Comanche Heart (32 page)

Pushing up from his chair, he nodded good evening to May Belle and left the saloon, relieved when the fresh night air bathed his face. Stepping off the boardwalk, he paused, regarding the two horses tied to the hitching post. After glancing back at the saloon doors, he closed the distance, making a circle around them, his gaze riveted to the garishly tooled saddles, pommels gleaming in the moonlight. Bending low, he lifted one horse’s leg to run his hand over its shod hoof. Well-worn. He probed the tendons in the animal’s foreleg and knee to check for telltale swelling, a sure sign of a long journey.

“What you doin’, Lopez? Thinkin’ on horse stealin’?”

Recognizing the voice, Swift turned and peered into the shadows between the saloon and the general store. “Good evening, Marshal. Been a spell since I saw you.”

Hilton eased out from the darkness. “I make it a habit not to be seen. A lawman learns more that way.”

“I had you pegged as a smart man. Seems I was right.”

Hilton paused beside the horse. “Well?”

“Well what?”

Hilton snorted. “Have they come a far piece or not?”

“Far enough,” Swift replied.

Hilton sighed and tipped his hat back to gaze at the saloon. “My wife used to say I shouldn’t take an instant disliking to people. But it’s been my experience that my first hunch is usually correct.” He slid his gaze toward Swift. “Take you, for instance. The minute I clapped eyes on you, I didn’t figure you to be near as mean as your reputation paints you.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

“If it weren’t, your ass would still be behind bars. Can’t have a no-good gunslinger threatening our schoolteacher. A respectable one, though, that’s different.”

Swift started to hook his thumbs over his gun belt, noted its absence, and moved his thumbs a notch higher to his pants belt. “Is there such a thing as a respectable killer, Marshal?”

Hilton chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Lopez. Straight talk.” He grew quiet a moment, squinting at Swift through the gloom. “You an eye man?”

“Come again?”

Hilton smiled. “I read a man by his eyes. You don’t have the look of a killer.”

“Then your eye reading doesn’t work. I’m a killer, Hilton. Not that I’m proud of it.”

As if Swift hadn’t spoken, the marshal smiled and scratched his chin. “Nope, you got the look of a man with his back to the wall. You’ll draw if you’re pressed, but you don’t go looking for it. Never have, if I read you right. And I’m seldom wrong.”

“What’re you getting at?”

Hilton ran his hand over the horse’s saddle, his brow pleated in a frown. “That I don’t like the looks of those two in there any more than you do.”

“You think they’re trouble?”

Hilton pulled his hat back down to shade his eyes. “Could be.” He started to walk off, then hesitated. “I guess what I’m really trying to say is, if Wolf’s Landing is where you plan to put your back to the wall and trouble does come calling, you’ve made a friend.”

Swift swallowed. “I’ll remember that.”

Hilton nodded and sauntered away to disappear again into the shadows. Swift stood there a moment, mulling over the conversation. Then he gazed thoughtfully at the saloon doors, his jaw set.

Chapter 17

THE FOLLOWING DAY THE TWO STRANGERS visited the mine, asking Hunter questions. Swift continued to work, but he kept one ear pricked. The men seemed genuinely interested in finding gold. Hunter supplied them with what information he could and listed several items they would need from the general store to rig themselves out for prospecting. After the men walked off, Swift abandoned the rocker box he had been manning, circled a pile of gravel, and strode over to Hunter.

“Well?”

Hunter frowned, his gaze still fixed on the men, who descended the slope toward town. “They claim they’re brothers. Lowdry, they say their name is, Hank and Steve Lowdry.”

“Do you believe them?”

“I’m not sure. We will see, eh? If they gear up for prospecting, then you can relax. If not . . .”

Swift braced himself against the wind, then slapped at the leg of his greased overalls. “Did they seem to be watching me?”

“No.” Turning, Hunter placed a hand on Swift’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re chasing shadows, my friend. I admit they’re a rough-looking pair, and their clothing puts me in mind of a comanchero’s. But Wolf’s Landing is a very long way from Texas.”

“I don’t suppose Texas has a corner on rough men.”

“You and I are in Oregon, yes?”

With a laugh, Swift returned to his work.

