Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  Sweat trickled down Loretta’s spine. Her destiny? Her eyes flew to Tom’s blanket. They had slain him. She refastened the doeskin with shaking hands, remembering how gently Tom had hugged her the night he left.

  The rifle Aunt Rachel had loaded for her rested against the wall. The temptation to use it was almost overwhelming. With her heart in her throat, Loretta looked at her uncle, knowing before he spoke that he would send her out there.

  ‘‘They’ll kill us,’’ was Henry’s response to her pleading expression. ‘‘I got to think of my family. You ain’t one of us, not really. I have Rachel and Amy to think of first.’’

  Rachel and Amy? Looking into her uncle’s eyes, Loretta read cold, crawling fear, and it wasn’t for his womenfolk. It was one thing to sacrifice her life to save the others, but it was another to be sold. Dying was quick, at least. Many winters. Dear Lord, belonging to that Comanche would mean a lifetime of slavery, groveling for mercy from an animal who didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  Loretta shook her head and cast her aunt a beseeching glance. Surely if the Comanche was willing to trade fifty horses for her, he sought a peaceable purchase, not a battle. He would have no guarantee that his arrows wouldn’t find her as a target.

  Henry leaned his rifle against the wall. ‘‘You gotta go. Ain’t no choice.’’ He walked toward her. ‘‘And don’t get it into your head to make a fuss, or I’ll backhand you good. Hear?’’

  ‘‘No!’’ Rachel threw herself at her husband. ‘‘Don’t you dare send her out there! So help me, I—’’

  With a sweep of his arm, Henry knocked Rachel aside. She fell backward, hitting the wall with such force that her head cracked against the logs. Loretta retreated, watching her uncle, groping for the table behind her. He planned to toss her on the steps like so much baggage. Panic blocked out any rational thoughts she might have had about the safety of her aunt and cousin. When he lunged, she whirled to run—but his hand snaked out and grasped her arm. The next instant, bright spots flashed before her eyes, and the side of her face exploded with pain. She staggered, dimly aware of Henry’s fingers biting into her arm, dragging her. From far away she heard Aunt Rachel scream Amy’s name. Then she felt Henry’s grip loosen. She stumbled and blinked, trying to clear her vision. When the room came into focus, she froze. The door was wide open.

  Amy stood on the porch, Henry’s rifle held unsteadily to her small shoulder. ‘‘You Injuns get out of here!’’ she cried. ‘‘You can’t have Loretta. Go away, or I’ll shoot you. I mean it!’’

  Beyond the child, Loretta could see Hunter. She thought she saw admiration flicker in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. He sat his horse loosely, his face an unreadable mask, deathly calm. ‘‘I am here,’’ he challenged.

  The blast of the gun sent Amy reeling. A spray of dust rose two feet wide of her mark. As she staggered to get her balance, Hunter threw himself forward along his horse’s neck, and the stallion lunged up the steps, hooves thundering. The Comanche leaned sideways, curling an arm around Amy as he rode past. She screamed and dropped the gun. The Indian threw her across his thighs and smacked her on the bottom when she kicked.

  There was no time to think. Loretta ran for the door, grabbing the gun propped against the wall. Her gown snapped taut around her ankles as she bounded across the porch and down the steps. The Comanche rode in a wide circle around the frightened, riderless horses and tossed Amy into the arms of a fellow Indian who waited in the ranks. The little girl’s indignant screeching filled the air. Loretta lifted the Spencer carbine to her shoulder, leveling the sights on the Comanche as he circled back to her. The bells on his moccasins tinkled merrily with each movement of his horse.

  ‘‘Let me go!’’ Amy screamed. ‘‘You stinkin’ savage!’’

  Loretta glanced toward the child. A young brave struggled to keep Amy atop his pony. He laughed uproariously when she tried to scratch him. The girl caught a handful of his black hair and pulled with all her might.

  ‘‘Ai-ee!’’ the boy exclaimed. ‘‘She tries to take my scalp.’’

  Whoops of laughter spiraled among the men. Loretta dragged her gaze back to Hunter. He had halted his mount some fifteen feet from her.

  ‘‘Where will you spend your cartridge?’’ he asked. ‘‘If you love her, shoot her. It is wisdom.’’

