Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  “Ask May Belle over at the saloon how exciting it is.”

  “Lawzy, Amy, you are odd turned. How can you compare a dinner basket auction with May Belle’s profession?”

  “Because a dinner basket auction is sort of the same. Do you think those men buy a basket so they can just sit down and eat? They can eat what their mothers bring.”

  Loretta giggled. “I reckon maybe you’ve got a point. Thinking back on it, I can remember Hunter polishing off more than a few meals and then looking at me like I was dessert.”

  Amy grinned. “Wear this dress Saturday night and I bet he has dessert before dinner.”

  Loretta blushed. “With two kids in the loft, we have dessert a long while after dinner, and that’s a certainty.” She heaved a wistful sigh, running her fingers over the silk. “Oh, Amy, I do wish you’d take a basket and let Swift bid on it. You’ve missed out on all the fun things, you know it?”

  “Pardon me, Loretta, but having a man nibble a chicken leg while he’s got his eye on me isn’t my idea of fun. I don’t want any money changing hands, and that’s that.”

  “Well, will you at least wear the dress?”

  Amy gnawed her lip, running a loving hand along one sleeve. “It is glorious, isn’t it?”

  “And perfect for you.”

  “What’re you going to wear, if I wear this?”

  “My rose silk. It’s Hunter’s favorite.” Loretta shoved the dress into Amy’s arms. “Take it.”

  “I’m not even sure I’m going to go yet.”

  “If you don’t go, I’m gonna skin you alive.”

  “What if the widower, Mr. Black, asks me to dance?”

  Loretta shuddered. “Tell him you don’t dance. It isn’t a lie. Except for here at the house, I’ve never seen you so much as toe tap.”

  On Saturday morning, Amy ventured into Loretta’s backyard and tried to catch a chicken. Since Hunter and Chase usually took care of that for her, she hadn’t kept in practice. Her long skirts complicated matters, slowing her down and scaring the hens. Before she knew it, she was out of breath and wet with perspiration. Her braid had come unwound. She had a rock in one shoe. And she was overall disgruntled.

  She hated to think about the neck wringing and head chopping that had to follow. Since her experience with the comancheros years ago, she had an aversion to violence, even when it was a domestic necessity. Poor, helpless chickens. She ate more than her fair share of them, but when she did, she didn’t allow herself to think about where the poultry came from.

  “Come here, chick-chick-chick,” she called softly, her sights set on a nice plump hen that was showing no enthusiasm whatsoever for gracing a skillet. “Come here, chicken. Come to Amy.”

  “I don’t think she likes you,” a deep voice said.

  Amy straightened and whirled, her hands flying to her hair. “Swift! I thought you were at the mine.”

  “I was. I need to go to the general store for a new shirt, so I took off from work.”

  Amy could only wonder why he wanted to waste good money on another shirt. With the black one he was wearing unbuttoned halfway down his chest and the sleeves rolled back over his corded forearms, he looked more handsome than any man she had ever clapped eyes on.

  “If you aren’t a sight, Amy. What’re you trying to do?” Swift ran a twinkling gaze from her tumbling braid to her soiled hem.

  “I need a hen for my dinner basket.” Heat flooded to her cheeks, for she hadn’t intended to say anything about that. “Not for the auction, mind you. Just to take along, in case I get hungry.”

  His gaze once again shifted to her hair, making her fidget and try to tidy it. The more she poked and repositioned the heavy braid, the looser it got. She finally gave up, acutely aware that he watched her with unveiled curiosity. Probably because she looked so silly.

  “So, you’re going to the social after all, are you?”

  “I thought I’d go and watch for a while.”

  “I’m proud of you, Amy. I know it’s not high on your list.” He scanned the yard. “I can catch the hen for you.”

  “No.” Since she hoped that he would join her for dinner, it didn’t seem right that he should help get the makings for it. “I mean, that’s okay. I’m enjoying myself.”

  “You look ready to drop.” He took off his hat and set it on the woodpile. Rolling his sleeves farther back, he sighted in on a fat hen. “There’s a trick to chicken chasing, you know.”

  “There is?”

  He walked slowly across the yard, wiggling his fingers like he was dropping seed. Hens converged on him. “Females are all the same. If you chase them, they run. So instead, you let them”—he leaned slightly to one side, his hand opening—“chase you, until you catch them.”