 

Amy sat on the schoolhouse steps to eat her lunch during noon recess. Surrounded by chattering children, she couldn’t help drawing a comparison between the simplicity of their lives and the tangles in her own. With the exception of Peter, her students led sheltered lives. She hoped they could remain innocent. How wonderful it would be to trust and see only goodness in others.

As her gaze trailed over the playground, Amy sighed with a touch of wistfulness, for she knew she was wishing on rainbows. Pain and heartache were part of living. Take Indigo, for instance. Her fascination with Brandon Marshall was destined for disaster, but unless the girl met her share of skunks, she’d be slow to recognize a truly good man when he finally came along.

Amy searched the clusters of children for her niece and experienced a chill of unease when she didn’t see her. Indigo didn’t usually leave the schoolyard during breaks.

Brushing crumbs from her palms, Amy went down the steps and cut across the schoolyard to gaze toward town. Nothing. Frowning, she interrupted some children who were playing tag to ask if any of them had seen Indigo leave.

“Yup,” the littlest Hamstead girl said. “She went walking.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

Amy waited, and when she saw the child didn’t intend to volunteer more information, her mouth curved in a smile. “Anna, if she wasn’t alone, who was with her?”

“A fellow.”

Amy folded her arms. “Are you a woman of few words, Miss Hamstead?”

Anna looked perplexed.

“Who was the fellow?” Amy prompted.

Anna wrinkled her freckled nose and shrugged. “I dunno.”

Amy bent forward. “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“Fancy.”

Amy straightened, growing more uneasy by the moment. “Which direction did they go?”

Anna jabbed a finger toward the woods. “That-away.”

“Thank you, Anna. You’ve been very helpful.”

Striking off toward the trees, Amy lifted her skirts to circle a puddle. She didn’t dare walk far and leave the children unattended. A little way into the woods, she paused to listen. Laughter came from the right. She headed that way, pulling her skirts tight around her legs so they wouldn’t become soiled on the maze of bushes. “Indigo!”

A moment later the tawny-haired girl came bounding into sight, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. “Hello, Aunt Amy. What are you doing out here?”

Amy leaned to one side, craning her neck. “The question is, what are you doing out here? And who have you been with?”

Indigo smiled and leaned forward, as if to share a secret. “I have a beau, Aunt Amy. Brandon Marshall! He’s so handsome, my heart nearly stops when I look at him.”

Amy’s nearly stopped at the look she saw in Indigo’s eyes. “And you sneaked off from school to tryst with him in the woods? Indigo, that isn’t the behavior of a proper young lady.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. We just talked.”

Hesitating, Amy regarded Indigo’s lovely face, not wishing to say anything that might hurt her. “I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong, love. The thought never occurred to me, in fact. But the sad truth is, people’s tongues wag very easily.”

Indigo’s eyes grew round with indignation. “You sound just like Ma. It’s Brandon, isn’t it? You don’t like him because he’s rich and comes from Boston. You didn’t think he’d give a girl like me a second look. And now you’re mad because he has.”

Amy touched her niece’s shoulder. “That isn’t true. I think you’re a beautiful young girl, Indigo. Any boy would be honored to court you, even a rich one from Boston.”

“Then why are you so against my talking to him?”

“I’m not.” Amy paused. “But Brandon’s a lot older than you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“That’s exactly what Ma says.”

Amy sighed. “You must admit, Boston’s wealthy neighborhoods are far different from Wolf’s Landing. And Brandon is different, too. Not just older, but more sophisticated.”

“Meaning?”

“Just that Brandon will probably return to Boston one day. He might never intend to hurt you by befriending you and then leaving, but it would hurt nonetheless. And there’s also a possibility he may feel it’s okay to sow a few wild oats here. You’ve caught his fancy, but is it because he genuinely cares about you or because you provide him with a diversion?”

“What you’re really saying is that he thinks less of me because I’m a breed. He’ll toy with my affections, get what he can, and leave without a twinge of conscience.”

“No . . .”

“Yes, it is! I’m not as good as everyone else, that’s what you’re saying. He won’t care if he hurts me because girls like me don’t count the same as white girls.”

