The Darkest Heart (12 page)

“One day,” Jack said, “maybe I could try.”

“My heart is too heavy. This time our paths must come together sooner.”

“I do not belong here.”

“Your place is here.”

“As a coward?” Jack said bitterly.

“You are no coward,” Shozkay said.

“I cannot ride against my own blood.”

“The Apache have many, many enemies. Papago. Pima. Ute. Comanche. Mexican. Spanish. Not just the White Eyes.”

“Shall I stay here, then, and ride only when we war on the Pima? And when we cross the path of the blue soldiers—shall I turn to hide in the bush and wait for the battle to finish? And then will you still call me Salvaje—after I have watched Apaches die?”

“Go, then,” Shozkay said passionately. “Go back to the
pindah
and stay with them.” He strode angrily away.

“Shoz!” Jack started after him, but stopped when his brother disappeared into the forest. His grip on the black’s reins was tight. For a long moment he stood beside his mount, looking at nothing but the flat expanse of leather saddle. Finally he swung up.

Would it always be like this? he wondered, new pain fighting the old.

And then he turned and rode away.

He knew he shouldn’t stay. But there was no urge to ride on.

Tucson lay before him, a dry, hot town that was nothing more than a collection of flat, square adobe homes, broken-down corrals, and sore-backed mules—all surrounding the thick, crumbling Presidio walls. An American flag floated atop a sentry tower. It had been hoisted there in March of ’56, when the last of the Mexican Federales had left.

Jack rode into town clad from head to toe in buckskin, a rawhide, flat-brimmed hat on his head. He was aware of the looks he was getting. He sat straight and tall and did not miss a single thing. As usual, Tucson had more than its share of drifters—miners, vacqueros, Indians, half-breeds, bandits—as well as the gamblers and settlers that passed through, and the occasional soldiers from Fort Buchanan. He kept his eye out for the latter. Interfering with the troops the other day had not been the smartest thing he could have done—but he hadn’t been able to resist.

He wondered if she might come into town.

Instantly, he was angry with himself for thinking about her, and he headed into one of the saloons, a single-room adobe shack with straw and dirt littering the floor, the tables rickety, the chairs broken down. The owner was white and sported two heavy revolvers. He stared briefly, then turned away—in his establishment he saw everything. A thin, dark-skinned, half-breed girl served. The patrons were all armed and varied from swarthy types who had obviously drifted north from the border and were up to no good—to sunburned, teenage soldiers and a couple of cowboys from an outlying spread. Jack took a chair, set it with its back to the wall, and settled down. The thin girl came over.

She looked all of fifteen. She did not register a single emotion when she looked at his Apache leggings. He ordered a whiskey, watched her walk away stiffly—as if she were in pain. One of the cowboys near his chair at a table said the word “Apache,” and Jack’s ears instantly became attuned.

“You think so?”

“Don’t know. Warden said it was Cochise.”

“Ah, shit,” said the first, a boy of about twenty. “If Cochise stole Warden’s boy there’s gonna be trouble. But why would he steal the boy?”

“Don’t know. It was a raid. They also made off with some oxen. The boy ain’t even his—belongs to that Mexican woman he’s living with. But Warden says it was Cochise, says he trailed him all the way to the San Pedro River. Last I heard he was up at the fort, begging for troops. But there’s none available—least that’s what the major told him.”

“Damn,” said the first. Then: “Well, guess there’s no point in worryin’ now.” He stood. “Got to get the supplies or the boss man will lay into me. You gonna be at the Bastas’ barbecue tomorrow?”

The second man grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it. The whole of Tucson will be there. Maybe I’ll even get me a dance with Candice Carter.”

The other man’s face darkened.

“Hey, take it easy, McGraw, I was only kidding! After all—she run off with that Kincaid and now she’s in mourning. I don’t think she’ll be dancing, even with you.” He laughed.

McGraw swore and left abruptly, knocking over his chair.

Jack looked after him. Who was that?
The whole of Tucson will be there
.

She’ll be there.

He drank and fought with himself. He pictured her vividly, and it both aroused and angered him. He imagined her at the barbecue, in the arms of the dark-haired boy named McGraw. Laughing, dancing the white man’s dance. Shozkay’s words suddenly echoed.
Then change her mind
.

