Comanche Moon by Catherine Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

gold clear to the rafters. Amy’s soft, regular breathing whispered in the semidarkness. She slept in a sprawl with the gray down quilt thrown off her hot little body, the hem of her nightdress riding high on her skinny thighs. Loretta went to the foot of the bunk and unfastened the doeskin membrane on the window to let in some air. The child sighed in her sleep and muttered something.
    A breath of coolness touched Loretta’s bare limbs when she peeled off her clothes. It felt so good that she lifted her arms and turned a full circle, allowing the night air to wash over her before she hung her dress on the hook and slapped at it to get the wrinkles out. Every little crease showed on homespun. Remembering better times, mostly in Virginia, but some here in Texas when her parents had still been alive, Loretta sighed and went to the nightstand. Sloshing water from the pitcher into the washbasin, she added a dash of lavender, then carried the bowl and her washcloth to the windowsill.
    Leaning her head back, she began her nightly ritual, wringing the rag to trickle the scented water along her throat and over her breasts. In summer, the customary week between tub baths seemed like an eternity. Running the cloth slowly over her body, she closed her eyes. Lands, it was so hot. A female could cook in this country, wearing all those clothes.
    She had finished bathing and was rinsing her drawers in the leftover water when a coyote wailed. She poked her head out the window to watch the full moon. A wisp of cloud drifted across the moon’s milky face, casting ghostly shadows on the ground. A Comanchemoon. Uncle Henry said it was called that because the Indians often raided on moonlit nights. Good light to murder by, she guessed.
    Comanches. She backed from the window and clasped her soppy bloomers to her chest. Was she insane, flitting around naked?
    ‘‘Loretta Jane Simpson!’’ Henry yelled. ‘‘Damn, girl, you’re pourin’ water through the ceilin’ like it’s a bloomin’ sieve!’’
    Leaping back to the window, Loretta knocked the bowl over as she held her underwear out the opening. Oh, blast! She watched the bowl go bumpety-bump down the bark slabs. And stop. Right at the edge of the roof.
    ‘‘What in hell?’’ Footsteps thumped. ‘‘Quiet it down up there, or I’ll come up and shush you good.’’
    Loretta swallowed. The pitch of the roof was steep. How could she retrieve the bowl without telling Henry? He’d be a wretch about it. She just knew he would. Amy moaned and murmured. Tomorrow, she’d find a way to get the bowl tomorrow.
    After throwing on her nightgown, she hung her underwear over the sill to dry and sat on the edge of the bunk to brush and plait her hair. On the bedside table was a portrait of Rebecca Adams Simpson, her mother. In the dim light, her features were barely discernible, but Loretta knew each curve of her face by heart. Sadness filled her, and she traced the scrolled frame with a fingertip. If her father had yelled about water dripping through the floor, Rebecca would have said, ‘‘Oh, pshaw, Charles, don’t get in a fuss.’’ Not that Charles Simpson would have yelled. He had been a small man with a quiet manner.
    Loretta opened the nightstand drawer. Inside, arranged upon a fold of linen, were her mother’s diamond comb and her father’s razor. Two mementos and a portrait, all she had left of her parents. Her mouth hardened. The comb had been one of a pair, her mother’s most prized possessions. Now, only this one remained, the other taken by a Comanche along with Rebecca’s scalp. Tears filled Loretta’s eyes again, making her wonder what had come over her since Hunter’s visit. Seven years, and she hadn’t shed a single tear, and now she couldn’t seem to stop crying. It didn’t make any sense. The time for grief was long past, and Loretta didn’t cotton to weepiness.
    She closed the drawer with a click and wiped her cheeks with the heels of her hands. As she