Comanche Heart (33 page)

“Then why did you want her to tend you?”

“I didn’t. I don’t want anyone to. It’ll just cause a fuss. I don’t want tending.”

Amy felt a sheen of perspiration pop out on her forehead. She wanted to scream and curse, to find Abe Crenton and pulverize him. Instead she took a steadying breath and said, “But, Peter, I’m afraid a couple of those ribs might be broken. They need to be wrapped. And you should be in bed until you mend some.”

Tears filled Peter’s eyes again. “No! If I tell my ma, she’ll get upset and sass my pa, and—” He closed his eyes, gulping air. “He’ll hit on her again. My ribs’ll still be broke either way. So why make a fuss?”

Amy pressed trembling fingers to her throat. Peter was seriously hurt. If he fell again, one of those ribs might puncture a lung. She had no choice but to do something.

“What set your father off this time?” she asked.

“Nothing. He just came home in his cups last night, like he does sometimes. He wouldn’t have bothered none with me, except that I jumped in and tried to make him stop.”

“Hitting your ma, you mean?”

“Yes. I’ll be all right, Miss Amy. Truly I will.”

“No, Peter, not this time. Your father’s done some serious harm to you.” Amy ran her fingers over one of Peter’s ribs. He flinched and sucked in air again, his lips turning white. “A broken rib can be dangerous. Something has to be done.”

“Like what? You gonna go talk to Ma and make her see the marshal again? So’s my pa can come home from jail all in a dither and do worse? Just stay out of it, Miss Amy. You gotta!”

Amy sighed. “Point taken, Peter.” She touched a hand to his hair. “Put your shirt back on, hm? I’m going to dismiss class early and take you to my house. The least I can do is wrap those ribs. Then we’ll talk. Maybe if we think on it, we can come up with a solution.”

When Amy turned, she discovered that Indigo stood in the doorway. Her blue eyes filled with concern, the girl stepped inside. “Is Peter going to be all right, Aunt Amy?”

“I hope so.” Placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder, Amy said, “Peter doesn’t want anyone knowing that he’s hurt. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this secret.”

Indigo nodded. “I heard. I won’t tell any of the children.” She met Amy’s gaze and added in a whisper, “I think his pa needs kicking, though.”

“Right now I’d like to be the one to do the kicking.”

Indigo’s delicately shaped mouth drew into a determined line. “Between the two of us, we could do it.”

Amy managed a weak smile, remembering a time when she had been as fearless. “Sometimes you’ve got more temper than wisdom, my girl. Abe Crenton’s a big man.”

Indigo patted her leather skirt, where she wore a knife strapped to her thigh. “I could whack him off at the ankles and bring him right down to size.”

With a shaky grin, Amy swept past her to dismiss the children. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

 

An hour later Amy sat on the edge of her bed, gazing down at a sleeping Peter. With quivering fingertips, she brushed the bright red curls from his forehead, her heart breaking at the thought of his going home again. She considered visiting the marshal, but what could he do, save lock Abe up for several days? In the end the man would return home, furious and dangerous.

Amy dropped her head into her hands, so weary of it all she wanted to weep. Why weren’t there better laws to protect little boys like Peter? Women like Alice? The legislation that did exist was rendered impotent by the absolute power men had over the family purse strings of the nation. Even if women filed legal suit for abuse, what did they accomplish? Nine times out of ten, judges delivered light sentences to abusive husbands and fathers. Once the sentences were served, the men gained their release and returned to their homes, undisputed lords of their castles. Didn’t the lawmakers realize that those men’s families were enslaved by their need for necessities, like shelter and food?

Amy closed her eyes, recalling her many battles with Henry Masters and the degradation she had felt. There had been no way for her to win. He had held all the aces. Slowly but surely she had lost her dignity, and her pride.

She would never forget. She knew that there must be other women and children suffering like treatment. Maybe one day the Peters of the world would grow into men and remember the injustices done to them. Perhaps, through them, the laws could be changed. But for now there was little recourse.

With a sigh Amy pushed up from the bed, took a step, and froze. Swift stood in the bedroom doorway, his shoulder braced against the frame, his gaze riveted to the bandages wrapped so tightly around Peter’s chest. A muscle rippled along his jaw. Recovering her composure, Amy closed the distance between them. He eased into the hall so she could follow and close the door.

