Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  Ma said he was a heartless animal. Maybe he was. But at least he hadn’t done that to her yet. Amy glanced around. His horse grazed nearby, but Hunter was nowhere to be seen. A sob tore up her throat, followed quickly by another and another. Where was he? Had he left her? The minute those other Indians realized she was alone—

  A large warm hand came from out of nowhere and settled on her hair. She snapped taut, swallowing her sobs, terrified to move. A man. But who? Had one of the other Indians sneaked up on her? Twisting her neck, she discovered that Hunter lay nearby, the top of his head inches from her own, his feet pointing one way, hers the other.

  ‘‘Ka taikay, ka taikay,’’ he whispered sleepily. ‘‘Toquet, ma-tao-yo.’’

  Amy didn’t understand the words. She only knew they soothed her in some indefinable way, as did the weight of his hand on her hair. A hard, powerful hand, yet strangely gentle. She wasn’t alone. He had been with her all night and never once touched her.

  Before she thought it through, Amy dug in with her heels and scooted in his direction. When her head rested beside his, he lifted his dark lashes and tried to focus on her. She was so close, his indigo eyes turned inward toward the high bridge of his nose. He moved back and blinked.

  Amy held her breath. She was afraid, yet not afraid. His shoulder loomed in her peripheral vision. His brown chest was twice the span of hers, maybe wider, and his muscle-padded breasts made her own look like two little skeeter bites in comparison. He could kill her if he wanted. Snap her neck like a dry twig.

  He could also protect her.

  When he had fed Amy and given her water, Hunter began making preparations to leave, the first chore on his list to hide Santo’s scalp so she wouldn’t see it and become frightened. After securing a saddlebag to his stallion’s surcingle, he stowed the scalp, then moved to grab another bag and bumped into something. Glancing over his shoulder, he discovered that the something was Amy. Her huge eyes shone up at him, so vivid a blue and so filled with fear that he bit back a growl of irritation. Stepping around her, he bent to pick up his traveling pack. As he straightened, his elbow connected with her shoulder. When he walked back to his horse, she came along as if she were attached to him by invisible strings of sinew.

  Hunter strapped the traveling pack onto his stallion, then turned to regard her. She was clearly terrified that he meant to abandon her. He knew what the other men would think if he treated her with too much regard. He didn’t care. If they believed he meant to take Loretta as his wife, that this child was his new sister by marriage, they would treat her more kindly during the trip, and Amy needed all the kindness she could get.

  Resigned, Hunter lifted an arm so she could step close to his side. He felt her clammy little fingers curl under his belt, as if she feared he might escape her. A smile tugged at his mouth as he tightened his arm around her small shoulders. ‘‘You must take care with that knife,’’ he told her softly. ‘‘It has a fine edge, and will cut if you take it from the sheath.’’

  She clutched the weapon more fiercely. Hunter regarded her for a moment, then pulled a length of rawhide from his packs. Kneeling before her, he extended his hand for the knife, his gaze holding hers. ‘‘For this one moment, yes?’’

  Loath to relinquish her only means of defense, Amy stared at him. Patiently Hunter waited her out. When at last she handed him the knife, he fished the rawhide through the belt loop on the sheath, then tied the rawhide around Amy’s waist, positioning the weapon so that it rode handily on her hip. His reward was a shaky smile. Hunter figured it was a good trade.

  Chapter 18

  SOMEONE WAS COOKING UP A POT OF dried plums. The sweet smell drifted on the evening air, tantalizing Loretta. Maiden of the Tall Grass had lifted the side flaps on her lodge, allowing a breeze to drift through, which afforded Loretta a view of her neighbors. Funny how, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was camped with white folk. There was laughter. Children’s voices chimed. In the distance she could hear some man yelling at his wife, just like Uncle Henry at home, except that the wife yelled back. Aunt Rachel never dared.

  Maiden, bent over her sewing, glanced up and grinned. With a soft glow in her dark eyes, she lifted the velvety doeskin blouse she was making, turning it so Loretta might admire the style. Watching her, Loretta found it difficult to believe the woman could be involved in a treacherous plot, and if Maiden knew nothing of a plot, there probably wasn’t one. Which was why Loretta had decided to reserve judgment until Hunter returned.

