Free Comanche Moon by Catherine Anderson

muscled shoulders, its only decoration a long, thin braid on the left side of his head. The long hair alone made him seem frightening and foreign. The scar that slashed his cheek, unquestionably inflicted by a knife, emphasized his savagery even more.
    He seized her wrists and pried her arms from her belly, forcing them to her sides before he released her. Then, so quickly she couldn’t react, he clamped one large hand on her shoulder, anchoring her so she couldn’t move, and slid his other back inside her bodice. When she started to struggle, he snarled something in Comanche that left her in no doubt he wanted her to be still. Terror proved a powerful persuader. She tried not to recoil as his fingers traced each of her ribs, pressing and probing, from the center of her chest around to her spine. By the time she realized he only wanted to check her for injuries, he had already finished and let go of her.
    He sat back on his heel, arms draped on his bent knee, shoulders forward. As relaxed as he appeared, power emanated from his body, electrifying the air around her like the building intensity of lightning right before a storm. The smell of wood smoke, musk, and leather mingled with the straw and surrounded her.
    He was staring at her. . . .
    Loretta’s mouth went dry as dust, and she did the only thing she knew to do, which was stare back. His eyes rested first on her hair. From the contempt she read in his expression, she got the feeling that he found her as revolting to look at as she did him. Next, he studied her face. Pride lifted her chin a notch. She was no raving beauty, but he was no prize either. She returned his regard, searching his features for flaws. With a shock, she realized she couldn’t find any. Minus the scar, his face might even be handsome, if it belonged to a white man.
    After what seemed an interminably long while, he unsheathed a small knife that hung from the back of his belt. She forgot all about her pride and shrank from him. He tossed up her skirt and grabbed her right ankle. For a moment she thought he meant to steal her only remaining pair of underwear—this time while she was still wearing them. Instead he slipped the knife inside her boot. Her skin tingled where his fingers had pressed. She stared at the hand-carved hilt of the weapon lying against her white drawers. What in Hades had he put it there for?
    He rose in one fluid movement and placed a hand on the sideboard to vault out of the wagon. Turning, he held out his arms to her. Pushing unsteadily to her feet, she stepped back. He glanced over his shoulder toward the house, then looked at her again, clearly growing impatient. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the waist and swung her to the ground, steadying her until she had her balance. He was at least a head taller than Henry, so tall that, standing close, she had to crane her neck to see his face. Their eyes met for a moment. Then, as if he were made of shadows, he sprinted across the barnyard, jumped the fence as if it weren’t there, and disappeared into the trees.
    Numb with shock, Loretta turned to run. The moment she moved, she felt the cold metal of his knife pricking her ankle. She lifted her skirt and jerked the disgusting thing from her boot. With a shudder, she tossed it next to the wagon and walked backward for a moment, rubbing her fingers clean on her dress.
    ‘‘Loretta!’’
    She turned to see Aunt Rachel running around the corner of the barn, skirts flying, a rifle in one hand. Rachel skidded to a stop next to the wagon and threw the butte of the Sharps carbine to her shoulder, scanning the woods. ‘‘H-Henry t-told me. Where the devil are they? Get behind me, Loretta. Hurry.’’
    Loretta hesitated, but only for an instant. As Uncle Henry had said, there was no rhyme or reason to what Indians did. Hunter might let her live one moment, then hack her to death the next. She got behind her aunt, and the two of them backed through the gate and followed the