Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  An airless silence buzzed in Loretta’s ears. She held her breath and knew Amy did as well. Then Amy sobbed. She made only a whisper of sound, but it seemed as loud as a cannon boom. Electrical awareness crackled. A board creaked. A shadow fell across the stripes of light coming down through the floor cracks. Loretta snugged her finger on the trigger, shaking, her skin clammy with sweat. The trap lifted an inch. . . .

  Amy jerked and gasped. Not certain from which side Hunter would open the door, Loretta waited until she saw the toe of his moccasin, then swung the barrel of the gun toward him. The door whined, yawning wider. The light blinded her for an instant. Hunter loomed in the opening, his features taut with rage.

  ‘‘Out!’’ He snapped his fingers and jabbed a thumb over his muscular shoulder, stepping back so they could come up the steps. ‘‘Namiso, now!’’

  Amy leaped to obey. Loretta threw her weight back to hold her in the corner. ‘‘Get out of here, Hunter. I’m not going with you.’’

  He placed a foot on the top step. Wondering if it was really her doing this, she waved the barrel of the gun at him. ‘‘Don’t try it! Just leave. Please? I don’t want to hurt you!’’

  He took another step, his expression thunderous, his eyes sparking anger.

  ‘‘This is loaded! Don’t test me, Hunter! I’m not going back!’’

  To Loretta’s horror, he dared to take another step. She braced herself and tried to tighten her quivering finger on the trigger. The imagined blast of the gun filled her ears. She pictured him crumpling and falling down the steps, his broad chest torn open and bleeding. Blazing indigo eyes locked on hers, held her pinioned. Memories of her parents slid through her mind, but other memories did as well—memories of Hunter, in a hundred different scenes, as her friend, her lover, her protector. She hated what he was, the things he was capable of doing. But she loved him, too. And God help her, she couldn’t kill him. He knew that. She read it in his eyes. He came down the remaining steps and hauled Amy out from behind her.

  ‘‘Go to Swift Antelope,’’ he ordered.

  ‘‘Hunter . . .’’ Amy clutched his arm. ‘‘You gotta understand. It was her ma! Her ma and pa! How would you feel?’’

  ‘‘Go to Swift Antelope!’’ he snarled.

  With a sob, Amy ran up the steps and out of the house, calling Swift Antelope’s name. With slow, deliberate anger, Hunter wrested the weapon from Loretta’s hands and tossed it onto the dirt. Then, without a word, he slung her over his shoulder and headed up the steps.

  ‘‘Hunter, for the love of God, don’t do this!’’ She grabbed hold of his belt, remembering the other times he had carried her this way. ‘‘Damn you! I won’t go back there. I won’t!’’

  He strode across the room to the door, acting for all the world as if he didn’t hear her. Furious, Loretta pummeled the backs of his thighs. He kept going. The ground swept under her in a dizzying blur. The next thing she knew, he was tossing her on his horse and mounting behind her. Two other Indians collected the stallions on which Loretta and Amy had made their escape. Friend reared at having his line touched by a stranger, but a softly spoken word from Hunter calmed him.

  As Hunter wheeled his horse, Loretta realized he truly meant to drag her back to his village. Her wishes counted for nothing. He would force her to live among her parents’ murderers, to look into their faces every day for the remainder of her life, to break bread with them, be polite to them, accept them. The thought spurred her into action.

  ‘‘No!’’ she cried, turning on him to press an attack. ‘‘I won’t go back with you, I won’t.’’

  Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he gave her a vicious shake. Pain exploded across her scalp. The very brutality of the act made Loretta freeze and stare at him in shocked disbelief. His eyes glittered down at her.

  In a voice that dripped venom, he said, ‘‘This Comanche will stop and beat you if you make trouble. You understand?’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t.’’

  ‘‘I am Comanche, yes? A mo-cho-rook, cruel one. This is what you run from? A heathen. A man who will beat you? Or maybe throw you to his friends? That would be good, eh? If I could find a man so stupid he would take you!’’

  Releasing her hair to cinch a bruising arm around her waist, Hunter fell silent, nudging his horse forward into a jarring trot. His hand on her hip was heavy, the bite of his fingers uncomfortable but not cruel. Loretta leaned against him and closed her eyes.

