Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  Loretta winked at Swift. “The way this girl goes on, you’d think she teethed on a nugget. The Jacksonville jail has a double-layer log floor. Far as I know, it’s the only jail there ever was.”

  In a warm voice Hunter said, “Indigo hopes to take over my mining operation when I grow old.”

  Chase snorted, clearly disgusted at the thought. Indigo’s blue eyes flashed. “At least I know the difference between the real thing and fool’s gold!” she cried.

  “Bet you can’t judge the height of a tree by the shadow it casts,” Chase retorted.

  “Who cares?”

  Amy listened in silence, head bent over her plate, fingers clenched around the handle of her fork. With her assistance, Loretta had prepared a lovely dinner to celebrate Swift’s arrival, but to Amy the food tasted like sawdust. Even the cottage cheese, more commonly known as “rag on the fence,” had no taste. Amy rolled the curds across her tongue, feeling as if she were swallowing gravel.

  When the children ran low on gibes, the conversation turned from mining to Swift’s experiences since leaving the reservation. Bombarded with queries about Texas, Swift did most of the talking, and just the sound of his voice tied Amy’s stomach into knots. When she actually looked at him, her nerves frayed like jaggedly cut burlap. A part of her still couldn’t believe he was there or how much he had changed. He had a relentless look now, a hard, cynical, bitter look that made her heart catch. Yet somehow, despite that, he was as handsome as always, but in a more potent, powerful, and unnerving way.

  Something else had changed about him, too, something far more recent and more subtle. Earlier today in the barn, when she’d pleaded with him to release her from her promises, he had looked uncertain. Now the uncertainty had vanished, replaced by a gleam of determination. Amy had the feeling that Swift and Hunter had talked about her out in Hunter’s lodge and that whatever had been said had somehow strengthened Swift’s resolve.

  “So, Uncle Swift, tell us about your gunfights,” Chase urged. “Is it true you’ve killed over a hundred men?”

  A sudden silence fell, amplifying the soft pling of fork tines scraping china. Broad shoulders rigid, Swift cleared his throat. “I think the stories about my gunfights have been exaggerated, Chase.” After a pause he added in a teasing tone, “I doubt I’ve killed more than ninety all together.”

  “Ninety? Boy!”

  Loretta fastened disapproving blue eyes on her son. “Chase, your uncle Swift is teasing you.”

  Chase’s face fell. “Then tell me true. How many?”

  Indigo elbowed her brother. “Don’t pester, Chase Kelly.”

  Swift’s gaze collided with Amy’s, and his smile tightened. “A man doesn’t notch his belt every time he has to draw on someone, Chase. I’ve pulled my gun when I was forced to, and then I tried to forget.”

  “But you are the fastest in Texas. The paper said so. Ain’t that right?”

  “Isn’t,” Loretta corrected.

  “There’s always someone who’s faster, Chase,” Swift replied. “If you forget that, even for an instant, you’re a dead man.”

  Chase nodded, clearly thrilled by the thought. “Now that you’re here, will you teach me to handle a gun?”

  Swift set his mug down with a decisive click. “No.”

  Indigo nudged her brother again, the seriousness of her expression making her seem far older than her thirteen years.

  Chase glowered at his sister, then shot Swift an imploring glance. “But why? I’m good with weapons.”

  Taut with tension, Amy waited to hear Swift’s reply.

  “Because it’s no way to live, that’s why.” A muscle twitched in Swift’s cheek. He laid his fork on the side of his plate, a large piece of ham left uneaten. “Trust me on that. If I could go back in time and never touch a six-shooter, I would.”

  Amy glanced over and saw that Loretta had tears in her eyes. Swallowing down nausea, Amy followed Swift’s example and set aside her fork, a part of her hating him for what he had become, another part as close to tears as Loretta. No one who looked could miss the haunted expression in Swift Lopez’s eyes.

  Hunter rose from the table and picked up his plate and mug. Carrying both to the dish counter, he said, “So tell me, Swift, what brought you out our way? And how long do you plan to stay?”