“How bad is he?”

Still shaken by her thoughts of Henry, Amy couldn’t bring herself to deal with the ugliness immediately. “It’s the middle of the day.” She glanced at his dusty pant legs. “I thought you were at the mine.”

“I was. Indigo paid us a visit.”

Amy swept past him and went to the kitchen. Pouring fresh water from the jug, she filled the coffeepot and ladled in several scoops of beans she had ground that morning. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a nice hot cup.”

Swift leaned a hip against the stove, watching her. “You look like you could use a whiskey or two. I asked you a question, Amy. How badly is Peter hurt?”

“I, um, think he has two broken ribs.”

“Jesus!”

Losing the war, Amy felt tears brimming over in her eyes, trailing in hot rivulets down her cheeks. Tears of frustration and anger and pain that ran far deeper than simple empathy for Peter. Swift swore under his breath and crooked a hand around her neck, pulling her against his chest.

“Don’t cry, honey. What good will that do?”

Amy pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder, drawing comfort from his smell, a blend of masculine sweat, sun-dried denim, pine, and fresh mountain air. She yearned to wrap her arms around him and never let go, to weep until she had no more tears. “I have to send him back there. Again. It just isn’t fair.”

Swift bent his head to hers, encircling her waist with his other arm. “I think it’s high time somebody had a talk with Abe Crenton. And I’ve got a sudden urge for a drink.”

Amy stiffened. “No! You mustn’t interfere, Swift. It’ll only make things worse. I learned that the hard way.”

Swift ran his hand up her back. She could almost hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “Amy, love, when you interfered, you did it the proper way. I think he’ll understand my language a little better.”

“You’ll get yourself into trouble. The first thing you know, you’ll be in jail.”

“For talking?”

“Talking won’t change Abe’s ways, and you know it.”

He pressed his lips to her ear, sending tendrils of sensation threading down her spine. “It’s all in what words you say. Trust me, Amy. Someone has to do something. If he isn’t stopped, he’s gonna go too far one of these times and do hurt that’s beyond repair.”

Amy made fists in his shirt, knowing that he spoke the truth. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

“I didn’t ride two thousand miles looking for it, believe me.” He grasped her shoulders and set her away from him. “But sometimes trouble comes. And a man can’t turn his back on it. This is one of those times. Do you think I could sleep nights, knowing about this and doing nothing?”

“No,” she admitted in a forlorn voice. “Indigo should have known better than to tell you and Hunter. It’s like laying tinder and striking a match to it.”

“Indigo did exactly right,” Swift replied, arching one eyebrow. “She trusts her father and me to have good enough sense not to do anything that can come back on us.”

“She’s also very young and idealistic,” Amy countered. “And she doesn’t know you two like I do.”

Swift’s eyes filled with warmth. “Trust me, Amy. I’m an old hand at trouble, believe me. When Peter wakes up, take him on home. There won’t be any more beatings going on there, I guarantee you, not without hell to pay.”

Amy touched his shoulder. “Swift . . . you could end up in that cell again. I know how you hate being confined.”

“Hate doesn’t say it by half.” He paused at the doorway of the sitting room. “Which means I’ll walk a mile to avoid it. But if it happens, it happens. A few days won’t kill me.” A grin slanted across his mouth. “Will you bring me an apple pie every evening?”

“Swift, are you positive you won’t just make matters worse? If Abe goes home and—” She licked her lips. “It looks as if he used his boots on Peter.”

He searched her gaze. “Do you trust me?”

She stared at him, considering the question. “Yes.”

“Then don’t be afraid to take Peter home.”

Chapter 18

SWIFT CUT THE POKER DECK AND TOOK A DRAG off his cigarette, smiling at Abe Crenton through a trail of smoke. The saloon owner reclaimed the deck with a skillful sleight of hand and started a new game of seven-card stud, dealing Swift and himself one card, facedown. Swift had sat in on games with some of the best fleecers in Texas. Crenton was a clumsy novice by comparison, good enough to get by in Wolf’s Landing, but not nearly smooth enough to escape a trained eye. From what Randall Hamstead said, Abe had a reputation for being a cheat, and Swift was pleased to see him living up to it. To his knowledge, there was no easier way to pick a fight than to call a man on his dealing.

