Comanche Heart (43 page)

Amy wasn’t sure where the words came from. They fell on her ears, shrill and ugly and raw, spewing from her like poison. Once she began talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. Swift said nothing. He just held her and stroked her and listened.

Amy knew she was babbling. She talked and talked . . . until she began to feel exhausted, until her body felt leaden and her speech began to slur. Her trembling finally ceased. And then the impossible happened. She ran out of things to say.

Her throat afire from sobbing, she lay quietly beneath him and opened her eyes, incredulous. For fifteen endless years, the black ugliness inside her had seemed bottomless. Now she had poured it all out. All of it, absolutely everything. She felt strangely empty . . . and peaceful.

Swift stirred and pushed up slightly. Combing his fingers through her hair, he trailed whisper-soft kisses across her forehead, then kissed her eyes closed. “Are you all right?” he asked huskily.

“Yes,” she whispered, scarcely able to believe it.

“Thank you, Amy, love.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

She opened her eyes to find that he was smiling.

“I think I know just what to do with those ugly memories of yours,” he told her, bending his head to nibble seductively at her shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“How about making all new ones?” He trailed his lips to her breast and circled deliciously with his tongue. “Beautiful ones, Amy.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, Swift.”

He ran his hands over her with a branding heat. “And I love you. I won’t share you with ghosts. I think it’s time we bury them, don’t you?”

His hands had already begun to work their magic. Amy parted her lips on a sigh. A brilliant kaleidoscope of light swirled inside her head. His fingertips feathered over her like gossamer, making her skin tingle. The lights deepened in hue and spectrum, until she felt as if she were floating within a rainbow.

Swift . . . her love, her salvation, her dream spinner. She melted into him, no longer caring about the lantern burning so brightly beside them, no longer even aware that it existed.

Afterward they slept in each other’s arms, drifting together into dreams, contented in the warm cocoon of down. Amy awoke several times to find Swift still curled around her. A smile touched her mouth. Everything really was going to be all right. No Indian wars to keep them apart, no endless waiting for him to return to her. She wasn’t even afraid of her nightmares now. When she woke up, Swift would be there and he would set her world back on its axis.

A couple of hours later, he stirred. Amy didn’t want him to leave, yet she knew he must. She let her hand trail down his back as he sat up.

“When are you going to make an honest woman of me, Mr. Lopez?” she asked groggily.

“As soon as that damned priest gets back.”

Amy grinned. Only Swift would say “damn” and “priest” in the same breath. She wondered what Father O’Grady would think of her Comanche, comanchero, gunslinging husband and decided the priest, being a man who dealt in souls, would see through Swift’s harsh exterior. Swift, a curious blend of killer and saint, outlaw and hero. No one who knew him could doubt that a part of him walked with the angels.

There was a purity within him still untouched by the brutal life he had led, an innocence, for want of a better word. He saw the world differently from most people. To him there was prayer in the fluttering of a leaf, a song of worship in the streaks of a sunset.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she whispered, listening to him dress.

“I’ll just be a whistle away.”

“Promise?”

She heard him shove on his boots. Then he leaned over her. “Whistle and find out.” He kissed her. “Go back to sleep, Amy, love. Then come over for morning coffee at Loretta’s. We’ll make eyes across the table.”

“And you’ll come back tomorrow night?”

“Tonight.” He nibbled her lips. “It’s a little after two. Tomorrow’s already here.”

Amy’s eyes drifted closed. Her last thought was that she had lived fifteen years holding on because tomorrow might bring something absolutely wonderful. And it had.

Chapter 23

A PIERCING SCREAM JERKED SWIFT AWAKE. Groggy and convinced for a moment that he had imagined the shrill cry, he shot up from his pallet by the fireplace. Daylight? It seemed as if he’d just come sneaking in from Amy’s and barely got his eyes closed. Another scream came. Amy? Fright filled him. Then he realized the sound came from the wrong end of town. He jerked on his boots and ran to the window to peer out. Up at the Crenton house, he saw Alice down by her front gate. She stood with her shoulders hunched, her hands over her face. The screams undoubtedly had come from her.

