‘Lord, no. I—oh, Loretta Jane, no. I love you. I just can’t understand. You come home looking fit as a fiddle, claiming they didn’t touch you? I saw you kiss him with my own eyes. And Tom said you shared the Comanche’s bed, that it appeared you were receiving good treatment. I can only wonder what you had to do to survive so you could be here tonight. It’s amazing what we women can live through—the things we’re willing to put up with just to get by. Look at me. Stuck here in this unforgiving land with a man I despise. Do you think having him touch me is pleasant? But I let him and pretend I like it. Without him, where would the three of us be?’’

  Loretta couldn’t answer. For an instant it was like being mute again, her throat felt so tight. She could understand Uncle Henry’s not believing her. He was one tier short of a full cord, anyway, and a body expected him to be an imbecile. But Aunt Rachel? That hurt—a bone-deep hurt that would be a long time in easing. Even if eloquence had been hers, Loretta would have offered no defense. She knew the truth, and that would have to be enough.

  Aunt Rachel stood up and wiped her palms on her shift. ‘‘I’m here if you need an ear. You can count on me.’’

  With that, she left the loft. Loretta wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed out the window at the moonlit yard, remembering another night, a lifetime ago, when Hunter had sat astride his black stallion there, his arm lifted to her in a salute, his fisted hand holding her stolen bloomers. How could it be that a Comanche understood the song her heart sang and her own aunt did not?

  Three days later Loretta still felt bruised from the conversation she’d had with Aunt Rachel. As she bent over the washboard to scrub her badly soiled bloomers, her thoughts weighed so heavily on her mind that she scarcely felt the sun glaring down on her shoulders. Now that she was home, it was almost as if nothing had changed. Yet so much had changed.

  Amy stirred the steaming clothes in the soak tub with a laundry paddle, chattering nonstop, drawing breath only when she paused to run her sleeve across her sweaty forehead.

  ‘‘I think it’s plumb loco, that’s what!’’ The paddle thunked rhythmically against the sides of the tub, making such a din that it nearly drowned Amy out. ‘‘If you marry up with that old man, you’ll be suppin’ sorrow with a long spoon, mark my words.’’

  ‘‘Tom’s not so bad,’’ Loretta murmured.

  ‘‘Not so bad? He reeks! I guess maybe he’s nice enough. But, Loretta, he’s old enough to be your gramps! Even if his heart’s in the right place, how could he raise up a young’n? He’ll be six feet under before it learns to walk.’’

  Loretta froze, her arms submerged elbow deep in the sudsy wash water. She stared at Amy. ‘‘What young’n?’’

  Amy’s face flushed scarlet, and she glanced nervously toward the house, stirring industriously. ‘‘I— don’t pay me no mind. I was just runnin’ on.’’

  ‘‘What young’n?’’ Loretta repeated icily.

  Amy shrugged one shoulder. ‘‘I guess I mighta done some eavesdroppin’.’’ The paddle went thunk, thunk, thunk. ‘‘I heard Ma and Pa talkin’ to Mr. Weaver. He said he didn’t have no care about who the father of your baby might be, Injun or no. He’d love it same as his own.’’

  Nausea clutched Loretta’s stomach. She bent her head, staring sightlessly into the soapy water. Never, in the seven years she had lived with Aunt Rachel, had she given her cause to doubt her. Why did she question her now? Maybe Hunter’s people weren’t the most noble of mankind, but at least they didn’t question each other’s word. The words from your mouth say who you are, Blue Eyes. Such a simple philosophy. Only problem was, not every race of people abided by it, and that gave rise to suspicion when the truth sounded too absurd to be true.

  Amy continued her noisy stirring. ‘‘Oh, hang,’’ she said softly. ‘‘I done it now. I didn’t mean to talk outa turn, Loretta. Don’t get your feelin’s hurt, please?’’