  With that, he lunged, missed the chicken, and fell full length in the dirt.

  “That’s the slickest trick I’ve ever seen,” Amy said with a giggle. “My, my, I’ll bet a smooth operator like you has women hanging all over him.”

  He narrowed an eye at her. “Here lately, my luck’s been running sour.”

  Amy grinned and bent her mind to chicken catching again. Swift joined her. Before she knew it, they were running around the yard, laughing like fools, the hens flapping and squawking and leading them a merry chase. When they ran themselves out of breath, Swift collapsed on the chopping block, bracing one arm on his knee. He grinned up at her.

  “Would you settle on a cow?”

  Amy pressed a hand to her aching diaphragm and laughed again. “A cow? It’d be a mighty big dinner basket. And I doubt a cow would be any easier to catch.”

  “I could shoot a cow. If I shoot one of those chickens, there won’t be much left to eat.”

  The back door slammed, and Amy turned to see Loretta on the back stoop, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed against the October sunshine that slanted through the trees. “Those chickens aren’t going to lay me any eggs for a week with you two chasing them like that.”

  Swift swung a hand at the hens. “Well, you just come out here and catch us one, Loretta Jane.”

  “You’re supposed to get them into the pen first, Mr. Lopez. I can see you don’t know squat about farming. And Amy’s nose is never out of a book long enough to mind anything that’s going on. How’re you two going to get by on your own?” She gathered her apron into a bowl and came down the steps. “You see? They’ll follow me right in.”

  Swift raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have an apron.”

  “You don’t have good sense, that’s what you don’t have, chasing chickens till the feathers fly.”

  Two minutes later, Loretta emerged from the hen-house holding a frenzied, squawking chicken by its neck. She marched to Swift and handed the hen over.

  Rising from the stump, he held the chicken out in front of him. “Now what?”

  “Wring its neck.”

  Swift glanced over at Amy, and there was no mistaking the pity in her eyes as she regarded the flapping, squawking chicken. He’d seen enough chickens swung to know how to do it, quick and with a snap. The chicken’s neck felt warm and fragile within the circle of his fingers. He knew he could wring it, slicker than grease. Yet how dare he with Amy looking on? He could just hear her the next time she got in a dither at him, calling him a good-for-nothing, gunslinging, chicken-killing comanchero.

  “You gonna do it or not?” Loretta asked.

  Swift felt Amy’s eyes on him. Big, worried blue eyes. He sneaked another look at her. She was biting her lip. He started to feel pretty silly, standing there holding a frantic chicken, his arm jerking up and down, while two women watched him, one with dread, the other with impatience. In his lifetime he had taken scalps, slapped leather, gutted buffalo, and slain deer, bears, wolves, and just about every other kind of creature. Killing one brainless chicken should have been easy.

  “Let’s just go shoot a cow.”

  Amy rolled her eyes and took the chicken. “Lands, Swift, I’d think with all you’ve done, chicken killing would b
e a snap.”

  And wasn’t that the problem? He didn’t need another count against him. “I’ve never wrung a poor bird’s neck.”

  Amy bent slightly at the waist, getting ready to swing her arm. Then she looked down at the frantic hen and lost her impetus.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Loretta reclaimed the chicken, her cheeks flushed with indignation. “As much chicken as you eat, Amelia Rose, you’d think you’d be a little less squeamish.”

  Amy stepped back, wrinkling her nose, bracing herself. Loretta tensed to swing her arm, then hesitated and fastened wide blue eyes first on Amy, then on the flapping hen. “Lawzy! We can’t kill this hen! This is Henrietta. She’s gonna be one of my best layers, mark my words. Hunter’d have my hide.”

  Swift grinned. “I think we’re back to a cow.”

  Loretta turned the chicken loose and shooed it away with her apron. “How about ham. Do you like ham, Swift?”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for Amy’s dinner basket.” Swift gave Loretta a slow wink. “What do you think, Amy? Will ham do?”

  Remembering Swift’s first night in Wolf’s Landing and the large piece of ham left on his plate, Amy turned questioning eyes on him. “I—do you—if you were a fellow, what would you like? Chicken or ham?”

