Comanche Heart (21 page)

She hesitated, then with reluctance said, “I lead a pretty boring life, but I guess that’s fair.”

He lifted his head, snubbed out his cigarette, and slid off the log. Stepping over to her, he leaned his chest against her knees and encircled her waist with his arms. After looking up into her face for a long while, he said, “What is it that you dream about?”

She smiled. “What does everyone dream about? Lots of things.”

Swift watched her, feeling the sudden tension in her body. “That isn’t fair, Amy. I answered your questions. I’ve only asked this one, and I’d like a truthful, complete answer.”

Even in the moonlight, he saw her grow pale. “I dream of Santos and his men. And sometimes about—” The corners of her mouth quivered. “Sometimes about my stepfather, Henry Masters.”

Swift knew by the pain in her expression that she had told him the unveiled truth. “And what happens in your nightmares?”

“How do you know I have them? Did Hunter tell you?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t actually a lie. Swift didn’t want to embarrass her by admitting he had heard her screams. “What happens in them, Amy?”

She fidgeted in his embrace, her gaze chasing off from his. “You know what I dream of. Over and over, the same thing.”

“And the dreams about your stepfather?”

She hesitated, looking more and more uncomfortable with his questions. “You know how silly dreams are. Half the time they don’t make much sense.”

Swift’s stomach tightened. He struggled to pose his next question matter-of-factly, not wishing to press her for information she didn’t want to reveal, but feeling a need to know more. “How old were you when your mother died, Amy?”

“Sixteen.” She brushed at her forehead, her trembling hands a telltale sign that she was hiding something. “Cholera took her. It hit fast, and within two days, I was digging her grave.”

Swift remembered the writing on the cross, how he had touched his fingers to the letters, never dreaming that Amy’s hand had carved them. “How old were you when you came here?”

She looked uneasy and took a deep, shaky breath. “I was, um, about nineteen.” She flashed him an unconvincing smile. “My, how the years do fly. It hardly seems possible I’ve been here eight years.”

Swift’s throat closed off so that he had difficulty asking the next question. “Why didn’t you wait for me in Texas, Amy, like we agreed?”

She couldn’t seem to meet his gaze. “I . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “I never did like Texas very much. Not where we lived. And Henry cottoned to the mescal jug a little more than I liked. So one night, when he was in his cups, I got a bee in my bonnet and left.”

Swift saw the haunted look in her guileless eyes, the fragile pride in the determined lift of her chin, and the guilt he felt nearly bent him double. He still wasn’t certain what had happened to her. He only knew that he had promised her he would come for her, and the war had kept him from doing so. While he had fought so valiantly for his people, there had been no one to fight the battles for Amy.

Chapter 10

HOLDING AMY’S FACE BETWEEN HIS HANDS, Swift moved his thumbs along her fragile cheekbones, his fingertips electrified where wisps of her silken hair touched. Bathed in moonlight, she shimmered, her coronet of hair a halo, her skin gleaming like polished silver, her beautiful eyes aglisten and so deep that he got lost looking into them. He couldn’t imagine anyone hurting her. But apparently someone had. Henry Masters? And if so, what had he done? After so long a time, Swift supposed it no longer really mattered. The here and now was what he had to deal with. And yet . . .

“Did you say you decided to leave Texas at night?”

She shrugged. “Well, not exactly at night. One evening. It was still light out.”

“What’d you do? Take one of Henry’s horses?”

Her mouth trembled. “I, um, we didn’t have a horse. Henry sold it. He wasn’t much for working. And the drink cost him. He ran low on funds there at the last and sold it to a peddler.”

“Oh.” He considered that for a moment, wishing he could just let it drop. “One of the mules, then?”

He felt the resistance drain out of her. “I walked.”

“What?”

“I walked,” she repeated. “One night, after he got drunk, I got my extra shoes out of the loft and I set out walking.”

Swift swallowed a rush of fear, which came eight years too late. “What happened to the mules?”

“One got sick.”

“There were two. What happened to the other one?”