Change her mind.

It would be a foolish thing to do. It was one thing to sit in a saloon in Tucson, another to go to a barbecue at a ranch. But he wanted to see her again.

He had to.

Abruptly Jack got up, tossed a few coins to the girl, and strode out. He paused in the bright morning light, stared across the street at the general store. He crossed the dusty thoroughfare slowly, not thinking now, because he didn’t want to talk himself out of it. Two matrons with a young
woman hastily veered away from him. He opened the door, a bell tinkling.

A heavy Spanish woman was fingering bolts of cloth. She was the only customer. A lean white man was behind a counter, scribbling in a book. Jack closed the door behind him, and the man looked up.

He looked Jack up and down and closed his ledger. Jack strolled over.

“Yes?” the clerk said.

“I need clothes,” Jack said slowly. “I want pants, a shirt. And a new hat, maybe with a scarf. A red scarf.”

The clerk folded his arms. “You got money?”

Jack reached into his shirt and removed a money pouch. “Yes.”

The clerk smiled, reaching out. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”

Everyone was staring.

Candice sat very still on the seat of the buckboard. The barbecue was in full swing. Beyond where they had braked amid the other wagons and horses, a huge steer and a pig were roasting. Two long wooden tables were laid out with all kinds of dishes—tortillas and beans, candied squash and baked pumpkin, loaves of cornbread and bowls of corn pudding. It was early, midmorning, and everyone was standing about in groups. They had been talking and laughing animatedly. Until now.

The Carters had just arrived, and John-John was waiting, hand outstretched, to help Candice down. People had turned to look at her. And whisper. She had expected something, some small level of interest, but not this.

“C’mon, Sis, or are you going to sit up there all day?”

Candice bit her lip and let John-John swing her down. Her father had already drifted off to say hello to Henderson, but Luke and Mark were hanging back protectively. Candice saw Millie whispering frantically to another woman, never taking her eyes off her. Luke took her arm, giving her a smile. “It’ll be okay,” he said.

Candice lifted her chin. She was in mourning, of course, in gray silk trimmed with black lace and a pale straw bonnet tied with black ribbon. It was too hot for full black.

As they left the wagons and neared the barbecue, individuals shifted uneasily, then quickly looked away. All four ranchers from the Santa Cruz Valley had come, bringing their families. The Bastas were there, of course, as were a few of their neighbors, and Tucson’s upper crust—mostly merchants, some freighters, a lawyer, a miner, a driver for the Butterfield Overland mail, their wives and children. There were also two officers present from Fort Buchanan, some forty miles south of the Basta hacienda. Although everyone present was technically American—such citizenship having been conferred upon those who remained in Tucson after ’53—most were of Spanish descent and Mexican birth. Perhaps three or four of every ten men were American born, and the
number of such women could be counted on one hand. Almost every woman of marriageable age was wed.

Candice heard someone say the name Kincaid. She realized she was clinging harder to Luke’s arm than necessary. Beyond Millie and Theresa Smith she saw Elizabeth Henderson standing with one of her old beaux, Judge Reinhart, his little daughter hovering beside them. She felt a stab of anger, even jealousy. And then, to her surprise, he came striding over.

“Candice,” Judge said, taking her hand. He was slim and dark-haired. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

Candice felt her mouth quiver. Bless Judge, who was such a gentleman. “Thank you, Judge. Thank you so much.”

He held her hand for one more beat, although it was unseemly. “Are you all right?” And she knew he wasn’t talking about Kincaid any more.

“Yes.” God—would she never escape
him?

He smiled then. She smiled back.

“Candice, Candice.”

She whirled at the sound of Tim McGraw’s voice. He was smiling, unable to keep the pleasure at seeing her off his face. She found herself smiling back, and when he took her hand and told her, a touch huskily, that he couldn’t say he was sorry, she felt a wonderful relief. Everything wasn’t as bad as she had thought. It was going to be all right.

She was just going to ignore the whispered references to a half-breed that were buzzing all around her. But it proved harder to do than she thought—especially when a few hours later, after her brother Luke had tried to raise her spirits by pulling her into a vigorous dance, Judge cornered her under a mesquite tree.

