The Darkest Heart (25 page)

Then everything happened so fast it was a blur. The person who had shot the warrior was another Apache on a big bay and he just kept on coming at a gallop. He was a blur of bronzed, gleaming flesh and flying black hair, and he wore no warpaint. She thought he was going to run her down. Before she could move out of the way the stallion veered, and she was suddenly being lifted effortlessly, placed in front of the warrior on top of his mount, at a dead gallop. She twisted to fight, raising the derringer she still held.

The Apache grabbed her wrist so hard that she dropped the gun. She looked into black, unreadable eyes, and then he was shoving her off the big bay stallion, onto the ground,
where Candice fell to her knees, panting. He reined in abruptly. Candice gazed up at him, waiting for him to kill her. His horse moved restlessly as he sat staring down at her, and she became aware of many things at once—the sudden silence of the canyon except for the sound of creaking leather, the coach that wasn’t far from her, the near-naked, lean Indians ringing this man, and the fact that no one was wearing warpaint. The fighting had stopped.

“You will not be hurt,
pindah,”
the warrior said, in a slow, stilted speech, his bay prancing in place.

Slowly Candice got to her feet. She knew who this was—it could only be Cochise. Everyone knew Cochise was very tall and good-looking (it was something that seemed to amaze white people), but there was also no mistaking his aura of power. It explained why he and his warriors had stopped the attack on the stagecoach.

“You are very brave for a
pindah
woman,” he said, a smile touching his eyes.

She wondered if he would let her go—or if he would abduct her. “You’re Cochise.”

A breeze lifted his long, wild black mane, which grew to his shoulders. “You know me?”

She was completely mesmerized by him, unable to tear her gaze away. “Yes,” she said, then flushed. “No. I know of you. But I do know Niño Salvaje.”

He stared with obvious interest. “Ahh. A brave and fierce warrior. For a brave and fierce woman. Is he your man?”

She flushed again. “No. He saved my life also.

Cochise’s expression was enigmatic.

“We’re friends,” she added, feeling uncomfortable beneath his assessing gaze. “Thank you for taking me out of the fray and for saving my life.”

“Geronimo has an angry heart.”

Thinking that it had been that crazed, murderous renegade attacking them made Candice shudder.

“If the great burden I carry were not so heavy,” Cochise said, speaking very slowly as he chose his words with care, “I would take you as my third wife.”

Candice gasped in complete surprise. She stared, wide-eyed, frightened and speechless.

As if reading her thoughts, he laughed. “Do not fear me,
ish’tia’nay
. Perhaps, if Usen wills it, we will meet again.”

Candice watched him turn away and lead several hundred mounted warriors thundering back into the mountains ringing Apache Pass.

They reached El Paso four days later. It was almost twilight when they pulled into the dry, arid town that was part adobe and part wood. Candice was exhausted, and followed Kincaid numbly from the coach, not paying attention when he led her past the shabby hotel.

The moment she was in the door of the establishment Kincaid had led her to, Candice gasped. She was in a whorehouse. She had always wondered what the interior of these houses must be like, and this one fulfilled some of her expectations. The salon just visible from the entry was garish in red velvet and silk, and the women lounging among men were in states of undress—scant costumes, sequined and feathered, that revealed entire lengths of leg and arm and nearly exposed entire breasts. Kincaid’s hold tightened warningly, and Candice could only stare as an older, statuesque woman approached.

Unlike the women in the salon, she was clad in a full-length, although daring, gown. Her shoulders and most of her bosom were bare, and the skirt split up the front to reveal a glimpse of long legs as she walked. She would probably be handsome, Candice thought—fascinated despite herself—without the rouge and painted lips, the heavily kohled eyes. Her hair was blond, lighter than Candice’s and piled high on her head. Brilliantes dazzled at her throat and ears.

“Virge,” she purred huskily, and they embraced without him releasing his hold on Candice.

“Lorna, you look very fine.” Kincaid smiled, his eyes caressing her openly.

She laughed, touched his cheek with the tip of one painted fingertip, and glanced at Candice. “What’s this?”

“I’ll explain,” Kincaid said, “later. We’re going to be staying awhile. First Candice needs a bath.”

Lorna looked at Kincaid, and Candice was puzzled over the gleam in her eves. “Take her up to the room at the end of the hall. Suzie’s old room. I’ll have Carla bring up hot water and a tub.”

