Comanche Moon (54 page)

There wasn’t time to think beyond that. Driven now by desperation, Loretta ran back toward the village, shock numbing her to the horror as she searched for a glimpse of Amy or Hunter. Bodies, everywhere bodies. She skirted a tepee and headed for Hunter’s mother’s lodge, hoping Amy might have been there when the attack began. As she raced across the central clearing, she saw Many Horses, Hunter’s father, running into the fray to grab a little girl who stood in frozen terror, screaming for her parents.

Just as Many Horses reached the child, a rifle shot rang out. A blotch of crimson appeared on the old man’s chest. He staggered, clamping his hand over the wound, staring stupidly at the blood pouring through his fingers. Then he crashed to the ground, one arm flung toward the child, who had begun stamping her feet, frenzied. Her would-be rescuer was dead, and his murderer was once again taking aim, this time at her.

Loretta threw herself forward into a race with death, the finish line a helpless little girl. Her mind had stopped assimilating what was happening. This couldn’t be real. None of it could be real. Hunter, where was Hunter? Loretta reached the little girl and snatched her up into her arms.

Slaughter.
Numb, unable to think, Loretta clutched the screaming child to her chest, turning a slow circle, her dazed eyes skimming the bodies for Hunter, for Amy, for Maiden of the Tall Grass and her children. She heard a shallow moaning sound and realized the sounds erupted from her own throat.

She Who Shakes.
She lay before her lodge, a wooden spoon cradled in one limp hand, her eyes staring sightlessly.
Old Man.
Shot in the back.
Hog.
He was running toward Loretta, expression wild, long hair streaming.

‘‘Toniets!’’
he snarled as he reached her, his voice barely audible above the reports of the many guns.
‘‘Toniets! Namiso!’’

Run quickly! Now! The words entered Loretta’s brain and congealed there. ‘‘Many Horses! Hog, we can’t leave him!’’

‘‘Ein habbe we-ich-ket!’’
he roared. ‘‘You seek death!
Toniets,
run!
Nah-ich-ka,
you hear?’’

She had to find Amy and Hunter. ‘‘Hog, where’s Hunter? Does he have Amy with him? I can’t find them! I can’t find them!’’

‘‘The trees! She ran to the trees!’’ Hog threw an arm in the direction Amy had gone. ‘‘Go!
Namiso,
woman! Hunter isn’t here!’’

Still clutching the child, Loretta bolted.
Toniets,
run fast!
Namiso,
now! The two languages danced in her mind, whirring, jumbled. She didn’t know who she was anymore. She only knew she must flee from the monstrous
tosi tivo
who would kill her and the child she carried in her arms.

Halfway to the trees, Loretta was intercepted by a shaky, wild-eyed Amy. ‘‘Loretta, where’s Hunter? Where’s Hunter?’’

Breathing a prayer of thankfulness, Loretta snagged Amy’s arm and pulled her toward cover. ‘‘I don’t know! He isn’t here, he isn’t here!’’

As they gained the trees, Loretta scanned the brush for the log where she had hidden the baby. Spying it, she shoved Amy along in front of her, heedless of the branches that tore at their faces and hair. Amy dove behind the log. Relieved to hear the infant still crying in the foliage, Loretta hid as well, clinging to the wailing little girl. Peering through the trees, she watched those less fortunate, running, dying. Their screams rose in the sky, eerie and shrill, to be eclipsed by silence.
Many Horses.
Loretta’s heart twisted.

‘‘Loretta! That little boy! He’s running the wrong way!’’

Loretta leaned forward to see. Beyond the trees, a child raced in blind panic, first one direction, then another. A horseman rode out from between some nearby lodges. At any moment he might notice the child and kill him. Loretta tensed. Shoving the little girl into Amy’s arms, she vaulted over the log and sprinted in a crouch through the undergrowth. When she gained the clearing, she snatched the little boy by his arm and dove with him into the brush. He flung his arms around Loretta’s neck, sobbing and shaking.

‘‘Toquet, mah-tao-yo,’’
she crooned. ‘‘It is well, little one.
Ka taikay,
don’t cry. Shh-h,
toquet.
’’

The words worked their magic. Loretta closed her eyes, hugging the child, memories of Hunter curling around her like warm, loving arms. Then the loud thud of a horse’s hooves jerked her back to reality. She stared at the man on horseback who had ridden out moments ago from between the lodges. He reined in his horse and threw his rifle to his shoulder. Loretta craned to see through the brush. An Indian man sped toward the trees.
Red Buffalo.
For an instant Loretta was glad. He deserved to die, and who better to kill him than a murdering
tosi tivo
? Then Hunter’s face flashed in her head, his eyes aching with sadness because she had refused to forgive his cousin.