“He, um—” She licked her lips, avoiding his gaze. “He shot it.”

Swift’s heart started to slam. “Why in hell did he shoot the mule?”

She twisted her face from his grasp and looked around her, as if seeking a way to escape. “I—You know, it’s getting awfully chilly out here.” Gathering her shawl around her, she shivered, still avoiding his gaze. “Winter’s coming. I can feel it in the air—can’t you?”

Swift eased back, giving her some space, which he sensed she needed—perhaps desperately. “Yes, it’s getting nippy all right.” He waited a moment, picturing her walking across the endless Texas plains. Suddenly he realized he didn’t know the meaning of the word
courage
. “Amy, why did Henry shoot the mule? Was it ailing? Or was he just having a temper fit?”

With a panicked look in her eyes, she jerked away from him and pushed off the log. Swift managed to catch her from falling. When he set her on her feet, she twisted away from him. He dogged her heels, afraid she might trip over something she couldn’t see. “I want to go home now,” she said in a thin voice. “I’m getting awfully chilly. Really I am. And I—” She broke off and took a jagged breath. “Don’t ask me any more questions, Swift. Please?”

He stepped around her so he could see her face. “Amy, can you look at me?”

She made a strangled sound and averted her face. “I want to go home now.”

“Amy . . .”

“I want to go home.”

“All right. But look at me for just one minute.”

“No. You’ll just ask more questions. I don’t want to talk about it, not now, not ever. I never meant for you to know, and now I want you to pretend you don’t.”

Swift still wasn’t exactly sure what he supposedly knew. He could only guess. The suspicions roiling through him made him feel sick. “I can’t pretend we never talked like this.”

“Then stay away from me.”

“I can’t do that, either. Amy, don’t look at the ground.”

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start what?”

“Preaching.”

Swift made a futile gesture with his hands. “I’m the last person to preach. I just say things that are true.”

“I know all about your truths . . . tomorrows on the horizon and stars in the heavens, and keeping your eyes ahead of you.”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“I also know what happens if you walk around without watching your feet. Don’t waste your breath saying pretty things to me, Swift.”

He reached out and touched her bowed head. “Amy, without pretty things, what do any of us have?”

“Reality.” She sniffed and finally looked up at him. “Will you take me home now?”

Swift knew the mere fact that she believed he would take her home was a small victory. For tonight he’d have to settle for that. “Can I say just one more thing first?”

Resignation crossed her face. “I suppose you’ll say it anyway, so do it and get it done.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Her mouth tightened, and an ache crept into her eyes. “I’m sorry you weren’t, too.”

Swift slid his hand to her nape and drew her forward into a walk, guiding her through the darkness as he would have liked to guide her through the rest of her life. Amy had become a whole lot more than just night blind.

 

When her house came into view, Amy felt relieved. Swift hadn’t even tried to kiss her while they were in the woods. She wondered if it was because of what he had learned about her. She shoved the thought away, determined not to let it hurt. Very little got past her defenses nowadays.

She didn’t want to be kissed, anyway. Not by him, not by anyone. Especially not by him. The thought terrified her. Once he got into a habit of that, he’d press for more. If he ran scared after tonight, so much the better. Her life could return to normal. After him, she’d never have to worry that another man might gain power over her. She’d be able to stop feeling threatened, stop feeling off balance, stop feeling, period.

Swift was dangerous for her in more ways than one. He always had been a dreamer, reaching for pretty things over the horizon that didn’t exist. As a child, she had let him spin his dreams around her, and she had believed . . . for a while. Dreams had a way of shattering, though, and when they did it was sometimes impossible to pick up the pieces.

As she stepped onto her porch, he pulled his timepiece from his pocket and tipped it in the moonlight.

“I timed that perfectly,” he said. “We made it with ten minutes to spare.”

Amy hugged her shawl close. “How can you tell time when you can’t count?”

He closed the watch and returned it to his pocket. “I can’t tell it real good. But what I do know, Rowlins taught me. The straight numbers make more sense to me than your curly ones.”

