Comanche Moon (56 page)

‘‘That was different.’’

‘‘No it wasn’t. They hurt me, and Hunter killed them. Are you sayin’ he shouldn’t have?’’

‘‘No.’’ Rachel pulled the lid off the kettle with a shaking hand, her eyes searching Amy’s, her face draining of color. ‘‘If Santos and his men—’’ She broke off and touched her daughter’s shoulder. ‘‘Amy, darling. What did they—’’

‘‘What they did to me ain’t important! What’s important is that Hunter came and got me, Ma! And then he fought for me. And you’re sayin’ he was wrong?’’

Rachel let her hand fall to her side. ‘‘No. If Santos and his men—if they—’’ Her eyes darkened. ‘‘They would’ve been hung. I reckon it’s no worse that your friend Hunter punished them for us.’’

‘‘But it’d be wrong if he punished those mercenaries?’’

Loretta stepped forward. ‘‘Amy, love, this subject might be better left for later.’’

‘‘No! I want to talk about it now!’’

Rachel’s face had blanched chalky white. ‘‘Who have the mercenaries harmed, Amy? They’re on
our
side.’’

‘‘Our side? They killed babies, Ma! And little children! Are you sayin’ Indian babies ain’t the same as our babies?’’

‘‘No, of course not.’’

‘‘Then what are you sayin’?’’ Tears welled in Amy’s eyes. ‘‘You weren’t there! You don’t know! But I was! I saw what those men did. I saw their faces while they was doin’ it. I hope they die. I hope they die slow and horrible!’’ She whirled away. ‘‘I wish I was back with Swift Antelope, that’s what!’’

With that, Amy flew up the loft ladder, her sobs echoing throughout the tiny house. Loretta found herself the object of three accusing stares. Licking her lips, she said, ‘‘Amy has been through a trying time. It’s gonna be a while before either of us forgets, if ever.’’

Rachel turned toward the stairs.

‘‘No, Aunt Rachel, don’t. Leave her be for a bit. Give her a chance to settle in.’’

‘‘But she needs me. She needs to talk it out.’’

‘‘She’ll talk to you when she’s ready,’’ Loretta said gently. ‘‘She needs time. She knows you love her.’’

‘‘Amy talks about that bastard Hunter like he’s reg’lar people,’’ Henry hissed.

Loretta walked over to the window and unfastened the doeskin membrane to gaze out into the twilight. She curled her fingers around the windowsill, digging her nails into the wood. Gazing up at the rise, she remembered Hunter’s gentleness with Amy when he brought her back to the village after her ordeal with Santos. ‘‘Uncle Henry, you may as well know. That bastard you hate so much is my husband.’’ Wood splintered from under Loretta’s fingernails. ‘‘I married him before a priest, and I—I love him. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak ill of him in front of me.’’

Behind her, the cabin grew so quiet that Loretta could hear the others breathing. Rigid, she waited for the explosion. It wasn’t long in coming.

‘‘Say what?’’ Henry cried.

‘‘Hunter is my husband.’’ Repeating the words lent her courage. She turned from the window to face her uncle, who had lurched to his feet. ‘‘We’re married, and our union is blessed by the church.’’

‘‘He forced you?’’

‘‘Unlike some I know, Hunter has never
forced
me to do anything.’’ She met Henry’s gaze, well aware her meaning wasn’t lost on him. ‘‘He’s never mistreated me in any way, never intimidated me. I’m proud to be his wife. When he comes for me, I’ll be going with him.’’

‘‘Jesus Lord, she’s lost her mind,’’ Henry whispered. He sank onto the bench, looking like a billows that had just been emptied of air. ‘‘Go with him? Back to the Comanches? Rachel, talk sense to her. I never heard of such.’’

Making a visible effort not to follow Amy up the stairs, Rachel searched her niece’s eyes, then sighed. ‘‘I reckon if she loves him, Henry, all the talkin’ in the world won’t change it. Loretta? Are you sure of this?’’

‘‘Yes. I love him, with all my heart.’’

‘‘You’ll go with him over my dead body,’’ Henry blustered.

‘‘That can be arranged,’’ Loretta replied softly.

Henry’s face flamed. He started up from the bench again, fists doubled, then remembered they had company. But even if Mr. Steinbach hadn’t been there, Loretta wouldn’t have been afraid.

‘‘Does this mean I’ll never see you again?’’ Rachel asked in a thin voice.

Loretta tamped down her fear that she might be living too far away to return home. ‘‘I’ll come see you here. Hunter promised he’d bring me often, and he never breaks a promise.’’