“Thank you, dear.” Virgil smiled again, kissing her cheek.

“I take it you’ll be occupied tonight?” she asked archly.

“Most definitely. But there’s always tomorrow, dear.” He turned and pulled Candice up the stairs.

“This is a bawdy house,” Candice protested.

“Quite right, my dear. We’ll be staying here for a while, until I finish some business in the area.” He strode down the hallway, Candice hurrying to keep up with him. She heard the pounding of a bed against a wall and went scarlet. A woman’s high-pitched moan sounded, and then a man was saying hoarsely “That’s it, baby, that’s it.” His cry followed. Candice wanted to turn around and run. Or at least clap her hands over her ears. And hearing the couple made her think of being in Jack’s arms, writhing with her own passion.

“Virgil, do we have to stay here?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “Relax, darling, you’ll get used to it.” He opened a door to a bedroom.

Candice glanced around. The room was ordinary, except for a large bed. The floors were pine planks, there was a small throw rug, an oak table with two chairs, and a crude pine wardrobe.

“I’m going downstairs to have a drink. Get undressed. The serving girl will be up with your bath. Relax. I’ll join you for dinner in a bit.”

She stared as the door closed behind him and fought a feeling of despair that was rising rapidly. Don’t bother hurrying back, she thought, needing belligerence as a refuge. If she didn’t keep her spirits up, he’d defeat her. If she caved in to the desperation she was feeling … No. Keep calm, she told herself. Don’t think about what’s going to happen later.

She sat on the bed, grateful for the feel of the soft mattress, and pulled off her shoes. It was then she noticed that the one window in the room was boarded up.

With a start, she went to the door and tried to open it. It was locked. He’s going to keep me a prisoner here, she thought angrily. She went to the window and tested the boarding. Tight as a drum. She would never get the boards off without a crowbar. Had someone else been kept there before her as a prisoner? She paced and worried.

The sound of a key in the lock drew her attention, and
she quickly sat down, waiting. A burly man entered with a big brass tub, followed by a slovenly young girl carrying two sloshing buckets of hot water. The man glanced at her lasciviously as he set the tub down, and he left. The girl poured the water in the tub and told Candice she’d be back with more. She left, closing the door behind her. The lock clicked.

The maid returned with two more buckets of water. Candice began to undress. “What’s your name?” she asked, thinking the girl could be an ally.

“Carla,” the maid said, studying Candice with open curiosity. “You came with Kincaid.”

Candice stepped out of her skirt and petticoat. “Yes, that’s right. Do you know him?”

Carla smiled, moving toward Candice’s clothes. “He’s so handsome,” she said.

Candice had shed her chemise and stood naked. Kincaid no longer seemed the slightest bit attractive to her, just menacing and evil. “Are you going to launder those?” she asked as she stepped into the tub and sighed.

“They told me to take them,” Carla said. “And to tell you anything you need is in the wardrobe.” She left, and again Candice heard the lock turning.

The water was heaven. She closed her eyes, sank in deeper, and tried not to let her thoughts go in their inevitable direction. What was Jack doing this very minute? she wondered. Other than hating her? She tried to move her thoughts away from him, but couldn’t. She had spent most of her time in the stage dreaming of him, of how he looked, how he walked—with the grace of a treacherous mountain lion—how he sounded when he laughed, or when he was whispering heated love words to her. How his eyes gleamed silver with passion, how his hands felt, roaming her body. Vivid visions of their lovemaking danced before her mind’s eye, teasing and thrilling her. God, she missed him—and she might as well face it.

And then, inevitably too, she remembered their last encounter at the depot in Tucson. She fought a feeling of hysteria. He had been drunk, red-eyed, reeking of whiskey, but he was still magnificent. And full of hate for her. She would never forget those words spoken in hatred. Had he been with a whore just then? He’d had nothing on except his pants—
not even boots. A sad kind of jealousy swept her. He was so quick to find solace elsewhere.

She knew she was only torturing herself. There was no point. Even if she admitted her attraction to him was deep—what then?
But it is deep
, she thought in anguish, and I have to admit it. I think I love him, and I miss him terribly. Despair brought hot tears to her eyes.

She should have stayed with him as his wife.

