Free Comanche Moon by Catherine Anderson Page A

wagon ruts to the house.
    When they got inside, they found Henry lying on the bed moaning. Loretta hung back by the door to button her bodice, her attention riveted to her uncle’s bloody shirt. Surely his chin hadn’t bled that much. The way he was carrying on, a body would have thought— Loretta stepped closer, staring in puzzlement. The left side of his shirt was hanging off him in shreds. Through the slitted cloth, she could see shallow cuts in the flesh over his ribs. Amy was at the stove, moistening a rag with water from the kettle. Her small face was pinched and pale when she looked at Loretta.
    ‘‘You okay? They didn’t—’’ Amy’s gaze dropped to Loretta’s half-buttoned dress. ‘‘Wh-what did they do to you?’’
    ‘‘Hush, Amy, and get me that rag over here.’’ Rachel leaned the Sharps against the wall next to the bed and dropped to her knees beside her husband. With trembling hands, she grabbed the front of his shirt and ripped it open, gasping when she got a good look at his cuts. ‘‘Oh, Henry, you could’ve been killed.’’
    Henry ran his hand over her tousled hair. ‘‘Now, now, I’m fine, and Loretta’s fine. That’s what counts.’’
    ‘‘Only because you—’’ Rachel’s voice caught. ‘‘Oh, Henry, can you ever forgive me for how I acted yesterday? Only a brave man would have stood alone against that many Comanches.’’
    ‘‘I done no more than any man would’ve done.’’ Henry’s blue gaze lifted to Loretta’s, and he smiled. Coldness washed over her. ‘‘I wasn’t really brave. When them Injuns jumped out, I stood my ground because there weren’t no choice. The first chance I got, I ran like hell. We didn’t stand a prayer without a gun. To save Loretta I had to get up here to the house. Wasn’t till I was halfway here that I even realized they’d cut me. It was plumb scary, I’ll tell ya, three of ’em comin’ at me, and me with nothin’ but my skinnin’ knife to fight ’em off.’’
    ‘‘Well, thank God you aren’t cut deep. It’s nothing short of a miracle.’’
    It was more like a fantasy, but Loretta couldn’t say so.
    Henry glanced down at his lacerated ribs. ‘‘From the blood, I thought it was worse.’’ His gaze lifted. ‘‘You okay, girl? Did your aunt Rachel git there in time to stop—’’ He glanced at her bodice. ‘‘They didn’t—violate you, did they?’’
    Loretta shook her head and averted her face. Henry had slashed his ribs with his own knife? Knowing Henry, the cuts were superficial, but it was still an act born of desperation. If it hadn’t been so horrible, it would have been funny.
    Amy came up to Loretta and hugged her waist. Loretta tried to return the hug, but after what Henry had just done, being touched, even by Amy, made her skin crawl. Pulling away, she scurried up the loft ladder and threw herself on the bunk. Burying her face in the pillow, she pounded the ticking with her fists. She hated Henry Masters—hated him—hated him. Life out here on this godforsaken farm was bitter enough without having to watch her back every second. Now she wouldn’t dare even take a walk by herself for fear he might follow her.
    Her anger spent, she rolled onto her side to stare out the window. Minutes passed before she noticed something lying on the sill. She sat up to see what it was. Disbelief swept through her. The Comanche’s knife. She curled her fingers around the hilt. The carved wood felt warm against her palm as if the heat of his hand still lingered upon it. Remembering the mocking gleam she had seen in Henry’s eye, Loretta clutched the knife to her bosom. She wouldn’t throw the weapon away again. She didn’t dare.
    The following morning, dawn was heralded by approaching riders, and every member of the Masters household hit the floor in a mad dash. There was no time to dress before a deep voice resounded from outside. ‘‘White-Eyes, we come as friends.’’ The words froze Loretta