Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  Nothing seemed the same with him there. The space seemed narrower, for one thing. The lace curtains looked too frilly, the bureau cluttered. He made room on the nightstand for the lamp, then sat down on her bed and began unfastening his shirt, his gaze on hers, his mouth tipped in a half smile. He looked out of place sitting there, too dark and rugged to be framed by a backdrop of lace.

  She tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue was still parchment dry. His shirt fell open to the waist, revealing a swath of muscled chest and flat belly that gleamed like polished oak in the lamplight. He bent one knee and seized hold of his boot, his gaze still leveled on hers.

  “Amy?”

  The word was laced with question, and demand. She forced her hands to the collar of her dress and fumbled at the tiny button there. When at last it slipped free, she proceeded to the next, and then the next. He dropped one boot to the floor, then removed the other one, his attention still riveted on her. Amy wished with all her heart that the lantern would run out of fuel or that he would look away. Neither happened.

  “Could you douse the light, please?”

  “If I did that, I couldn’t see you as well.”

  That was the general idea. Amy’s hands stilled. “I’m not quite ready to undress with the light burning.”

  He jerked one side of his shirt loose from his belt and ran a hand over his ribs. “You’ll never feel ready if you always hide in shadows. I want to see you when I make love to you, Amy. And I want you to see me.”

  “But—” The word, cut short because she had no idea what she meant to follow it up with, rang in the silence.

  “But what?” He jerked the other side of his shirt loose and stood up. “This isn’t just shyness, is it?” He moved toward her. “Are you still upset about what happened to Indigo?”

  Maybe he would understand, after all. “Yes.”

  “That’s natural.” He brushed her hands aside and began unfastening her buttons. “Perfectly natural and understandable.”

  “It is? Then why can’t we—” She clutched his hands to stop their speedy descent. “By tomorrow night, maybe I’ll be feeling better. For tonight, couldn’t we—”

  “You’re going to be feeling better in about two minutes.” His fingers evaded hers and continued their downward course until the last button slipped free. He slid back the front plackets of her dress, his warm palms skimming down her arms as he peeled the sleeves toward her wrists. “Trust me, Amy.”

  A frantic feeling welled within her. “I don’t feel comfortable with the light burning.”

  “You’re not supposed to feel comfortable.” He dipped his head and feathered a hot kiss across her temple. “You’re supposed to feel quivery and weak and breathless.”

  She felt all those things, and worse. She also felt betrayed because he didn’t understand that. Never before had Swift failed to sense what she couldn’t put into words.

  He tugged on the ribbon that held up her petticoat, then pulled both her dress and the undergarment over her hips, letting them slip to the floor. Next, he advanced on the sash of her pantalets. Amy got the distinct impression that he didn’t intend to stop, no matter what she said.

  “Swift?”

  The pantalets dropped. Her belly knotted and twisted.

  “Swift, I—”

  He hunkered before her and grasped one of her ankles. After unbuttoning her shoe, he dragged it off, then drew her foot from the leg of her pantalets. She stared down at the back of his dark head while he switched his attention to her other shoe. Within seconds he divested her of the pantalets. Then he slowly lifted his gaze the length of her legs to the black tops of her ribbed hose. Drawing close, he kissed her above the band of cotton on her bare thigh, his lips warm and velvety, his breath moist on her skin. Amy’s lungs quit working.

  “Swift?” she squeaked. “Please turn out the light.”

  He rolled one stocking, garter and all, down her thigh, his lips following its descent. “Give me five minutes, Amy, love. If you still feel so tense, I’ll turn it out. But first let’s try it my way.”

  He ran a hand behind her leg and bent her knee, tugging the garter and stocking off. She gasped when he nibbled her instep and then her toes. He peeled off the other stocking, then tipped back his head, his hands clasping her thighs, his fingers warm and gentle, yet relentless. His dark eyes met hers, lambent and determined.

  “You’re not frightened, are you?”

