The Darkest Heart (2 page)

She was afraid. Her back hit the wall of the small room they had just checked into. “God, Virgil—no.”

“I’m going to make you my mistress, darling. And I’ll make you very happy, I promise.”

She choked in shock.

“Candice, don’t look so damn innocent. You were made to be a man’s mistress, my dear, in beautiful silks and taffeta, diamonds and lace—not some rancher’s wrinkled-up wife. Come here.”

“You’re mad.”

“Mad? Maybe. About you. I’m just glad I’m going to be the first.”

He reached for her. Candice didn’t think. She had never had to hit anyone before, never—not with three strapping brothers to chaperone her. But now her hand shot out and she sent a ringing slap to his face as hard as she could. He immediately backhanded her brutally, sending her spinning to the floor, stunned.

“Get it through your head, Candice. You are no longer Miss Carter, belle of the Southwest. You are my woman, and you do as I say.”

She raised herself to her elbows, panting, her ears ringing, her face throbbing. She shook her head once to clear it. Fear spread icy claws deep into her intestines. “No.”

He grinned. “Fight me, then.”

Her eyes went wide as he threw his jacket casually on the bed and knelt beside her. Candice scrambled to her knees. He yanked her back by her waist. She cried out, writhing. He clamped an arm around her and flipped her onto her back, hard. Candice was terrified, and when she looked into his eyes she saw that he was laughing—he was enjoying himself. With a tremendous effort, she kicked out, one of her feet catching his jaw.

He yelped, releasing her.

Candice crawled frantically toward the door.

“Bitch!” He grabbed her ankles and pulled, hard.

Candice’s arms went out from under her, and her chin hit the floor, sending a spasm of pain through her. She was on her stomach, helpless. Virgil wrenched her hands behind her back, hurting her. He prodded her legs apart, and sheer terror and sudden understanding coursed through her. “We can do this any way you want,” he said, panting, as he tossed her skirt and petticoat up over her hips.

Horror.

He was going to mount her as a stallion does a mare.

He released her hands, tore down her pantalets, and grabbed the cheeks of her behind. Candice felt something thick and hard rub against her.

With a desperate cry, she twisted onto her side, legs flailing. He reached for her hands to capture them, but lost her balance from her frantic motions. She reached for the gun that was strapped in the holster at his side. He loomed over her again, his face bright with lust, on his knees between her
thighs, his member obscenely enlarged and poking the air. Candice’s hands closed over the smooth handle of his gun. In one abrupt movement she wrenched it free. His eyes widened. Hers closed—and she fired.

The rider leaned low over his stallion’s neck, urging him on.

Behind him, the United States Cavalry was in hot pursuit.

He glanced over his shoulder. Long sable hair whipped his face. Sweat trickled down from his temple, despite the red cloth headband. It gleamed on his bare, powerful back, thick muscles rippling as he rode the stallion as hard as he could, pumping the beast furiously with his body. The entire column was chasing him, an eighth of a mile behind.

The black’s hooves tore into the dirt and dry grass, pounding furiously. The rider guided him with his buckskin-clad legs through a stand of saguaro, then into a dry wash. Ahead loomed a narrow path between two sheer granite cliffs. Without hesitation, the rider hurled the black Forward, the animal stumbling once, the width between the rock walls barely enough to accommodate them. Once the rider felt a stabbing of pain as flesh was torn from his thigh, and the stallion screamed, grazed also. They exploded into the sunlight on the other side, once again in a headlong gallop, racing down toward the swollen river below. The troops appeared to be a quarter of a mile behind.

The river was still high from flooding. At any other time, the rider would have waited to decide where to ford. Now he rode his black mercilessly down the riverbank, sweat blurring his vision, his heart pounding almost painfully against the walls of his chest. His left hand was already pulling his gunbelt off and slinging it over his shoulder, then reaching for the rifle, holding it high. The black obeyed his summons and plunged unhesitantly into the raging river. The stallion swam hard against the current before finding solid ground on the other side and bursting forth.