  ‘‘Why can’t you understand that it’s over between us—that I can’t stay in that village with you?’’ she said. ‘‘Even if you had nothing to do with my parents’ deaths, people in your village did! I can’t forget that! And I can’t forgive it!’’

  ‘‘This Comanche cares nothing for the song in your heart,’’ he retorted, his voice still venomous. ‘‘You belong to me. Forever, for always! Within you is my seed. A Comanche man does not give up his woman.’’

  Those were the last words to pass between them. The miles sped by, long into the night, until Loretta slumped with exhaustion and drifted into a fitful sleep, her head lolling against her husband’s shoulder.

  Hours later she awoke with a start to the biting grip of Hunter’s hand on her arm, jerking her off the horse. Stunned and disoriented, she fell in an ungraceful heap at his feet, then crab-walked to keep from being dragged as he pulled her along behind him, a buffalo robe and stakes tucked under his other arm.

  Shoving her to the ground, he spread the robe, then picked up a rock. Loretta peered through the moonlit gloom in stunned silence as he began driving the stakes. She knew he intended to spread-eagle her, but a part of her refused to believe he would do it. He was only trying to scare her, to bully her into submission.

  ‘‘Why are we camped so far from the others?’’ she asked, striving to keep her voice calm. A fire had leapt to life some distance away, and she could hear the faint sound of the others talking.

  ‘‘Your Aye-mee must not see,’’ he replied in a clipped monotone.

  ‘‘See what?’’ she asked shakily.

  ‘‘The games we will play,’’ he said softly.

  He glanced up from the stake he was pounding. Loretta took one look at the murderous gleam in his eye and bolted. Before she had taken more than a few steps, he was upon her. Seizing her wrist, he dragged her to the fur. Then, so quickly she wasn’t sure how, he flipped her onto her back and followed her down, anchoring her flailing limbs with his weight while he secured her arms. Just as quickly, he bound her feet.

  Loretta stared up at him, trying to assure herself that he was only bluffing. She had run away; now he meant to teach her a lesson. Once he felt vindicated, he would be the same sweet, gentle Hunter he had always been.

  She kept right on telling herself that until he crouched beside her and jerked up her overblouse to rudely expose her breasts. Her breath snagged as his fingers plucked the tip of one nipple into throbbing hardness. The moonlight played upon his face, revealing the taut anger in his expression.

  ‘‘Ah, yes, this is the way of it, eh? A heathen and his woman?’’ His face twisted in a sneer as he rolled her sensitive flesh between his finger and thumb, sending shocks of sensation shooting into her belly. ‘‘Hunter, the one who rapes and tortures? That is me.’’ Abandoning her breast, he rocked back on his heels and jerked up her skirt. ‘‘This is very good, Blue Eyes. The animal in me likes having you tied.’’

  With that, he stretched out beside her. Even in her turmoil, Loretta heard an echo in every word he spoke. Looking into his eyes, she knew how deeply her leaving had hurt him.

  Propping himself up on an elbow, he planted a hand on her abdomen and lowered his head to brush his lips across her temple. Her belly convulsed as his fingers began a subtle manipulation, charging her senses, making her skin tingle, in a relentless path toward her breasts.

  ‘‘I will be cruel, yes? And make you weep rivers of tears while I play my games. It will be good, very good.’’

  His mouth touched hers,
teasingly light. His hand cupped her breast. Silhouetted against the moon-silvered sky, he was a black outline, his broad shoulders a threatening wall, his long hair drifting in a silken curtain around her.

  Nightmare or dream?

  He continued to whisper—saying terrible things, cruel things, taunting her with what was yet to come, living up to all her worst expectations. But his touch was that of a lover, as sweet and magical, as patient and gentle, as the last time they had been together. She knew he had tied her only to prove a point, that no matter what the circumstances, no matter how angry he might become, he would never harm her.

  ‘‘Oh, Hunter, I’m sorry,’’ she said on the crest of a sob. ‘‘I didn’t mean to hurt you like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’’

  ‘‘You rip my heart out and it should not hurt?’’ His teeth closed on her earlobe, nipping lightly, sending shivers over her skin. ‘‘You spit upon all that I am, and it should not hurt? You abandon me, you dishonor me, and it should not hurt?’’

