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Authors: Catherine Anderson
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up his head and sprang to his feet. Scurrying backward, he staggered. A shadow leaped over the wagon board to follow him.
Fighting to breathe, Loretta rolled onto her side and hugged her middle. When at last her head began to clear, she twisted her neck to see Henry slithering backward on the balls of his feet to escape his attacker, his heavy boots plowing a trail through the straw. As he inched toward the end of the wagon, he kept his chin up, his eyes rolling to see the knife that gaffed him.
‘‘Don’t kill me,’’ he mewled. ‘‘I know you laid claim to her—and you can have her. Take her—go on—just don’t kill me, for the love of God, don’t kill me.’’
With her eyes on her rescuer, Loretta pushed to a sitting position. Hunter? She had prayed for help, and God had sent her the Indian?
Henry clasped the Indian’s broad wrist. ‘‘Please—I got a wife and child.’’ Glancing downward, he cried, ‘‘Do somethin’, you damned fool girl! He’s gonna kill me, sure. Do somethin’. The pitchfork—git the pitchfork!’’
Loretta rocked dizzily to her knees and glanced around her. The pitchfork? Oh, God, where was it? Henry, still retreating, took one too many steps, ran out of wagon floor, and hit air. Windmilling his arms, he gave a cry and toppled. Hunter tipped his knife so the blade rode the curve of Henry’s chin as he fell and sliced him to the cleft. Henry hit the dirt, then scrambled to his feet. Clutching his bleeding chin and squealing like a stuck piglet, he ran for the house, never once looking back.
Loretta knelt there and hugged her stomach, her mouth agape. Hunter turned slowly. He wore only a breechcloth, knee-high moccasins, and the blue wool belt, so she had an expansive view of thigh and hip before he faced her. She had never seen a naked man before—and this one was as near naked as he could get. In all the places she and Aunt Rachel were round and soft, he was flat and hard, and where they were slim, he bulged with muscle. His legs were as sturdy and brown as tree trunks, his thighs roped with thick sinew.
His eyes glittered as dark as polished obsidian, routing through the twilight to find her. The touch of his gaze sent a shock coursing through her. Never had she seen such smoldering anger. As he stepped toward her she shrank back, her attention falling to the blood-stained knife he held in his hand.
Throwing out an arm behind her, she groped for the wagon board. If she could vault over it and run, she might have a chance. Her hand met air. She stared at the knife and imagined how it would feel plunging into her body. The Comanche glanced down. When he saw what she was looking at, he sheathed the weapon and held his empty hands out to his sides. There was no mistaking the gesture, but she wasn’t reassured.
He advanced another step, and she slithered in retreat, slamming her back against the wagon board. He was too close for her to get away now, and he kept coming, his moccasins touching soundlessly on the floor. When he dropped to one knee on the scattered straw in front of her, Loretta flattened herself against the wood behind her. When he reached for her, she wriggled sideways into the corner. She heard a shallow panting sound and realized dimly that it was her own breathing. He slid his hand inside her unbuttoned bodice and pressed his palm against her ribs. The heat of his touch through the thin cloth of her chemise took her breath as effectively as Henry’s bouncing had. She jerked away, clamped both arms around herself, and hunched her shoulders. He whispered something—a Comanche word—and locked gazes with her. Poised there as he was, he blocked any route of escape. Loretta began to tremble.
‘‘Toquet,’’ he whispered again.
She had no inkling of what the word meant, only that the sound of it was inexplicably soft, completely at odds with the harshness of his expression. His dark hair hung loose, wisping like a curtain around his powerfully
Fighting to breathe, Loretta rolled onto her side and hugged her middle. When at last her head began to clear, she twisted her neck to see Henry slithering backward on the balls of his feet to escape his attacker, his heavy boots plowing a trail through the straw. As he inched toward the end of the wagon, he kept his chin up, his eyes rolling to see the knife that gaffed him.
‘‘Don’t kill me,’’ he mewled. ‘‘I know you laid claim to her—and you can have her. Take her—go on—just don’t kill me, for the love of God, don’t kill me.’’
With her eyes on her rescuer, Loretta pushed to a sitting position. Hunter? She had prayed for help, and God had sent her the Indian?
Henry clasped the Indian’s broad wrist. ‘‘Please—I got a wife and child.’’ Glancing downward, he cried, ‘‘Do somethin’, you damned fool girl! He’s gonna kill me, sure. Do somethin’. The pitchfork—git the pitchfork!’’
Loretta rocked dizzily to her knees and glanced around her. The pitchfork? Oh, God, where was it? Henry, still retreating, took one too many steps, ran out of wagon floor, and hit air. Windmilling his arms, he gave a cry and toppled. Hunter tipped his knife so the blade rode the curve of Henry’s chin as he fell and sliced him to the cleft. Henry hit the dirt, then scrambled to his feet. Clutching his bleeding chin and squealing like a stuck piglet, he ran for the house, never once looking back.
Loretta knelt there and hugged her stomach, her mouth agape. Hunter turned slowly. He wore only a breechcloth, knee-high moccasins, and the blue wool belt, so she had an expansive view of thigh and hip before he faced her. She had never seen a naked man before—and this one was as near naked as he could get. In all the places she and Aunt Rachel were round and soft, he was flat and hard, and where they were slim, he bulged with muscle. His legs were as sturdy and brown as tree trunks, his thighs roped with thick sinew.
His eyes glittered as dark as polished obsidian, routing through the twilight to find her. The touch of his gaze sent a shock coursing through her. Never had she seen such smoldering anger. As he stepped toward her she shrank back, her attention falling to the blood-stained knife he held in his hand.
Throwing out an arm behind her, she groped for the wagon board. If she could vault over it and run, she might have a chance. Her hand met air. She stared at the knife and imagined how it would feel plunging into her body. The Comanche glanced down. When he saw what she was looking at, he sheathed the weapon and held his empty hands out to his sides. There was no mistaking the gesture, but she wasn’t reassured.
He advanced another step, and she slithered in retreat, slamming her back against the wagon board. He was too close for her to get away now, and he kept coming, his moccasins touching soundlessly on the floor. When he dropped to one knee on the scattered straw in front of her, Loretta flattened herself against the wood behind her. When he reached for her, she wriggled sideways into the corner. She heard a shallow panting sound and realized dimly that it was her own breathing. He slid his hand inside her unbuttoned bodice and pressed his palm against her ribs. The heat of his touch through the thin cloth of her chemise took her breath as effectively as Henry’s bouncing had. She jerked away, clamped both arms around herself, and hunched her shoulders. He whispered something—a Comanche word—and locked gazes with her. Poised there as he was, he blocked any route of escape. Loretta began to tremble.
‘‘Toquet,’’ he whispered again.
She had no inkling of what the word meant, only that the sound of it was inexplicably soft, completely at odds with the harshness of his expression. His dark hair hung loose, wisping like a curtain around his powerfully
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