‘‘Over my dead—’’ Henry bit the words off, his neck swelling. ‘‘If you cross that doorstep to leave, Loretta Jane, don’t never let your shadow fall across it again. Any woman who takes up with them animals ain’t fit to be around decent folks.’’

Loretta straightened her shoulders. ‘‘If that’s how you feel, then I’ll wait for my husband outside.’’ Turning, she moved toward the door.

‘‘You’re mighty sure of yourself, ain’t ya?’’ Henry barked. ‘‘I mean it, young lady. Walk out that door and you ain’t welcome back. What if he don’t come?’’

‘‘He’ll come.’’

Loretta lifted the bar, stepped out onto the porch, and closed the door behind her. She sat down with her back pressed against the well to wait.

Over an hour later Aunt Rachel brought her a trencher of stew. Loretta accepted it, trying not to show her unease. Hunter should have been here by now.

‘‘Loretta Jane, if you’d like to come back in, Henry said you could. All you gotta do is apologize.’’

Loretta glanced toward the rise again. Hunter would come. ‘‘Thank you, Aunt Rachel, but no. I’ve made my choice. Besides, he’d only say more things about Hunter, and I’d be out here again before I knew it.’’

‘‘You truly do love him, don’t you?’’ Rachel bunched her skirts in her fists and sat down, settling her back against the well. ‘‘Tell me. Help me understand.’’

Loretta smiled. ‘‘Why I love him, you mean?’’ Her smile faded, and she sighed. ‘‘Oh, Aunt Rachel, how do you explain love? Hunter says it springs up from a hidden place, and I think he must be right. I sure didn’t set out to love him or even like him.’’ She shot Rachel a sidelong glance. ‘‘I hated Comanches worse than Uncle Henry, remember? But Hunter’s a
good
man, a wonderful man. What more can I say? If only you could have seen him with Amy after— Has Amy talked to you yet? About what happened with the Comancheros?’’

‘‘Words aren’t necessary. I’m her mother. It was there in her eyes. So much—hate, and fear. I didn’t know what to say to her, she took me so off guard. They raped her, didn’t they? The whole bunch of them?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Rachel took a steadying breath. ‘‘And Hunter killed them all?’’

‘‘To a man.’’

Curling her hands into white-knuckled fists, Rachel averted her face for a moment. ‘‘I’m likin’ him better by the second.’’

‘‘Hunter was so good with Amy.’’ Loretta’s voice grew husky as she related the story. ‘‘Amy will never be truly over it. I reckon what happened will be with her forever. But Hunter gave her back her pride, Aunt Rachel.’’

‘‘I reckon.’’ Rachel turned haunted eyes on Loretta. ‘‘Who is Swift Antelope?’’

Upon hearing the name, Loretta smiled, and a feeling of warmth spread through her. ‘‘Amy’s special friend.’’

‘‘Special?’’

‘‘Her beau.’’ She cleared her throat, reluctant to reveal too much. ‘‘Amy’s right fond of him. And he’s been wonderful for her. I reckon that’s all I should say. The rest must come from Amy.’’

Rachel seemed to accept that. ‘‘Is he—’’ She broke off and heaved a ragged sigh. ‘‘Lord, I can’t believe I’m askin’ this, but is he a nice young man?’’

‘‘As fine as you’ll find anywhere. But what counts most, Aunt Rachel, is that Swift Antelope doesn’t care about what the Comancheros did to Amy—not in the way a white boy would. He’s sad she’s suffered, of course, but in his mind she’s still chaste and sweet and wonderful. That counts for a powerful lot with Amy, especially now, while she’s healing. You shouldn’t talk against Swift Antelope. You understand? Let things take their natural course. The Comanches believe yesterday is gone on the wind. Amy’s ordeal is gone with it. She needs to believe that.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Rachel’s mouth turned down and quivered. ‘‘I’ll say nothing against her Swift Antelope. God knows she needs a special friend right now.’’ She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. After a long while she seemed to come to grips with her thoughts and sighed. Clasping Loretta’s hand, she asked, ‘‘You think this Hunter of yours’ll like me?’’

Loretta set her trencher aside and gave her aunt a hard hug. ‘‘Oh, Aunt Rachel, I love you. It makes me so glad to have your blessing.’’

Suddenly Rachel stiffened. ‘‘Speak of the devil, there he comes.’’

Joy surged through Loretta. She leaped to her feet and ran toward the gate. Up on the rise she could see horses and riders outlined against the darkening sky. The Comanches reined in, forming a sparse front rank, a few others pulling in behind them. Loretta’s footsteps dragged to a stop. Even at this distance and with poor light, she could see the men wore war paint. Her heart plummeted. Surely Hunter didn’t believe she had willingly left with his people’s murderers?