  Swift arched an eyebrow. “If I were a fellow?”

  She blushed. “Well, of course, you’re a fellow, Swift. I meant a fellow eating dinner at a social. Would you want chicken or ham?”

  “Either one, I guess. Unless, of course, I had to kill the chicken. Then I’d lean real heavy toward ham.”

  Chapter 11

  AMY FELT LIKE A TRUSSED-UP SAUSAGE IN THE blue silk dress. Loretta had insisted that she wear a corset, which made her bulge in places she’d never bulged in her life. The sounds of fiddles dug at her temples, and stomping feet sent vibrations through the floor of the community hall. Amy longed for home, for the quiet there and the certainty that she knew what would happen next.

  “He’ll come,” Loretta assured her, leaning sideways so Amy would be sure to hear. “He and Hunter just worked late. I’ll bet they’re over at the house right now, washing up.”

  Amy gnawed on her bottom lip. “I think I’ll just go home. This isn’t fun like I thought it’d be.”

  Loretta caught her wrist. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  Indigo swirled past them, caught a trifle too closely in her partner’s arms, her black high-top shoes flashing beneath the hem of her pink dress. Loretta’s gaze followed her daughter.

  With a sigh, she released Amy’s arm and said, “What a waste, her wearing that dress for the likes of him.”

  Amy studied Brandon Marshall, Indigo’s partner. A tall blond with dancing blue eyes, he was every young girl’s dream. Handsome, smartly dressed, suave. She could see why Indigo was starry-eyed and why Loretta was so worried. Brandon Marshall looked to be about twenty, far too old to be courting Indigo.

  “I never found her that evening, when I offered to talk to her,” Amy admitted. “Then I got so wrapped up in my own—”

  Loretta lost her daughter in the jostle of dancers. “It’s just as well.” She flashed a smile. “Sometimes I forget my loved ones must experience life for themselves. I can’t spare her everything. It’s a mistake, that.” Loretta’s gaze shifted from the dancers to Amy. “I’ve done it with you, too, you know.”

  The sadness in Loretta’s expression made Amy’s heart catch. “Don’t be a ninny, Loretta Jane. You’ve been wonderful to me.”

  “Have I? Look at you, panicked by a silly social.”

  Amy narrowed her eyes. “I think the term panic is a bit exaggerated. Not everyone enjoys this sort of nonsense.”

  “Let’s see how you feel once Swift arrives.”

  “Maybe he decided everyone would stare at him.”

  “Amy, he bought a new shirt for tonight. Of course he’ll come. Just relax, would you?”

  “Is that why he got a new shirt? For tonight?”

  Loretta smiled. “Why else would he buy a new shirt?”

  The widower, Mr. Black, approached. Amy felt like a bug on a pin, the way he looked at her. She longed for her shawl and glanced toward the coat hooks by the door, tempted to go get it.

  “Miss Amy, you don’t often grace us with your presence at functions like this. May I have this dance?”

  “I don’t dance,” Amy replied softly, not wishing to offend him. In addition to being the coroner, Mr. Black did carpentry and served on the school committee. “I enjoy watching.”

  His gaunt face twisted into a grin. “I noticed you brought a basket. I’ll surely bid on it.” His gaze moved to her chest.

  “You misread the tag. I didn’t bring an auction basket.”

  Loretta eased away to a nearby group of women. Amy glanced after her. Loretta knew how she disliked Mr. Black. He had beady frog eyes that made her feel like a fly about to be eaten.

  “I hear you have a new pupil—Mr. Lopez, the gunslinger, according to the concerned mothers at our last meeting. I was pleased when you began working with him after hours. Odd, that, a gunslinger attending school. Of course, with a pretty teacher like you, I might go back to brush up on my alphabet myself.”

  Amy swallowed, her poise deserting her.

  Loretta returned and broke into the conversation. “Mr. Lopez is a friend of our family, more like a brother, actually. He’s working at the mine now, so Amy’s tutoring him each day.”

  “Privately, I understand.” Mr. Black raised an eyebrow, as if that somehow smacked of impropriety.

  Amy fidgeted. Had someone seen her going off into the woods with Swift at night? Her stomach jumped. Her job was her independence. “Tutoring him is my only recourse, Mr. Black. Surely you don’t begrudge the man an education.”