“You threatening me, Lopez?” Crenton asked.

Swift slid his gaze to the surrounding tables. The two strangers, Hank and Steve Lowdry, recently returned from a buying spree at the general store to rig themselves out for prospecting, sat nearby. He had a feeling the two men were watching him, and that made him uneasy. On second thought, though, maybe two avid listeners would prove helpful later. He forced himself to relax.

“Threatening you? Why would you think that?”

Crenton flipped a second card toward Swift, his blue eyes narrowed. “Why else would you tell me a story like that?”

Swift lifted the corners of his cards. A deuce and a four. He watched as Crenton dealt a second card to himself—from the bottom of the deck. “I enjoy telling stories. Didn’t mean for you to take it personal.”

Crenton leaned back in his chair. “You tell me a story about a Comanche killin’ a wife beater and hangin’ his scalp on his gatepost, and you don’t expect me to take it personal?”

With a flick of his tongue, Swift moved his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, squinting against the smoke. “You aren’t a wife beater, are you?”

“I’m a firm disciplinarian. You got a quarrel with that?”

Remembering Peter’s pale little face against Amy’s pillow, Swift tossed a dollar into the pot. Crenton plunked out two, raising him one. “I’m not a man for quarreling, Crenton,” Swift replied, meeting the ante with another dollar. “If something’s eating me, I usually don’t do much talking.”

“Ain’t no man alive gonna tell me how to tend my family.”

Swift smiled. “You do take offense easily, don’t you? It was just a story, Crenton. Why, if I had meant it personal, I’d have just said I was going to kick your ass the next time you abused your wife and kids.”

Crenton dealt Swift another card, this one face up. A three. Once again the man dealt his own card from the bottom, turning up an ace. Swift gave the table a measuring glance. There were only four more cards coming. He’d have to make his move soon.

Crenton tossed out two more gold pieces and squared his massive shoulders. “If you was to tell me that, my answer would be that the minute you came near me, I’d sic the law on you.”

Swift snubbed out his cigarette and shifted on his chair, pushing two dollars forward to meet the bet. From behind him, he heard May Belle’s throaty laughter. A jug clinked against glass, followed by the sound of liquor being poured. A nice, peaceful afternoon at the local watering hole, with no one suspecting that all hell was about to break loose. He hated to ruin the mood.

“Well, since we’re supposing”—he met Crenton’s gaze—“and I do stress that we’re just supposing, my reply would be that if I was to come near you, you’d never see me coming and never know what hit you. As for the law? They can’t hang a man if they can’t prove he’s guilty.”

“You
are
threatening me,” Crenton said with an amazed chuckle. “Seems to me you talk mighty big for a runt-of-the-litter gunslinger who ain’t totin’ his piece.”

“You’re a man who puts a lot of stock in size, aren’t you? Being built like a bull, I guess you can afford to. Me, I’ve had to compensate for my lack of bulk, so slinging a gun isn’t my only talent.” Swift watched Crenton’s beefy hands. “Fact is, if I had to choose a weapon, it’d be a knife. My slickest trick is slitting a man’s throat before he can blink. You ever seen that done, Crenton? It’s a real quiet way to settle differences. You come up from behind. It’s all in the timing and wrist movement.”

As Crenton started to deal himself another card from the bottom of the deck, Swift whipped his knife from its scabbard, threw it, and pinned the card in question to the table with the blade tip. Crenton froze, his blue gaze riveted to the vibrating knife handle.

“You damn near got my hand, you crazy bastard!”

Swift lunged from his chair and braced his arms on the table. In a booming voice, which he meant to carry, he said, “I’m calling you a card cheat, Crenton.”

Crenton drew himself up, the picture of affronted dignity. “You’re calling me a what?”

“A cheat! No wonder so many miners lose their paychecks to you in this saloon!”

The Lowdry brothers rose from their chairs, taking their glasses and bottle to another table a safe distance away.

Crenton turned angry red. “Ain’t nobody calls me a cheat and gets away with it.”

Swift met his gaze. “I don’t think I slurred my words.”