Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  Amy’s gaze fell to the clothing, dresses, undergarments, and footwear. A swath of delicate pink trailed over Indigo’s wrist. Amy recognized the pink gown the girl had worn the night of the social.

  Indigo marched across the room toward the back door. As she grabbed the handle, she glanced over her shoulder, her blue eyes swimming with tears. “From this moment on, I am Comanche. I’ll never again wear a tosi woman’s garments. Never!”

  Hunter placed a hand on Loretta’s shoulder so she couldn’t rise from the rocker. Fastening his luminous gaze on his daughter, he said, “A Comanche makes no promises in anger, Indigo, and never is a long time. You cannot deny your mother’s blood within you. She is part of your heart.”

  Tears trailed down Indigo’s cheeks, and her mouth began to tremble. Her injured gaze slid to Loretta.

  In the same soft voice, Hunter added, “Go do what you must. When you have washed away your anger, we will be here waiting for you with much love in our hearts.”

  The girl opened the door and slipped out into the dusky twilight. A few minutes later the rosy glow of a bonfire bathed the rear windows of the house. Amy looked out and saw Indigo, back rigid, head held high, tossing one garment after another onto the flames. Dressed in Comanche leathers and knee-high moccasins, with her tawny mane of hair gleaming in the firelight, she looked like a white girl dressed up like an Indian. Amy’s heart broke for her. The path Indigo wanted to walk was an impossible one. Any who looked upon her would know she was more white than Comanche.

  Amy slipped quietly from the house. As she descended the porch steps and crossed the yard, Indigo turned to regard her. Amy shivered against the cold and held out her hands to the flames, saying nothing. The wind whispered in the naked tree limbs above them, a stark and lonely sound. The smell of winter touched the air, frigid and pure, calling to mind snow-capped peaks in the distance and icicles on the eaves.

  “He tried to rape me,” Indigo whispered as if she still couldn’t quite grasp it. “Him and all his friends. Just because my father is half Comanche.”

  Amy bit the inside of her cheek, wishing, praying, for the right words to come to her. A string of pitch dripped off a chunk of wood and ignited, snapping and hissing in the flames. Indigo threw the last of her white clothing onto the fire.

  She slid a troubled gaze to Amy. “Last summer when Ma and I went to Jacksonville shopping without my father and Chase, we saw a Rogue squaw sitting outside the saloon on the boardwalk. She sat there all afternoon in the hot sun, with nothing to drink and nothing to eat, while her trapper husband drank away his money inside. Ma felt sorry for her and bought her a soda, but she was afraid to accept it.”

  Amy guessed where Indigo was heading with this and took a deep breath. “Sad things happen, Indigo. This old world of ours can be mighty harsh sometimes.”

  Indigo shifted her weight, her expression agonized. With the toe of her moccasin, she nudged a half-charred log back onto the fire. “When the squaw’s husband came out of the saloon, he was mean drunk. He started hitting her, and everyone on the street just stood there and watched. If she had been a white woman, one of the men would have stopped it, but because she was Rogue, they just—”

  Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “I could wind up like that woman, Aunt Amy—if I married a white man. He’d never figure I was as good as him, and he might treat me bad, just like that trapper did his squaw. And white folks wouldn’t care. They’d just turn their heads—because I’m a squaw, too.”

  Amy reached out and clasped one of Indigo’s hands. “Not all whites are like Brandon and his friends. Those men in Jacksonville who stood by and watched probably wanted to do something and couldn’t find the courage.”

  Indigo’s fingers vised so tightly that Amy’s knuckles hurt. “I’m afraid, Aunt Amy.”

  Amy realized then that Indigo had seen an ugliness today that she hadn’t realized existed. “We’re all afraid of something, honey. But you can’t let fear rule your life.” As she spoke, the words rang in her mind, as applicable to her own situation as to the girl’s. “When the right man comes along, you’ll know, and it won’t matter what color skin he has.” Or what kind of past.

  “Yes! Yes, it will! I’m part Indian. There’s no changing that. I’ll never trust another white man, never. Those five today taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. The Indian blood in me makes me next to nothing to them.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “The way they think, squaws are only good for one thing.”