  Loretta tried to speak but couldn’t. She drew one arm out of the water and swiped her hair back from her eyes. Then she bent over her work again, determined to force the unpleasantness from her mind. Amy’s paddle clunked, resounding in Loretta’s ears. Loretta put words to the rhythmic beat. It’ll all work out. It’ll all work out. Experience had taught her that time usually straightened out most tangles. This one was just worse than most, with Tom Weaver as the solution.

  ‘‘Por favor,’’ a deep voice drawled. ‘‘Thees caballero and hees amigos beg that you would share your water? A leettle beet, no? For a dry throat?’’

  Loretta whirled. Her heart slammed against her ribs, then fluttered to a stop. Ten of the dirtiest, most disreputable-looking men she had ever seen stood nearby. The dark-complected man who had spoken appeared to be Mexican, his bull denim trousers nearly black with grime, his shotgun chaps studded along each fringed leg with Spanish-tooled silver that glared in the sun when he moved. His fingernails were crusty with dirt, his knuckles gray.

  The men with him were as bad, some gringos, some Spanish, all as mean-looking as buffalo bulls in rut, their eyes glassy and shifty. To a man, they wore six-shooters, and Loretta could tell by the way the guns rode their hips, strapped low on their thighs, that they were quick draws. An unnatural quiet settled over the yard.

  Out by the smokehouse, their horses had been left ground-tied. The man who had spoken tipped his sweat-rimmed hat to her and stepped forward, his spurs chinking as they stabbed the earth. His friends moved forward with him. Ching, ching, ching. Loretta swallowed, wondering how she had failed to hear them approaching. Amy’s paddle. Oh, God.

  Loretta had never seen Comancheros before, but she’d heard stories, and these men fit the description— ragtag misfits and dirt mean. Whoever they were, they meant trouble, big trouble. She knew they weren’t there for water, not with a whole river full such a short distance away.

  Keeping her voice as level as she could, Loretta said, ‘‘Feel free to help yourself at the well.’’

  The leader’s swarthy face split in a grin. ‘‘You weel not geeve thees caballero a cup from inside your casa? I do not think that ees very neighborly, señorita."

  Loretta rose and gave Amy a little push, praying the child would run for the house, but Amy threw her arms around Loretta’s waist and clung to her. ‘‘I ain’t leavin
’ you,’’ she whispered fiercely.

  Ignoring Amy, Loretta met the lead man’s gaze and said, ‘‘You’re quite right. How remiss of me. Amy, darling, run inside and have Uncle Henry bring the nice man a cup.’’ In a lower voice, her tone promising reprisal later if Amy didn’t obey, she hissed, ‘‘Do it, Amy. Now.’’

  With a push from Loretta to get her started, Amy wheeled into a run. The lead man snaked out a hand and caught the child’s arm, laughing at the terrified expression that crossed her small face as he jerked her back toward him. ‘‘Not so fast, muchacha. Ah, you are very pretty. Such nice golden hair. You weel be neighborly, no, a pretty one like you? We are not so bad.’’

  Loretta prayed her voice wouldn’t shake. To show fear would be a grave mistake. ‘‘Let go of her.’’

  In her peripheral vision, she saw the other men circling her. Ching, ching, ching. As terrified as she was, fear for Amy took precedence. She stepped forward and grasped the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘‘Go inside, Amy. The nice man didn’t mean to frighten you. Isn’t that right, sir?’’

  The man smiled and handed Amy to one of his friends. "No, that ees not right, señorita. You see, we have come a very long way. We are tired, no? And hungry. But mostly we are needing a pretty muchacha and a pretty señorita to play weeth us a leettle while. When we see two so fair, we have to stop, you understand? We say to ourselves, ‘Eet may be a very long time before we see two such pretty ones again.’ ’’

  Loretta opened her mouth to retort, but before the words were born, the man lunged at her. She screamed as she stepped backward and tripped. The next instant she fell rump first into the washtub, her feet stretched skyward, bloomers flashing. Pain shot up her spine from where the washboard jabbed her tailbone. The hot water surged upward to her breasts, scalding, taking her breath. The Comanchero put his hands on his hips and threw back his head to roar with laughter, staggering sideways as he walked toward her. He was clearly more than a little bit drunk.