Comanche Moon (29 page)

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.

‘‘Ah, thees ees very good! I like a clean woman.’’

Loretta wiped soapy water off her cheek with a tremulous hand and stared up at him. Uncle Henry was out in the fields, God only knew where—or if he would even come if he saw what was happening. Hiding behind a bush, more like.

‘‘Aunt Rachel! Aunt Rachel, get the gun!’’

Amy screamed. Loretta took her eyes off the leader to see what had happened. Her blood heated to boiling. Two of the other men were wrestling with Amy, one holding her arms behind her while the other groped under her skirts. Amy jerked and kicked the man in front of her, catching him on the shin. His high-topped boots deflected the blow. A shrill cry of anguish ripped up Amy’s throat when the man’s hand slid inside the waist of her bloomers. Then she let loose with a spray of cuss words that would have done Uncle Henry proud.

‘‘Get your hands off my rump, you no-account wart toad!’’

The Comanchero stuck a boot between Amy’s feet and viciously kicked her ankles until she accommodated him by spreading her legs. Crimson flooded to Amy’s cheeks as the man’s hand found a resting place between her thighs. Then she squealed with pain. The man who held Amy’s arms behind her had his hands full trying to keep her still. Knifing upward with her knee, Amy caught the other man in the groin. He grunted and retreated a step, the color draining from his face.

‘‘You little bitch!’’ Drawing back his arm, he slapped Amy so hard that her head jerked sideways and lolled on her shoulder. ‘‘Try that again, and I’ll tie you out on the desert so the vultures can pick your bones.’’

Before Loretta realized she had moved, she was up and out of that tub, rage lending her impetus. ‘‘Take your hands off her, you filthy animal!’’

The Comanchero leader caught Loretta around the waist and shoved her to the ground. The sky spun. She saw several of the other men converging on her. The next instant her wrists and ankles were seized in cruel grips, her limbs jerked wide, her skirts thrown high on her thighs. The leader crouched beside her, chuckling at her futile struggles. She heard Amy screaming. Helplessness welled within her.
Not Amy.

Then Aunt Rachel’s voice rang out. ‘‘Freeze, you miserable bastards!’’

Loretta wrenched her head around to see Aunt Rachel on the porch, skirts billowing, rifle to her shoulder.

‘‘Move and I’ll blow your head clean off. Let those girls up, go get your horses, and ride out.’’

The man who held Amy’s arms pulled his knife and pressed it to the child’s larynx. ‘‘Shoot, ma’am, and I’ll slit this little gal’s gullet.’’

Rachel’s lips went white.

‘‘Now, you jist put down that rifle, real slow and easy like. That is, you better, if you don’t want her dead.’’

Loretta tossed her head, trying desperately to get up. ‘‘No, Aunt Rachel, don’t do it! Shoot him! Shoot him!’’

The Comanchero leader slapped Loretta’s mouth.
‘‘¡Silencio!’’
he hissed.

The taste of blood spilled across Loretta’s tongue.

Rachel slowly lowered the rifle to the porch, her eyes gigantic splashes of blue. The moment she was unarmed, one of the men leaped onto the porch, kicked the rifle across the planks, and grabbed Rachel’s hair. Dragging her behind him out into the yard, he snarled, ‘‘Three! This is our lucky day, Santos! For an old one, she ain’t bad. Nice tits.’’

‘‘Did I not tell you we would have a good time?’’ The Comanchero leader smiled and leaned over Loretta. Grasping the neckline of her dress in his fists, he said, ‘‘And now, let us see what we have here, pretty one.’’

With that, he ripped Loretta’s homespun from neck to waist, laying bare her chemise. Looking up into his eyes, Loretta knew nothing would forestall him from taking what he wanted. Amy’s screams pierced the air. Loretta strained against the cruel hands that held her wrists and ankles, remembering the times Hunter had held her thus, how gentle his grip had been in comparison.

As the Comanchero cupped his hands around the fullness of her breasts, his attention shifted to the medallion she had been wearing, concealed from Uncle Henry under her dress. His bleary eyes sharpened, then went wide. He jerked his hands away and quickly crossed himself.

‘‘¡Jesucristo!’’
He scrambled backward, his gaze riveted to Loretta’s heaving chest. ‘‘El Lobo!’’ he cried. ‘‘Do not touch her.’’

As if by magic, Loretta found herself unhanded. She blinked dazedly, not quite sure what had happened. Indeed, the yard had gone deathly silent. She sat up slowly, clutching her ruined bodice. The men who held Amy were studies in motion, their eyes wide with fear. Loretta glanced down.
What in blazes?

She stared at the crude stone medallion that rose and fell against her bosom. And then it struck her. El Lobo, the wolf. Hunter of the Wolf. Her friend had protected her with something more than just lances in the yard. He had left his mark on her person.
You will wear it for always?