Setting the child away from her, Loretta sprang to her feet. There was no time to think, only to act. She charged from the trees, running toward the mounted man, her pulse thundering.
Hunter.
He had lost his wife and child, his father, and God only knew who else. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Love for him lent her speed, her legs churning, eating up the distance. She saw the white man grow still, sighting in, tensing to pull the trigger. With a screech, she covered the last few feet in a leap and threw all her weight against the horse. The animal lurched and sidestepped, making his rider lose his bead on his target. The rifle exploded harmlessly into the air.

Drawn up short by the gunshot, Red Buffalo whirled and saw the white man struggling to keep his seat on the horse, a golden-haired woman pummeling his thigh. The white man’s wavering rifle told the rest of the story. For a moment Red Buffalo stood rooted, his disbelieving gaze fixed on Loretta.

When she saw him hesitate, Loretta screeched, ‘‘Run, you damned fool! Run!’’

Red Buffalo dove for cover. Loretta staggered away from the horse. The white man, a giant redhead in bull denim trousers and a red flannel shirt, wheeled his mount and rode toward her. Loretta spun and tried to outrun him. He seized hold of her hair, jerking her back. Stowing his rifle, he leaned sideways and grabbed her around the waist, hauling her across his lap. The pommel of the saddle dug into her stomach. The stench of his grimy trousers made her gorge rise.

‘‘Well, now, what have we here? A purty little golden-haired squaw?’’

‘‘Let me go!’’

‘‘That your man I almost shot? That why you saved his hide?’’

Loretta flung her arm back, hitting his thigh. ‘‘Let go of me!’’

He laughed and made a fist in her blouse, pressing down on her spine with the heel of his hand. Another man rode up. ‘‘Hey, Chet, lookee here what I found!’’

Loretta saw a sorrel’s hooves churning up dust. In her upsidedown position, she couldn’t see the other ruffian’s face, only his boots and blood-splattered pants. Then she heard Amy scream her name.

‘‘Let go of her!’’ Amy yelled. ‘‘Let go of her right now!’’

‘‘Amy, no! Go back! Go back!’’

Loretta felt her captor spur his mount into a run. Craning her neck, she tried to spy Amy and caught only a glimpse of her, running toward the trees, a horse bearing down on her from behind. Then all Loretta saw was the body-littered ground spinning past.
Blood and leather. Ebony hair shining blue-black in the sunlight. Babies, children, women.
No one had been spared. Loretta heard someone screaming and realized the sounds came from her. She grabbed hold of her captor’s pant leg and, hand over hand, pushed herself up, turning on him with the only weapons she had, her fists.

‘‘You ungrateful bitch!’’

He reared back in the saddle and in the next instant struck Loretta’s jaw. Lights exploded inside her head, then everything went mercifully black.

Still preoccupied with his decision to leave his people, Hunter walked at a slow pace, his senses turned to the familiar sounds and smells of the world around him. Then, above the rush of the water, he heard a distant popping noise. He paused to listen, uncertain for a moment from what direction the noise came.
Rifle shots, coming from the village.
Panic shot through him.
An attack!

Berating himself for having wandered so far from home, he ran through the woods, his heels slugging the ground, each impact jarring through his body, his lungs whining for air. Most of the warriors were away on a hunt. Memories sped through his mind.
Loretta.
He ran faster.
Amy.
It couldn’t happen twice. It couldn’t. This time, he would get there in time. He had to.

Hunter cut a sharp turn, lunging through the brush, leaping over logs, his gaze fixed on the lodge poles that crisscrossed in clusters against the sky. The gunfire had ceased. He heard horses’ hooves thrumming in the distance.

As he approached the village, his footsteps slowed.
It was over.
Hunter stopped to gape, his mind refusing to register what he saw. Bodies littered the ground like scattered firewood. Lodges burned, the stench of leather and flesh searing his nostrils. Somewhere a baby wailed. A dog’s frenzied barking carried on the wind. Otherwise there was only silence, a heavy, deathly quiet.

‘‘Loh-rhett-ah!’’ Hunter stepped over a child’s body, scarcely registering what it was, his horrified eyes scanning the stillness. ‘‘Loh-rhett-ah!
Hah-ich-ka ein?
Say words to me!’’

