Comanche Moon

Chapter 3

Loretta clamped her lips together. The next second, Tom's beard touched her skin, coarse as a wire scrub brush, and from its bushy center protruded hot, wet lips that smacked down on hers with bull's-eye accuracy. His arms tightened and pulled her flat against him. Then he darted his tongue past her lips and licked her teeth. Was this how people kissed? He tasted of sour tobacco, and her gorge rose. By the tense way he held her, she knew he was trying to explicit a response. She hated to hurt his feelings but couldn't pretend she liked any part of what he was doing. What little bit of dinner she had managed to swallow earlier was working its way up her throat.

Just when she feared her convulsing stomach might humiliate them both, Tom gave her a pat and turned her loose, smiling as if he had done himself proud. His eyes glowed with fondness. "I thank you for that, Loretta. It was mighty fine, even if you don't never marry me, I'll have it to remember." He gave her a little push toward the door. "You git on back in the house now."

As revolting as she had found the kiss, Loretta hesitated. At times, her silence rose around her like a wall.

"I'll be careful, and there's no need for thanks." He flashed a grin. "Don't stand there lookin' silly. You only think you can't talk, girl. Them there eyes of yours never shut up. Now, go on, git. I can't leave with you standin' out here."

In a swirl of skirts, she turned back and hugged his neck, surprising herself as much as him. Before she lost her nerve, she kissed his cheek. Then she dashed into the house, her heart pounding like a kettledrum. Through the door cracks, she heard Tom chuckle. She swiped the back of her hand across her lips to get rid of the tobacco taste. Only then could she smile.

As soon as the dishes were washed, Loretta climbed the ladder to the loft where she and Amy shared a bed. The fading light of the downstairs fire shone through the cracks of the planked floor, shooting shafts of muted 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 a 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 hot. A female could cook in this country, wearing all those cloths.

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 Comanche moon. 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!"