Swearing, Swift tore out of the house and down the steps. As he ran, the storefronts blurred in his peripheral vision. Dimly he registered that other people were pouring from their houses behind him, all drawn toward the Crenton place. Something unspeakable had happened. He guessed that by the sound of Alice Crenton’s screams. A woman caught up in horror.

When he reached the footpath, he called out, “Mrs. Crenton? What’s wrong?”

She whirled and drew her hands from her face. Never had he seen anyone’s skin so pale, almost blue-white, like snow in twilight. She stared at him as he ran toward her. Then she began to back away, shaking her head, holding out her hands as if to ward him off.

“Stay away! Oh, merciful God, stay away!”

Swift nearly tripped over his feet coming to a halt. “Mrs. Crenton?”

“What kind of animal are you?”

Swift couldn’t imagine what she meant. Then he saw it. A fresh scalp hung on the Crentons’ gatepost. The swatch of red hair left him in no doubt that it was Abe Crenton’s.

For a moment, Swift couldn’t move. All he could do was stare. Blood from the scalp had dripped down the post, staining the weathered-gray wood a reddish black. Slowly and insidiously, the realization came to him that Alice Crenton believed he had killed her husband.

Footfalls echoed behind Swift. A man’s voice asked, “Gentle Jesus, man, what have you done?”

Swift heard other people running up. A woman screamed. Another man cried, “I heard you threaten to kill him, but I didn’t think you meant it! Oh, Lordy.”

Swift pivoted, working his mouth to speak. Randall Hamstead came running up. Swift met his gaze. Randall looked at him for a moment, then paled and glanced away. Off to Swift’s left, a woman began to retch. Another began to sob. The Lowdry brothers stood to one side, their attention riveted to the scalp.

Hank Lowdry spat a stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with his grimy leather sleeve. “I’ll be damned. A bunch of us heard you threatenin’ to scalp him, but none of us thought you’d do it.” He started to laugh, then swallowed it back and glanced over at his brother. “He did it! And hung it on the goddamn gatepost! Just like he threatened.”

The ground dipped under Swift’s feet. Everyone there thought he had done this? It was crazy! Insane! But it also made a terrible sort of sense. Swift Lopez, raised as a Comanche, later a gunslinger and comanchero. A killer. Oh, yes. Who better to blame than him? Especially when the victim had been scalped. Panic banded his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Then the wild urge to laugh came over him.

At last, Swift managed to speak. But when the words finally came, he floundered, uncertain what to say. “I—” He broke off and swallowed. “I didn’t do this.” He saw Hunter shoving his way through the crowd, and relief flooded through him. “Hunter, tell them! They think
I
did this!”

When Hunter spotted the scalp, he froze. After studying it for an endless moment, he turned his luminous gaze on Swift. There was no mistaking the doubt in his eyes. Swift did laugh then, a shaky, humorless laugh.

“I didn’t do this,” he repeated, lifting his hands in supplication. “You can’t believe I did. Not
you,
Hunter.”

“Go get the sheriff!” someone yelled.

“He ain’t back yet,” another replied.

“Somebody ride to Jacksonville and tell him to get back here straight away! We got us a murder on our hands.”

“I’ll go,” a man yelled. He no sooner spoke than Swift saw him run down the hill.

“We could fetch Mr. Black. He’s the coroner. He’s authorized to make arrests in case of murder.”

“Do it,” Joe Shipley barked.

A feeling of unreality washed over Swift. Good God, they were going to lock him up. He imagined the bars closing in around him, the claustrophobic breathlessness. He considered running, but his feet felt welded to the ground. He looked at the gathering crowd. On every face, he saw accusation and revulsion. This couldn’t be happening.

A distant voice yelled, “Here’s the body!” Everyone looked toward the Crentons’ barn. A man came staggering out. Bracing his hands on his knees, he gagged and took several deep breaths. “His throat’s been slit! God have mercy, his throat’s been slit!”

Alice Crenton began to keen, a soft, eerie sound that crawled up Swift’s spine like icy fingers. He was vaguely aware that Loretta had joined the crowd, Indigo and Chase on either side of her. Her face was deathly white, her large eyes filled with incredulity and horror. She stepped away from the children to stand by Hunter, her gaze riveted to Swift’s.

“I didn’t do it,” Swift repeated.

