Read Online Comanche Heart by Catherine Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Anderson
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heart catch. Wiping her hands on her blue skirt, she glanced around uneasily, as if she expected ghosts to jump out at her. Swift indicated a bale of straw perched by the stall, but she shook her head, clearly too nervous to sit. Interlacing her fingers and bending her knuckles backward, she finally managed to drag her gaze up to his.
“I, um . . . first of all, I’d like to apologize. I didn’t give you a very warm welcome. It’s wonderful seeing you again.”
Swift bit back a smile. Amy had never been an accomplished liar. “Maybe we can start over, hm?” He held her gaze with his, wishing he knew a way to ease her fears. “Hello, Amy.”
She licked her lips. “You used to call me Aye-mee. ”
He grinned. “Which sounded like a sick sheep. You have a beautiful name when it’s said correctly.”
“You’ve mastered English well,” she said lamely.
“I didn’t have a choice. I had enough counts against me without talking strange. If you practice hard enough, you can master anything.”
Amy mourned the change. Swift’s ineptness at expressing himself in English had often led him to say things that had seemed profound to her. Wherever you put your face, Amy, your eyes see the horizon and your tomorrows, never yesterday. The sadness in your heart is a yesterday you can no longer see, so put it behind you and walk always forward.
A lock of black hair curled across his forehead. She recalled touching his hair years ago, tugging his braids, repositioning the feathers he wore. Her gaze shifted from his dark face to the silver-studded gun belt that rode his narrow hips. Rawhide strings anchored the holsters to his muscular thighs. Though his stance seemed relaxed, she sensed a readiness about him, an alertness, as if even now he registered every sound around him. The black shirt and pants heightened the effect, making him seem all the more sinister. She wondered if he had chosen the color to intimidate his opponents.
“Swift . . . I have a request to make of you.”
He glanced at her hands and saw that she had her fingers bent so far backward that they were in danger of breaking, her knuckles a painful white. “And what might that be?”
“Do you promise to consider carefully before answering?”
“If it’s something I feel deserves consideration.” Swift hooked his thumbs over his gun belt, waiting, knowing before she spoke what she meant to ask.
“I—would you—” She broke off and looked up at him with her heart in her eyes. “I want to be set free from the betrothal promises I made to you.”
He turned back toward his horse and deftly unfastened the animal’s bridle.
“You promised to consider.”
“Do I take this to mean that Hunter still honors the customs of the People?”
“You know he does!”
Swift smiled. “And he suggested you ask me to set you free? How quickly he forgets.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t you remember his marriage to Loretta?” He tossed the bridle onto the straw bale and turned back to face her. “He practically dragged her to the priest.”
“It was different for them.” In her agitation she came several steps closer, so close Swift could have touched her. “They loved each other, Swift.”
“Do you think I don’t love you, Amy?” He couldn’t resist the urge. Lifting a hand, he brushed his fingertips along her pale cheek. She felt as soft as velvet. “Have you any idea how many times I dreamed of you these last fifteen years? How many times I wept because the great fight for my people kept me from being with you?”
Amy stared up at him, trying to imagine him with tears in his eyes. “You love a memory. I’m not the girl you knew.”
His fingertips slid to cup her chin, the rasp of his callused skin warming her from the inside out like a gulp of medicinal whiskey. Amy shrank back, but his hand followed. He trailed his knuckles lightly along her throat, his gaze resting on her face, alert to every change in her
“I, um . . . first of all, I’d like to apologize. I didn’t give you a very warm welcome. It’s wonderful seeing you again.”
Swift bit back a smile. Amy had never been an accomplished liar. “Maybe we can start over, hm?” He held her gaze with his, wishing he knew a way to ease her fears. “Hello, Amy.”
She licked her lips. “You used to call me Aye-mee. ”
He grinned. “Which sounded like a sick sheep. You have a beautiful name when it’s said correctly.”
“You’ve mastered English well,” she said lamely.
“I didn’t have a choice. I had enough counts against me without talking strange. If you practice hard enough, you can master anything.”
Amy mourned the change. Swift’s ineptness at expressing himself in English had often led him to say things that had seemed profound to her. Wherever you put your face, Amy, your eyes see the horizon and your tomorrows, never yesterday. The sadness in your heart is a yesterday you can no longer see, so put it behind you and walk always forward.
A lock of black hair curled across his forehead. She recalled touching his hair years ago, tugging his braids, repositioning the feathers he wore. Her gaze shifted from his dark face to the silver-studded gun belt that rode his narrow hips. Rawhide strings anchored the holsters to his muscular thighs. Though his stance seemed relaxed, she sensed a readiness about him, an alertness, as if even now he registered every sound around him. The black shirt and pants heightened the effect, making him seem all the more sinister. She wondered if he had chosen the color to intimidate his opponents.
“Swift . . . I have a request to make of you.”
He glanced at her hands and saw that she had her fingers bent so far backward that they were in danger of breaking, her knuckles a painful white. “And what might that be?”
“Do you promise to consider carefully before answering?”
“If it’s something I feel deserves consideration.” Swift hooked his thumbs over his gun belt, waiting, knowing before she spoke what she meant to ask.
“I—would you—” She broke off and looked up at him with her heart in her eyes. “I want to be set free from the betrothal promises I made to you.”
He turned back toward his horse and deftly unfastened the animal’s bridle.
“You promised to consider.”
“Do I take this to mean that Hunter still honors the customs of the People?”
“You know he does!”
Swift smiled. “And he suggested you ask me to set you free? How quickly he forgets.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t you remember his marriage to Loretta?” He tossed the bridle onto the straw bale and turned back to face her. “He practically dragged her to the priest.”
“It was different for them.” In her agitation she came several steps closer, so close Swift could have touched her. “They loved each other, Swift.”
“Do you think I don’t love you, Amy?” He couldn’t resist the urge. Lifting a hand, he brushed his fingertips along her pale cheek. She felt as soft as velvet. “Have you any idea how many times I dreamed of you these last fifteen years? How many times I wept because the great fight for my people kept me from being with you?”
Amy stared up at him, trying to imagine him with tears in his eyes. “You love a memory. I’m not the girl you knew.”
His fingertips slid to cup her chin, the rasp of his callused skin warming her from the inside out like a gulp of medicinal whiskey. Amy shrank back, but his hand followed. He trailed his knuckles lightly along her throat, his gaze resting on her face, alert to every change in her
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