A woman lay sprawled a few feet ahead of him, a young, slender woman, her black braids wrapped in ermine. A scream of rage welled in Hunter’s chest. He ran to her and fell to his knees. As he gathered her into his arms, blood smeared across his midriff and down his arms.

‘‘Maiden! Maiden!’’

Hunter grasped her chin and turned her face toward him. Her beautiful eyes met his in a sightless stare.

Chapter 25

THERE WASN’T A PLACE ON LORETTA’S BODY that didn’t ache. Still slung over her captor’s saddle, her belly, bruised by the pommel, felt as though a man had pummeled it with his fists. Her legs and arms were swollen from dangling. Blood had pooled in her head, making it throb. Hours had passed, Loretta hanging upside down, the stranger’s hand riding on her bottom. Amy was nearby. Every once in a while Loretta heard her sobbing. She wished she could go to her, comfort her, make sure she was all right.

Hunter.
If he was alive, Loretta knew he would come after her. And he had to be alive. She couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t. Life without him was inconceivable. She prayed as she had never prayed in her life, ceaselessly, with all her heart—for a man she had once hated.

She implored God to give her just one more chance—a chance to tell Hunter she would stay beside him and love him, forever with no horizon. If he had died in the attack without knowing that, a part of Loretta would die with him.

When at last the group of riders stopped for the night, Loretta was dumped off the horse like a piece of baggage. She hit the dirt in a lifeless heap, her arms and legs numb and useless. Sand gritted between her teeth. She blinked, gazing off into the twilight.
Hunter.
Oh, God, why didn’t he come? She knew he could outride these men. He should be here by now, unless he was dead.

‘‘Git up, sweet thing!’’

Loretta snapped her head around. Darting her gaze from his tall dusty boots up his blood-smeared pant legs to his soft paunch and broad chest, she focused on the redhead’s bearded face. His green eyes pierced hers through the twilight, hard and frightening. When she didn’t move, he hunkered down beside her and caught her chin in his hand, the grip of his fingers biting and cruel. The weeks rolled away, and Loretta remembered Hunter holding her this way, his grip firm but painless. She had been frightened then, too, but not in the same way. This man used his strength to intimidate, and violence glittered in his eyes. She was a breath away from being raped.

‘‘You sure are a purty thing,’’ he murmured, his voice husky. ‘‘I bet that buck of yours’ll be hot on our trail to git you back. That is if he ain’t dead.’’

The stench of the man’s body filmed the lining of Loretta’s nostrils. She hated the contemplative look on his face. If she admitted she was married to a Comanche, he would consider her fair game and use her himself. His men would follow suit with Amy. The thought made Loretta’s stomach roll. She was a woman grown, married to a wonderful man who had given her dozens of beautiful memories. No matter what these animals did to her, she’d survive. Amy might not.

‘‘I don’t have a buck who’ll come after me, so you needn’t worry,’’ she replied evenly. ‘‘Luckily, you and your men arrived in the nick of time.’’

He ran his gaze over her Indian clothing. ‘‘You’re lyin’, sweet thing. What’sa matter? You afraid I’ll get too friendly if I find out you’ve been pleasurin’ Comanches?’’

Struggling to stay calm, she said, ‘‘You’re a smart man. I heard you and your men talking. You were hired to
rescue
captives, not abuse them. Touch one of us, and it’ll be the mistake of your life. We haven’t been pleasuring anyone. And if we end up pleasuring you, I guarantee you’ll hang for it.’’

He didn’t bluff easily. Running his fingers under the string of rawhide that encircled her neck, he lifted Hunter’s medallion from under her blouse and studied the carved stone. ‘‘Appears to me like you hooked up with a chief, honey.’’ He smiled and returned the medallion to its former resting place, trailing his fingers under her blouse, his eyes holding hers. Her skin crawled where his grimy knuckles touched. ‘‘A Comanche don’t wear a wolf sign unless he’s somebody important. The wolf is sacred to ’em, their brother. No woman would have a medallion like that unless her man marked her with it.’’

‘‘No filthy Injun has put his hands on me,’’ Loretta retorted. The words ached in her throat, making her feel disloyal to Hunter. What if he was out there, hiding, listening? ‘‘One of the warriors put the medallion on me before he left on a hunting trip. Since it seemed to prevent the others from touching me or my little cousin, I continued to wear it.’’