  “Of course he doesn’t.” Loretta smiled as if Black had just announced the Second Coming was imminent. “Mr. Black’s on the school committee. Education, for one and all, is his mission. Isn’t that right, sir? I bet he’s pleased you’re so dedicated.”

  Black puffed up with pride. “I certainly am.” He placed a cold hand on Amy’s bare shoulder. “I’m quite an admirer of this little lady. She’s a fine teacher.”

  Amy yearned to move away. He slid his fingertips across her skin—cold, clammy fingertips. Angling a peek at him, she wondered what he’d do if she swatted him a good one.

  The fiddlers ceased playing, and all attention turned toward the front of the hall. Mr. Black got a little more bold with his finger gliding. Was she encouraging him by standing there? His hand on her shoulder was innocent enough, in itself.

  Randall Hamstead, who owned the dry goods store, stepped up onto a box with a dinner basket held high.

  Loretta leaned close. “I’ll bet next week’s egg money that he hasn’t been dosed with his mother’s sheep dung tea.”

  Amy started to giggle, then froze, her gaze fixed on the blue wicker basket in Hamstead’s hand. She threw a horrified look at Loretta, then glanced toward the coatrack. Her basket wasn’t sitting where she had left it.

  Noting where Amy’s attention had flown, Loretta made an exasperated little noise. “They should be here by now.”

  “Loretta Jane . . .” Amy forgot all about Mr. Black’s fingers and jerked from under his grasp. “What in blazes have you gone and done?”

  When Loretta got caught pulling a fast one, her eyes rivaled dinner plates. “I didn’t mean any harm, Amy. It’s all in fun. Swift said he’d be here.”

  Amy had a good notion to give her cousin a kick. “Loretta Jane, how could you? Of all the sneaky, low-down, mean tricks!”

  Loretta threw a look at the door. “Where is that man?”

  “Attention, gentlemen,” Hamstead yelled. “We’re startin’ with a prize. Ham, potato salad, raised bread, and apple pie.”

  “Get to the important part,” one man shouted. Several men near him laughed and slapped him on the back.

  Mr. Hamstead chuckled. “This basket belongs to . . .” He che
cked the tag and winked. “Miss Amy, our schoolteacher.”

  Since Amy had never attended a social, let alone participated in a basket auction, several of the bachelors hooted with enthusiasm and pushed closer to the table.

  “Seven dollars,” someone yelled.

  Amy’s stomach dropped. Seven dollars? That was outrageous.

  “Eight,” another deep voice chimed in.

  “Ten. A man can’t skimp on a lady who can teach him his p’s and q’s.”

  Amy threw another horrified look at Loretta. Her cousin’s eyes grew even rounder. “It isn’t my fault. They should’ve been here by now.”

  “Not your fault?” Amy cried. “You stole my basket and entered it in the auction, and it isn’t your fault?”

  “Eleven dollars,” someone yelled.

  Mr. Black roared, “Fifteen dollars. Let’s see ya top that.”

  Amy slid her gaze to Mr. Black, resigned to her fate. Mr. Hamstead yelled, “Fifteen dollars. Fifteen. Going! Go—”

  “One hundred dollars,” a deep voice called.

  A gasp rose from the crowd. Amy felt as if she might faint. One hundred dollars? She turned toward the door to see Swift at the threshold, Hunter and Chase behind him. A light blue shirt hugged his broad shoulders and muscular arms, the color striking a marked contrast to his dark skin. Amy’s pulse accelerated just from looking at him. He stepped into the building, tall and confident, sweeping his black hat from his head with a flourish only Swift could manage. Hanging the hat beside her shawl on the coatrack, he paused to scan the room, settling his dark gaze on her. A mussed lock of damp black hair fell across his forehead.

  “Pardon me, sir? Did you say a hundred dollars?”

  “That’s right, a hundred.” Swift shouldered his way through the crowd and set a stack of gold pieces on the table. Then he turned and looked at Amy, as did everyone else in the hall. A hundred dollars wasn’t just an unheard of amount for a man to spend on a basket, it was crazy, insane, outrageous. Tongues would buzz for a year. If May Belle from the saloon had set up business in the street, she couldn’t have stirred more buzzing.