  “I came here hoping to make a new start.” Swift’s gaze slid to Amy again. “Discovering my woman alive is like a dream come true. I’ll be hanging my hat here, now that I’ve found her.”

  Another taut silence descended. Amy knew this was his way of letting everyone in the family know he hadn’t forgotten her betrothal promise to him and that he expected her to honor it. The battle lines were drawn. Her gaze dropped to the intimidating expanse of his chest, to the play of muscle under the sleeves of his shirt. She had the horrible feeling that the outcome of this particular war might be a foregone conclusion.

  Amy shoved back her chair. Keeping her face carefully blank, she began clearing the table, anxious to get the dishes washed. Chase hauled in water, which Loretta put on the stove to boil. Indigo, nearly as tall as her mother, drew an apron over her head and quickly tied the sash.

  “Amy, Indigo and I’ll do the dishes,” Loretta offered. “You have to teach school in the morning. Why don’t you go on home?”

  Eager to jump at any excuse to leave, Amy pulled her shawl off the door hook and draped it around her shoulders. “It was a lovely dinner, Loretta Jane. Good night, Hunter.” Her tongue turned cottony. “It’s been nice seeing you again, Swift.”

  Indigo ran over to give Amy a farewell hug. Pressing a kiss to her cheek, she whispered, “No wonder you pined for him all these years, Aunt Amy. He’s so handsome.”

  Amy drew back, meeting Indigo’s guileless gaze, astounded that the child had said such a thing. It occurred to her that the little girl she had loved so well was approaching womanhood.

  Swift rose from the table. With a lazy stride, spurs chinking, he approached the coatrack, pulled his gun belt from its hook, and strapped it around his hips. Next, he reached for his hat. Indigo dimpled one cheek in a mischievous grin and darted past Swift to help her mother clear the table. Amy was left standing there alone with him, horrified because he acted as if he intended to accompany her. A picture flashed in her mind of her and him, alone in the darkness.

  “I’ll see you home,” he said softly.

  “Th-that really isn’t necessary. I walk home alone all the time. Don’t I, Hunter?”

  Hunter’s only response was to smile.

  “I’ll walk with you anyway. It’s bound to be a nice evening after all that sunshine we had today.”

  Amy clutched her shawl closer, searching wildly for some reason to forestall him. She settled for un-embellished honesty. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

  His mouth quirked at one corner as he settled his hat on his head. Tipping the brim down over his eyes, he replied in a dangerously silken voice, “And I’d really rather I did.”

  After casting Hunter a pleading look, which availed her naught, Amy jerked the door open and stepped out onto the wide porch. Determined to set a breakneck pace, she darted down the steps and across the yard, keeping a step ahead of the tapping boots and chinking spurs behind her. The crisp night air chilled her cheeks. She hugged her shawl more tightly.

  “What’s it say in that manners book of yours about ladies who run off and leave their escorts eating dust?”

  She swung to a stop, peering at him through the moonlit gloom. “You’re an uninvited escort, Mr. Lopez.” His new name felt odd rolling off her tongue, yet she used it, a reminder to herself and him of who he was and what he had become. “A gentleman wouldn’t force his company on a lady.”

  Farther down, a man staggered out of the Lucky Nugget. Swift came abreast of her, took her arm, and guided her to the far side of the street. As their feet touched the boardwalk, he said, “Even if I wanted to be a gentleman, I’ve never had proper manners taught to me. The closest thing I
had to a teacher was a rancher I worked for named Rowlins, and all he knew was shootin’ and spittin’. He was pretty good at both, and he taught me all he knew, but he wasn’t and never claimed to be a gentleman.”

  “Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be walking on the street side of the boardwalk.”

  He laughed softly and, putting a hand at her waist, pulled her across his path so she walked next to the shop windows. He loomed beside her, a menacing shadow, the silver conchae on his hat and the studs on his gun belt gleaming in the moonlight. She flinched when she felt his palm touch the small of her back, then slip around to claim a resting place just above her left hip. The easy familiarity with which he touched her sent her heart into a skitter. The men in Wolf’s Landing wouldn’t dream of taking such a liberty.