  The raw emotion in his voice brought tears to her eyes. ‘‘I never intended to dishonor you. . . .’’

  Loretta longed to put her arms around him but was quickly reminded of her bonds when she tried. His mouth claimed hers, hot and demanding, yet strangely gentle.

  What followed was beautiful. Unable to remain passive, Loretta responded to him with a spiraling passion that both shocked and disoriented her. At some point Hunter cut the leather on her wrists and ankles, but she was too mindless to realize. He was like a fire inside her, embers licked to low flames, building quickly to an inferno. There was no fear. And no pain. Just a bittersweet joining, becoming one in a way she had never dreamed possible.

  Afterward Hunter drew her gently into his arms and reminded her of the promises he had made her, that she would never experience brutality or shame in his arms, only love. ‘‘How can you not hear the song my heart sings, Blue Eyes?’’

  Loretta knew he was referring to far more than his lovemaking. Sobs built pressure in her chest, then crawled up her throat, gaining force until they tore from her, dry and ragged. ‘‘Oh, Hunter, you have to understand. You think only of yourself and your rights. What of mine?’’

  Hunter drew her head back down to his shoulder and wrapped his arms around her. Her warm tears fell on his skin and trickled, cold and wet, under his arm. He closed his eyes, his mind replaying her words, the whispers a torment, the questions unanswerable. Did he think only of himself? Yes. To do otherwise meant losing her. Long after his wife fell into an exhausted sleep, he lay awake, staring into the darkness, searching within himself for a solution.

  There was none....

  Chapter 24

  THE FOLLOWING DAY’S RIDE PASSED IN UNEASY silence. Only Amy and Swift Antelope seemed comfortable with the situation. That night Hunter once again camped some distance from the others. This time, when he began driving stakes, Loretta felt no fear, only an eager anticipation of his lovemaking. She hated herself for that—until Hunter began his assault on her senses. Then she forgot everything except being in his arms.

  When their passions had cooled, Loretta felt nothing but hollow resignation. It was inconceivable that she could respond so mindlessly to Hunter’s touch. He loved her, but she saw it as a shallow, self-centered love. He tried to make her happy, but only when her wishes didn’t conflict with his. If she ran from him again, he would come after her.

  Turning her head, she studied his profile, remembering the night he had given her the comb, how pleased he had been to present her with something so beautiful. A gift of love? Every time she thought of it, she became nauseated. There was no future for them together. Not in his village, and he would never leave the People, never.

  Hunter turned toward her and looped an arm around her waist. His eyes were dark splashes in the moonlight. ‘‘Blue Eyes, it will be good. Trust this Comanche.’’

  ‘‘How can it be, Hunter?’’

  ‘‘I will make it so.’’ He feathered a finger across her bottom lip.

  Trust. His voice, his gentle touch, delved deep, turning her warm and liquid, melting her resistance. She closed her eyes. In four more days, maybe less, she would be back in Hunter’s village.

  ‘‘Hunter, why did you tie me to stakes again tonight? How long do you plan to do that?’’

  ‘‘Until my touch is carved in your heart.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Hunter, it’s already carved in my heart. When I ran from you, it wasn’t out of fear.’’

  ‘‘You said hi, hites with a rifle. You will have no fear again. Anger, maybe much hatred, but no fear.’’ He trailed a knuckle along her cheek. ‘‘You made pictures of your remembering. Now I make new rememberings, so they are very much good.’’

  Puzzled, Loretta studied his dark face. Then she realized he was referring to her memories of her mother’s death—the Comanches, the stakes, her torturous last minutes. He was deliberately evoking those memories, only to expunge them by gently loving her. When she thought of his stakes now, she thought of shivers running down her spine, of sweet kisses in moonlight, of wonderfully strong arms enfolding her with warmth.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘‘Thank you for the new memories, Hunter. They are very much good.’’

  His face drew close. ‘‘This Comanche wants to make more new remembering.’’

  She took a ragged breath. ‘‘I can’t. Don’t you see? To say yes is surrendering all that I am.’’

