Comanche Heart (5 page)

The floor dipped under her feet. In her ears, echoes from the past jostled with sounds of the present, a deafening cacophony that beat against her temples.

The comanchero moved closer, step by relentless step, the rowels of his spurs catching on the floor planks. She couldn’t move. Then, coming to a halt a scant few feet away from her, he removed his hat. Amy stared up at his dark face, once so familiar, now chiseled by manhood, each line etched upon her heart yet changed so by the years that it had become the face of a stranger.

“Swift. . . .”

The whisper trailed from her lips, barely audible. Swirls of black encroached on her vision. She blinked and reached wildly for support, her groping hand finding only open air. As if from a great distance, she heard him repeat her name. Then she felt herself falling, falling . . . into the blackness.

“Amy!”

Swift lunged forward, snaking out an arm to catch her around her waist before she fell. She hung limp against his body, head lolling, arms dangling, eyes half-closed with the whites showing. No practiced swoon, this, but a genuine, out-cold faint.

Swift knelt on one knee to lower her to the floor. His heart slammed with unreasoning fear as he pressed his fingertips to her throat to find the uneven and weak thread of her pulse. Her pallor frightened him. Cursing beneath his breath, he grasped the high collar of her dress and struggled to unfasten the tiny buttons, frustrated by the ruffle of starched muslin sheer that formed an overlay at the neckline.

“Take your hands off her!”

The voice cracked on the last two words and squeaked. Swift threw up his head to find a knife blade gleaming inches from his nose, held in the steady brown hand of a boy he guessed to be about fifteen. Dressed in a buckskin shirt and blue jeans, the youth reminded Swift of someone, but with a knife nearly shoved up his right nostril, he couldn’t concentrate on who. Swift studied the boy’s sun-burnished features and dark, wind-tossed hair.

“Don’t try me, mister. I’ll slit your throat quicker than you can blink.”

Swift slowly lifted his hands from Amy’s collar, eyeing the knife. Normally he wouldn’t have been worried by a boy, no matter how vehement his threats, but the way this youth balanced the knife in his hand told Swift he could not only use the weapon, but with deadly accuracy.

“Just keep calm,” Swift said softly. “There’s no point in anyone getting hurt. Now is there?”

A little girl’s frightened sob punctuated the question. Tension ran so thick in the air, Swift could almost taste it. He panned the room with a quick glance, discovering that every student, even those knee high to a jackrabbit, had stood up and looked ready to do battle. The thought crossed his mind that the infamous Swift Lopez could very easily meet his end in this schoolroom, mobbed by children.

A slow smile crossed his mouth. “The lady fainted, and I’m just trying to help her.”

“The lady doesn’t need help from the likes of you. Keep your filthy paws off her,” the boy returned. “Indigo, run get our father. Hurry!”

A movement from slightly behind Swift’s left shoulder drew his attention. He discovered that a tawny-haired girl stood two feet away, a classroom pointer gripped in her hands. She looked prepared to skewer him with it. He nearly smiled again at the murderous expression in her wide blue eyes.

“I’m not goin’! Send Peter!” she cried.

“Indigo Nicole, do as I say! Find our father!”

Swift guessed the girl to be about thirteen or fourteen years old, with a burnished tone to her skin that struck an almost breathtaking contrast to her hair and eyes. “Untamed” was the word she brought to mind, the impression underscored by her Comanche clothing, a loose-sleeved, beautifully beaded blouse, a flowing skirt, and fringed knee-high moccasins.

Swift inched his nose back from the weaving knife the boy held. Now that he had seen the girl, it suddenly occurred to him who this youth resembled. Little wonder he knew how to use a knife.

“Your father . . . Hunter of the Wolf?” Swift queried.

The boy’s blue eyes darted from the girl back to Swift. “How’d you know his Comanche name?”

“I’m an old friend.”

“That’s a lie. My father wouldn’t have any doings with the likes of you. Indigo, git! If you don’t go right now, I’ll thrash you good, you hear?”

The girl stood her ground. “And leave you alone? He’s a gunslinger, Chase. Anyone can see that. You’re no match for him!” She inched the pointer closer. “Peter, you go. And hurry! Tell our father Aunt Amy needs him!”

