Comanche Moon (8 page)

His eyes glittered as dark as polished obsidian, routing through the twilight to find her. The touch of his gaze sent a shock coursing through her. Never had she seen such smoldering anger. As he stepped toward her she shrank back, her attention falling to the blood-stained knife he held in his hand.

Throwing out an arm behind her, she groped for the wagon board. If she could vault over it and run, she might have a chance. Her hand met air. She stared at the knife and imagined how it would feel plunging into her body. The Comanche glanced down. When he saw what she was looking at, he sheathed the weapon and held his empty hands out to his sides. There was no mistaking the gesture, but she wasn’t reassured.

He advanced another step, and she slithered in retreat, slamming her back against the wagon board. He was too close for her to get away now, and he kept coming, his moccasins touching soundlessly on the floor. When he dropped to one knee on the scattered straw in front of her, Loretta flattened herself against the wood behind her. When he reached for her, she wriggled sideways into the corner. She heard a shallow panting sound and realized dimly that it was her own breathing. He slid his hand inside her unbuttoned bodice and pressed his palm against her ribs. The heat of his touch through the thin cloth of her chemise took her breath as effectively as Henry’s bouncing had. She jerked away, clamped both arms around herself, and hunched her shoulders. He whispered something—a Comanche word—and locked gazes with her. Poised there as he was, he blocked any route of escape. Loretta began to tremble.

‘‘Toquet,’’
he whispered again.

She had no inkling of what the word meant, only that the sound of it was inexplicably soft, completely at odds with the harshness of his expression. His dark hair hung loose, wisping like a curtain around his powerfully muscled shoulders, its only decoration a long, thin braid on the left side of his head. The long hair alone made him seem frightening and foreign. The scar that slashed his cheek, unquestionably inflicted by a knife, emphasized his savagery even more.

He seized her wrists and pried her arms from her belly, forcing them to her sides before he released her. Then, so quickly she couldn’t react, he clamped one large hand on her shoulder, anchoring her so she couldn’t move, and slid his other back inside her bodice. When she started to struggle, he snarled something in Comanche that left her in no doubt he wanted her to be still. Terror proved a powerful persuader. She tried not to recoil as his fingers traced each of her ribs, pressing and probing, from the center of her chest around to her spine. By the time she realized he only wanted to check her for injuries, he had already finished and let go of her.

He sat back on his heel, arms draped on his bent knee, shoulders forward. As relaxed as he appeared, power emanated from his body, electrifying the air around her like the building intensity of lightning right before a storm. The smell of wood smoke, musk, and leather mingled with the straw and surrounded her.

He was staring at her. . . .

Loretta’s mouth went dry as dust, and she did the only thing she knew to do, which was stare back. His eyes rested first on her hair. From the contempt she read in his expression, she got the feeling that he found her as revolting to look at as she did him. Next, he studied her face. Pride lifted her chin a notch. She was no raving beauty, but he was no prize either. She returned his regard, searching his features for flaws. With a shock, she realized she couldn’t find any. Minus the scar, his face might even be handsome, if it belonged to a white man.

After what seemed an interminably long while, he unsheathed a small knife that hung from the back of his belt. She forgot all about her pride and shrank from him. He tossed up her skirt and grabbed her right ankle. For a moment she thought he meant to steal her only remaining pair of underwear—this time while she was still wearing them. Instead he slipped the knife inside her boot. Her skin tingled where his fingers had pressed. She stared at the hand-carved hilt of the weapon lying against her white drawers. What in Hades had he put it there for?

He rose in one fluid movement and placed a hand on the sideboard to vault out of the wagon. Turning, he held out his arms to her. Pushing unsteadily to her feet, she stepped back. He glanced over his shoulder toward the house, then looked at her again, clearly growing impatient. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the waist and swung her to the ground, steadying her until she had her balance. He was at least a head taller than Henry, so tall that, standing close, she had to crane her neck to see his face. Their eyes met for a moment. Then, as if he were made of shadows, he sprinted across the barnyard, jumped the fence as if it weren’t there, and disappeared into the trees.

Numb with shock, Loretta turned to run. The moment she moved, she felt the cold metal of his knife pricking her ankle. She lifted her skirt and jerked the disgusting thing from her boot. With a shudder, she tossed it next to the wagon and walked backward for a moment, rubbing her fingers clean on her dress.

‘‘Loretta!’’