  “I haven’t had much occasion to walk a lady down the street. Am I doing it right now?” He drawled the question, his tone amused. Then he tensed, as if to brace her. “Watch your step.”

  “I know this boardwalk like the back of my hand,” she replied in a brittle voice, stepping over the unevenness in the boardwalk without difficulty.

  “You must, as fast as you’re walking. The Amy I knew couldn’t see the end of her nose when it got dark.”

  Amy bit back a retort, her one thought to get safely inside her house and bolt the door. To that end, she increased her pace. Swift’s hand tightened on her waist.

  “Whoa. The idea here is to stroll along and get reacquainted.”

  “I don’t want to get reacquainted.”

  As if her wants were of absolutely no consequence to him, he ignored the rebuff. It seemed forever to her before they reached her porch. Amy hurried up the two steps and shoved open the door. “Thank you for walking me. Good night.”

  She stepped into the darkness and tried to push the door closed, only to find that Swift had braced a palm against the wood to prevent her.

  “Won’t you ask me in?”

  “Most certainly not! I’m a teacher. I have a reputation to uphold. A lady doesn’t allow a man—”

  He shoved on the door, moving her back two steps. “Guess I’ll just ask myself.”

  And with that, he sauntered inside. Whereas a moment ago she had been straining to shut the door, now Amy clutched the handle with frantic fingers to keep him from closing it. He won the tug-of-war by putting a shoulder into it. The door shut with a resounding finality, and he slid the top bolt into place.

  “Two locks, Amy? I thought Wolf’s Landing was a safe, friendly place to live. You locking yourself in, or the rest of the world out?”

  Darkness had swooped over them. Amy stood rooted, her heart pounding. Dressed all in black, Swift blended so well with the shadows that she couldn’t see him. But she could feel him, and with those horrible, nightmarish spurs chinking every time he moved, she could hear him as well. He had drawn far too close. The smell of leather and denim and tobacco filled her nostrils.

  “Light the lamp,” he said tersely. “We need to talk.”

  Making a beeline for the table, she groped for the lantern and the box of lucifers. Drawing the match through a pleat of glass paper, she ignited the head, showering sparks. She quickly turned up the lantern wick, set flame to it, and replaced the smoke-streaked mantle. The stench of the lucifer made her eyes tear, and she leaned back to escape its gaseous fumes while waving out the flame.

  “You really shouldn’t be using those things inside the house. You want bad lungs or a case of phossy jaw?”

  “I—I don’t usually. My tinderbox is low on cedar bark, and I haven’t gone out to get more. It’d take a sight more than the number of matches I use to hurt my lungs or bones.”

  “You’re shaking,” he observed dryly. “Do I frighten you that badly?”

  She made much of adjusting the light, ignoring the question.

  “Can you at least try to talk to me about this?”

  She carried the box of matches to the fireplace and crouched to lay a fire. When he stepped between her and the lantern, his shadow loomed across her, larger than life and threatening. The silent seconds stretched endlessly.

  “Damn it, I’m speaking to you!”

  Bending low to puff air at the feeble beginnings of the fire, Amy rearranged the wood so it would catch. “Don’t curse in my house.”

  He let out an incredulous laugh. “As I recall, you taught me that word and several others. ‘Hell and damnation’ was your favorite phrase, remember? And when you were really bustin’ mad, you’d say—”

  “Do you mind?” She pushed to her feet, shoving the matchbox closed with so much force that she nearly crumpled it between her damp palms. “This is my home. I’d like to prepare for bed.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Amy blinked. In the leaping firelight he looked exactly like she imagined the Devil, tall, handsome, cloaked in black. Suddenly so weary she wanted to drop, she put the matches on the mantel, pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead, and closed her eyes. “Swift, please.”

  “Please what? Talk to me, Amy. Tell me what has you so upset that you can’t even look at me. I know you remember how it was between—” He broke off suddenly. Then, in amazement, he whispered, “I’ll be damned if that isn’t—” His boots and spurs resounded on the planked floor, coming closer to the hearth. “Amy, did you draw that?”

