The Darkest Heart (30 page)

Behind her, she heard one of the old men saying loudly “That’s the half-breed’s woman.”

Candice wondered if she might faint.

The matron came rushing over, shoving aside the dresses. “Ben Matthews, you can’t possibly be thinking of trading with this—this—trollop!”

Matthews looked at the enraged woman. “No, Missus Adams, I ain’t.”

Behind her, the other old man said, “You think she’s a breed too? She sure looks white.”

And his companion answered, “What does it matter? She lives with a breed, that makes her a squaw.”

Candice’s voice was quavering. “This is fine material. Surely we can work something out.”

“No, I’m sorry we can’t,” Matthews said.

The matron gave a snort of satisfaction and moved back to the bolts of cloth.

“Do you mean,” Candice said, “you won’t trade with me because or my husband?”

Matthews smiled. “Nope. I don’t care who you live
with. I won’t trade with you because I got no demand for dresses like this.”

Candice began to gather up her things. She couldn’t leave the store soon enough, but she was desperate. She
had
to sell the dresses.

One of the old men said, “’Course, they’re probably not even married.”

She was not going to cry.

Bravely she looked up at Matthews. “I’m sure you could sell these dresses to Lorna and her girls for a nice profit.”

Matthews blinked in surprise. Behind him, Mrs. Adams gasped in shock and outrage.

“I’ll sell the lot for twenty dollars,” Candice said. She was trembling.

Matthews smiled. “You got a deal.”

He heard the hammering before he’d even entered the yard, and his lips set. He urged the black forward and swung off, reaching the house in two strides and throwing open the door. Candice was standing on a stool, hanging curtains—curtains, for God’s sakes!

“Damn it,” he shouted. “Are you crazy, woman?”

Candice yelped and slipped.

Jack reached her and wrapped his arms around her waist before she could fall.

“Jack,” she breathed, “you scared me!”

A heavy anger began to fill him. He lifted her off the stool. “What in hell are you doing?”

Her expression of pleasure disappeared. “I’m finished. I made curtains.”

He grabbed her face. “What if you fell? You could have killed the baby!”

She pulled away, her lips going tight and hard. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted.
“Don’t you touch me!”

“Start using some sense,” he said, turning away, guilt replacing the anger. He looked at the curtains. They certainly brightened the room, and they did something strange to his insides—made him tingle. She had done this for their home. It was a heady thought, one he instantly tried to shove away.

Candice was slapping a bowl of beef stew and some coffee on the table. Jack sat down. “Where’d you get the coffee and coffeepot? Are those potatoes I see in here?”

She didn’t answer. She slammed another bowl on the table and pulled up a sawhorse that had not been in the yard. She sat and began eating angrily.

“Where’d you get the sawhorse?”

No response.

“The curtains look nice,” he finally said, glancing at her downturned face.

She put her spoon in the stew with such force it splattered all over the table. Then her shoulders started to shake. Amazed and then horrified, he saw that she was weeping.

“Candice, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t want anything to happen to the baby.”

She leaned her head on her hand and kept crying, barely making any noise.

“Damn,” Jack said softly. He hesitated, then got up and went around the table to her. From behind, he awkwardly put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them.
“Tu-inchá-da
,” he whispered. “Don’t cry, sshhh.”

She pushed him away fiercely. “Don’t touch me!”

He cursed and encircled her with his arms. She was so soft and warm. It affected him. She affected him. For a brief moment, she was in his embrace, her wet face against his chest. He touched her hair. He had begun by comforting her, but his groin grew heavy.

He knew she felt it, because she braced her palms hard against his chest. “No!”

He wanted her; he needed her. His hold tightened. “Candice,” he breathed, nuzzling her hair. His hands slid to her buttocks, cupping them, pressing her against his thick arousal.

“Damn you!” she snapped, wrenching abruptly away.

She managed to take only a step when he caught her roughly by the wrist, pulling her back to him. Her fists came up and banged down on his chest. He ignored it, his arms already around her. He was lost, undone, and he groaned, hugging her fiercely. She fought helplessly within his embrace, but his arms were steel bands. His mouth touched her temple, her cheek. He was shaking. She went still.

Candice raised her tear-streaked face and looked at him with wide navy eyes. It was his complete undoing. He groaned and captured her lips with his. He caught great hanks of her hair. She opened, and when he thrust his tongue into her, she met it tentatively, slowly. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to their bed, laying her down carefully. She smiled at him through glistening tears and held her arms wide.

“Love me,” she choked. “Love me, Jack.”

He almost told her that he did.

“Damn,” Jack said huskily, looking at her beautiful face, her parted red lips, her thrusting breasts and tiny waist. Her
skirts were spread wide on her opened thighs. He tore off his shirt and moved on top of her.

She moaned with uninhibited pleasure, wrapping her arms and legs around him and kissing him aggressively. His heart was threatening to take flight. Her hands moved down his bare back, to clasp his buttocks and knead them. He gasped as she pulled him harder into her crotch. He gave up her lips to find her soft white throat. She cried out, arching for him.

“I want to see you naked,” he said huskily, kneeling, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on her dress.

“Make love to me,” she demanded breathlessly. “Now, Jack, now.”

“Let me get your clothes off.” Cursing because there were thirty buttons, he ripped open the last few, and pulled her dress over her head, then her petticoat, chemise, and pantalets in rapid succession. She lay spread and white, voluptuous before him.
His wife
.