  He manacled her wrists with his iron grip. ‘‘That too is why I tie you.’’ His lips brushed hers, setting her senses afire. ‘‘You will make war tomorrow?’’

  He whispered the question into her mouth, his breath warm and sweet. His tongue touched hers. Loretta’s heart caught at the careful way he drew her against him. Tomorrow. It seemed soon enough for fighting him. For tonight, she couldn’t stop herself from loving him—one last time.

  New rememberings that were very much good. Hunter brought dozens of new memories to Loretta over the next few days. By the time they reached his village, she had accepted a great deal. She couldn’t be happy about the prospect of living there, and she refused to pretend she was, but she knew she couldn’t change Hunter’s mind. He would keep her with him, waging war on her senses and her memories, until her past became a blur with sharp edges that pricked her only on occasion.

  One such occasion occurred a few days after they returned. That evening Red Buffalo and his friends came back to the camp with a group of warriors from another band. Hunter, sensing trouble, strode to the central fire.

  Red Buffalo’s disfigured face tightened when he spied Hunter. In a clipped tone he said, ‘‘We come to warn of trouble. A group of tosi tivo have gathered forces and demand the return of some captives taken in recent raids.’’

  The ground under Hunter’s feet seemed to disappear. ‘‘Then return the captives.’’

  Red Buffalo dropped his gaze. ‘‘We cannot.’’

  ‘‘They’re dead?’’ Hunter took a step closer. ‘‘Red Buffalo, tell me you had nothing to do with this.’’

  Red Buffalo grasped Hunter’s arm. When Hunter stared at him, the guilt etched on his cousin’s face condemned him. Red Buffalo tried to speak, failed, and dropped his hand. Hunter knew then that he had finally begun to realize how dire the consequences of his actions might prove to be.

  Although Red Buffalo said nothing more to him, Hunter stayed by the fire, hoping to glean information. All he heard was fear talking. If matters were as bad as the newly arrived men seemed to believe, the People were in serious trouble. The tosi tivo farmers had hired marauders from the east, from a place called Arkansas, to make war until the white captives were returned to their families.

  When the visiting warriors left, Red Buffalo and his friends stayed behind in the village.

  ‘‘Hunter?’’ Red Buffalo called.

  Hunter turned and waited for his cousin to reach him. ‘‘What is it this time? Do you have her mother’s scalp? That would be a fine gift.’’


  Red Buffalo blanched and studied the trees. ‘‘I have done a great wrong. Spill my blood if you must, but don’t cut me out of your heart, cousin.’’

  A lump rose in Hunter’s throat. When he looked at Red Buffalo he saw not a killer, but a man who had risked his life for him so many times that both of them had lost count. ‘‘I cut you from my heart the night my woman wept over the marriage gift I gave her.’’

  Tears glistened in Red Buffalo’s eyes. ‘‘I will make peace with her, if only you will tell me how.’’

  Though Hunter dreaded the answer, he had to ask. ‘‘You killed her mother and father, yes? No more lies, Red Buffalo, only truth.’’

  The scarred flesh drew taut over Red Buffalo’s high cheekbones. ‘‘Yes. They were as nothing, Hunter! A tosi tivo and his yellow-hair. I could not see into tomorrow! How was I to know!’’

  Hunter clenched his hands into fists, remembering Rebecca Simpson’s portrait, her face so like Loretta’s. ‘‘You did those things to her mother? You? It is not the way our fathers walked.’’

  ‘‘It is the way many of the men walk. You’ve never turned your face from them, Hunter. Why must you turn from me?’’

  ‘‘You tortured my woman’s mother. They didn’t.’’

  ‘‘You think I rode alone?’’

  Hunter braced himself. ‘‘Who else was there?’’

  ‘‘That is my secret. I have wronged you enough. I won’t steal your friends from you as well. Does it matter? If we could walk backward in our footsteps, do you think we would make that raid again? You know we wouldn’t.’’

  ‘‘That may be so, but it changes nothing. You killed my wife’s mother.’’

  ‘‘I killed a honey-haired white woman! She was as nothing to me. Have I touched the one called Aye-mee? I could have. There have been many times when I could have.’’

  ‘‘You poisoned my woman’s heart against me! Even now she yearns to leave. Why did you give me that comb?’’