Comanche Moon (16 page)

Loretta figured he would kill her no matter what, but it seemed a moot point. She was one woman against sixty men. Courage and prayer eluded her. Fear anchored her hands and knees to the fur. It took all her strength of will to move. Her arms shook as she crawled to lie down. Rolling onto her back, she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.

Hunter seized her left wrist in a cruel grip and swiftly lashed it to a stake.
Her mother.
She forced her mind to go blank and was scarcely aware as Hunter tied her other wrist and spread her legs to secure her ankles. When he had finished, she felt him kneel beside her. Lifting her lashes, she saw he had drawn his knife. He leaned over and slowly brought the blood-stained blade toward her face.

He was going to cut out her tongue. A metallic taste coated the roof of her mouth and puckered her palate. Rage sparkled in his indigo eyes, brilliant and brutal. The razor-sharp edge of his knife lightly grazed her cheek.

‘‘You made a lie of your promise, Blue Eyes. I said what I would do. You thought I was blowing like the wind, eh?’’ His white teeth flashed in a sneer. ‘‘The crows will be very happy birds and will fly far away with your lying tongue so it will never again lay my heart on the ground. That will be good, no? We will do it, eh? When the moon shows her face? Do not go away. You wait here for this Comanche.’’

Sheathing his knife, he rose and left her. Loretta turned her head to see that the other men were still standing there—watching, waiting. She heard Hunter go over to the oak, heard him speak, heard someone reply. Then the sound of hooves thrummed through the ground, and she realized he was riding away on the roan. The other Indians gathered their horses and walked off, clearly disappointed that their entertainment was delayed.

When the last of them had gone, Loretta stared at the darkening sky. The moon would come out soon. How long would Hunter delay her torture? An hour? Two? She should be praying, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of the words. Images of Amy and Aunt Rachel passed through her mind, the good times they had shared and the bad. Uncle Henry wasn’t so terrible, not really. She worked her wrists, trying to free them from the leather. The thin thongs cut into her skin but didn’t loosen.

Time passed. She had no idea how much. It grew so dark that red-gold auras hovered over the fires. Hunter would return soon.
Pray, draw strength, make your peace with God.

Hunter didn’t return.

Loretta wasn’t sure when it happened, but slowly her fear altered, focusing less on what Hunter might do to her and more on what could happen before he returned. Snakes, bears, wolves, cougars. She had wanted to die . . . but, please, God, not as an animal’s dinner. Or slowly, from poisonous venom.

Blackness . . . Why had she never noticed how dark the nights were? Something rustled in the brush, and she craned her neck. Shadows shifted. An animal? Or only a breath of wind? She strained against the leather, oblivious of the pain as the strips bit into her flesh. Moisture filmed her face. She heard something slither in the grass. A snake? She fastened her gaze on the closest campfire, concentrating on the light. She couldn’t see Hunter. Why hadn’t he come back yet?

A hysterical urge to laugh hit her. Of course! He had chosen the worst torture of all . . . waiting. Alone in the dark to contemplate death, either at his hands or by some beast of prey. By the time he returned, she already would have died in her mind a thousand times and in as many ways.

Moonlight shimmered on the river, silver-white where it caught in the ripples, casting the untouched surfaces of water into glistening blackness. The night wind whispered, as sadly as lost souls searching for solace, and Hunter lifted his face to it.

His hands ached from gathering rocks for Smoke’s grave. Flexing his fingers, he drew up his knees and rested his folded arms on them. He sighed and let his eyes close so his heart could drift along the path of memories, back to Smoke’s birth, then forward, recreating the moments they had shared these many years. It hurt to remember, but he knew the pain would cut deep and leave a wound that would begin to heal. A man couldn’t run from grief. In the end it always caught up to him. Better to face it now.

The muscles along Hunter’s throat tightened. As had happened so many times in his life, his grief had to walk behind his responsibilities, like a woman behind her husband. He could mourn Smoke for only a few short minutes. The yellow-hair waited, and Hunter had to return to camp.