A few minutes later, from a new vantage point on the far side of the riverbank, camouflaged by octillo and agave and saguaro, the rider slowed his mount and slipped off. He kept one hand on his mount’s muzzle, speaking softly. His own shoulder, slick with sweat, was pressed into the animal’s hot,
wet neck. The horse was blowing heavily. He watched the soldiers cantering down to the riverbank. Their horses were scrawny and fatigued, thickly lathered from the chase, and he knew without a doubt that many would die if they tried to ford the river. He listened to the men’s indecision, catching bits and pieces of their conversation until they all turned and rode away.

The rider threw back his head and laughed.

The troops, with the aid of a Papago scout, had been tracking Chiricahua Apaches led by Geronimo. They would never catch them now. The rider, although not a part of Geronimo’s band, had succeeded in leading the soldiers astray. Even though he hadn’t been back to the Territory in three long years, when he had seen the soldiers pursuing the Apaches he hadn’t been able to resist interfering. Satisfaction gleamed in his silver eyes.

He led the stallion down to the river where they both drank thirstily. Then he mounted again and rode downstream, looking for a good place to cross. He didn’t trust the Papago, who were sworn enemies of the Apache. He would not take the chance that the Indian scout leading the troops back across the river might try to circle around on him. And just thinking about how he had sabotaged their efforts to track down Geronimo’s band brought a smile to his sensuous lips.

The stallion shied. Moving with the horse as if he were a part of it, soothing him with a single touch, he searched the saguaro-studded landscape. The rider saw a piece of blue. As the horse took another stride he made out the crumpled form of a youth lying facedown in the dust.…

He slipped off the stallion and lifted the youth’s head gently. The Stetson fell off, revealing the most incredible cascade of blond hair he had ever seen. She was in bad shape, but he’d seen worse. Ants had just started to get to her, and he brushed a small marching band of the insects from her cheek, then raised the canteen to her parched, split lips.

Her mouth opened, her throat pulsed. “Easy,
ish’ tia’ nay,”
he murmured. “Not too much.” He pulled the canteen away.

Her eyes flew open, and she made a choking protest.

He stared. Navy-blue eyes, tilted up at the corners, big
and almond-shaped and thickly lashed in black. Then they drifted closed. He eased her back down, disturbed. He imagined, if she were cleaned up, that the girl would be a beauty. With eyes like that, a man was in jeopardy of having his entire soul drained away. What was she doing out here alone in the desert, on foot, without supplies, and in a man’s clothes?

He picked her up and carried her to his stallion, looking at her more thoroughly now. She was full-breasted, with long legs and slim hips. The kind of body that set up an instant hunger in a man, made his loins tight and full just by looking. He placed her carefully on his mount, then leapt up behind her.

Where was she from, and where was she going?

And—who was she?

They were a two-day ride from Tucson, the closest settlement. To the east and south, along the Santa Cruz River and Pantano Wash, there were a few ranches. Americans had been settling in the area since 1853—since the United States had acquired the strip of land containing Tucson from Mexico.

He set up camp by a trickling wash. She needed care, and that was his first priority. More water, and then an herbal tea that would help to rehydrate her. She was swallowing greedily now, although she didn’t open her eyes again. Her skin was dry and chapped like leather, and he found more ants on her right arm. He stripped her quickly and efficiently, tossing her clothes aside, trying to be impersonal about it—and failing.

He hadn’t had a woman in a while, and just touching her made his groin tight and heavy.

He bathed her, his hands shaking slightly, to his disgust, and forced more tea down her. He wrapped her in his bedroll—a sheet of buckskin that served as either spare blanket or loincloth. Then he made a small fire, watered and rubbed down and hobbled the stallion, then settled himself down with a tin mug of coffee.

A white man’s habit.

He smiled derisively, showing a glimmer of white, even teeth.

And he looked up at the Santa Catalina Mountains, feeling their pull—the pull of the people, the pull of the only home he’d ever known.

He sighed. It had been three long years since he had been back. The decision to leave hadn’t been easy—in fact, it had been the most pain-filled decision of his life.

