Homecoming. Jill Marie Landis

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      After Joe left them alone, he headed for the barn, nearly running until he reached the watering trough. Without hesitation, he dunked his head under the surface of the cold water.

      Standing there with his wet hair dripping down around his ears and soaking the front of his shirt, he knew that if he was still a praying man, he’d ask the Lord to let Jesse find the girl’s family. And find them fast.

      In an attempt to settle back into his routine, he unhitched the horses, turned them into the corral and had just picked up a shovel to muck out the stalls when he heard Hattie call to him from the porch.

      He dropped the shovel and hurried outside, slowed his rush when he saw her with the girl’s discarded clothing in her arms.

      He went back to the house and 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.