The breeze picked up, cool and brisk, slipping icy fingers down the collar of her dress. She shivered and hunched her shoulders. “Curly ones?” She considered that a moment. “I guess my numbers are kind of curly, aren’t they?”

He didn’t seem interested in pursuing the topic. He put a boot on the bottom step and brought his face level with hers. She liked being eye to eye; it made him seem less intimidating.

“Well . . .” She shivered again. “Thank you for the nice walk. It was a pleasant two hours.”

“Less ten minutes,” he reminded her. “We’re still on my time. I figure that’s plenty of time to say good night.”

“I’ve never taken ten minutes to say good night in my life.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

He placed a hand on her waist and drew her against his chest. His other hand cupped the back of her head. Looking into his eyes, Amy knew he meant to kiss her. So much for his running scared. She started to move away, but his fingers fisted in her hair to hold her still, and his hand slid from her waist to the small of her back. She felt the leashed strength in him and knew struggling would be futile. As it had always been.

“Swift, please don’t.”

“It’s my equal time, Amy. Ten more minutes. You’re welshing on our bargain.”

Her gaze fell to his mouth. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

“What can happen on your doorstep?” he asked huskily, his mouth coming closer and closer to hers. “Relax, and see for yourself how my kisses feel. Now, while you feel safe, while you have the security of other people nearby.”

She couldn’t deny that his reasoning made sense. As long as no one saw them, it was better that he kiss her here, if he was bent on doing it, than down along the creek somewhere. She tipped her head slightly, bracing herself, quite certain his mouth would be as hungry and demanding as the glow in his eyes.

His warm breath mingled with hers. Amy swallowed and closed her eyes, keeping her teeth tightly clenched. And then his lips touched hers, so lightly, with such incredible gentleness, that the contact seemed whisper soft. Carefully . . . so very carefully that it took her breath and made her want to weep. There was no demand here, no bruising hunger, only a promise of incredible sweetness that made her lips part, wanting and expectant. She clutched his shirt, leaning closer, but he maintained the featherlight pressure, refusing her what she sought. Which was just as well, because she wasn’t sure what it was she wanted, only that . . .

“Amy . . .” Her name came off his lips like a caress. He trailed his mouth across her cheek to her ear, then explored the curve of her neck. “Amy, my sweet, precious Amy. I love you.”

And suddenly she knew what he had meant about giving him the chance to say it his way. His hand trembled on her back. His lips worshiped. No harsh taking, no grasping, no force. Just tender, whisper-soft kisses that set her skin afire and her senses reeling. She couldn’t feel her legs and feared she might fall, but his strong body was there to hold her erect, warm and solid, his heart thudding robustly, a steady cadence in contrast to the wild fluttering of hers.

When he at last lifted his head, she couldn’t move away from him. He ran his hands up her arms, touched her cheek, the tip of her nose, a curl at her temple, soothing her, as if he knew how painfully her heart lurched and how weak her legs felt. The expression on his face when he looked at her made her feel cherished and, at the same time, vulnerable.

“Promise me something,” he murmured.

“Every time I turn around, you’re asking for another concession,” she whispered.

“I know, but this one is important.” He cupped his hand to her chin and looked deep into her eyes. “When you lie down tonight and close your eyes to fall asleep, take me with you. If the nightmares come, dream that I’m there.” He pressed his cheek to hers. She felt wetness touch her skin. “Don’t face them alone anymore.”

She couldn’t have spoken if she tried, so she only nodded. He turned and strode away into the darkness. Amy stood there staring after him for a very long time and then, with trembling fingertips, touched the tear on her cheek.

 

Swift saw that a light was still burning in the parlor when he walked up the steps to Hunter’s house. Uncertain whether Loretta had left it on for him or if someone was still awake, he opened the front door as quietly as he could. Loretta glanced up from her rocker, her darning needle poised in midair.

“Hello there,” she whispered, flashing him a smile.

“I’m surprised you’re still up,” he whispered back.

She inclined her head at the sock she was mending. “I wanted to finish this first. Are you hungry?”