She turned to see Aunt Rachel running around the corner of the barn, skirts flying, a rifle in one hand. Rachel skidded to a stop next to the wagon and threw the butte of the Sharps carbine to her shoulder, scanning the woods. ‘‘H-Henry t-told me. Where the devil are they? Get behind me, Loretta. Hurry.’’

Loretta hesitated, but only for an instant. As Uncle Henry had said, there was no rhyme or reason to what Indians did. Hunter might let her live one moment, then hack her to death the next. She got behind her aunt, and the two of them backed through the gate and followed the wagon ruts to the house.

When they got inside, they found Henry lying on the bed moaning. Loretta hung back by the door to button her bodice, her attention riveted to her uncle’s bloody shirt. Surely his chin hadn’t bled that much. The way he was carrying on, a body would have thought— Loretta stepped closer, staring in puzzlement. The left side of his shirt was hanging off him in shreds. Through the slitted cloth, she could see shallow cuts in the flesh over his ribs. Amy was at the stove, moistening a rag with water from the kettle. Her small face was pinched and pale when she looked at Loretta.

‘‘You okay? They didn’t—’’ Amy’s gaze dropped to Loretta’s half-buttoned dress. ‘‘Wh-what did they do to you?’’

‘‘Hush, Amy, and get me that rag over here.’’ Rachel leaned the Sharps against the wall next to the bed and dropped to her knees beside her husband. With trembling hands, she grabbed the front of his shirt and ripped it open, gasping when she got a good look at his cuts. ‘‘Oh, Henry, you could’ve been killed.’’

Henry ran his hand over her tousled hair. ‘‘Now, now, I’m fine, and Loretta’s fine. That’s what counts.’’

‘‘Only because you—’’ Rachel’s voice caught. ‘‘Oh, Henry, can you ever forgive me for how I acted yesterday? Only a brave man would have stood alone against that many Comanches.’’

‘‘I done no more than any man would’ve done.’’ Henry’s blue gaze lifted to Loretta’s, and he smiled. Coldness washed over her. ‘‘I wasn’t really brave. When them Injuns jumped out, I stood my ground because there weren’t no choice. The first chance I got, I ran like hell. We didn’t stand a prayer without a gun. To save Loretta I had to get up here to the house. Wasn’t till I was halfway here that I even realized they’d cut me. It was plumb scary, I’ll tell ya, three of ’em comin’ at me, and me with nothin’ but my skinnin’ knife to fight ’em off.’’

‘‘Well, thank God you aren’t cut deep. It’s nothing short of a miracle.’’

It was more like a fantasy, but Loretta couldn’t say so.

Henry glanced down at his lacerated ribs. ‘‘From the blood, I thought it was worse.’’ His gaze lifted. ‘‘You okay, girl? Did your aunt Rachel git there in time to stop—’’ He glanced at her bodice. ‘‘They didn’t—violate you, did they?’’

Loretta shook her head and averted her face. Henry had slashed his ribs with his own knife? Knowing Henry, the cuts were superficial, but it was still an act born of desperation. If it hadn’t been so horrible, it would have been funny.

Amy came up to Loretta and hugged her waist. Loretta tried to return the hug, but after what Henry had just done, being touched, even by Amy, made her skin crawl. Pulling away, she scurried up the loft ladder and threw herself on the bunk. Burying her face in the pillow, she pounded the ticking with her fists. She hated Henry Masters—hated him—hated him. Life out here on this godforsaken farm was bitter enough without having to watch her back every second. Now she wouldn’t dare even take a walk by herself for fear he might follow her.

Her anger spent, she rolled onto her side to stare out the window. Minutes passed before she noticed something lying on the sill. She sat up to see what it was. Disbelief swept through her.
The Comanche’s knife.
She curled her fingers around the hilt. The carved wood felt warm against her palm as if the heat of his hand still lingered upon it. Remembering the mocking gleam she had seen in Henry’s eye, Loretta clutched the knife to her bosom. She wouldn’t throw the weapon away again. She didn’t dare.

The following morning, dawn was heralded by approaching riders, and every member of the Masters household hit the floor in a mad dash. There was no time to dress before a deep voice resounded from outside. ‘‘White-Eyes, we come as friends.’’ The words froze Loretta midstride, her pulse thundering in her temples. Tom hadn’t made it in time.

‘‘Oh, my God,’’ Henry croaked. ‘‘Rachel, can you see my boots? Dammit, load the rifles.’’

