when he got there, Hattie explained.
“She fell sound asleep in the warm water. Thought we might as well get rid of these,” she said, looking askance at the pile of stained hide clothing, the beaded moccasins.
He held out his arms and she dumped the Comanche clothes into them. Lice ridden, no doubt. Reminders of exactly who the girl was now and where she’d come from that were every bit as sobering as his dunk in cold water.
“I’ll take care of them,” he promised. Gladly.
“I’d better get inside and make sure she hasn’t drowned in there.” Hattie glanced back at the kitchen door.
He headed for the barn again, concentrating on the buckskins in his arms instead of the young woman asleep in the tub.
The hides were soft where they weren’t bloodstained, the beadwork intricate and colorful. Small shells and fringe also decorated the long shirt. Collectors back East paid a pretty penny for Indian gewgaws like this, but bloodstains had no doubt ruined any value they once possessed. The best thing to do would be to burn them.
He carried the clothes to the downwind side of the barn where he burned rubbish and stoked the fire he’d built to heat the water.
He went back into the barn and mucked out another stall while the fire took hold. When it was hot enough, he picked up the girl’s things and tossed them on the open flames.
A second later, a heart-stopping cry rang out behind him, one that sent a chill down his spine. The back door banged. He spun around, ready to sprint toward the house.
That’s when he saw the girl, a blur in yellow taffeta, flying across the open yard.
Barefoot, her long hair damp and streaming free, she sprinted toward him, shouting words he couldn’t understand. He tried to grab her as she barreled past but she lithely sidestepped him. Without pause, she stood perilously close to the fire and reached into the flames.
He gave a shout, lunged and caught her around the waist, then pulled her back.
She’d managed to tug the hem of the doeskin shirt out of the fire. The piece was still smoldering in her hands.
He let go of her and slapped the Comanche garb to the ground, then pushed her back, away from the smoldering garment that threatened to catch the hem of her gown on fire.
Stomping on the burning doeskin, he managed to extinguish the flames, but the shirt, as well as the pieces still burning on the fire, was ruined.
“Are you crazy?” He turned on the girl. The thin tether that had held his emotion in check since they’d walked into the church hall finally snapped. Now, though she was but a foot away, he shouted at her.
“You could have burned yourself up just now!”
She yelled right back. He might not be able to understand what she said, but the way she spit out the words was clear enough—she was swearing at him in Comanche.
He grabbed her hand, anxious to drag her back to the house and turn her over to Hattie, but when his palm connected with hers, she cried out. Not in anger, but in pain.
Instantly, he shifted his hold to her wrist.
She turned her hands palms up, staring at them in silent shock. Her skin was marred by red, angry burns.
Joe’s anger fizzled away on a sigh. He let go of her wrists.
She stood before him, head bowed. Her long damp hair hid her expression like a chestnut veil. Her bare toes, coated with dust, peeked from beneath the hem of the taffeta gown.
No longer were her shoulders stiff with pride. No longer did her ice-blue eyes blaze up at him full of stubborn determination.
The ruination of her things had left her defeated, limp and lifeless as the scorched and smoldering garment at their feet.
Hattie ran out to join them, her eyes full of worry, her hair limp from the steaming warmth of the kitchen. She’d taken off her bonnet and, as she did when they were home alone, tried to comb some of her hair over her scar.
“What happened?” Her focus dropped to the girl’s reddened palms. “What have you done?”
“Are you accusing me or asking her? If you’re asking her, you might as well be talking to a fence post, Ma.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“She grabbed her Comanch’ dress out of the fire, is what happened. Grabbed it after it started to burn and scorched her hands.”
Hattie cupped her hands beneath the girl’s and inspected the wounds. “Thank heaven, these burns aren’t very deep. They surely must hurt something fierce.”
She reached up and tucked a lock of the girl’s hair behind her ear.
“She ran out the back door fast as lightning.”
Joe heard admiration in his mother’s voice, noted the gentle, caring way Hattie dealt with her. She’d dressed the girl in the yellow taffeta, a gown he’d never seen her in, but one he knew Hattie wore when she was young and wealthy and living back East.
A dress she’d owned long before she’d married his father.
She’d been saving it for Mellie to wear when she was grown. But now Mellie was gone.
His already hardened heart hated seeing this stranger wearing it.
“She looks ridiculous, Ma. We can’t have her running around the place in a ball gown.”
“She’ll have to wear it until I can make over one of mine for her. As it is, my clothes are way too big for her. I think she looks just fine.”
“It’s a party dress, Ma, and this is no party.”
“She doesn’t know the difference, Joe. Might as well use it.” Hattie fluffed a ruffle on the sleeve of the gown. “She looks real pretty.”
She looked, Joe was forced to admit grudgingly, almost beautiful.
“Don’t forget she’s not staying, Ma.” For a minute he wondered if he wasn’t reminding himself.
“What are you saying, Joe?”
“I’m just saying don’t get attached. She burned herself trying to save those Comanche things. No matter what you’d like to believe, she’s not one of us. I’m telling you she’ll turn on us as soon as she gets half a chance.”
The girl was watching him very closely, as if straining to understand.
He flicked his gaze away, willing himself to look anywhere but into her eyes. There was no way he’d let himself grow soft toward her. No way he’d drop his guard. He wasn’t about to start thinking of her as anything but what she was—the enemy.
“Where’ve you gone, Joe? Where has your faith and the love in your heart gone?”
Hattie’s whispered words were barely discernible, and yet he’d heard them, just as he heard the sorrow laced through them. His mother was looking at him as if she didn’t really know him at all.
She already knew the answer as well as he did.
Where was his faith? What had happened to the love in his heart?
“The Comanches took them,” he told her.
Hattie surprised him by giving a slight shake of her head.
“No, son. You and I both know your faith faltered long before the Comanche attack. What I’ll never understand is why. ”
Without waiting for an explanation, she turned to lead the girl back to the house and left him standing alone with his guilt, his doubt and his suspicions.
He knew that no matter how much he wanted to blame the Comanche, his mother was right.
He’d lost his faith long before that