Comanche Heart by Catherine Anderson Read Free Book Online

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?”
    Her mouth quivered, then thinned. “I don’t want to talk to you. How dare you even come here? How dare you?”
    To Amy, the closing of the door had resounded like a rifle shot. Her head swam, racing with so many thoughts she couldn’t begin to sort them. Swift was back. After fifteen years he had come for her. Swift, now a comanchero, a gunslinger, a killer. The words echoed inside her dazed mind like a witch’s chant.
    She knew firsthand how men like him treated women. She also knew that Comanches believed promises were binding until death. Swift would try to hold her to the betrothal vows she had made to him as a child. He would expect, perhaps even demand, that she marry him.
    She stared up at him, unable to reconcile his features with those of the young