  Too late, she remembered the sketch. In a swirl of skirts she tried to edge past him and grab it off the mantel. Before her fingertips could grasp the frame, though, his deflected them.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  Defeated, Amy fell back, studying him as he studied his likeness. Seeing him standing there, his profile so similar to the boy’s in the drawing, she was assailed by memories. For an instant, an ache of longing washed through her. Swift, her Swift. Scenes from yesterday replayed in her mind. Two youngsters romping and giggling along a stream. Swift, leaping out at her from the woods, flowers clasped in his hand. Swift, teaching her to speak Comanche, shoot a rifle, use a bow, ride a horse, walk without making a sound. So many memories. At one time they had been such good friends. What had happened to them that they could stand together in the same room with such a great distance between them? There had been a time when she would have trusted him with her life.

  And now?

  Amy looked away. Now, she wouldn’t trust him to walk her home—which he had done. Now, she wouldn’t want him in her house when she was alone at night—which he was.

  She heard his spurs chink, the one sound from out of her past that could reduce her to sniveling terror. Her stomach tightened. For a moment, long forgotten smells seemed to fill her nostrils—the smell of men and lust and blood, her blood. She swayed, trying to block out the pictures, but they sprang at her from all sides.

  “Amy, look at me.”

  His voice had turned husky. He grasped her chin and lifted her face to his. She took one look into his eyes and knew what he intended. She wrenched away, backing up until she bumped into the wall. He followed. Once again she tried to twist away, but he braced a hand on each side of her, blocking her escape.

  “Amy, for God’s sake, what do you think I’m going to do to you?”

  She tried to speak but couldn’t. He stepped closer, so close she could feel his shirt grazing the bodice of her dress. The friction, whether intentional or not, titillated her nipples, and they strained against the cloth of her chemise, aching. Amy broke the contact by flattening her back against the wall. He removed his hat and sent it sailing in a wide arc toward the door. The conchae, the hated conchae, went kerchink on the wood. Santos, the comanchero leader who had kidnapped her, had worn conchae on his pants. Most of his men had worn them as well. She couldn’t see the silver disks without breaking out in a sweat.

  “Amy.” Swift’s lips grazed a loose curl at her temple. “Do you remember that day down by the river, when you taught me how to kiss?”

  His grip relentless this time, he clasped her chin and forced her head back. His dark eyes held hers.

&nb
sp; “You closed your eyes, wrinkled your nose, and puckered up like a cactus button.” His face drew closer. “It wasn’t until years later I found out that wasn’t the way to do things.”

  His chest met hers, sandwiching her between him and the wall. She strained her head back, trying to keep distance between their mouths. “Swift, don’t . . . please, don’t.”

  He bent closer until his breath mingled with hers, a warm mist, sweet from honeyed coffee.

  “Do you remember, Amy?”

  “Yes,” she finally admitted on a soft sob. “I remember. It was a foolish child’s kiss. That has nothing to do with now.” She managed to get her hands between their bodies until she had both palms against his chest. With all her strength, she shoved.

  Pushed off balance, he staggered back, and she took advantage, darting from under his arm. She put several feet between them, whirled, and hugged herself so he wouldn’t see her shaking. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “It’s over between us, Swift. Whatever we shared was between two children. We’re grown now. Too much has happened. I’m sorry if you hoped differently. But that’s the way it is.”

  He crossed the room and leaned a hip against her table, loosely folding his arms. The relaxed stance didn’t console her. Every time he so much as flexed, she jumped, terrified of what he intended to do. Knowing Comanche custom as she did, Amy was all too aware that he might carry her to the bedroom and force himself on her. No one who believed as he did would frown on him for using strength of arm. God help her, she had granted him inalienable rights to her body and her life, and the possessive gleam in his eyes told her he just might exercise both.

  Studying her with relentless intensity, he asked, “Is this all because I rode with the comanchero? If so, I can explain.”

  “Explain?” She ran a contemptuous gaze the length of him. “Do you think I don’t know the evil things you must have done?”