Comanche Moon (7 page)

For an instant Loretta considered lying. Then she forced herself to nod. This was hard, cruel country, and young or not, Amy should know certain things.

‘‘If them Comanches come back and steal you, is that what you’ll do, seek blessed release?’’ Fear chilled the blue depths of Amy’s eyes. ‘‘It’s killin’ yourself, ain’t it?’’

Loretta’s neck felt brittle when she nodded this time.

For once, Loretta was glad she couldn’t talk. Amy would demand answers if she could, and Loretta wasn’t sure there were words to describe the horrors she had seen.

‘‘I know they did bad things to your ma. My ma wouldn’t never tell what, but she looked funny when I asked her about it. You saw, didn’t you.’’ It was more statement than question. ‘‘That’s what you have nightmares about. Not about your ma dyin’, but about what they did to her.’’ Amy seemed to ponder that a moment. ‘‘I wonder why they do such mean things? How would they like it if we did the same back?’’

Loretta closed her eyes, appalled by the thought. White men would
never
retaliate in kind against the Indians. And therein lay the difference between human beings and animals. A picture of Hunter’s dark visage flashed in her mind, his blue eyes glittering. For a moment such an overwhelming fear swamped her that she couldn’t breathe. Oh, God, what did he want with her?

The sun was setting that same evening when Henry stomped in from the fields and announced that Loretta could take care of the horse and mules for him that night. Loretta clanked the lid back on the pot of beans and whirled from the hearth. She wasn’t afraid of work, but it was liable to get dark if she started the chores so late. This morning she had written a message on Amy’s slate about Hunter’s nocturnal visit. Had Henry forgotten?

‘‘You can’t send her out alone,’’ Rachel cried. ‘‘Those Indians might be nearby.’’

Loretta made fists in the gathers of her skirt and pulled the material taut against the backs of her legs.

‘‘If there was Injuns out there,’’ Henry hissed, ‘‘they’d have showed themselves by now. Tom’s got you girls all upset over nothin’. Loretta had a nightmare last night, that’s all. I checked the yard below her window for hoof marks, and there ain’t a sign of nothin’ out there. I’m flat tuckered. You got no idea what it’s like workin’ them dad-burned fields in this heat.’’

Rachel glanced out the window uneasily. ‘‘Couldn’t we leave the animals in the pasture for tonight?’’

‘‘And have ’em git stole?’’ Henry snorted with disgust. ‘‘That’d be dandy, right when Ida’s finally gonna foal. And what would I do without them mules? You think I’m gonna pull that plow by myself? It ain’t gonna hurt that girl to pack a little water and pitch some straw. That mare could drop anytime, and I want her in a clean stall when it happens.’’

‘‘I’ll go along and help.’’ Amy, who was laboring over her nightly spelling lesson, glanced up from her slate with an eager smile. ‘‘I’m almost as good as Loretta with the pitchfork. And if we see anything, I can holler and she can’t.’’

‘‘Some help hollering would be,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘Those Indians’d be after you girls like bears after honey.’’

‘‘I just said there ain’t no Injuns out there,’’ Henry growled. ‘‘Don’t you listen, woman? Lord A’mighty, I been out there all day! If there had been a Comanche within a mile, I’d be a dead man. I got Loretta’s welfare at heart, too, you know. I wouldn’t send her if I thought she’d come to ill.’’

Not wanting to be the cause of a fuss, Loretta headed for the door. Her aunt Rachel would get the worst of it if tempers flared. There was nothing to be scared of. The barn wasn’t
that
far from the house. Besides, if Hunter wanted to kill her, he had already had opportunity last night while she lay sleeping. No, he had other plans for her. Probably something far worse than dying, but she wouldn’t think about that right now.

‘‘Loretta, you wait,’’ Rachel called. ‘‘I’ll get the rifle and come along.’’

‘‘Oh, tarnation!’’ Henry exclaimed. ‘‘Damned fool woman, you’ll work me into my grave yet.’’ Reaching to the door peg for his hat, he dusted it on his trouser leg and clamped it on his head, falling in behind Loretta as she stepped over the threshold. ‘‘I’d like to have my dinner sometime before midnight, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll go with her. At least it won’t take so long with her helping.’’

‘‘Oh, thank you, Henry.’’

Henry grunted and turned to shut the door. ‘‘You jist be sure my dinner’s ready when I git back. If it ain’t, there’ll be hell to pay.’’