Peter, a carrot-haired ten-year-old, shot around his desk and hurtled toward the door. Swift, more concerned about Amy than he was about meeting his maker at the hands of children, lowered his gaze. “If you don’t want me to touch her, Chase, you do something. Loosen her collar. Get her some water.”

“You just mind your business,” the boy ordered. He directed a concerned glance at Amy’s chalky face and swallowed. “My father will be here shortly. Time enough then to tend Aunt Amy. You best be figuring what you’ll say to him. He doesn’t cotton to outlaws coming here.”

Too late, Swift realized he did look like an outlaw, dressed as he was, which explained the hostile reception and Amy’s fainting dead away at the sight of him. He sensed that the other children had pressed closer, frightened for their teacher. The little girl was still sobbing, swallowing the sounds now so they erupted through her nose.

Swift sighed. “Does the name Swift Antelope sound familiar to you?”

The boy’s face tightened. For the first time he began to look uncertain. “What if it does?”

“Because
I
am Swift Antelope.”

The girl holding the pointer inched sideways to study Swift’s face, and after getting a good look, she gasped. “Oh lands, it is Swift Antelope, Chase. He’s the man in the sketch.”

“He isn’t, either,” Chase snapped, but even as he spoke he gave Swift a closer study. “Well, maybe he resembles him a little. That doesn’t mean nothing. He’s got a scar on his face. Swift don’t.”

“He could have acquired a scar, porridge brains.” The girl lowered her pointer slowly.
“Hein ein mahsu-ite?”
she asked in rapid Comanche.

Hearing the language of his childhood made Swift’s heart catch. “I
want
to take care of your aunt. After that, receiving the proper welcome of a trusted friend would be nice.”

“You see! He understands Comanche!”

Sensing the boy’s growing uncertainty, Swift bent back over to Amy to unfasten the collar of her dress. Peeling back the cloth, he glanced up at the girl. “Bring me some water.”

Indigo tossed aside her weapon and ran over to a large jug that stood in the corner. The sobbing little girl made a wet, choked sound, and cried, “I want my ma.”

Indigo flashed her a glance, her pretty face softening. “Don’t cry, Lee Ann. Miss Amy just fainted. She’s going to be fine.”

Chase inched closer to Swift, his stance still threatening, his gaze darting from Swift’s hands to his face. “If you’re lying, my father will kill you for touching her.”

Swift nodded. “I know your father’s temper well. If I were you, I’d sheathe that knife before he gets here, or his anger may be directed at you.”

Footsteps sounded on the porch just as Indigo returned to Swift’s side with a cup of water. Lifting Amy in the bend of his arm, Swift loosened and removed the black kerchief he wore around his neck. Dipping one corner of the cloth into the cup, he gently bathed her lips. Her nose wrinkled with distaste, and her lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks.

“Amy,” Swift whispered.

“What is happening here?” a deep voice boomed from the doorway.

All the children began to explain at once. Chase drowned them out, crying, “This man came bustin’ in! Scared Aunt Amy into a dead faint! Started undoin’ her dress! He claims he’s Swift Antelope.”

Swift glanced over his shoulder at the tall, well-muscled man silhouetted in the doorway. Even without the long hair and Comanche leathers, Hunter would have been recognizable by the set of his shoulders. Lifting his gaze, Swift tried to see Hunter’s face, but the sun blinded him. “
Hi, hites,
hello, my friend.”

“Swift.” Hunter stepped slowly across the room, his moccasins touching lightly on the floor, his blue-black gaze filled with disbelief. “Swift, it’s really you.”

Swift nodded and returned his attention to Amy, watching as her beautiful eyes fluttered open, confused and unfocused. “Can you take her, Hunter? Seeing me—that’s what made her faint.”

Hunter knelt on the other side of Amy and crooked an arm under her shoulders. “Amy,” he whispered. “Ah, Amy.”

Swift rocked back on his boot heels, a lump of tenderness rising in his throat as he watched Amy turn toward Hunter to grasp his leather shirt. “Hunter, a comanchero!”

“No, no, not a comanchero. It is only Swift, eh? Our old friend, come to visit us.”

As if she sensed his presence behind her, Amy stiffened and threw a horrified look over her shoulder. The impact of her wide, frightened eyes hit Swift like a boulder in the chest. He searched those blue depths for any trace of fondness, of gladness, but found none. She was clearly shocked to see him and more than a little frightened.