  Just as Red Buffalo predicted, Warrior had confirmed his story. Yes, Hunter had given Loretta a fine horse and had taught her to walk in his footsteps so she could ‘‘come’’ to him, as it was spoken in his song. Yes, he had given her his medallion to mark her as his woman. Loretta hadn’t grilled Warrior for any information beyond that or told him what prompted her questions. If Hunter was guilty of trickery, she’d need the element of surprise to escape with Amy.

  If Hunter was guilty. In the seven days since Red Buffalo’s frightening revelations, Loretta had found that increasingly difficult to believe. If Amy’s abduction and consequent rescue by Hunter had been prearranged, surely Hunter would have been back before this. For him to have taken this long, he must have run into difficulties—in finding Santos, in getting Amy away from him. At this point Loretta could only pray that Amy was still alive.

  Forcing her mind off Amy’s plight and onto the garment Maiden was holding up, Loretta said, ‘‘It’s beautiful, truly beautiful.’’

  The blouse was beautiful, with fringed, elbow-length raglan sleeves and a slit neck, bordered with intricate beadwork. It was the latest in fashion, if Maiden’s excited jabbering was any indication.

  Loretta leaned forward to touch the blouse. ‘‘You’re a wonderful seamstress.’’

  ‘‘Huh, huh.’’ Maiden of the Tall Grass bit her bottom lip to stifle a pleased smile. Loretta knew huh meant yes, and by that she also knew Maiden understood she approved, even though they couldn’t communicate well. ‘‘Ein mah-heepicut,’’ Maiden added softly, shyly.

  Loretta had heard those words before, but she couldn’t recall when or what they meant. She scooped a handful of beads from Maiden’s bead bag and began sorting them on the fur pallet into piles, reds, blues, greens, blacks. Maiden of the Tall Grass murmured something and nodded in appreciation. Loretta was glad for something to do. When her hands were busy, she found it easier to keep her fear for Amy at bay.

  A shout from outside drew Maiden’s attention. She cocked her head and set her sewing aside, rising to her knees. After listening a moment, she began jabbering and waving her hands. Loretta looked outside and saw people rushing along the pathway between the lodges toward the edge of the village. Habbe Esa. When she heard the name, alarm, hope, and something indefinable shot through her. Hunter was back.

  Loretta gathered her skirt so it wouldn’t trip her and leaped to her feet. She didn’t dare leave the lodge, not without Warrior’s protection. Amy. Had Hunter found her? Loretta’s feet moved, carrying her toward the lodge door. Maiden of the Tall Grass hurried outside and bounced about on her tiptoes, trying to see over the heads of the growing crowd. She chortled happily and nodded at Loretta. The words ‘‘yo-oh-hobtpa-pi’’ rang loud and clear. Yellow-hair! Loretta forgot about her own safety and ran out of the lodge. Maiden of the Tall Grass caught her arm and held her back with unexpected strength.

  ‘‘Ka, no!’’

  In an agony of anticipation, Loretta strained to see the large group of men riding in. Then she glimpsed a blond head. That was all it took. She broke away from Maiden and ran out into the pathway, joining the flow of bodies that pressed forward. Amy. She shoved her way between two women.

  Loretta was so excited, she didn’t notice Swift Antelope walking beside her. The next instant she glimpsed a black horse cutting through the crowd, and a familiar, deep voice said, ‘‘Blue Eyes?’’

  Hunter’s breath caught when Loretta turned at the sound of his voice. For an ins
tant he forgot about the child cradled against his chest, his entire being focused on the beautiful woman who stood, surrounded by hostile squaws, in a cloud of settling dust. Her eyes shone like the brilliant blue at the base of a flame, dark lashes sweeping to the arch of her honey-gold brows. Her braid had come loose, and rich folds of golden hair spilled to her shoulders. She was so beautiful that he couldn’t believe, was almost afraid to believe, she truly belonged to him. Even in voluminous skirts, covered chin to toe in multiple layers of cloth, he could see the feminine lines of her body, the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips.

  Hunter had been proud of few possessions during his life. He had, of course, been proud of his first bow and his first coup feather. And he had certainly been proud of his wonderful war pony, Smoke. But the feeling that coursed through him now surpassed that. This golden woman was bound to him by her God promise, his and only his, forever with no horizon. Desire, hot and urgent, flared to life inside him as he contemplated the coming night. The thought of having her in his buffalo robes, of loving her as he had dreamed of doing so many times, made the trials he had endured to find Amy seem like nothing.