His name was Jack. He didn’t know his real last name and wasn’t sure where he had been born. He didn’t even know much about his real mother, just that she had been a squaw and had died when he was very young—before he had any memories of her. His father was a big, strapping, blond giant of a man, and Jack knew he had gotten most of his physical attributes from him. His earliest memory was standing ankle-deep in a freezing, rushing mountain stream, his hands chapped and numb from the icy cold, the metal pan sticking to his flesh. His father was a miner.

He had never loved his father. He tried to do as he was told, to avoid getting hit. One slap from a man like that was enough to crack a bone. As long as he worked long and hard and occasionally had a few gold flakes to show, his father was pleased. When, upon occasion, his father sat down with a jug of whiskey, the little boy made sure to stay as far away from the cabin as possible. And that was probably what saved him.

He was six or seven, and he was hiding in the woods, afraid of his father, who had been drinking steadily for days. He heard them first—the thundering of horses’ hooves. It could only be Indians, because the Mexican troops never strayed far from the Presidio at Tucson. He crept closer to see.

He watched his father drunkenly antagonize the small group, then die defending his home. The little cabin went up in flames. The Indians proceeded to loot everything of value. Very, very afraid, the boy turned and ran.

He didn’t know how the leader saw him, but he knew the instant the Indian on the big bay horse came galloping after him. He ran frantically into the trees, weaving through thick stands of juniper and pinyon. He fell, skinning fus hands and knees, and dared a look over his shoulder. The Indian, a tall young man with waist-length loose black hair, was leaping off his horse. He was clad only in thigh-high moccasins and a breechcloth, and he carried a knife. The boy got to his feet and started running.

He was grabbed from behind and swung into the air.

“Fucking savage!” Jack shouted, having learned the phrase from his father. “Let me go, damn fucking savage!”

The Indian slung him over his shoulder.

The boy sank his teeth as hard as he could into the man’s neck.

The Indian never made a sound. His hand closed over the boy’s jaw, fingers digging in painfully, forcing his mouth open. The boy tasted sweat and grease and blood. He was thrown onto the ground, where he lay stunned, nausea and bile welling up within him.

Laughter sounded.

The other Indians had gathered and were openly amused. The boy slowly, warily got to his knees, panting, his mouth ringed with the man’s Wood. His heart was thudding wildly in his ribs as he met the tall Indian’s gaze. It wasn’t black with anger, just dark and enigmatic.

Jack turned on his heels and fled He knew it was hopeless, but he would die before he quit.

More laughter.

He was caught instantly. This time the Indian was careful, holding Jack in front of him in his arms while the boy twisted and spat like a wildcat; trying to claw his adversary’s face. The man spoke sharply. Jack didn’t have to speak his language to know he was being told to be still. He didn’t listen.

He was thrown on the big bay horse, the greased man leaping up behind him. Even as the Indian’s body was touching down, the boy was sliding off. He was hauled unceremoniously back up by one ear—and it hurt.

So did the hard, stinging slap to his buttocks when he was flipped abruptly over on the rider’s lap. Six smacks, and each hurt worse than the one before—but he wouldn’t cry out. He’d gotten worse from his father many times.

The man who had captured him was the son of the chief of a band of Chiricahua Apaches, and his name was Cochise. Out of respect for Jack’s fierce bravery, Cochise gave him a name—Niño Salvaje, Wild Boy Child. Mistakenly, the Apache had assumed he was Mexican because so few Americans had drifted this far west.

Jack did not speak either Spanish or Apache, and it was many years before he understood what his name meant—or
the great honor it was to be named by a respected, famous warrior whom everyone knew would one day be their next chief. Cochise gave him to a Coyotero Apache couple as a gift. Jack knew he was a captive and a slave. He did not know that the gift of a brave boy child to an Apache couple was a special and great honor—for everyone expected him to one day become a fierce Apache warrior.

And he did.

Oh, my God.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not daring to breathe, not daring to move.

There was an Indian sitting just a few feet away, across a small fire.

Where was she? What had happened? My God—she couldn’t have seen what she thought she had seen. Taking a small breath, Candice opened her eyes the tiniest amount possible and peeked out through her lashes.

She hadn’t been hallucinating.

And she wasn’t dreaming.

He was still there—looking straight at her.