Comanche Heart by Catherine Anderson Page B

brittle voice, stepping over the unevenness in the boardwalk without difficulty.
    “You must, as fast as you’re walking. The Amy I knew couldn’t see the end of her nose when it got dark.”
    Amy bit back a retort, her one thought to get safely inside her house and bolt the door. To that end, she increased her pace. Swift’s hand tightened on her waist.
    “Whoa. The idea here is to stroll along and get reacquainted.”
    “I don’t want to get reacquainted.”
    As if her wants were of absolutely no consequence to him, he ignored the rebuff. It seemed forever to her before they reached her porch. Amy hurried up the two steps and shoved open the door. “Thank you for walking me. Good night.”
    She stepped into the darkness and tried to push the door closed, only to find that Swift had braced a palm against the wood to prevent her.
    “Won’t you ask me in?”
    “Most certainly not! I’m a teacher. I have a reputation to uphold. A lady doesn’t allow a man—”
    He shoved on the door, moving her back two steps. “Guess I’ll just ask myself.”
    And with that, he sauntered inside. Whereas a moment ago she had been straining to shut the door, now Amy clutched the handle with frantic fingers to keep him from closing it. He won the tug-of-war by putting a shoulder into it. The door shut with a resounding finality, and he slid the top bolt into place.
    “Two locks, Amy? I thought Wolf’s Landing was a safe, friendly place to live. You locking yourself in, or the rest of the world out?”
    Darkness had swooped over them. Amy stood rooted, her heart pounding. Dressed all in black, Swift blended so well with the shadows that she couldn’t see him. But she could feel him, and with those horrible, nightmarish spurs chinking every time he moved, she could hear him as well. He had drawn far too close. The smell of leather and denim and tobacco filled her nostrils.
    “Light the lamp,” he said tersely. “We need to talk.”
    Making a beeline for the table, she groped for the lantern and the box of lucifers. Drawing the match through a pleat of glass paper, she ignited the head, showering sparks. She quickly turned up the lantern wick, set flame to it, and replaced the smoke-streaked mantle. The stench of the lucifer made her eyes tear, and she leaned back to escape its gaseous fumes while waving out the flame.
    “You really shouldn’t be using those things inside the house. You want bad lungs or a case of phossy jaw?”
    “I—I don’t usually. My tinderbox is low on cedar bark, and I haven’t gone out to get more. It’d take a sight more than the number of matches I use to hurt my lungs or bones.”
    “You’re shaking,” he observed dryly. “Do I frighten you that badly?”
    She made much of adjusting the light, ignoring the question.
    “Can you at least try to talk to me about this?”
    She carried the box of matches to the fireplace and crouched to lay a fire. When he stepped between her and the lantern, his shadow loomed across her, larger than life and threatening. The silent seconds stretched endlessly.
    “Damn it, I’m speaking to you!”
    Bending low to puff air at the feeble beginnings of the fire, Amy rearranged the wood so it would catch. “Don’t curse in my house.”
    He let out an incredulous laugh. “As I recall, you taught me that word and several others. ‘Hell and damnation’ was your favorite phrase, remember? And when you were really bustin’ mad, you’d say—”
    “Do you mind?” She pushed to her feet, shoving the matchbox closed with so much force that she nearly crumpled it between her damp palms. “This is my home. I’d like to prepare for bed.”
    “Go ahead.”
    Amy blinked. In the leaping firelight he looked exactly like she imagined the Devil, tall, handsome, cloaked in black. Suddenly so weary she wanted to drop, she put the matches on the mantel, pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead, and closed her eyes. “Swift, please.”
    “Please what? Talk to me,