He gazed into the darkness at the flickering shadows. Above the tops of the trees on the opposite side of the river, he could see endless stretches of starlit sky. He longed for home where the plains stretched forever, where the wind sighed through the river canyons, sweet with the smell of grass and mesquite. If only his friends hadn’t come across a mute yellow-hair and ridden to tell him.

Loretta heard something. A rustling sound. She dropped her chin to her chest and peered through the blackness, heart slamming. A black shape moved. She knew it wasn’t her imagination this time. She strained frantically against the leather strips that bound her hands. Then the shape moved between her and the flickering light of the campfires, taking on the outline of a man, a tall man who moved with fluid strength. She went weak with relief.

He gathered wood for a fire, lighting the tinder with a fire drill. It was a long, tedious process. In the moonlight, she could see the constant play of muscle across his back as he pulled the small bow back and forth. At last, though, the friction created sparks, the tinder caught fire, and the parched wood flared to life, a brilliant yellow in the darkness. Loretta longed to be closer to the heat.

Hunter brushed his palms clean on his pants, turning to give her a long perusal. Her heart nearly stopped, she was so scared.

The fire cast its light over him. Outlined against the blackness, he looked more like an artist’s carving than a flesh-and-blood man, his chest and arms burnished copper, his pants and moccasins muted gold. Flickering shadows danced across his face, obscuring his features.

With pantherlike grace he walked toward her, his feet seeming to skim the earth. As he neared the pallet, he pulled his knife from its sheath. Loretta jerked. As he knelt beside her, she strained away. His piercing blue-black eyes locked with hers.

Offering no explanation for his clemency, he bent over her and cut the leather that bound her wrists. Then, with the same quick precision, he slashed the leather that secured her feet and sheathed his knife, not speaking, not looking at her again. Scarcely able to believe he wasn’t going to do something horrible, Loretta slowly sat up and rubbed her wrists, watching him. He walked to his leather bags and rummaged in them. When he returned, he tossed a piece of jerked meat in her lap, keeping another for himself.

Closing her hand around the meager fare, she bowed her head and blinked back tears. She was acutely aware of him as he crouched by the fire. The night air nipped at her feverish skin, but she didn’t dare join him to warm herself. He tore off a piece of meat with his teeth and began to chew. At least she didn’t need to worry that the jerky was poisoned. She had no idea what kind of meat it might be.

Thinking about food made her stomach growl. It seemed like a century since she’d eaten. She uncurled her hand and studied the meat. It looked pretty much like the jerked venison from home. Her mouth started to water. Hunter was gazing into the fire, either ignoring her or pretending he was. She sneaked a bite. A delicious smoke flavor filled her mouth as she rolled the tough fibers across her tongue. She glanced at him and thought she detected a glimpse of a smile, but when she looked again his mouth had settled into its familiar grim lines, his jaw muscle bunching as he chewed.

Loretta took another tiny bite. Then a bigger one. The meat tasted so good; she couldn’t swallow fast enough. Her stomach growled again, so loudly that Hunter glanced over. She averted her face and stopped chewing, reluctant to let him know she was actually enjoying something he had given her. The moment he looked away, she stuffed the remainder in her mouth.

When he finished his portion, he retrieved the other buffalo fur from where he had kicked it earlier and stretched out on his back beside her. Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the space next to him. Loretta curled up on her side, as close to the edge of the pallet as she could. She jumped when she felt his hand in her hair. When she realized that he had wrapped a length of it around his wrist, helpless rage welled within her.

Miserable, Loretta hugged herself to ward off the cold, too proud and too frightened to seek warmth with him under the fur. He sighed and yawned, draping a corner of the robe over her. Accidentally? Or on purpose? She couldn’t be sure.

Heat radiated from his body and immediately began to warm her back. Loretta fought against the desire to inch closer and hugged herself more tightly. It really wasn’t that cold tonight. It just felt that way because of her sunburn. Oh, but she was chilled. So chilled she felt sick—hot on the inside, shaking on the outside. When she closed her eyes, her head whirled. If only he would throw more wood on the fire.

Seconds slipped by, mounting into minutes, and still Loretta huddled in a shivering ball. The Comanche lay motionless beside her. Warmth seeped from his body, beckoning to her. She cocked an ear, trying to tell by his breathing if he was awake.

