Comanche Moon by Catherine Anderson

stretched out by Amy, she pulled her rosary from beneath her pillow. Kissing the cross, she whispered her soundless prayers, comforted to know that God could hear her.
    It seemed a long while before the pressure in her chest subsided and an uneasy sleep stole over her. Then, suddenly, she awakened, not knowing why but glad to have an end to her dream. She lay rigid in the bed, her nightdress wringing wet, her throat aching with unvoiced screams, and remembered the Indian of her nightmare. With trembling fingers, she clutched her rosary and stared at the window. Had she glimpsed a shadow there, or was that more of her dream?
    The night wind whispered, rattling the bark on the roof. She strained her ears. A footstep? A rustle of leather? She set her rosary aside and crawled to the window. Silver light shifted in the swaying trees along the river, and she felt a cool breeze.
    Oh, Lordy, her pantalets were gone!
    She clutched the sill and eased her head through the square. What she saw didn’t surprise her. Hunter sat astride his horse, right out in the open, bold and challenging. The wind caught his hair, whipping it about his carved features. He lifted a powerfully muscled arm to her in silent salute, his fist clutching her wet drawers. For several endless seconds they stared at one another, then he wheeled his horse, his arm still held high, her ruffled underwear fluttering like a flag of glory behind him. Loretta watched long after he rode from sight.
    I’m dreaming. He wasn’t really there. I’ve just been dreaming. She had nearly convinced herself when her gaze fell to the edge of the roof. Where was her bowl? Had the heathen lowlife swiped that as well? Then she spotted it sitting under the window. She knew then that the Comanche had been there and had stared at her while she dreamed of him. She couldn’t make herself touch the bowl. He had touched it. Oh, mercy. And now he had her drawers. Had he spied on her while she bathed? The thought made her feel naked as sin.
    She began to shake. She sank back onto the bed and hugged herself, trembling so violently that she was afraid she might wake Amy. Her dream came back to haunt her. She stared at the uncovered window and wondered if she should refasten the membrane and pull the shutters closed. Picturing his huge knife, she rejected the idea. If he wanted in, it would take more than wood to keep him out.
    Her thoughts flew to Tom Weaver. He had to make it back in time. He simply had to.
    Loretta awoke the next morning to find Amy’s face hovering above hers. The girl’s blue eyes were wide with questions, her bow-shaped mouth agape. It was barely dawn, that eerie, quiet time when the sun still strained to peek over the horizon. Shafts of blue-gray light slanted through the loft window, but beyond their anemic glow, the room was still dark. Loretta scuttled deeper under the quilt.
    ‘‘You woke me up,’’ Amy accused in an emphatic whisper. ‘‘You talked out in your sleep and woke me up.’’
    Loretta stifled a yawn and blinked.
    ‘‘You talked! Dad-blast if you didn’t!’’
    Dad-blast? If Aunt Rachel got wind of the language Amy was using, she would scour her mouth with lye soap. Coming wide awake, Loretta rolled over on her side. Amy shifted on her knees, pressing her face so close that Loretta’s eyes crossed.
    ‘‘Do it again,’’ she insisted. ‘‘Say somethin’. I knew I heard you make a noise yesterday. Boy, won’t Ma have fits? Talk, Loretta. Say my name.’’
    Nonplussed, Loretta decided that she wasn’t the only one who had been dreaming.
    ‘‘Come on, Loretta, you ain’t tryin’ by half. Say my name.’’ A determined glint crept into Amy’s eyes. ‘‘Say something—or I’ll get Ma’s hatpin and give you a poke.’’
    A tense silence followed. Then, in a hoarse, terrified whisper, Amy cried, ‘‘Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, there’s Injuns in the yard!’’
    Loretta catapulted upward and landed on all fours in the middle of the