  Amy gathered Indigo into her arms, wishing she could undo what Brandon Marshall had done, knowing she couldn’t. Indigo wept against her shoulder, her sobs deep and tearing, her body atremble.

  “I loved him,” she cried. “I loved him with all my heart. But it wasn’t love at all, was it? I just thought it was. He was playing me along the whole time. Lying to me. Pretending he cared. He didn’t, not at all. The whole time, he hated me, and I never guessed. Oh, Aunt Amy, I feel so stupid. And so ashamed I want to die.”

  Amy swayed with her, smoothing her hair, comforting her the only way she knew. She could almost taste the girl’s pain. When Indigo quieted at last, Amy sighed and said, “Don’t feel ashamed, darling. There are cruel people in this world, and they go through life looking for victims. Pretty, innocent young girls like you make easy targets. Those five young men today—they’re the kind you’ll see kicking dogs and tormenting children. Your Indian blood was just an excuse they used to vent their meanness.”

  Indigo stirred and murmured something.

  “Just hush, love, and listen to me. You mustn’t begin judging all men by the color of their skin.” Just as she never should have judged Swift by his comanchero clothing. “If you do, then Brandon has won, don’t you see? You’ll become as twisted as he is. Be proud of your blood, both the white and the Comanche. If you aren’t, then everything your father and mother have stood for, all they’ve taught you, has gone for naught.”

  Indigo drew away. Swiping at her cheeks, she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. After a long while she whispered, “I’ll try, Aunt Amy.”

  “That’s all anyone can ask of you.” Touching a hand to Indigo’s hair, Amy managed a smile. “I know you came out here to be alone, so I’m going to go back inside now and leave you to your thoughts. Sometimes we have to work our way through things by ourselves. But while you’re doing that, don’t forget how much we all love you.”

  Indigo took a shaky breath. “I’ll never forget today, either. It sounds easy, putting it behind me and not letting it change me, but it isn’t.”

  Amy smiled. “Your father says you have eyes that see into tomorrow. It may take time, but you’ll recover from this. And you’ll be a better person because of it.”

  Indigo’s mouth tightened. “If I have eyes that see into tomorrow, then why was I so blind with Brandon?”

  Amy gave her shoulder a pat. “You forgot the most important lesson your parents taught you, that fancy clothes and manners don’t make the man. You’ll never be fooled by his kind again.”

  With that, Amy returned to the house, praying with every step that she was right.

  Chapter 22

  EN ROUTE TO THE HOUSE, IT HIT AMY WITH sudden clarity just how close Indigo had come to being raped. Heedful of Swift’s warning, she hadn’t been allowing herself to think about the what ifs. But now thoughts of what had nearly happened came rushing at her.

  Before reaching the porch, Amy began to shake. Insidious at first, the quivering began in her eyelids as she climbed the back steps, then spread downward as she let herself in the kitchen door, quaking along her arms, attacking her hands, then her legs. She had a strange, detached feeling, her thoughts disjointed. She knotted her hands in her skirts to stop their trembling, but the affliction, when conquered there, instantly transmitted itself to her jaws. Her teeth began to chatter.

  Amy couldn’t imagine what was wrong with her. Everything seemed blurred. As if in a dream, she felt herself moving across the room. She heard Swift’s voic
e, heard herself make some sort of reply. Then, as if awakening from a bout of sleepwalking, she found herself standing over the washbasin on Loretta’s dish board, furiously scrubbing her hands with Hunter’s knuckle brush. When she realized what she was doing, she couldn’t recall how she had gotten to the counter, didn’t remember filling the basin. She only knew she had a compulsion to scour herself clean.

  The knuckle brush slipped from her frozen fingers and plopped in the sudsy water. Amy stared down at the murky little waves as they rushed outward to the edge of the bowl and slopped over its edge.

  She gripped the counter and blinked. Images, painted in blinding color, darted at her from the blackness of her subconscious. Not images of Indigo being attacked, but of herself. For fifteen years she had kept those images at bay, never allowing herself to remember, except in nightmares.