She’d be crazy to move closer unless he was asleep. If he was, he’d never know, would he? And she could warm herself, stop shivering. He had to be asleep. Nobody could lie that still otherwise.

She wriggled her bottom over just a little way, then held her breath. He didn’t move. For a long while she lay there listening, waiting. Nothing. She moved in another inch. He remained perfectly still. Loretta relaxed a little, taking care not to lean so close she touched him. In a few minutes she would grow warm and ease away, and he would be none the wiser.

With no warning, he rolled onto his side. He threw a heavy arm across her waist, splaying his broad hand on her midriff just below her breasts. With an ease that alarmed her, he pulled her snugly against him, scraping her sunburned thigh on the fur. His well-padded chest felt as warm as a fire against her back. He bent his knees so his thighs cradled hers. For several seconds Loretta held herself rigid, not sure what to expect next, imagining the worst.

He nuzzled her hair, his breath warm on her scalp. Was he asleep? She stared at the fire, her nerve endings leaping every time he inhaled and exhaled, every time his fingers flexed.

Slowly the heat from his body chased the chill from hers. Loretta’s eyelids grew heavy. The wind whispering in the treetops seemed peaceful now, not frightening. The shifting shadows that had terrified her for hours became just that, shifting shadows.

A branch cracked somewhere in the darkness. A large animal of some kind, she guessed. It didn’t matter. Wolf, bear, coyote, or cougar, Hunter the terrible was beside her. Nothing would dare challenge him.

Her thoughts drifted and grew blurred. Sadness washed over her when she remembered the horse. She relaxed and leaned against her captor. A soot-black blanket of exhaustion settled over her.

A fly buzzed around Loretta’s face. Dimly she recognized the sound, aware that morning had come and that the Comanche lay beside her. In another part of her mind, that dark, shadowy part where nightmares lurked, the buzzing magnified and carried her back in time, to another muggy morning, to the loud buzzing of other flies, and to horror.

She was in the storm cellar. . . .

It was strangely quiet outside. The cow didn’t low. The chickens didn’t cluck. The pigs didn’t grunt. Just a heavy silence, except for the flies buzzing. Maybe that was why they sounded so loud, because there wasn’t any other noise. One thing was for sure, the Comanches were gone. No more yipping. No more laughter. Pa wouldn’t care if she came out now, would he? Even though he hadn’t come back yet, like he promised.

Loretta pressed her palm against the rough planks of the door and pushed. The hinges creaked, and sunlight spilled across her face, the brightness blinding. She stumbled up the steps and out into the yard. The wind picked up, fluttering some blue cloth that was lying on the ground a few feet away. Loretta didn’t look at it.

Instead she walked to the house. Up onto the porch, through the door, into the kitchen. The bottoms of her shoes felt hot, but she didn’t pay them any mind. It was long past time for chores. She hadn’t done her milching, hadn’t fed the pigs or chickens. Pa would be mighty perturbed if he woke up and found her loafing.

He
would
wake up. Here shortly. He and Ma both. She’d just go on about the chores as usual. And pretty soon they’d wake up. They had to.

The handle of the milch bucket blistered Loretta’s palm as she picked it up and carried it out of the kitchen, across the yard to the barn. At first she didn’t notice, so intent was she on her own thoughts; eventually, however, the pain began to nag at the edges of her mind, tugging her back to reality. Then she heard the flies. The buzzing was so loud that she slowed her steps and turned.
Flies.
They swarmed all around her, landing, biting through the cloth of her dress, crawling everywhere her skin wasn’t covered.

Ten feet from her, the blue cloth still fluttered in the breeze, calling to her. Unnerved, she forced her gaze back to the house—only the house had been reduced to cinders. Smoke trailed skyward in feeble wisps from the crumbled remains.

A terrible smell assailed Loretta’s nostrils. She knew its source. She wouldn’t look down at the blue cloth. She would keep her eyes lifted to the sky, block it all out. It would go away if she pretended hard enough. It would! Ma said anything could come true if a body wished hard enough. And Loretta was wishing harder than she ever had. She had to. Otherwise this would all be real. And her parents would be—they would be—