The Darkest Heart (17 page)

His touch was extraordinarily gentle, the way it had been when he had bathed the dead Apache boy. His hands were large and warm and calloused—dwarfing hers. She was eye level with his naked chest and the heavy necklace he wore. He dropped her hands, and she looked up into his eyes. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything. She followed him, not back to the camp, but into the woods, trailing behind, trying to look anywhere but at his bare back, and wishing she could turn off all her thoughts. He started gathering saplings and brush.

Candice stood watching, until he handed her what he’d collected, filling her arms. He gathered another load for himself, and they started back to the camp.

After they deposited their loads on the outskirts of camp, they went back for more. It suddenly struck Candice what they were doing, and it shook her to the core. There seemed to be no other conclusion than that they were collecting material for a
gohwah
, and if that was the case, did it mean they were going to stay diere? He had said they were leaving. Had she misunderstood?

“Jack, are we building a g
ohwah?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean we’re going to be staying here?”

He didn’t look at her. “Just until you’re healed up,” he said.

She was afraid to ask what would happen afterward. “Then will you take me home?” Her voice trembled.

This time he did look at her. “Yes.”

They spent the morning outside the camp gathering saplings, brush, and bear grass. Around midday Jack told her to stay put by their pile of wood and grass on the edge of the camp, and he disappeared. Candice sat down on the ground and idly picked up stones and tossed them away.

Jack appeared, smiling, two bowls in his hands. “Here,” he said, squatting beside her Apache fashion.

She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. I hate that stuff!”

He looked at her in amazement. “Really?” He raised the rim of the bowl to his mouth and began to eat the thick gruel.

She watched. He is just like them, she thought, staring, as he hungrily devoured the bland souplike food. It was as if he had eaten like this a hundred times, had never needed utensils. He was squatting, thighs bulging in the buckskin pants. He had shed his shirt, and his chest was bronzed almost to the color of oak bark, gleaming with perspiration. The muscles in his forearms rippled with each shifting movement, and his biceps seemed to be in a permanent state of straining, popping thickly beneath his skin. He finished, setting the bowl down, looking at her.

“You need to eat,” he said, his tone pleasant. “You need your strength.”

“What is it?”

“It’s made from acorns,” he told her, smiling slightly at the face she made.

She picked up the bowl—she was hungry—and awkwardly drank, or tried to.

“Good girl,” Jack said.

“If you pat me on the head I’ll bite you,” Candice flirted daringly.

He laughed. “I like it better when you wag your tail, ish’tia’nay.” He stood. “Watch carefully.”

“What does that mean,
ish’tia’nay?”

He grinned. “Woman.”

“Oh.”

He used a tool, like a spear, made of mesquite with a pointed, narrow end, to dig six deep, narrow holes in a circle. Then he took a green sapling and inserted one end in one hole. He put another sapling in another hole. He bent them toward each other in an arch, and tied them together with strips of yucca.

“By the way, this is women’s work. Braves never build
gohwahs
. So watch carefully, because you’re going to finish this by yourself.”

“By myself?”

“I’m losing face,” he told her cheerfully. “Hand me that
sohi.”

“That’s silly. Hand you what?”

“That sapling.”

She did, watching him insert it into another hole.

“Candice, put a sapling in that hole.”

“Which hole?”

“That one.” He pointed.

“Why are we doing this?” she asked, doing as she was told. “Why don’t we just sleep under the stars?”

“Candie,
ti-tonjuda!
Wrong end! The other end—the thicker end—goes in first!”

“How am I supposed to know?” She reversed the sapling. “Why
are
we doing this? It seems like a lot of trouble for a few days.”

He tied the saplings together, and now the g
ohwah
was almost completely framed. “This is the worst I’ve ever seen,” he said disgustedly. Then he answered her question, “Because,
ish’tia’nay
, it is not appropriate for us to sleep outside tonight.”

Candice sighed. “Another Apache custom, I suppose?”

