Comanche Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    “Attention, attention!” she called out.
    The clamor of children’s voices settled into silence.
    “Jeremiah, you’re first. If a gentleman meets a lady on the boardwalk, on which side should he pass?”
    “His right,” piped up a boy’s voice. “And if the boardwalk’s narrow, he will step off into the street and make sure the lady passes without mishap.”
    “Very good, Jeremiah,” the woman said with a soft laugh. “You’re answering my questions before I ask them. Peter, should the gentleman recognize the lady?”
    “No, ma’am,” replied another boy in a shy, unassertive tone.
    “Never?” she prompted, her voice growing gentle.
    “Well, maybe, if’n he knows the lady will favor a nod.”
    “Excellent, Peter.”
    Swift heard the pages of a book rustle. “Indigo Nicole? Is it proper for a lady to walk between two gentlemen, with a hand on the arm of each?”
    A girl replied, “No, ma’am. A true lady gives her favor to only one gentleman at a time.”
    Swift didn’t hear the next question. In a haze of disbelief he walked up the steps, his legs weak and trembling, a rivulet of sweat trailing like ice down his spine. He knew the woman’s voice. Maturity had enriched its silken alto. The diction was more precise and proper. But the voice was definitely Amy’s. He would know it anywhere, for it had haunted his dreams for fifteen years. I’ll wait for you, Swift. Just as soon as I’m old enough, I’ll be your wife. A promise that had become his greatest sorrow, now transformed into a miracle.
    He stepped to the open doorway, peering out from under the brim of his hat into the shadowy room. So shaken he didn’t trust his knees, Swift braced a shoulder against the door frame, his gaze riveted to the teacher, trying to come to grips with the reality of seeing her. Amy . . .
    That grave behind Henry Masters’s barn hadn’t been Amy’s. The cross Swift had so lovingly straightened hadn’t borne her name and life song. His sweet, precious Amy was here, alive and well in Wolf’s Landing. Three wasted years! For God only knew what reason, Henry Masters had lied to him. A wave of sheer rage hit Swift.
    Then joy blotted out all else. Amy stood before him, breathing, smiling, talking, so beautiful the mere sight of her took his breath. Fifteen years ago she had been coltishly pretty, as thin as a bowstring, with an impertinent little nose dotted with freckles, a stubborn chin, and huge blue eyes outlined by thick dark lashes. Now, though still fragile of build, she had acquired the soft curves of womanhood. His gaze rested fleetingly on the white piping that edged her prim bodice, then dipped to her slender waist and the gentle flare of her hips, accented by two ruffled poufs that fell in a graceful sweep across her fanny. His throat closed off, and for a second he couldn’t breathe. No dream this, but reality.
    From the corner of her eye, Amy glimpsed a shadow looming in the doorway. Distracted from her place in The Manual of Proper Manners, she forgot what she was saying and looked up, taking in the tall man, clad all in black, with a wool poncho draped back comanchero style over one shoulder, a gun gleaming like silver death on his hip. With a shallow gasp she retreated a step, pressing her spine against the blackboard.
    “M-may I help you, sir?” she asked in a frail voice.
    He didn’t reply. With his shoulder against the door frame, he stood with one hip slung outward, his knee slightly bent, the stance careless and somehow insolent. The wide brim of his concha-banded hat cast his face into shadow, but light played on the twist of his sharply defined lips and the gleam of his white teeth. Touching the brim of his hat, he nodded to her and shifted his weight to the other foot as he drew to his full height, which seemed to fill the doorway.
    “Hello, Amy.”
    His deep silken voice sent a wash of coldness over Amy’s skin. She blinked and swallowed, trying to assimilate the reality of a