  “No, but I—”

  “No buts. If you’re afraid, just say so.” His mouth twisted in a knowing smile. “Shyness doesn’t count. Are you frightened?”

  “It’s just that, after what happened, I don’t want to make love. Just thinking about it makes me feel”—she searched for a way to describe it—“shriveled up inside.”

  He rose and reached for the ribbons of her chemise. “Give me a little more than two minutes on that. Five, maybe? I think I know just the cure. Relax and leave it to me.”

  “I can’t. It’s bright as day in here!”

  “Close your eyes and you won’t notice.” The chemise fell open. “Then we’ll both be happy.”

  He bent his head to kiss her bare shoulder as he slipped the chemise down her arms, “Such a beautiful woman and you think I shouldn’t look at you?” He ran his lips to her throat, nudging her head back with his jaw. The kisses set her skin afire. “God, Amy, I love you.”

  “It’s freezing in here. I’ll take sick.”

  He chuckled and nipped her below the ear. “You won’t either.”

  “I’ve got goose bumps. I’ll die of croup before the winter’s out.”

  “You won’t be cold for long,” he promised, and promptly swept her into his arms to carry her to the bed. With a speed that made her dizzy, he dumped her onto the coverlet and straightened to strip off his shirt.

  Amy grasped the coverlet to pull it across herself. He clamped a hand over her wrist. “Don’t, please.”

  She abandoned the coverlet and hugged herself instead. By rolling onto her side and drawing up her knees, she managed to hide herself. His eyes warmed on hers. With a flick of his wrist, he unfastened his belt buckle. When he started to peel off his pants, she followed his advice and squeezed her eyes closed. Denim rustled.

  “Amy, you saw me last night.”

  The mattress sank under his weight. His warm hand settled on her hip. The other clasped her knees. He forced her legs to straighten so he could press close to her. The heat of his chest brushed against her arms. His lips grazed her jaw.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “God, how I love you.”

  With gentle strength, he forced her arms to her sides and rolled her to her back, pinning her there with his chest. The shock of his hot skin against her breasts made her breath catch. She opened her eyes to find his dark face hovering inches above hers, his brown eyes filled with tenderness.

  “Look at me, Amy, love, and say my name,” he whispered.

  She swallowed. “Swift.”

  He ran a palm over her waist, up her side, his fingertips grazing the underside of her breast. “Again, Amy, love. No, don’t close your eyes. Look at me and say my name.”

  His hand, warm and sandpapery, closed over her softness. His face drew closer, his eyes still holding hers.

  “Swift,” she whispered.

  He feathered a thumb across the peak of her nipple. She gasped at the electrical sensation that shot through her.

  “Again,” he commanded.

  “S-Swift.”

  “Swift Lopez.” He trailed his lips down her throat. “Say it. And don’t ever forget it. Yesterday is over. It’s my hand on you now.”

  Tears filled Amy’s eyes. She hadn’t believed he understood. Now she realized that perhaps he understood too well. Swift Lopez. He touched her with a branding heat, his hands cleansing her in a way that soap and water could never have done.

  “They can’t hurt you anymore,” he whispered raggedly. “Never again. You’re mine. Do you understand?”

>   Amy ran her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Oh, Swift . . . it does hurt. The remembering hurts.”

  “Tell me.” He pressed his lips to her throat.

  She began to shake. She clung to him more desperately. “I can’t. I’m afraid. I don’t let myself remember. Never. Don’t you see? I can’t. If I do, I’ll go mad.”

  He tightened his arms around her, splaying one hand across her back. Amy felt surrounded by him, by his heat and strength. “Not even when I’m here with you? We’ll go mad together. Just one memory, Amy, love. Can’t you face just one while I’m holding you? Start at the very beginning. What were you doing when the comancheros came?”

  With a choked sob she whispered, “Laundry, Loretta and I were doing laundry. I was stirring the soaked clothes with a paddle, and we didn’t hear them coming until it was too late.”

  The memories hurtled at her. Swift’s hand kneaded her back. His arms hardened around her. “It’s all right. It’s just words, Amy. You can stop whenever you want. Tell me.”