Loretta scrambled down the loft ladder, so scared she didn’t even think about Uncle Henry seeing her in the skimpy summer nightgown. She lunged for the rumpled bed so she could hide Amy. Even as she did, she knew it was useless. There wasn’t time.

Henry swore when he saw her wrestling with the bedstead. ‘‘Forgit that. Git to the other window, girl. Rachel! You’re in charge of loading.’’

‘‘Come out, White-Eyes,’’ the voice called. ‘‘I bring gifts, not bloodshed.’’

Henry, wearing nothing but his pants and the bandages Aunt Rachel had wrapped around his chest the night before, hopped on one foot as he dragged on a boot. By the time he reached the window, he had both boots on, laces flapping. Rachel gave him a rifle. He threw open the shutter and jerked down the skin, shoving the barrel out the opening. ‘‘What brings you here?’’

‘‘The woman. I bring many horses in trade.’’

Loretta ran to the left window, throwing back the shutters and unfastening the membrane to peek out. The Comanche turned to meet her gaze, his dark eyes expressionless, penetrating, all the more luminous from the black graphite that outlined them. Her hands tightened on the rough sill, nails digging the wood.

He looked magnificent. Even she had to admit that. Savage, frightening . . . but strangely beautiful. Eagle feathers waved from the crown of his head, the painted tips pointed downward, the quills fastened in the slender braid that hung in front of his left ear. His cream-colored hunting shirt enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the chest decorated with intricate beadwork, painted animal claws, and white strips of fur. He wore two necklaces, one of bear claws, the other a flat stone medallion, both strung on strips of rawhide. His buckskin breeches were tucked into knee-high moccasins.

Her gaze shifted to the strings of riderless ponies behind him. She couldn’t believe their number. Thirty? Possibly forty? Beyond the animals were at least sixty half-naked warriors on horseback. Loretta wondered why Hunter had come fully clothed in all his finery with wolf rings painted around his eyes. The others wore no shirts or feathers, and their faces were bare.

‘‘I come for the woman,’’ the Comanche repeated, never taking his gaze from her. ‘‘And I bring my finest horses to console her father for his loss. Fifty, all trained to ride.’’ His black sidestepped and whinnied. The Indian swayed easily with his mount. ‘‘Send me the woman, and have no fear. She will come to no harm walking in my footsteps, for I am strong and swift. She will never feel hunger, for I am a fine hunter. My lodge will shelter her from the winter rain, and my buffalo robes will shield her from the cold. I have spoken it.’’

Aunt Rachel crossed herself. ‘‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray—’’

‘‘We don’t sell our womenfolk,’’ Henry called back.

‘‘You sicken my gut,
tosi tivo.
After you had bedded her, you would have sold her to that dirty old man.’’ With a sneer twisting his lips, he lifted Tom Weaver’s wool riding blanket from his horse’s withers and tossed it to the dirt. ‘‘Better you sell her to me. I am young. I will give her many fine sons. She will not wail over my death for many winters.’’

‘‘I’d rather shoot her, you murdering bastard,’’ Henry retorted.

‘‘Then do it and make your death song.’’ The Comanche wheeled his horse, riding close to the window where Loretta stood. ‘‘Where is the
herbi
with such great courage who came out to face us once before? Does she still sleep? Will you hide behind your wooden walls and let your loved ones die? Come out, Yellow Hair, and meet your destiny.’’

Sweat trickled down Loretta’s spine. Her destiny? Her eyes flew to Tom’s blanket. They had slain him. She refastened the doeskin with shaking hands, remembering how gently Tom had hugged her the night he left.

The rifle Aunt Rachel had loaded for her rested against the wall. The temptation to use it was almost overwhelming. With her heart in her throat, Loretta looked at her uncle, knowing before he spoke that he would send her out there.

‘‘They’ll kill us,’’ was Henry’s response to her pleading expression. ‘‘I got to think of my family. You ain’t one of us, not really. I have Rachel and Amy to think of first.’’

Rachel and Amy? Looking into her uncle’s eyes, Loretta read cold, crawling fear, and it wasn’t for his womenfolk. It was one thing to sacrifice her life to save the others, but it was another to be sold. Dying was quick, at least.
Many winters.
Dear Lord, belonging to that Comanche would mean a lifetime of slavery, groveling for mercy from an animal who didn’t know the meaning of the word.