He glanced at her sharply, then away, staring at the frame. “Yes, you might say that.” Jack added another arch of saplings and surveyed the frame. “Okay. It will have to do. Now, pay attention. Brush next, then bear grass.”

“I think I can figure it out.”

“Enju.”
Jack was smiling and it made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Have this finished by the time I get back.” He turned and started walking away.

“You really want me to do this by myself?”

He stopped and pointed at her. “You build go
hwah
, woman, or I’ll have to send you back to Hayilkah.” With that exaggerated threat, he left her standing there.

He had left her alone with those instructions to finish the shelter. It had taken her a long time to figure out how to fill in the framework of saplings with the brush. At first, the brush kept falling out. Each piece of brush had to be wedged against other pieces and the frame. The fact that squaws and braves kept glancing at her didn’t help the situation. The children who came over to jabber excitedly and point and laugh were a distraction—but a welcome one from her tumbling thoughts.

Now, somehow, she was supposed to fill in the brush with bear grass. She was lucky she had gotten this far—the roof had really been impossible.

As she held some grass in her hand and stared at the
gohwah
, waiting for the solution, she became aware of a squaw standing a few feet away, staring at her. Candice looked over at her. The woman was slender and pretty. She was a few years older than Candice, and she stared at Candice with hard, hostile black eyes. Candice could feel her hatred, and its intensity frightened her.

The woman walked closer, and Candice rose to her feet apprehensively. With a look of scorn, the squaw tapped the
gohwah
. It shuddered.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Candice asked as calmly as she could, despite the fact that she was sure the woman didn’t understand a word she said. “I’ve spent all afternoon building this, so please keep your hands to yourself.”

“An angry wind, it blows away,” the squaw said in stilted English.

Candice was surprised. “How did you learn English?”

“Niño Salvaje taught me,” she said with a small smile.

“Niño Salvaje?”

“The man you know as Savage.”

A sick feeling spread through her veins. “Why did he teach you English?”

“Why do you think he wants me to know his other language?” The woman’s smile broadened.

Candice refused to acknowledge her rising comprehension. “I have no idea,” she said, but oh, she did.

“I am his woman,” the Apache returned calmly.

Candice was very still—except for the pounding of her heart. She could not mistake the avid jealousy pouring through her. She smiled tightly at the squaw. “What’s your name?”

“Datiye.”

“Well, Datiye, if you are his woman, then why am I building his g
ohwah?”
This was said with more confidence and gusto than she felt, even while she knew she was a fool to be competing with this woman for a man she didn’t even want.

The woman stared, her face darkening, but didn’t answer. It was then that Candice heard his voice and looked up to see Jack approaching with the tall, handsome Apache who had spoken English to her and a stunningly beautiful woman. They were chatting in Apache, the squaw between the two men.

The three stopped, and Candice turned her back deliberately on them, still stunned by the first woman’s admission. She was filled with dark emotions, thinking about Jack and Datiye, thinking about Jack looking at her and teasing her that morning while this woman—his mistress?—was here in camp.
I really don’t care
, she told herself, and knew it was a lie.

When the tall Apache started to speak sharply, Candice had to look to see what was going on. Jack was inspecting her handiwork carefully, obviously as a means to ignore what was occurring, and Datiye was leaving them with a hard, angry stride, clearly sent away by the Apache.

“This is my brother, Shozkay,” Jack said. “And this is his wife, Luz.”

Candice nodded, barely able to restrain herself from demanding just what his relationship was with the other squaw. She looked at Luz and was again struck by her sensual beauty. Luz was staring at her too. “You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,” Candice told her frankly.

Luz smiled, and she reached out and touched her shoulder. She spoke in Apache, and Shozkay translated. “She wants to tell you the same thing—that you are as beautiful as the sunrise.”

Candice was overwhelmed by the compliment, especially as it came from another woman. “Thank you,” she said softly, and they smiled at each other.

Jack was inspecting the
gohwah
, pacing all the way around it. “Blessed
Usen,”
he muttered, “this is the worst I’ve seen.”

“Fine,” Candice snapped, making him jerk around. Her eyes flashed murderously. “You want it built better, you do it by yourself.”