  Loretta’s gaze shifted to the child he held. Running forward with upraised arms, she cried, ‘‘Amy! Oh, Amy! He found you! Thanks be to God!’’

  Hunter wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting from Loretta when he delivered the child to her. Gratitude, surely. He had ridden nonstop for twelve days. He had risked his life. He had cared for her sister. And now she ignored him as if he weren’t there? Her God had not fought the bloody battle with Santos; Hunter had.

  Hunter knew it was bad of him, but he was glad when Amy clung to his waist and hid her face in the hollow of his shoulder. At least she knew who had brought her here. He glanced around at the throngs of people. ‘‘She fears for her scalp, Blue Eyes.’’

  Loretta placed a hand on Amy’s leg. ‘‘Honey, it’s me, Loretta.’’

  Amy peeked out, saw the strange Indians, and shrank against Hunter, once again hiding her face.

  ‘‘Amy, darling—’’ Loretta’s voice broke. ‘‘What’s wrong with her?’’

  Hunter felt a twinge of guilt. Remembering Amy as she had been before Santos stole her, he could imagine the shock Loretta must be feeling. He had grown accustomed to the child’s cowering, and knowing what he did about her ordeal, he understood it. Loretta had not seen her tied to the wagon wheel, defenseless against the filthy men who had abused her.

  ‘‘Her heart is laid upon the ground.’’ Hunter enfolded Loretta’s hand in his and nudged his stallion into a walk, pulling her along with him toward his lodge. He had forgotten how small her hand felt, how fragile the network of bones, how soft her skin. His stomach tightened with delicious anticipation. No brave he knew had a woman such as this.

  ‘‘It is well, Blue Eyes. She is frightened.’’

  When they reached his lodge, Hunter pried Amy’s arms from around him to lift her off the horse. Loretta hovered at his elbow, crooning and smoothing the child’s hair.

  Amy vised her arms around Hunter’s neck. ‘‘Don’t leave me!’’ she pleaded shakily.

  Hunter carried Amy inside the lodge to put her on the bed. She clung to him and refused to let go. Hunter at last gave in and sat down. She scurried onto his lap, pressing against him as if she wanted to melt and be absorbed, like tallow into leather. Loretta stood nearby, wringing her hands.

  Hunter knew he should go directly to the central fire. It was the custom for warriors to give a public recounting after making a trip. His friends would be waiting, anxious to tell of their exploits and brag of their courage in front of their women. Tonight they would reap the rewards for their bravery in loving arms. The more exciting their feats, the better the loving.

  Yes, they would be anxious to get the talking done, to give their women the booty taken from Santos’s wagons and show off their new rifles. Since Hunter had been the leader on this trip, his presence was required.

  But, just as Loretta had her first night in his lodge, Amy needed him. For this little while. ‘‘Toquet,’’ he whispered, hugging the child tightly in his arms. ‘‘This is my lodge, Aye-mee. No harm here.’’

  Loretta swallowed a lump of hot tears. Watching Hunter, she felt ashamed for suspecting him of having a part in the child’s abduction. The way Amy clung to him told its own story.

  Staring down at Hunter, she noticed things about him that she hadn’t before. Or perhaps it was that she now saw him in a new light. The broad span of his shoulders, knotted with muscle, hunched protectively around Amy, no longer seemed threatening. His large hands, capable of brutal strength, touched Amy with incredible gentleness. Even his voice seemed altered, low and silken, his whispers transcending the language barrier, a blend of English and Comanche that seemed to soothe Amy, tranquilize her, while Loretta could not. Man and child, strength and fragility, dark skin and fair.

  Loretta couldn’t feel the ground under her feet. A warmth spread through her chest. She tried to remember, a little guiltily, how it had felt when Hunter’s hand rested on her back like that, on her hair. This was no time for such thoughts. Only Amy should matter right now, but Loretta couldn’t help herself. Hunter. Her hated captor had become her hero, and the backwash of her own emotions swamped her. Hunter, the legendary killer. Where had he gone? Had he ever existed?

  ‘‘Loh-rhett-ah is here, eh?’’ Hunter reached to take Loretta’s hand, pulling her close to the bed. ‘‘Her heart has been laid upon the ground, and she has wailed and wept. You will see into her, yes?’’