  Amy’s screaming turned to pitiful sobbing. Loretta’s aim wavered, and she glanced toward the other Indians, trying to see her cousin. What was Henry doing? Why didn’t he back her up? How long could it take to load a rifle? The miserable coward.

  ‘‘You have time for one shot,’’ Hunter went on. ‘‘If you waste it on me, my friend will take your sister and avenge me. Your father hides behind his wooden walls. You stand alone.’’

  Sweat ran into Loretta’s eyes. She turned slightly and leveled the barrel of her gun at Amy. Blinking, she snugged her finger around the trigger. Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled Amy’s queries about blessed release. It’s something bad, isn’t it? It’s killing yourself, isn’t it? Not always, Loretta thought. Sometimes it was death by a loved one’s hand.

  ‘‘Think long on this, Yellow Hair,’’ Hunter cautioned. ‘‘I came in peace to buy a woman, not steal a child. She is too skinny to bring this Comanche pleasure. You are not.’’ He leaned forward, stretching an arm along his horse’s neck, his hand open to her. ‘‘Come to me, and I will send your sister back to her mother unharmed.’’

  Loretta stared at him. Did he mean it? His eyes pierced hers. The scar on the side of his face flickered as his jaw muscle tightened. If the tales about him were true, he might spare Amy. On the other hand, he might take them both captive if given half a chance. She remembered how gently he had touched her last night, and her confusion mounted.

  ‘‘Drop the weapon and come,’’ he urged. ‘‘It is a fair trade, no? She goes free. I have spoken it.’’

  In the background, Loretta heard laughter ringing. Already the braves made sport of Amy. The child screeched again.

  ‘‘You will do this, no? You have courage. It shines in your eyes. If you fight the big fight, you cannot win. It is best to hold the head high and surrender with dignity. Put down the gun.’’

  Chapter 5

  LORETTA’S SHOULDERS SLUMPED IN DEFEAT. With numb hands she lowered the rifle to the dirt.

  A nasty grin twisted Hunter’s mouth. ‘‘So it is a trade? You are my woman?’’

  For once, she was glad she couldn’t talk.

  ‘‘You can make sign language, herbi.’’ His eyes locked with hers, glinting, watchful.

  Amy cried, ‘‘No, Loretta, no, don’t do it!’’

  Lifting an eyebrow, the Comanche waited. The tension mounted, reminding Loretta of the lull right before a storm, thick, heavy, unnaturally quiet. She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth and forced herself to nod. His eyes flickered with satisfaction.

  Nudging his mount forward, he closed the distance between them and leaned down to encircle her waist with a steely arm. With little effort he lifted her onto his horse, positioning her sideways in front of him so her shoulder pressed against his chest, her bottom wedged between him and the ridge of his stallion’s neck. Never had she felt such quivering, helpless fear. He was going to take her. The reality of it sank home now that he had her on his horse.

  ‘‘Tani-har-ro,’’ he said softly.

  She turned her head to find that he was sniffing her hair, his expression quizzical. The moment their eyes met, her insides tightened. Up close, his face seemed even harsher than it had the night before, features chiseled, lips narrowed to an uncompromising line, his skin baked brown by the sun. She could see in minute detail the tiny cracks in his grease paint, the thick sweep of his lashes, the knife scar that slashed his cheek. His eyes were without question the darkest blue she had ever seen and seemed to cut right through her. If she had been entertaining the thought of pleading with him, it fled her mind now. She remembered what he had s
aid to her that first day. Look at me and know the face of your master. She supposed, by his standards, he had a right to smell her hair since he had paid dearly for every strand.

  A flush slid up her neck. In nothing but a nightgown, she would have been embarrassed in front of any man; with Hunter her humiliation was tenfold. He swept his gaze over her with no sign of guilt, no hesitation, his attention lingering on whatever drew his interest. When he traced her collarbone with a fingertip and gave her arm a squeeze, she felt like a head of beef at auction.

  ‘‘You are too skinny. Your father should feed you more.’’ Catching hold of her chin, he tipped her head back and forced her mouth open to check her teeth. ‘‘Hmph-hh,’’ he grunted, returning his arm to her waist. ‘‘This Comanche paid too many horses. Without your pitsikwina to cover you, you are all bones.’’