Aware of how fast the sun was disappearing, Loretta crossed the porch and descended the steps. As she walked across the yard, she searched the dust for the hoofprints the Indians had left yesterday. Nothing. The wind had obliterated them. Which explained why Henry had found no evidence of Hunter’s visit last night. Her uncle was many things, but smart wasn’t one of them.
Nightmare, my foot.
Since when had she been one to raise an alarm over nothing? It infuriated her that Henry thought she was such a dimwit.

Since they had only two buckets in which to haul water, Henry’s offer to accompany her was suspicious. He was the most economical man she knew when it came to work and too big a coward to come along as protection. She sneaked a glance at him. He looked harmless, but Henry was at his most dangerous when he was acting nice. She went out behind the chicken shed to fetch the pails and then returned to fill them with water from the well.

To her surprise, Henry offered to carry one. His loose-hipped gait caused water to slosh over the bucket’s rim as he walked beside her in the wagon ruts that led out behind the barn. Loretta kept her head down and darted glances at him as he opened the gate to the barnyard. Ida, the barrel-bellied mare, whinnied and pushed her nose through the fence rails. Since Henry had been giving her grain each evening, she was far more anxious than usual to be let in from the pasture. The mules, Bessy and Frank, didn’t appear to share in her enthusiasm and continued grazing.

After they had emptied the pails into the trough, Henry said, ‘‘I’ll pack the second round of water by myself. You stay here and start tossin’ the straw.’’

Loretta relinquished her hold on the bucket and gazed after him as he strode out the gate and around the corner of the building. It seemed she had misjudged him. She shivered and rubbed her arms.

One of the mules snorted, and the sound gave Loretta such a start that she jumped. Bessy had both ears thrown forward and was staring at a thicket along the left perimeter of the fence. Loretta made a dive for the pitchfork where it leaned against the hay wagon. She studied the riverbank. To avoid having to haul water out into the fields to the livestock, Henry had fenced the acreage at an angle, the back closer to the river than the front, the grazing pastures bordering the stream. That put the barn less than a stone’s throw from the thick line of trees. In this poor light, she wouldn’t notice someone coming until he was on top of her. With the aid of the pitchfork, she vaulted into the wagon to see better.

There was nothing out of the ordinary lurking in the shadows. With a sigh, she forked some straw and threw it in a wide arc over her shoulder, long practice taking it to her mark inside the lean-to stall. The mules relaxed and lowered their heads to eat again. A moment later Ida ambled over to join them. The sound of their grinding jaws was soothing, but even so the hair on the back of Loretta’s neck tingled. She paused in her work to check the trees again. She felt as if someone were watching her. Detecting no sign of movement, she forced herself to stop dawdling and get back to work.

Henry took so long getting the second load of water that Loretta was nearly finished pitching straw when he returned. He emptied the buckets into the trough, set both on the ground, then stepped into the wagon and smiled at her. Taking off his hat, he dropped it on the tailgate and asked, ‘‘Need a hand?’’

Uneasiness washed over Loretta. As he stepped toward her, his teeth flashed in another broad grin. She angled a puzzled glance at his shadowed face as he took the pitchfork from her. To her surprise, he tossed it over the side of the wagon.

‘‘Sure you need a hand, sweet thing, sure you do.’’

His tone made a shudder run up her spine. He used that same syrupy-sweet voice trying to catch a chicken for supper. Loretta had watched him do it a hundred times, tiptoeing around in the pen and wriggling his fingers as if he were dropping seed. When an unsuspecting chicken ran up to peck the ground at his feet, he grabbed it by the head and wrung its poor fool neck. Loretta shrank back. Whatever it was he had in mind, it was sure as rain going to be ornery.

His gaze swept slowly down her body, then returned to her face. ‘‘You’re ripe for pickin’, and that’s a fact,’’ he said in that same chicken-killing voice. ‘‘Have been for a good long spell. Yesterday when those Injuns came, all’s I could think about was that I should’ve had you whilst I could. Tom callin’ you his promised last night cinched it. I’ll be damned. I didn’t bust my ass raisin’ you so somebody else could reap the crop. The only reason I let him come around was so you’d see how good you got it here.’’

Even in the dusky light, Loretta could see the wicked gleam in his eye. She threw a frantic glance in the direction of the house. The barn loomed in the way. Even if Aunt Rachel looked out a window, she couldn’t see them. Henry took advantage of her distraction to snake out an arm and catch her around the waist.