“Candice, do you want to talk about it?”

She held back her anger. “Talk about what, Judge?” She lowered her lashes in a consciously demure gesture.

“It’s all over the valley. What happened. That you were captured by a half-breed Apache.”

Her eyes flashed. “That’s not true! And what else are they saying?”

“Well, I’ve heard a few different versions,” Judge began, looking distressed.
“Are
you all right?”

“I am fine,” Candice said vehemently “But I am sick of everyone thinking the worst!” She turned and strode away.

Remembering the kiss.

And it wasn’t just because of Judge’s words, or the gossips she was surrounded by. The kiss had haunted her and bothered her and agitated her for the past few days—ever since he had left.

It was one thing to feel compassion for a hurt man. It was another to allow a half-breed Indian to kiss her.

The guilt and the shame were intolerable. If any of her brothers ever found out, they would kill him—and certainly never respect her again. It was too awful to even contemplate. She would never be able to hold up her head around them—and if any of these people knew the truth …

She flushed. Furiously. But the anger was directed at herself. How could she have allowed him to kiss her? Why hadn’t she fought, struggled, screamed? And—worse—she had been more than passive. She had actually enjoyed his touch.

That was too outrageous and unbelievable to face, so she didn’t.

Everyone had assumed Jack Savage had escaped on his own. When Mark had returned, he had been furious over Jack’s disappearance. No one had known that Mark had had him tied, but no one seemed too upset over it. Her brother, Luke, did give her one long, thoughtful glance. Candice had forced herself to meet his gaze, but she’d felt her face pinkening. There was no way they could possibly guess that she had set Jack free.

There was one good thing. There was no reward posted for a gray-eyed half-breed, and Candice was surprised at the level of relief she felt. She just wished she could stop thinking about him, stop remembering the shared intimacy—God.

And five minutes later, when she was dancing a jig in Tim McGraw’s arms, she looked past Tim’s shoulder and thought she was seeing things. She actually tripped on Tim’s foot and almost fell on her face except that Tim’s strong arms were around her. She stared.

It was him.

He was standing completely apart from everyone, leaning against an oak tree. He was dressed from head to foot in store-bought clothes. Candice could not believe what she was seeing, the transformation. A spotless, brand-new black Stetson, a white cotton shirt, red bandana, and black trousers tucked into spanking new black boots. She looked at his face again. He was staring right at her.

The jolt took her breath away.

“Who is that?” McGraw was asking jealously.

Candice realized she was staring, and she quickly turned away, although she couldn’t stop seeing him in her mind’s eye. She was about to tell Tim “No one,” but knew Jack’s identity would soon be known—and then Tim would think she was hiding something. She bit her lip and found herself glancing at Jack again. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her. She remembered his body stretched out on top of hers, his mouth hard, sucking and nipping and caressing hers, and she flamed. “That’s Jack Savage, she said very softly.

McGraw whirled around, his eyes wide. “That breed?”

Candice had her hand on his arm, darting a nervous glance back at Jack. He had pushed himself away from the tree, watching them. “Tim, let it be. He saved my life. He has a right to be here too.”

“He sure as hell doesn’t,” Tim growled. “And I don’t like the way he’s looking at you.”

“If you make trouble, Tim,” Candice said, “I’ll never speak to you again.”

He stared, then clamped his mouth shut.

Candice led him away, trying not to look back. Her heart was beating wildly. Why was he here? Oh—how could he be so foolish? The High C hands would surely recognize him, even in his new clothes—and if they didn’t, Mark would, and he’d be sure to make trouble. She gnawed on her lip and quickly looked around at the crowd. No one was even looking at the man in black and white with the red scarf, standing by himself in the shade of the tree. But she couldn’t shake her uneasiness.

Why had he come?

“I can’t believe you’d stick up for him,” Tim said harshly.

“What? Tim, I’m so thirsty—could you please bring me some lemonade?” She watched him stride off. Her hands were shaking. She pulled out a linen handkerchief and blotted her face very delicately. It was so hot. Still holding the linen to her face, she turned toward Jack and peered over the handkerchiefs white lace edge.