Comanche Rose by Anita Mills

Ethan. For Susannah. For Jody." She forced herself to look across the desk again. "If I'd been in the house—if I could have gotten to the gun sooner— they might have survived. But Ethan was in the field—I don't guess it matters now what he was doing, does it?"
    She was too controlled, her voice too even, her muscles under his hand too taut. Afraid her composure would shatter and she'd start weeping, Will reached into his pocket and drew out his handkerchief. When he tried to give it to her, she shook her head.
    "I'm all right," she insisted. Lifting her hand, she held up the wadded cotton. "As you can see, I have brought my own." Going on, she recounted what happened without embellishing any of it. "Anyway, it had started to storm, so I was hurrying to take down my clean sheets when my little girl saw the Comanches coming. I ran to the house for my husband's gun—well, that doesn't make any difference now, either. The children and I were captured, anyway."
    "A tragedy, Mrs. Bryce—a tragedy," Davidson murmured.
    "They never stopped for anything. We rode night and day because they were afraid they were being tracked," she continued. "We didn't have anything to eat except a little buffalo jerky. They wouldn't even let me clean Jody when he soiled himself. And I lost my milk." She closed her eyes, and her already low voice dropped to a whisper. "They killed my son, Colonel Davidson, and he was an innocent baby. All he knew was that he was wet and hungry."
    "Believe me, Mrs. Bryce, you have my deepest sympathy," he responded soberly. "I'm terribly sorry."
    "And the little girl?" Sprenger forced himself to ask.
    "It was a large war party—there were some Kiowas, and Comanches from several other bands. When—when the Indians separated to discourage pursuit, one of the other Comanches took Susannah with him." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still hear her screaming for me. But I couldn't help her—I couldn't even help myself."
    "Red-skinned bastards," Will Sprenger muttered under his breath.
    "Later, when I learned enough of the language to speak it, I asked who'd taken her. I was told it was a Comanche named Lost Dog, and he was either a Quahadi or a Noconi, but that's all anybody would say." She looked up, meeting Black Jack Davidson's sympathetic gaze. "I want her back, Colonel. I want your help finding her."
    "Of course you do," Sprenger murmured soothingly.
    "She's all I had to live for—everything. I stayed alive because she was out there somewhere, and I couldn't just abandon her. Colonel Davidson, I have lived amid filth and vermin. I have eaten everything you could imagine, and then some—even bugs and grass and uncleaned buffalo guts. And I have endured things I would wish on no other woman on this earth. For three years— three years, sir—I have survived with no other purpose than to find my daughter. Now that I am free, I am asking—no, I am demanding —that a search be conducted for Susannah Bryce before it is too late."
    Davidson cleared his throat uncomfortably, then tried to explain why he couldn't help her. "It isn't really a matter for the army, Mrs. Bryce—or at least it isn't yet. Under the current Indian policy, my orders are to protect those Kiowas and Comanches who have come onto the reservation. I can act only on application for help by the current Indian agent, Mr. Haworth, and he is opposed to asking for so much as a single guard. Likewise, troops stationed in Texas cannot cross the Red River, even in pursuit of hostiles. While I don't agree at all with the policy, my hands, and those of every officer out here, are effectively tied. Whether I approve or not, I am ordered to see the government delivers adequate food and protection to reservation Indians while they rest between raids," he admitted regretfully. "Believe me, it is not a task I relish, but I am a soldier, my dear, and I will do my duty."
    Annie couldn't believe what she was