Luz and Shozkay looked at each other.

Jack tested the g
ohwah
. “Fortunately, the weather is good. Come here. Ill show you how to weave this grass in.”

Luz restrained him. “I’ll do it,” she said, smiling. “Do you speak Spanish?” she said, switching to her grandmother’s tongue.

“Yes, a bit,” Candice said. “I understand better than I speak it, though.”

“I will teach her. After all, she is now my sister.” Luz bit her lip, and there was a quick exchange of glances between Jack and the two Apaches.

“What does she mean?” Candice asked Jack, understanding Luz perfectly.

Shozkay answered. “My brother has traded for you. You become our sister the way Luz became his sister through me. It is just a manner of speaking.” He smiled.

Candice watched them walk away, her arms crossed over her chest.

Luz showed her how to weave strands of the long bear grass through the brush. She did it quickly and efficiently. Candice was tired of the task and tired in general, and her weaving was loose and shoddy.

“Do you like Jack?” she asked curiously as she picked up another length of grass. The strands were between three and four feet long.

Luz smiled. “Very much. He is brave and strong. He brings much pride to the path he walks, and never shame.”

Candice absorbed that. “Why is he called ‘Niño Salvaje’?”

“It was the name the great Cochise gave him many, many winters ago.”

“Cochise named him?” She was curious.

“Yes.” Luz glanced at Candice briefly as she wove the grass into the brush. “It was a great honor to be given such a proud name by such a great warrior—the son of the chief. And he was only a boy.”

“Well, it suits him.” She yanked out the strand of grass and started over. “Why did Cochise name him? Are they related?”

“No. Cochise gave him as a gift to my husband’s parents. They loved him from early on and adopted him.”

“He gave Jack as a gift?”

“Yes.”

“But, what about Jack’s real parents?”

“I don’t know. You would have to ask him. They probably died.”

Later, after the
gohwah
was finished, hides stretched tautly over the shell, Candice accepted a lesson in cooking. It wasn’t that she was interested in how to prepare the bland stew made from acorns—but she did like Luz. Some time later Luz sent her down to the creek with two woven baskets for water.

Candice looked at the baskets doubtfully. “Don’t these leak?”

Luz laughed. “No, look inside.”

She uncovered one and found that there was a clay urn within.

“We make very little pottery, it breaks too easily,” the squaw said. “But sometimes it is necessary.”

The creek ran along the entire edge of the back of the camp. She walked slowly through the pines, tired from the day, glad of the time alone. Soon she had left the
gohwahs
behind. She didn’t want to think, but she instantly started speculating about the woman Datiye. She was almost at the creek when she heard Jack’s voice.

She looked up, stopping short.

Datiye was in his arms. She was pressed against him, her hands on his bare chest. She was talking rapidly in Apache, looking up into his face. He had both his hands on her waist, and his face was unreadable. Candice stood frozen.

Jack looked past Datiye and saw her. Immediately he dropped his hands and stepped away from the slender squaw.
Then he looked back at Datiye and spoke in a harsh tone. Datiye interrupted, throwing her palms back on his chest.

Candice didn’t want to see any more, but she didn’t move. Datiye stared boldly back. Jack said something to her and she turned and left, but not before throwing a last cold dance at Candice. Jack approached, taking the urns from her.

“I’ll do that,” he said, his gaze searching her face.

Candice looked at him coldly, trying to remain expressionless and not show him that she felt like murdering somebody. Preferably that other
woman
. “That’s all right,” she huffed, reaching for the urns.

A tug-of-war ensued. “No, I’ll fill them. They’ll be heavy.”

“Do you fill
her
urns too?” Candice released her grip so abruptly, he momentarily lost his balance.

“What?” he asked blankly, recovering.

“Nothing,” Candice said, her nostrils flaring.

Jack gave her a cautious look and started for the stream. Candice glared at his back, then started after him, crashing noisily through the bushes and brush. She pulled up short behind him as he finished filling the urns, and glimpsed a smile he was trying to hide.