Amy swallowed. “Indigo, you can’t possibly think—” The lie turned to dust. Indigo had seen too much prejudice, against her father, the few remaining rogue Indians in the area, and the Chinese laborers, to believe a lie. “There are ignorant people in the world,” she tempered. “You’re a beautiful young lady. There are unscrupulous men in this world, men who’d take advantage of you without a qualm. Because you’re part Indian.”

“Brandon isn’t unscrupulous!”

“I pray not,” Amy whispered.

Indigo’s eyes filled with angry tears. “I’m proud of my blood. Proud, do you hear? And Brandon likes me for who I am. You’ll see. You and Ma both. You’ll see!”

With that, Indigo raced past Amy toward the schoolhouse. Shaken, Amy gazed after her. Then she scanned the surrounding woods, wondering how Brandon had disappeared so quickly. What did a young man have in mind when he secretly met with a girl Indigo’s age in the woods?

Amy toyed with the edge of lace on her collar, afraid for Indigo and uncertain what she should do to steer the girl away from trouble. Amy could only hope Indigo’s upbringing would stand her in good stead.

As she hurried back to the schoolyard, Amy sent up a silent prayer that Indigo would be there. Relief filled her when she spied the girl sitting on the front steps. Sulking, but there. Amy vowed to give the situation serious thought and talk to Indigo once more. Perhaps if she changed tactics, the girl would be less defensive and take some well-intended advice.

Amy’s relief to see Indigo was short-lived. As she crossed the playground, she heard a yelp of pain and turned to see Peter skidding in the dirt on his belly. Breaking into a run, Amy reached the child just as he rose to his knees, sobbing and holding his shirt out from his chest.

“I didn’t mean to push him,” Jeremiah cried. “I didn’t, Miss Amy, I swear.”

“I wasn’t accusing you, Jeremiah,” Amy replied. “You’re always very careful of the younger boys.”

Shooing children from her path, she helped Peter to his feet, then led him across the yard and up the steps into the schoolhouse. She aimed for her desk, where she kept clean squares of cloth, a roll of bandages, and medicinal salve.

“Here, love, sit down,” Amy crooned, wiping at Peter’s cheeks with her handkerchief as she pressed him onto her chair. “You must have taken an awful fall. You’re always tougher than a pine knot.”

Peter glanced up, his face so pale his freckles looked like splatters of mud, his blue eyes huge. He placed a protective arm across his middle. “I want to g-go home for tending. My ma knows all about tending.”

A great admirer of Alice Crenton, Amy smiled, wondering if Peter was suffering an attack of boyish modesty. “I’m sure she’s far better at it than I. However, I can’t in good conscience send you running along home without knowing how badly you’re hurt. Now, can I?”

“No, Miss Amy,” Peter squeaked, looking miserable.

Amy patted his head, then reached to untuck his homemade pullover shirt. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen a young man’s chest before.”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, if you won’t spread it around,” Amy added conspiratorially. “I’m so bashful, I’d rather take a dose of Widow Hamstead’s sheep dung tea than go see the doctor.” Peter studied her, clearly at a loss as to how that related. Amy felt her cheeks grow warm. “Just in case you’re feeling shy, I thought it might help you to know other people feel shy, too.”

As carefully as she could, Amy lifted the flannel, intending to pull the garment over Peter’s head. As the cloth cleared his belly, her gaze riveted on his bruised and swollen ribs. She gave an involuntary gasp.

“Oh, Peter . . .”

“I fell real hard.”

Amy knew by the reddish purple color of Peter’s bruises that his ribs hadn’t been injured in the last few minutes. More than likely it had happened yesterday or last night. She swallowed, uncertain what to say. His fright was all too apparent; she didn’t want to make matters worse. An almost irresistible urge came over her to cuddle him close and rock him. But Peter would resent being babied.

“Peter, what happened?” she asked softly, assailed by sudden guilt. There must have been signs that Peter was hurt, yet she’d had him in the classroom all morning and never noticed.

“You saw. I fell.”

Amy pulled the shirt off over his head, feeling sick. Rising, she looked at his back. As she feared, he was bruised there as well. “Peter, I know your father did this to you.”

“Don’t tell my ma. You gotta promise, Miss Amy.”

Amy strove to keep her voice level. “She doesn’t know?”

“Not how bad it is. I told her it was nothing.”