  The comancheros had held her captive for nearly two weeks. The memories had lurked inside her head ever since, like a disease. Between sanity and madness, there existed a fragile line. To survive, she had kept her past sequestered in her mind by a thick black curtain. Now the thick black folds were parting, and the pictures were slipping out.

  Amy couldn’t breathe. She leaned slightly forward, her lungs on fire, belly heaving, her temples throbbing.

  “Amy?”

  Swift’s voice bounced inside her head. Amy-Amy-Amy. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t see anything except—No! Going rigid, Amy concentrated, driving back the memories. What had happened to Indigo today had nothing to do with her, nothing.

  “Amy, are you all right?”

  Amy, are you all right-all right-all right-all right? She blinked again. Her lungs rasped and then expanded. Still clutching the dish board, she pried her head around. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  I’m fine-I’m fine-I’m fine. A hysterical urge to laugh hit her. She gulped it back. Of course she wasn’t fine. How could she be fine? She felt water trickling along her arm under her sleeve. Water she didn’t remember pouring. She tried to concentrate on the coldness, on the reality of it.

  “I thought maybe we’d go to your place for a while,” Swift said. “I think Hunter and Loretta could use some time alone.”

  Alone. Oh, yes, she wanted to be alone. Just for a few minutes. The memories were gushing out. Like spiders. Crawling all over her. She was going to vomit.

  “Honey, are you sure you’re all right?”

  She brushed at her sleeve. Memories, crawling like spiders. Bile rose up her throat. She rubbed harder. She had to stop. Only a crazy person scrubbed at something that wasn’t there.

  “I’m fine. Yes, let’s go. They need time alone.”

  Was that her voice? Shaky and high-pitched. Floating, unable to feel her feet, she crossed the room. Fresh air. Breathing . . . that was reality.

  On the way out the door, Swift called to Hunter and Loretta. “I’ll be coming in late, so don’t wait up.”

  The door thudded closed. Amy hugged her waist and gulped the night air. Swift’s announcement that he’d be late made it apparent where he’d be and what he thought he’d be doing. Her belly clenched. She couldn’t handle that. Not right now.

  She had an urge to flee into the darkness. He took her arm as they descended the steps, the firm grip of his fingers vetoing that idea. She gulped again. The world tipped, a dizzying swirl of moonlight and blackness.

  He steered her onto the boardwalk. “Amy, something’s bothering you. Can you talk about it?”

  Could she talk about it? No. She mustn’t even think about it. “It’s—h-hard to believe it’s already November.”

  “I take it you don’t want to discuss it?”

  Discuss it? There weren’t words. How could she explain? A black curtain in her mind? He’d think her insane. And she might very well go insane if she didn’t regain control. “It’s so chilly. Soon it’ll be time for Thanksgiving.”

  He glanced over at her. “There’s a full moon. Have you noticed?”

  Relieved that he had become sidetracked, Amy glanced up. The moon rested low in the sky, full and milky white, the gnarled limbs of a leafless oak silhouetted against it. She could remember staring up at the moon fifteen years ago, her wrists afire from struggling against the rawhide that bound her to the wagon wheel, her mind filled with dread because morning would eventually come, and with it the men—one after another in an endless visitation.

  “Did you know there are three hundred and forty-two slats in this boardwalk?”

  She jerked and looked over at him. The boardwalk? Slats? She heard her shoes echoing on the wood and homed in on the sound. “You—you’ve learned to count that high?”

  “Hell, no. Small talk, right? I thought I’d help you out.” He tipped his head, regarding her with a slight smile. “Suppose it’ll rain tomorrow?”

  “There’s not a cloud in sight tonight.” Amy dropped her chin to stare at her feet. “I—I’m sorry, Swift.”

  “Never be sorry, Amy. I didn’t come into this hoping to change you.” His voice grew husky. “Just to love you.”

  “Some things aren’t easy to talk about.”

  He released her elbow and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was afraid seeing that today would upset you.” Tension threaded his voice. “Just don’t shut me out. Or hold me to blame. I can’t control what Brandon does.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Was that a note of anger she detected? Amy bit her lip. He deserved an explanation. “Seeing that—it brought it all back—the comancheros, the two weeks with them.” She doubted Swift had ever run from anything. He would face the memories head-on, then relegate them to yesterday and never again look back. “Indigo came so close. It occurred to me suddenly—how close she had come—and I started remembering.”