‘‘Go into the house, Aunt Rachel,’’ Loretta called.

‘‘Why? What is it?’’

‘‘I’m not sure. He comes in anger.’’

‘‘You come with me, then!’’

Loretta swallowed an upsurge of fear. One Indian was taller on horseback than all the rest, broader across the shoulders and chest.
Hunter.
She kept her gaze on him. A month ago she would have fled in panic. She would never run from him again. ‘‘Go to the house, Aunt Rachel. Pull the shutters. Do as I say!’’

Loretta began walking again, afraid yet not afraid. A war party of Comanches was an intimidating spectacle, even to her, but the man she loved rode with them. Before she reached the gate, the warriors urged their horses forward. Instead of attacking, though, as she had feared they might, they rode the perimeters of the property, driving lances into the earth every few feet. Once again Hunter had come to mark her home.

Loretta no sooner realized that than she also realized that Hunter wouldn’t mark the property if he intended to take her with him.
He was leaving her.
She bolted into a run.

‘‘Hunter! Hunter, please . . .’’ She gained the gate and watched in helpless despair as the warriors sped past on their mounts, sending up such a cloud of dust that she couldn’t tell which man was Hunter. ‘‘Hunter, at least talk to me!’’

If Hunter heard her, he paid her no heed. Moments later the war party withdrew and rode over the rise. Loretta stood there, staring. Was Hunter divorcing her because of the
tosi tivo
attack?

As hurt as she was, Loretta could muster no anger. It was her own fault he was leaving her. The night before the attack, she had vowed to leave him if he wouldn’t go away with her. She had insisted he choose between her and the People. He had done just that. His father and countless others had been killed. His honor demanded that he avenge them.

She pressed her hand to her chest, over the medallion that bore his mark. Throwing back her head, she screamed his name, praying he would hear her and return. She waited, and she prayed. But he didn’t come.

‘‘Loretta! Get back in the yard,’’ Rachel called.

Loretta turned, hugging her waist, her body bent slightly to contain the sobs that tried to escape her. ‘‘Aunt Rachel, he’s leaving me. He’s leaving me!’’

Rachel came running. Wrapping both arms around Loretta, she cried, ‘‘Oh, honey . . .’’

‘‘He’s leaving me!’’ Loretta once again threw back her head. ‘‘Hunter-rrr!’’

The cry carried on the wind, shrill and mournful. Suddenly he crested the hill, a lone figure on horseback, etched in black against the sky. For a moment Loretta thought she was imagining him because she had wanted him to return so badly. Then he lifted his arm in a silent tribute, saluting her as one warrior would another.
Honoring her.
Loretta jerked from Rachel’s grasp, staggering toward him, drinking in the sight of him. She wanted to be beside him. She had to make him understand that. He needn’t choose between her and his people. She had been wrong, so horribly wrong.

‘‘Hunter! Take me with you! I love you!’’ she called. ‘‘I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!’’

He remained there, his arm still lifted, for several heartbreaking seconds. Then he wheeled his stallion and disappeared from sight. Hollow-eyed, Loretta stared after him. She had asked him to choose, and she had lost. Her legs buckled under her weight, and she fell to her knees, the pain inside her so excruciating that she couldn’t breathe.

The wind brushed her cheeks, catching his name and carrying it away from her. She crossed her arms over her breasts and sobbed, her gaze fixed on the rise. She would never again look at the horizon without seeing him outlined there.

Hunter’s name drifted to him on the wind, the call barely discernible yet shrill, like the whisper of a lost soul searching for solace. He reined his stallion to a halt, bracing himself against the sound, teeth clenched, eyes closed, his trapped breath searing his throat.
Hunter.
His woman still called for him. When he began killing her people, would she ever call for him again?

It took all his strength not to go back for her. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her like this. Yet how could he not? He had to fight the great fight for his people. He had no choice. While he was away fighting, he wanted Loretta someplace safe. After the attack on his village, there was no question she would be safer here with her own kind. He had no control over the
tosi tivo
and their attacks, but he could see to it none of his own attacked Loretta’s wooden walls.

Another cry shivered through the gloaming.
Hunter.
He opened his eyes, peering at the cloud of dust up ahead. His honor lay before him, his heart behind him. Nudging his stallion into a run, he leaned low against the animal’s neck, using the wind against his face to filter out her voice as he raced to catch up with the other warriors.