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‘‘Comanches don’t make false promises. My guess is he’ll bring a couple of blankets and a horse or two in trade. That’s the way they do things amongst themselves when they buy a wife. Not to say he’ll stay so polite if you don’t accommodate him and turn her over.’’
    Rachel clamped a hand over her heart. ‘‘Oh, mercy, we’ve got to get Loretta out of here then, to Fort Belknap, perhaps.’’
    ‘‘Ain’t no use, Rachel,’’ Tom said softly. ‘‘They’ll have sentries posted. You try to leave with her, and they’ll run you to the ground. Ain’t nobody gonna take a Comanche’s woman.’’
    Hearing herself referred to as a Comanche’s woman made Loretta recoil. She backed up until she stood beside the table.
    ‘‘No Indian’s taking my sister’s daughter, and that’s that,’’ Rachel cried. ‘‘I’d sooner see her dead.’’
    Henry put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘‘Now, woman, don’t get yourself in a dither. Chances are Tom’s wrong and they won’t never come back. It don’t make a lick of sense to me. Why would a no good Comanche worry about bein’ polite? Why, if he’d had it in mind to take her, she’d be bouncin’ around on the back of his horse right now.’’
    ‘‘You got a better explanation?’’ Tom challenged.
    Henry shook his head. ‘‘Nope, but like I said, what them heathens do don’t always figure.’’
    Rachel leaned weakly against her husband. ‘‘Oh, Henry, I think Tom’s right. He’s going to come back and try to take her.’’
    Loretta’s legs buckled. She crumpled onto the planked bench and braced an elbow on the tabletop. A horrible fluttery feeling attacked her belly, the wings of terror batting upward into her chest. Were the Comanches still out there, hidden from sight but watching? Was that lance a message from Hunter to his people?
    I will come to you like the wind. I am your destiny. She visualized the Indian returning with a dirty blanket or two, a scrawny horse he no longer wanted, perhaps a battered pot. And Uncle Henry, coward that he was, would waste no time in handing her over. Loretta Simpson, bought by a Comanche. No, not by just any Comanche, but Hunter himself. It would be whispered in horror all along the Brazos and Navasota rivers. Hunter’s woman. She’d never be able to hold her head up again. No decent man would even look at her. If she lived . . .
    With a whining intake of air, Loretta lunged to her feet and ran to the door. Before anyone could stop her, she was across the porch and down the steps. She’d show that heathen. If this was a message that she belonged to him, she’d destroy it. Grabbing the lance, she worked it free from the earth.
    ‘‘Loretta, you fool girl!’’ Tom came after her, catching her arm to whirl her around. ‘‘All you’ll do is rile him.’’
    Jerking free, she headed for the front gate. Rile him or not, if she didn’t refute the Comanche’s claim, it would be the same as agreeing to it. Maybe he would come back for her, but if he was out there watching, at least he’d know he wasn’t welcome.
    She walked beyond the yard fence, then turned and swung the lance against the top rail. The resilient shaft bounced back at her. She swung again. And again. The lance seemed to take life, resisting her, mocking her. She envisioned the Comanche’s arrogant face and bludgeoned it, venting her hatred. For Ma, for Papa. She’d never belong to a filthy redskin, never.
    Sweat began to run down her face, burning her eyes, salty on her lips, but still she swung the lance. It had to break. He might be out there watching. If his weapon defeated her, it would be the same as if he had. Her shoulders began to ache. Each lift of her arms became an effort. Beyond the realm of her immediate focus, she saw her family standing around her in shocked horror, staring as if she had lost her mind.
    Perhaps she had. Loretta fell to her knees, gazing at the intact lance. Willow, green