  Hunter joined Loretta’s hand with Amy’s. The touch was all it took. Amy disentangled herself from his embrace and threw herself at Loretta, sobbing and shaking. Loretta clasped the girl to her, swaying from side to side.

  ‘‘You’re here, Loretta! Really here! I was afraid I’d never see you again!’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes, Amy, I’m here, I’m here.’’

  ‘‘They—they did awful things to me,’’ Amy cried. ‘‘Awful, awful things!’’

  Hunter rose slowly from the bed. The time for woman-talk had come, and he was no longer needed.

  Seeing that he was about to leave, Loretta worked one arm loose to touch his shoulder as he stepped around them. Their eyes locked. Pausing midstride, he touched his hand to her cheek. Once again Loretta felt curiously detached, disoriented. She wanted to lean toward him, to feel the steely warmth of his arms around her, to hear his voice saying all would be well, to feel safe—as only he could make her feel. She wanted those things with such intensity that she ached, and the realization frightened her. What was happening to her?

  Hunter saw the glow of fondness in Loretta’s eyes, and it was all the gratitude he needed. He left the lodge, standing a little taller than when he had entered.

  Loretta sank onto the bed to comfort Amy, listening to her in shocked horror as she brokenly described her ordeal. The brutality of it sickened her. Fury welled inside her. She wanted to kill Santos with her bare hands.

  ‘‘When Hunter got there, was there a terrible fight?’’ Loretta asked shakily.

  In a faint voice Amy said, ‘‘No. He just walked into Santos’s camp and carried me to his horse.’’

  Something quivery and cold fluttered in Loretta’s belly. Licking her lips, she turned to stare at Hunter’s scalp pole. Her mind reeled with the implications of what Amy had just said. ‘‘What do you mean, he just walked in? With guns, right?’’

  ‘‘No, no guns. He put me on his horse, talked to Santos a minute, and then rode off.’’

  A ringing sound began in Loretta’s ears. Shock anesthetized her emotions, emptying her, chilling her. ‘‘Amy . . . this is extremely important. Did it seem like Hunter and Santos were good friends?’’

  ‘‘Santos said so. ‘I am your good friend, El Lobo,’ that’s what he said.’’ A sob caught in Amy’s throat. ‘‘You know what, Loretta? I wanted them Comanches to kill him. I truly did. I hoped Hunter�
�d scalp him, right there in front of me. That’s bad of me, ain’t it?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, sweetheart, it isn’t bad. The man ought to be strung up for what he’s done.’’

  ‘‘Do ya think God’ll forgive me for wishin’ him dead?’’

  ‘‘I know He will.’’ Loretta pressed her face against the child’s hair. ‘‘Oh, honey, you mustn’t torture yourself this way. It’s perfectly natural for you to hate Santos. If I understand, don’t you think God will?’’

  After several minutes Amy relaxed in Loretta’s arms, her heavy-lidded eyes glazed with exhaustion. Loretta stroked her hair, whispering platitudes that she hated even as she said them. Everything wasn’t all right. She and Amy were in more trouble than Loretta knew how to get them out of. A horrible quivering attacked her limbs and set her teeth to clacking.

  Minutes passed. Loretta’s mind raced. I am your good friend, El Lobo. Dear God, what should she do? Run? And if they ran, where could they go?

  Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard men’s voices. Lowering Amy onto the bed, Loretta crept to the lodge door and lifted the flap to peer out into the twilight. Some distance away, a crowd had gathered around a roaring fire. Hunter, astride his black stallion, his body shimmering like oiled bronze in the firelight, was delivering a booming oratory, his arm raised above his head, his fist knotted. He seized a handful of his hair and made a slashing motion across his skull with his other hand. It was obvious he was talking about scalping someone. The crowd roared with approval.

  The names Loh-rhett-ah and Aye-mee floated on the breeze. Everyone turned to look toward Hunter’s lodge. Another cheer went up. Loretta knew they weren’t yelling because she was so well liked.

  Dropping the lodge flap, she hugged her waist, her pulse accelerating. Red Buffalo’s warning was all she could think about. Part of her wanted to scream a denial, but another part of her gave way to unreasoning fear.

  She knotted her fists in her skirt, remembering the oath she had made to stay with him, to be his woman, his slave. She didn’t break promises easily. Weakness attacked her legs. Dear God, why was she standing here, worrying about promises made to a man who had lied to her from the first? She couldn’t afford to wait and then learn she had been duped. She had Amy to think of.