Comanche Moon

Chapter 1

Texas, June 1864

The midafternoon sun slanted through the lone pecan tree's green leaves, spangling the ground with bright shimmers of gold. To Loretta Simpson's way of thinking, that tree was the only appealing thing on Henry Masters's farm. As she latched the smokehouse door and glanced over her shoulder at the familiar setting, all else seemed bleak and colorless. The squat little house and its naked dirt yard was a blemish on the rolling grassland, as disfiguring as a jagged scar on a pretty woman's face. The scraggly, parched rosebushes next to the porch were all but leafless, their branches casting skeletal shadows on the dwelling's log walls. Blistered by the sun day after day, the bushes would eventually die, casualties of the endless and futile war between her aunt's husband and the land.

That Henry Masters had chosen this location to erect his crude buildings and sagging fences said much about the sort of person he was. If he had situated his farm closer to the nearby Branzos River, where scrub oak and pecan and willow trees formed a dark, low line, the shade and gentle breezes might have made life more bearable. Instead he had taken his stand in the open to save himself the work of uprooting trees.

Holding her bloodied hands away from her skirts, Loretta watched the little puffs of dust that mushroomed in front of her shoes as she walked from the smokehouse to the well. She didn't want to think the doe she had just skinned and quartered but was at cross-purposes with her twelve-year-old cousin, Amy, who skipped along beside her.

"With that much milch in her udder. She was nursing at least one fawn." the girl fumed. "But did Pa care? No, not him. We've got to do somethin', Loretta. If we just leave them out there to starve, we're as guilty as he is."

Loretta increased her pace. As the older of the two, it was up to her to be practical. Two girls traipsing through the wilds in search of fawns would be asking for trouble, and Loretta figured she had troubles enough. Less than a month ago, a neighboring farm had been attacked. The bloody aftermath still haunted her dreams. Besides, that doe's fawns would be far to old to tame.

Amy heaved a defeated sigh. "I guess they'd be too big to bring home, not to mention the fit Pa would throw. Do you reckon they're old enough to forage for food and make it on their own? It's early summer. They're probably pretty old, aren't they?"

Swallowing a tight knot of anger, Loretta nodded with far more certainty than she felt.

"Pa could've hunted a few more days," Amy declared in a quavery voice. "Can't tell me there ain't bucks of plenty in those woods. He's just too dadblamed lazy."

Pretending she hadn't noticed Amy's bad language, Loretta reached for the pulley rope above the well. Amy needed to vent her anger, and it was best she do it out here. There was enough friction in the house, especially between Amy and her stepfather.

Amy angled a peek at Loretta's face. "Ma must have been plumb desperate after Pa died to take up with the likes of him."

Loretta hauled up the bucket and concentrated on washing her hands. There was no point in letting Amy rile her. There were some things a person couldn't change, and Henry Masters was one of them. It would take someone bigger than Loretta, at any rate. Grasping the bucket by its rim, she gave it a brisk swish and tossed out the pinkish water with enough force to have laid Henry flat had he been standing there.

"Fill the bucket again would ya?" Amy ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. "I'm dry as jerked venison."

Loretta hefted the bucket onto the edge of the well and, wetting her fingers, flicked the little girl in the face and flashed her a smile.

"That feels good. If that bucket were big enough, I'd jump right in. If it weren't for those durned Indians, I'd be goin' swimmin'." Lifting the ladle, Amy gulped, her throat making plunking sounds until she stopped to get some air. "Want some?"