  He kept his hands in his pockets. The breeze picked up, flattening his shirt against his back. He hunched his shoulders. “Can you do your remembering out loud?”

  “No.”

  “You know, Amy, sometimes talking about something helps get it out of your head.” She sensed a hesitancy in him before he continued. “There’s nothing you need to hide from me. Nothing they did to you could be so bad, nothing you did or felt could be so bad, that I’d ever stop loving you.”

  “I—I don’t want to think about it. I can’t.”

  She expected him to press her. Instead he sighed and said, “Then don’t. When the time’s right, maybe you’ll be able to, hm?”

  He drew his hand from his pocket and intertwined his fingers with hers. Before Amy realized what he was about, he had tugged her forward and increased their pace. There was no mistaking what his hurry was or what he had in mind.

  Their feet tapped a rhythmic tattoo on the frozen ground. The wind funneled between the store buildings, lifting her skirts, then backlashing to whip them around her legs. She shivered and peered ahead of them into the shadows. What if Brandon Marshall and his friends lurked in the darkness? What if— She cut the thought short. She had to stop thinking negatively.

  Swift glanced down at her. “Cold?”

  “A little.”

  “Here in a few minutes, I’ll warm you up, Mrs. Lopez.”

  Even in the moonlight, she could see the twinkle of devilment in his eyes. She glanced away. Could she make love with him tonight, so close on the heels of what had happened to Indigo? And if she couldn’t, what then? Would he grow angry? Would he believe she was holding him responsible in some way? It wasn’t at all like that, but how could she make him understand?

  As they drew near her house, her already accelerated pulse beat became a pounding in her temples. As she walked up the steps and opened the door, what little composure she had left disintegrated. Should she do the ordinary things, light the lamp, lay the fire, dress for bed? What if the memories surrounded her again when he touched her?

  When they entered the dark sitting room, he answered one question by tending the lamp himself. Light flared in the globe. While he adjusted the wick, she stood
waiting, mind racing. He straightened and turned toward her, tall and dark, his broad shoulders blocking the lantern’s glow. She couldn’t read his expression.

  “I, um, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Though she couldn’t see his mouth, she could tell by his voice that he was smiling. He leaned a hip against the table and folded his arms, his body relaxed. She fastened her gaze on his boots. “Shall I lay a fire?”

  With a breath of laughter, he said, “We won’t need one.”

  Her throat felt as if it were being squeezed by hard fingers. “I’ve got leftovers from last night. You didn’t eat dinner. Is there anything you’d like?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something I’d like.”

  “Some chicken? I have cornbread left over. Mashed potatoes and gravy. It won’t take long to heat up.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She forced her gaze upward from his boots to the vicinity of his knees. “What would you like, then?”

  “You.”

  The single word hung between them, making her wish she hadn’t asked. She licked her lips, then dragged her gaze to his shadowed face. “Well, I guess I’ll, um . . .” The words trailed off, the thought lost to her. Pictures of last night flitted through her mind. A shivery sensation pooled at the base of her spine and worked slowly upward, raising goose bumps across her shoulder blades. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “I like looking at you. Now it’s my turn for a question. Why are you so nervous?”

  He shifted and braced his hands on either side of him to push away from the table and pick up the lamp. Holding it high, he ambled toward her, the light playing upon his face as he moved, bathing his features in amber, then shadow. She recalled thinking once that he looked exactly as she imagined the devil, so tall and ebony dark, cloaked all in black. There was something not quite civilized about him, she decided, especially when his eyes got that gleam in them.

  “Do you want to go to the bedroom?” he asked.

  Amy nodded, hardly able to believe he could be so insensitive. He had to know how unbalanced she felt right now, how fresh everything was in her mind. It wasn’t like Swift to disregard her feelings. Her mouth had gone so dry that her tongue cleaved to her teeth. He pressed a large hand to her back and turned her toward the hallway. She moved ahead of him, watching their shadows dance larger than life over the walls. The bedroom doorway yawned like a cavern waiting to swallow her. She stepped into the blackness. He came in behind her, bathing the room with light.