Free Comanche Moon by Catherine Anderson Page B

midstride, her pulse thundering in her temples. Tom hadn’t made it in time.
    ‘‘Oh, my God,’’ Henry croaked. ‘‘Rachel, can you see my boots? Dammit, load the rifles.’’
    Loretta scrambled down the loft ladder, so scared she didn’t even think about Uncle Henry seeing her in the skimpy summer nightgown. She lunged for the rumpled bed so she could hide Amy. Even as she did, she knew it was useless. There wasn’t time.
    Henry swore when he saw her wrestling with the bedstead. ‘‘Forgit that. Git to the other window, girl. Rachel! You’re in charge of loading.’’
    ‘‘Come out, White-Eyes,’’ the voice called. ‘‘I bring gifts, not bloodshed.’’
    Henry, wearing nothing but his pants and the bandages Aunt Rachel had wrapped around his chest the night before, hopped on one foot as he dragged on a boot. By the time he reached the window, he had both boots on, laces flapping. Rachel gave him a rifle. He threw open the shutter and jerked down the skin, shoving the barrel out the opening. ‘‘What brings you here?’’
    ‘‘The woman. I bring many horses in trade.’’
    Loretta ran to the left window, throwing back the shutters and unfastening the membrane to peek out. The Comanche turned to meet her gaze, his dark eyes expressionless, penetrating, all the more luminous from the black graphite that outlined them. Her hands tightened on the rough sill, nails digging the wood.
    He looked magnificent. Even she had to admit that. Savage, frightening . . . but strangely beautiful. Eagle feathers waved from the crown of his head, the painted tips pointed downward, the quills fastened in the slender braid that hung in front of his left ear. His cream-colored hunting shirt enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the chest decorated with intricate beadwork, painted animal claws, and white strips of fur. He wore two necklaces, one of bear claws, the other a flat stone medallion, both strung on strips of rawhide. His buckskin breeches were tucked into knee-high moccasins.
    Her gaze shifted to the strings of riderless ponies behind him. She couldn’t believe their number. Thirty? Possibly forty? Beyond the animals were at least sixty half-naked warriors on horseback. Loretta wondered why Hunter had come fully clothed in all his finery with wolf rings painted around his eyes. The others wore no shirts or feathers, and their faces were bare.
    ‘‘I come for the woman,’’ the Comanche repeated, never taking his gaze from her. ‘‘And I bring my finest horses to console her father for his loss. Fifty, all trained to ride.’’ His black sidestepped and whinnied. The Indian swayed easily with his mount. ‘‘Send me the woman, and have no fear. She will come to no harm walking in my footsteps, for I am strong and swift. She will never feel hunger, for I am a fine hunter. My lodge will shelter her from the winter rain, and my buffalo robes will shield her from the cold. I have spoken it.’’
    Aunt Rachel crossed herself. ‘‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray—’’
    ‘‘We don’t sell our womenfolk,’’ Henry called back.
    ‘‘You sicken my gut, tosi tivo. After you had bedded her, you would have sold her to that dirty old man.’’ With a sneer twisting his lips, he lifted Tom Weaver’s wool riding blanket from his horse’s withers and tossed it to the dirt. ‘‘Better you sell her to me. I am young. I will give her many fine sons. She will not wail over my death for many winters.’’
    ‘‘I’d rather shoot her, you murdering bastard,’’ Henry retorted.
    ‘‘Then do it and make your death song.’’ The Comanche wheeled his horse, riding close to the window where Loretta stood. ‘‘Where is the herbi with such great courage who came out to face us once before? Does she still sleep? Will you hide behind your wooden walls and let your loved ones die? Come out, Yellow Hair, and meet your destiny.’’
    Sweat trickled down Loretta’s spine. Her destiny? Her eyes flew to Tom’s