  “I—I wouldn’t go inside when Loretta told me to. Maybe if I had, they wouldn’t have taken me. But I—” A shudder shook her. “It was my fault. I didn’t mind what she said, and they took me.”

  “No. That’s crazy, Amy. What kind of person would have left Loretta out there all alone?”

  “I never minded what anyone said. That time, I paid for it.”

  “You were too brave for your own good,” he amended. “Even if you had gone inside the house, Santos would’ve gone in after you. What happened next?”

  “M-Ma came out with a gun. One of the—comancheros put a knife to my throat. He said he’d kill me if she didn’t drop it.”

  “And so she did?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they took you with them?”

  “Y-yes.” Amy buried her face against his shoulder.

  “And you wished she’d let the man kill you. . . .”

  “Why didn’t she? It would’ve been kinder. Oh, God, why didn’t she let him kill me!”

  He made a fist in her hair. “Because you were meant to be here with me tonight. Because I wouldn’t have anyone to love if you had died. No one to love me. Everything has a reason, Amy. All of us have a purpose. Tell me. . . .”

  Amy wasn’t sure where the words came from. They fell on her ears, shrill and ugly and raw, spewing from her like poison. Once she began talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. Swift said nothing. He just held her and stroked her and listened.

  Amy knew she was babbling. She talked and talked . . . until she began to feel exhausted, until her body felt leaden and her speech began to slur. Her trembling finally ceased. And then the impossible happened. She ran out of things to say.

  Her throat afire from sobbing, she lay quietly beneath him and opened her eyes, incredulous. For fifteen endless years, the black ugliness inside her had seemed bottomless. Now she had poured it all out. All of it, absolutely everything. She felt strangely empty . . . and peaceful.

  Swift stirred and pushed up slightly. Combing his fingers through her hair, he trailed whisper-soft kisses across her forehead, then kissed her eyes closed. “Are you all right?” he asked huskily.

  “Yes,” she whispered, scarcely able to believe it.

  “Thank you, Amy, love.”

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me.”

  She opened her eyes to find that he was smiling.

  “I think I know just what to do with those ugly memories of yours,” he told her, bending his head to nibble seductively at her shoulder.

  “What’s that?”

  “How about making all new ones?” He trailed his lips to her breast and circled deliciously with his tongue. “Beautiful ones, Amy.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, Swift.”

  He ran his hands over her with a branding heat. “And I love you. I won’t share you with ghosts. I think it’s time we bury them, don’t you?”

  His hands had already begun to work their magic. Amy parted her lips on a sigh. A brilliant kaleidoscope of light swirled inside her head. His fingertips feathered over her like gossamer, making her skin tingle. The lights deepened in hue and spectrum, until she felt as if she were floating within a rainbow.

  Swift . . . her love, her salvation, her dream spinner. She melted into him, no longer caring about the lantern burning so brightly beside them, no longer even aware that it existed.

  Afterward they slept in each other’s arms, drifting together into dreams, contented in the warm cocoon of down. Amy awoke several times to find Swift still curled around her. A smile touched her mouth. Everything really was going to be all right. No Indian wars to keep them apart, no endless waiting for him to return to her. She wasn’t even afraid of her nightmares now. When she woke up, Swift would be there and he would set her world back on its axis.

  A couple of hours later, he stirred. Amy didn’t want him to leave, yet she knew he must. She let her hand trail down his back as he sat up.

  “When are you going to make an honest woman of me, Mr. Lopez?” she asked groggily.

  “As soon as that damned priest gets back.”

  Amy grinned. Only Swift would say “damn” and “priest” in the same breath. She wondered what Father O’Grady would think of her Comanche, comanchero, gunslinging husband and decided the priest, being a man who dealt in souls, would see through Swift’s harsh exterior. Swift, a curious blend of killer and saint, outlaw and hero. No one who knew him could doubt that a part of him walked with the angels.