  She flashed him a glare, only to discover that his eyes were filled with laughter. He slid a hand up her side, his fingers firm and warm where they hugged the curve of her ribs. She stiffened when he cupped the underside of her breast, but she didn’t resist his touch. ‘‘Maybe not all bones. What do you have there, herbi? Do you try to hide the sweet places your mother promised me?’’ He watched her for a moment, as if trying to predict what her reaction might be to such outrageous familiarity. Then his mouth twisted in a mocking smile. ‘‘You do not spit when your sister may suffer my wrath. I should keep her, I think. She is a brave warrior, no?’’

  Loretta’s heart caught. Fool! Her eyes flew to Amy. She should have shot the child while she had the chance.

  ‘‘Ah, but I have said she will go back to her mother, no? And you have said you are my woman.’’ Tightening his grip on her breast, he leaned forward and brought his mouth so close to her ear that shivers raced down her spine. ‘‘Your heart pounds, woman. It is a lie you speak? You will fight this Comanche when your sister is out of danger?’’

  She knew he was testing her, daring her to resist him, glorying in the power he wielded. Knowing that gave her the strength to be still. She shook her head in reply, praying Comanches used the same gesture to say no.

  ‘‘It is a promise you make?’’

  He rasped his thumb across her gown, teasing her nipple. The shock of feeling that spiraled from her breast to the hollow of her belly nearly took her breath. Keeping her face carefully blank, she nodded.

  ‘‘This Comanche thinks you lie.’’

  With a shake of her head, Loretta lifted pleading eyes to his. Endless seconds passed as his fingertips followed the path of his thumb, each feather-light caress more shattering to her pride than the last. She clenched her teeth. His features blurred, and she realized she was looking at him through tears.

  Suddenly he began to laugh and dropped his hand to her ribs. ‘‘You do not lie so good, Yellow Hair. Your eyes make big talk against you. But that is okay. We have had this one moment together, no? And you did not spit.’’

  Chuckling, he ducked his head and tightened his arm around her with such crushing strength that she couldn’t breathe, let alone fight. Then he wheeled his horse, yelling gibberish. The young man who held Amy nudged his pony out of the ranks and galloped it toward the house. In a skid of hooves and flying dust, he dumped her none too gently onto the dirt and rode off. Amy scrambled to her feet, holding out her arms.

  ‘‘Loretta, no . . . Loretta, please . . .’’

  To Loretta’s relief, Rachel burst out of the cabin, grabbed Amy, and dragged her up the steps. After shoving the child through the door, she reappeared with a rifle in her hands. Lifting the stock to her shoulder, she took careful aim. At Loretta . . .

  It happened so fast that even the Comanche was taken by surprise. His body snapped taut. For the space of a heartbeat, Loretta felt a shattering sense of betrayal, of fear. Then she understood. Aunt Rachel was going to kill her rather than see her taken by Comanches.

  The blast of the gun and a roar from the Comanche came almost simultaneously. He threw his body forward, slamming Loretta against the stallion’s neck. Pain exploded in her chest, a flattening, mind-searing pain. Insane as it was, the thought crossed her mind that the Comanche hadn’t won after all.

  The stallion reared, striking the air, then leaped forward, nearly tossing both his riders. Loretta was squashed between the long ridge of the animal’s neck and the Comanche’s chest. Sitting sideways as she was, her body was twisted at an impossible angle. Instinctively she clutched the horse’s mane to hold her seat. She was going to fall. The hooves of the other horses thundered all around her. If she lost her grip, the other riders would surely trample her.

  Desperation filled her. She was slipping. At the last moment, when her fingers lost their hold and she felt herself falling, her captor’s arm clamped around her ribs, pulling her back onto the horse. Then the weight of his chest anchored her, so heavy she couldn’t breathe. Wind blew against her face. Slack-jawed, she labored for air, pressure building to a pulsating intensity in her temples.

  The Indians rode a safe distance from the house before stopping. When Hunter finally drew rein and leaped off the horse, Loretta fell with him and landed in a heap at his feet. Dust plumed around her. Men dismounted, yelling, running in her direction. For a moment she thought they were going to swoop down on her, but they circled her captor instead, jabbering and touching his shoulder. There were so many legs, some naked. Brown buttocks flashed everywhere she looked. Hunter snarled something and peeled off his shirt. A furrowed flesh wound angled across his right shoulder.