Jerking her full length against him, he crooned, ‘‘Ain’t no call to worry. I told Rachel we found a section of fence down and that we’d be an hour or so fixin’ it.’’

Loretta felt as though someone had shoved a pillow down her windpipe. He laughed hoarsely and clamped his free hand on her rib cage right below her breast, his palm and fingers inching upward for softer purchase.

‘‘I’m right glad that you can’t talk, you know it? You won’t start squallin’ and bring Rachel runnin’ to see what’s wrong. Gives me time to enjoy you like you ought to be enjoyed. Oh, yeah, Loretta, anytime I want you, for as long as I want you.’’

Laughing again, he pressed his hips forward, grinding a strange hardness against her. Images flashed in her mind of the Indian men who had violated her mother, and she knew exactly what that hardness was.

Chapter 4

LORETTA THREW BACK HER HEAD. FOR A moment she felt as if she might be able to scream. Then Henry’s mouth clamped down on hers, and what sound she might have made was smothered by his grasping lips. Nausea clutched her stomach, and she wrenched herself from his embrace only to lose her footing. As she sprawled backward, he grabbed her wrists and followed her down, his thighs clamped around her hips. She overshot the straw and landed on her back on the wagon floor with him astraddle her.

He chuckled, inching forward. Then, with an ease that horrified her, he pinned her arms to the floor with his legs. Pain shot to her shoulders as the sharp ridges of his shins dug into her wristbones. Jackknifing her legs, she kneed his back, but he made a game of the blows, rocking to and fro, landing on her stomach so hard that her spine nearly snapped. Her throat strained, but with all her air gone, she couldn’t have screamed if she’d had a voice. He continued to bounce on her even after she ceased struggling. Her tongue swelled, gagging her. Black dots swam before her eyes.

When she lay limp, he sat back on her belly and smiled, reaching for the row of tiny buttons on her bodice. She twisted her face aside and gulped for air, her windpipe whistling.

‘‘I been eyein’ these here sweet bosoms for a long spell,’’ he whispered, slowly peeling her dress apart.

She could feel his calloused hands fumbling with the ribbons on her chemise as cool air seeped through the thin fabric.
Oh, God, help me. Somebody—please, help me.

Suddenly a dark hand appeared and partially obstructed her view of Henry. She studied the hand, wondering where it had come from and to whom it belonged. Not to Henry. It was too square and brown. The hand turned slightly, and she saw a knife held to Henry’s chin. Henry threw up his head and sprang to his feet. Scurrying backward, he staggered. A shadow leaped over the wagon board to follow him.

Fighting to breathe, Loretta rolled onto her side and hugged her middle. When at last her head began to clear, she twisted her neck to see Henry slithering backward on the balls of his feet to escape his attacker, his heavy boots plowing a trail through the straw. As he inched toward the end of the wagon, he kept his chin up, his eyes rolling to see the knife that gaffed him.

‘‘Don’t kill me,’’ he mewled. ‘‘I know you laid claim to her—and you can have her. Take her—go on—just don’t kill me, for the love of God, don’t kill me.’’

With her eyes on her rescuer, Loretta pushed to a sitting position. Hunter? She had prayed for help, and God had sent her the Indian?

Henry clasped the Indian’s broad wrist. ‘‘Please—I got a wife and child.’’ Glancing downward, he cried, ‘‘Do somethin’, you damned fool girl! He’s gonna kill me, sure. Do somethin’. The pitchfork—git the pitchfork!’’

Loretta rocked dizzily to her knees and glanced around her. The pitchfork? Oh, God, where was it? Henry, still retreating, took one too many steps, ran out of wagon floor, and hit air. Windmilling his arms, he gave a cry and toppled. Hunter tipped his knife so the blade rode the curve of Henry’s chin as he fell and sliced him to the cleft. Henry hit the dirt, then scrambled to his feet. Clutching his bleeding chin and squealing like a stuck piglet, he ran for the house, never once looking back.

Loretta knelt there and hugged her stomach, her mouth agape. Hunter turned slowly. He wore only a breechcloth, knee-high moccasins, and the blue wool belt, so she had an expansive view of thigh and hip before he faced her. She had never seen a naked man before—and this one was as near naked as he could get. In all the places she and Aunt Rachel were round and soft, he was flat and hard, and where they were slim, he bulged with muscle. His legs were as sturdy and brown as tree trunks, his thighs roped with thick sinew.