  There was a purity within him still untouched by the brutal life he had led, an innocence, for want of a better word. He saw the world differently from most people. To him there was prayer in the fluttering of a leaf, a song of worship in the streaks of a sunset.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she whispered, listening to him dress.

  “I’ll just be a whistle away.”

  “Promise?”

  She heard him shove on his boots. Then he leaned over her. “Whistle and find out.” He kissed her. “Go back to sleep, Amy, love. Then come over for morning coffee at Loretta’s. We’ll make eyes across the table.”

  “And you’ll come back tomorrow night?”

  “Tonight.” He nibbled her lips. “It’s a little after two. Tomorrow’s already here.”

  Amy’s eyes drifted closed. Her last thought was that she had lived fifteen years holding on because tomorrow might bring something absolutely wonderful. And it had.

  Chapter 23

  A PIERCING SCREAM JERKED SWIFT AWAKE. Groggy and convinced for a moment that he had imagined the shrill cry, he shot up from his pallet by the fireplace. Daylight? It seemed as if he’d just come sneaking in from Amy’s and barely got his eyes closed. Another scream came. Amy? Fright filled him. Then he realized the sound came from the wrong end of town. He jerked on his boots and ran to the window to peer out. Up at the Crenton house, he saw Alice down by her front gate. She stood with her shoulders hunched, her hands over her face. The screams undoubtedly had come from her.

  Swearing, Swift tore out of the house and down the steps. As he ran, the storefronts blurred in his peripheral vision. Dimly he registered that other people were pouring from their houses behind him, all drawn toward the Crenton place. Something unspeakable had happened. He guessed that by the sound of Alice Crenton’s screams. A woman caught up in horror.

  When he reached the footpath, he called out, “Mrs. Crenton? What’s wrong?”

  She whirled and drew her hands from her face. Never had he seen anyone’s skin so pale, almost blue-white, like snow in twilight. She stared at him as he ran toward her. Then she began to back away, shaking her head, holding out her hands as if to ward him off.

  “Stay away! Oh, merciful God, stay away!”

  Swift nearly tripped over his feet coming to a halt. “Mrs. Crenton?”

  “What kind of animal are you?”

  Swift couldn’t imagine what she meant. Then he saw it. A fresh scalp hung
on the Crentons’ gatepost. The swatch of red hair left him in no doubt that it was Abe Crenton’s.

  For a moment, Swift couldn’t move. All he could do was stare. Blood from the scalp had dripped down the post, staining the weathered-gray wood a reddish black. Slowly and insidiously, the realization came to him that Alice Crenton believed he had killed her husband.

  Footfalls echoed behind Swift. A man’s voice asked, “Gentle Jesus, man, what have you done?”

  Swift heard other people running up. A woman screamed. Another man cried, “I heard you threaten to kill him, but I didn’t think you meant it! Oh, Lordy.”

  Swift pivoted, working his mouth to speak. Randall Hamstead came running up. Swift met his gaze. Randall looked at him for a moment, then paled and glanced away. Off to Swift’s left, a woman began to retch. Another began to sob. The Lowdry brothers stood to one side, their attention riveted to the scalp.

  Hank Lowdry spat a stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with his grimy leather sleeve. “I’ll be damned. A bunch of us heard you threatenin’ to scalp him, but none of us thought you’d do it.” He started to laugh, then swallowed it back and glanced over at his brother. “He did it! And hung it on the goddamn gatepost! Just like he threatened.”

  The ground dipped under Swift’s feet. Everyone there thought he had done this? It was crazy! Insane! But it also made a terrible sort of sense. Swift Lopez, raised as a Comanche, later a gunslinger and comanchero. A killer. Oh, yes. Who better to blame than him? Especially when the victim had been scalped. Panic banded his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Then the wild urge to laugh came over him.

  At last, Swift managed to speak. But when the words finally came, he floundered, uncertain what to say. “I—” He broke off and swallowed. “I didn’t do this.” He saw Hunter shoving his way through the crowd, and relief flooded through him. “Hunter, tell them! They think I did this!”