  Pressing a hand to her chest, Loretta glanced down in bewilderment. She had been so sure. . . . Laughter bubbled up her throat. Aunt Rachel had missed? She never missed when she could draw a steady bead on a still target. Loretta’s throat tightened. The Comanche.She looked up, confusion clouding her blue eyes. He had shielded her with his own body?

  Waving his friends away, Hunter hunkered down and scooped a handful of dirt, pressing it to the shallow cut on his shoulder. Loretta stared at the blood trailing down his arm. If not for his quick thinking, it could have been her own. Survival instinct and common sense warred within her. She knew death might be preferable to what was in store for her, but she couldn’t help being glad she was alive.

  As if he felt her staring at him, the Comanche lifted his head. When his eyes met hers, the fury and loathing in them chilled her. He stood and jerked the feathers from his braid, wrapping them in his shirt. Never taking his gaze off her, he stuffed the bundle into a parfleche hanging from his surcingle.

  ‘‘Keemah,’’ he growled.

  Uncertain what he wanted and afraid of doing the wrong thing, Loretta stayed where she was. He caught her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

  ‘‘Keemah, come!’’ He gave her a shake for emphasis, his eyes glittering. ‘‘Listen good, and learn quick. I have little patience with stupid women.’’

  Grasping her waist, he tossed her on the horse and scooted her to the back of the blanket saddle. The hem of her nightgown rode high. She could feel all the men staring at her. Had he no decency? With trembling hands, she tugged at the gown and tried to cover her thighs. There wasn’t enough material to stretch. And it was so thin from years of wear, it was nearly transparent. The morning breeze raised gooseflesh on her naked arms and back.

  With a grim set to his mouth, her captor opened a second parfleche, withdrawing a length of braided wool and a leather thong. Before she realized what he was about to do, he knotted the wool around one of her ankles, looped it under his horse’s belly, and swiftly bound her other foot.

  ‘‘We must ride like the wind!’’ he yelled to the others. ‘‘Meadro! Let’s go!’’

  The other men ran for their horses. Grasping the stallion’s mane, Hunter vaulted to its back and settled himself in front of her. When he reached for her arms and pulled them around him, she couldn’t stifle a gasp. Her breasts were flattened against his back.

  ‘‘Your woman does not like you, cousin,’’ someone called in English. Loretta turned to see who s
poke and immediately recognized the brave who had encouraged Hunter to kill her that first day. His scarred face was unforgettable. He flashed her a twisted smile that seemed more a leer, his black eyes sliding insolently down her body to rest on her naked thighs. Then he laughed and wheeled his chestnut horse. ‘‘She won’t be worth the trouble she will make for you.’’

  Hunter glanced over his shoulder at her. The fiery heat of his anger glowed like banked embers in his eyes. ‘‘She will learn.’’ With an expertise born of long practice, he lashed her wrists together with the leather. ‘‘She will learn quick.’’

  Behind the large group of warriors stretched an endless carpet of green grass dotted with blue petals. Ahead lay a dense grove of pecan and willow trees. The men had been riding nonstop fourteen hours, making a great circle back to the Brazos near Loretta’s home, an evasion tactic in case the tosi tivo tried to follow them. Come morning, if they felt certain they weren’t being pursued, they would take a direct route to their village.

  To the west, the sinking sun was a red orb, streaking the evening sky with wisps of dark gray and pink. Loretta no longer sat erect on the horse to keep her breasts from touching the Comanche’s naked back. She slumped against him, her lolling head pillowed by the muscular cleavage of his spine. Pain shot up her cramped legs from the bonds of coarse wool braid. The rawhide around her wrists had cinched tight, cutting into her skin. Her tongue was a parched lump. One more mile, and she felt sure she would die.

  She imagined herself sinking into blackness, escaping. It would be cool and dark in heaven. The water there would flow sparkling and icy. There would be no Comanche with cruel, midnight blue eyes.

  Hunter’s voice rumbled inside him, vibrating against her cheek. Loretta felt the stallion slowing down. Angry words in a language she couldn’t understand ricocheted around her, high, low, growling, shrill. She fluttered her lashes, too miserable to care why the men argued, just thankful for the reprieve. She felt Hunter shift his weight backward, felt his hard hands fumbling with the tight band of leather that bound her wrists. The next second her arms were freed and fell like dead weights to her sides. Hunter’s strong back disappeared. She slumped forward on the horse, not caring about anything as long as she could rest.