“If you didn’t, who did?” someone asked. “Ain’t likely any of us’d scalp the poor bugger.”

A general grumble of agreement rose above the crowd. Loretta threw a frightened glance at the scalp. She said nothing, but the sudden doubt that crossed her face spoke volumes. Stung pride burned its way up Swift’s throat. He drew back his shoulders and raised his head. He had been guilty of many things in his lifetime, but never lying. If Hunter didn’t know that, then there was nothing more that he could say.

 

Amy was just putting the finishing touches on her hair when a frantic knock drew her to the front door. For an instant she wondered if she had somehow overslept. She glanced at the clock. Right on schedule. She had plenty of time for coffee at Loretta’s before work. Puzzled, she drew the portal wide. Indigo stood on the front porch, her face streaked with tears, the bruise on her cheek a livid red, her tawny hair wind-tossed from running.

“Aunt Amy, my father wants you over at our house. Quickly! Something terrible has happened!”

A tingle of alarm slithered up Amy’s spine. “What?”

Indigo licked her lips, gulped for air, and then blurted, “Uncle Swift killed Abe Crenton last night! Slit his throat and scalped him!”

Amy’s legs nearly buckled. She grabbed for the door to right herself. “What?”

“You heard me! Abe Crenton’s dead! Everyone thinks Uncle Swift did it. Mr. Black put him in jail for murder.”

“Oh, my God.” Amy hurried out onto the porch. She glanced toward town, then looked over at the schoolhouse. “Indigo, can you run put a note on the schoolhouse door saying that class won’t be held today?”

“Yes. Do you have paper for me to write it on?”

Amy was already heading down the steps. “In my bedroom in the top bureau drawer,” she called over her shoulder.

Amy broke into a run. Her heels slammed against the earth, the impact jarring through her body. Swift. In jail? For murder? No! It seemed as if the main street of town stretched for miles before her. She lifted her skirts and leaped onto the boardwalk, petticoats flying, pantalets flashing.

Up ahead she saw a large group of men gathered in front of the jailhouse. She cut across the street. As she drew up near them, they closed ranks against her, shoulder to shoulder, barring her path to the jailhouse.

“Ain’t nobody goin’ in there ’til Marshal Hilton gets back,” Mr. Johnson hissed.

Hatred glimmered in the men’s eyes. Amy knew a group in this frame of mind could easily become a mob. The small, clapboard jailhouse looked pitifully inadequate. No fortress, certainly. If these men decided to go in after Swift, there was nothing to stop them. The Lowdry brothers stood a little apart from the group, off to her right. Their close proximity made her skin crawl.

She pressed her hands to her waist, horribly aware that approaching the jail had been a mistake. If she said the wrong thing to these men, if she made them any more angry than they already were . . . “I, um—” A tremor ran up the backs of her legs. “I didn’t intend to go inside. I just heard the commotion and wondered what was going on.”

Hank Lowdry spat tobacco juice. The spray came perilously close to Amy’s skirt. “Your friend Mr. Lopez murdered Abe Crenton, that’s what. Slit his throat and scalped him!”

Amy flinched at the words. Taking a step back, she said, “Why are you certain Mr. Lopez did it?”

“Don’t take a genius to figure it out. We’re certain,” someone snarled.

Amy sought out the voice. She focused on Joe Shipley, Jeremiah’s father. He held a rope coiled in one hand. Holy Mother. Where was Hunter? She darted a glance over her shoulder. Was he aware of how close these men were to lynching his best friend?

“Surely a man’s guilt or innocence is something for Marshal Hilton or a jury to decide,” she said shakily.

Joe Shipley stepped out from the group. “You think Hilton’s God? We pay him wages to keep this goddamn town safe. He’s allowed a murderin’ savage into our midst. Which just goes to show he ain’t no smarter than the next man. Maybe not as smart. The rest of us knew from the first that Lopez meant trouble.”

Amy had known Joe Shipley and many of the others for years. Most of them had children who came to her for instruction. She was on friendly terms with their wives. But today they looked like strangers, eyes wild, their faces contorted with rage. If someone didn’t calm them down, they were likely to do something terrible.

Lifting her chin, Amy riveted Joe Shipley with her most chilling schoolmarm glare. “Isn’t,” she corrected softly.