Pain lashed Swift. That Amy,
his
Amy, should be afraid of him . . . The realization, coupled with the shock of finding her alive, left him feeling unbalanced.

Hunter turned toward the children, who stood frozen at their desks, attention riveted on the three adults before them. Swift noticed that the little redheaded boy named Peter was shaking. “School is finished, eh?” Hunter told them. “You go home to your mothers. Come back at the regular time in the morning.”

“Is Miss Amy gonna be all right?” a boy of about twelve asked.

“Yes,” Hunter assured him. “I am here now. Go on home, Jeremiah.”

Like compressed springs, all released simultaneously, the students converged on the coatrack, grabbing lunch baskets and coats as they headed out the door. Swift watched them in bemused silence. Indigo paused at the threshold, and flashed him a shy smile, her blue eyes dancing.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Uncle Swift.” With that, she bounced out the door after Chase.

Swift gazed after her, reassured because she had addressed him as “Uncle.” Though not related by blood, Swift and Hunter had been brothers in spirit. It warmed Swift’s heart to know that Hunter had spoken frequently of him to his children and raised them to think of him as a family member.

“The schoolchildren are wary.” Hunter inclined his head at the gun on Swift’s hip. “It’s not often we see gunmen here.”

“Men here don’t wear guns?”

Hunter’s firm mouth drew down at the corners. “Guns, yes, but not—” Amy stirred again, and he broke off to help her sit erect. When she passed a tremulous hand over her eyes, Hunter’s chiseled face mirrored his concern. “You are all right?”

“Y-yes.”

She slid a wary glance to Swift and twisted onto her knees. Swift rose immediately, offering her a hand up. She shoved to her feet unassisted, struggling against the cumbersome confines of her full skirts. Hunter caught her elbow to steady her.

“Amy . . .” Swift studied her face as he said her name, dismayed by its sudden whitening. She averted her gaze. “Amy, look at me.”

She straightened her skirts, then buttoned her collar, her slender hands shaking so badly that Swift longed to help her. Drawing away from Hunter, she took an unsteady step toward her desk, then hesitated, looking disoriented. Swift reached to clasp her arm so she wouldn’t fall, but when his fingertips grazed her sleeve, she flinched away, her blue eyes riveted to his black poncho.

Swift had never expected to find Amy here—Amy, with her accusing eyes. Removing his hat, he swept the wool poncho over his head and stepped to the coatrack to hang it on a hook. He put his hat back on his head and turned to look at her.

She had reached her desk while his back was turned. Now she stood gripping its edge, her knuckles white, her gaze riveted to his boots. Swift glanced at Hunter, nonplussed.

Hunter lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Well! This calls for a celebration.” His voice boomed with forced joviality, making Amy jump. “Let’s go over to the house. Loretta will want to see you, Swift. She always claimed you would come for Amy one day, and, like most women, she likes nothing better than to be proved right.”

Swift noted that Amy turned even whiter at Hunter’s words, and suddenly he knew why she looked so appalled. As Hunter strode toward the door, Swift tried to imagine how she must be feeling and realized that if he didn’t assure her now that he had no intention of rushing her fences, he might not find a private moment to do so later.

“Hunter?” Swift followed his friend toward the door, acutely aware that Amy had fallen in behind him, tensed to dart past him the second she saw an opening. “I’d like a moment alone with Amy.”

“No!”

Amy’s protest made both men turn to look at her. Swift had the distasteful feeling that if he yelled “Boo!” she’d faint dead away again. He glanced back at Hunter, requesting with his eyes that Hunter leave them. When Hunter complied and stepped across the threshold, Amy tried to bolt after him.

Swift foiled her attempt, grasping her arm and shutting the door. She tried to back away, hands clasped at her waist, her gaze riveted to the floor. Beneath his palm, she felt brittle with tension. He could see her pulse slamming in her throat. He released his hold on her, not wanting to unsettle her any more than he already had.

“Amy . . .”

Lifting her head, she fastened frightened blue eyes on him. Swift felt as if fifteen years had rolled away. He could recall her looking at him just this way that long-ago summer when he had dragged her from the village, day after day, to walk with him along the river. She had feared he meant to rape and brutalize her then.

“Amy, can’t we talk—just for a moment?”