She tested out the notion. She couldn’t imagine living in an Apache camp for the rest of her life. But that brought another thought to mind, one she hadn’t wanted to face either. She hadn’t had her monthly flow since before she’d met Jack, and she was overdue. It was possible that she was pregnant with his child.

Her mind was evil. It spoke the thoughts she didn’t want to hear. The child was conceived of a half breed, out of wedlock. A bastard and part Indian.

Candice slammed upright in the tub, her heart speeding. Never would she allow anyone, if she was pregnant, to cast slurs on her child. Not even her family.

Would Pop accept his grandchild, or disown it—and her?

What alternatives did she have? To marry Jack and live like an Indian, turn her back on society as she knew it, raise her child in Jack’s heritage, not hers. She rejected that instantly. Even if Jack would marry her for the child, he hated her—and that was too much to bear.

Another solution presented itself. She could marry a white man—it was early yet—and pass the child off as his.

No one would know the child had Apache blood, and he would be spared the horrible prejudice that had followed Jack through his life.

Oh, God.

She was trembling, and her bath was cold. She should pray that she wasn’t pregnant. But she couldn’t. Another fact to race. Despite all the problems, she wanted this baby—she wanted this part of Jack.

Candice watched as the big, red-bearded man set a dinner tray down on the table. He straightened and studied her. Candice was sitting on the bed, and fortunately there was only one light in the room, but she knew the night rail she was wearing hid little, if anything. She stared back defiantly. She refused to be intimidated because Kincaid wouldn’t let her have decent clothes. The man grinned and left.

Candice was off the bed and racing to the table. A knife! She was trembling with excitement at her success. As she ate quickly, because she was famished, she began to plan. Would Kincaid come back tonight? Tonight would be perfect. The room was mostly dark, and if she extinguished the one kerosene lamp, hid the knife under her side of the mattress …

Someone had included a bottle of wine with the meal, but Candice ignored it. Wine always made her tipsy, and she needed all her senses as keen as they could be. She pushed aside the plate. And waited.

An hour later the red-haired man appeared, grinning at her. Candice was in bed, pretending to sleep. He bent over the tray, then set it down. “All right, lady, where’s the knife?” He reached her and pulled her upright. “Gimme the knife, now, ’cause I ain’t leavin’ without it.

“What knife?” Candice feigned innocence. “There wasn’t a knife on the tray.”

“Liar.”

For an instant she tensed, sure he would hit her. Instead he threw her off the bed, hard, and she landed on her hands and knees, watching as he proceeded to check under the pillows, under the mattress—she wanted to shriek in frustration.

He tucked the knife in his belt. “Kincaid ain’t gonna like this.”

Candice leapt to her feet. “Wait! Please.” Her tone softened. She smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Jim.” He eyed her suspiciously.

“Jim,” she repeated, and swayed closer to him, provocatively. “Jim, won’t you be my friend?” she breathed.

He stared at her, mostly at her breasts and at the dark
gold patch of hair between her thighs. Candice placed her hands on his chest, letting her breasts brush his shirt. “Let’s be friends,” she murmured huskily, her hands sliding over the barrellike surface.

“And what do I get?”

“You know what you get,” she whispered. “But leave the knife.”

He pushed her aside. “If I touched you, Kincaid’d shoot me in the head. When I’m not lookin’.” He grimaced with a kind of smile. “Besides, he already promised I could have you when he’s through. I may look addle-witted, but I ain’t.”

Candice clenched her fists. He snickered at her expression, picked up the tray, and left. She listened for the lock turning, then moved to the bed. I’ve made a horrible mistake, she thought, to agree to come with Kincaid. But what else could I have done?

Kincaid didn’t come, and finally sleep did. It was a fitful, agonized sleep, haunted with bits and pieces of dreams, of Kincaid, and of Jack. When she awoke the next day she couldn’t recollect any of the details of her dreams, she just knew they had been awful, and full of despair.

Carla brought breakfast consisting of coffee, fresh cinnamon rolls, sweet butter. The coffee was delicious, but for once Candice’s appetite deserted her. She couldn’t eat. She felt a depression like a huge weight sinking down on her. And it wasn’t like her. She had always been a fighter, always. But she had never been treated like this, not ever before. Candice spent the morning pacing.