He caught her face in his hands and began nibbling her lips, her nose, her jaw. He moved down her throat, lingering on the rapidly beating pulse. He lifted her breasts, crushing them, and buried his face in their silken warmth. His tongue darted around one hard, large nipple, and then he was sliding down her belly, pushing her thighs up over his shoulders. He groaned when he buried his face between her legs, groaned at the potent scent of her, at the soft-slick feel. With his thumbs he held her open and began to plunge into the moist pink depths with his tongue. She shuddered and writhed, and began keening in ecstasy. He didn’t stop.

When she lay still he moved up alongside her, to stare at her face in the soft aftermath. She opened her eyes and smiled. He didn’t smile back.

She leaned up on one elbow and touched his chest, running her fingers over it. The heavy aching of his erection grew almost painful. She slid her hand down slowly to his belly, then paused. Instantly his hand covered hers, guiding her further, until she was enclosing his shaft, squeezing its pulsating length. He fell onto his back, breathing harshly and raggedly as she began to stroke him.

His eyes flew open when he felt her lips closing over the large head. “Candice.”

“Sshh,” she said, and began sucking, her tongue swirling around the tip.

Moments later he grabbed her head, hard, to pull her up. But she wouldn’t move, and then it was too late. His hard arms crossed over her head, locking her in place, as he convulsed violently inside her, his harsh cries ringing out.

She snuggled happily against his chest.

He stared tensely at the ceiling.

Where had she learned that? Had she done that to Kincaid? He couldn’t help it. Not the anger—nor the jealousy. He raised himself up. Her expression dissolved when she saw his. “Did Kincaid teach you that rack?”

She sat up, moved away against the wall. “That’s not fair.”

“He did.”

“He forced me.”

Jack’s jaw clamped hard. The man was dead. He had killed him. He wanted to kill him again.

“You’d better listen to me,” Candice said vehemently. “Kincaid forced me every time. I hated him. It wasn’t my fault. He beat me too. He liked hurting me. Lorna hates me, so she’d probably lie, but if you ask the other girls, I imagine they’d tell you how it was. Then you could stop accusing me of being a liar.”

He folded his hands under the back of his head. “I never said you were a liar.”

“Do you think I liked being raped? Worse—taking that pig in my mouth?”

He stared at her, judging her, and felt guilt again. The truth was on her face and in her eyes. He hated himself for his uncontrollable jealousy.

“I want to tell you something else, Jack,” Candice snapped. “I can’t take much more of your attitude. You have no hold over me. Yes, I’m having your baby. But I’m not the first unmarried mother the world has seen.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked, sitting up.

Her chin went high. “I’m telling you.”

Their gazes locked.

Jack swung to his feet. “I have game to see to.”

She grabbed his arm. “Jack, I want a gun.”

He looked at her. “What for?”

She hesitated. “I didn’t like being here alone.”

“What happened, Candice?” he demanded.

“A cowboy on the street made some lewd suggestions, that’s all.”

Jack grabbed her arm. “Tell me all of it—in exact detail.”

“He wanted me to go in the alley with him for a dollar,” Candice said.

“Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Candice said. “I took care of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I kicked him in the groin.”

Jack stared. “He touched you?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“What was his name?”

“Abe.”

“I’ll get you a gun,” Jack said, dressing. “From now on, don’t go out without it.”

As he buckled on his gunbelt, Candice took his arm. “Don’t do anything, Jack. There’s been enough trouble and talk with your shooting Kincaid.”

His gray gaze pierced her. “I can’t let him get away with it,” he said levelly.

At the door he paused. “After today, no man in this town will dare even talk to you.”

Five days later, Candice was outside in their yard doing wash. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and the top three buttons of her shirtwaist were undone, a kerchief wrapped around her head. Her face was flushed from the steam rising from the boiling water. Her hands were red and chapped.

It wasn’t their wash. She was taking in laundry from outside to help make ends meet. Soldiers from Fort Bliss in Magoffinsville would be her best customers. This was only her second load, and when she’d decided on this as the only way of raising some cash, she hadn’t realized just what hard work it would be. She’d never done laundry before in her life.

She stopped what she was doing with relief, straightening and pressing her hands against her back as she saw Jack walk into the yard carrying something big and white and made of shiny wood. She squinted.

He carefully opened the door with his back and disappeared into the house.

“What is that?” Candice mused, starting for the house.

In the doorway, she froze. Jack had been carrying the object upside down, and now he’d placed it in one corner of the room, on its four delicately wrought legs. It was a cradle.

A magnificent, ornately sculpted, intricately hand-painted cradle. Designs of birds, butterflies, flowers, and vines were etched along the legs, the sides, and head and footboard. “Jack! It’s beautiful!”

Jack looked up and smiled.

Candice didn’t notice the rare smile, she was running her hands over the smooth, silky wood, exclaiming, “Where did you ever find this? Oh, Jack, we can’t afford this!”

“You like it?”

“I love it,” she said enthusiastically, finally looking at him.

Nothing had changed in the past few days. He was reserved and withdrawn—except when he turned to her in the night with desperation and urgency. His smile was devastating. Not just because of the physical change it wrought on his
features, but because she did love him—and it was a smile that reached into his soul. Reflexively Candice reached out and cupped the side of his cheek. He stopped smiling. She felt him fighting her, felt his confusion, and maybe—fear. He pulled away. Candice dropped her hand.

Their bed now stood on a frame with four legs—Jack had made it. Her cranberry satin gown had been made into a spread that covered it. A tablecloth covered the table, and Jack was adding shelves and a work space to the right of the hearth. He’d bartered for a chair. Soon they would get a thick Indian rug for the floor. He’d already obtained four chickens and a rooster. Candice was anticipating roast chicken with delight.

“I’ll be back later,” Jack said, his gaze moving over her flushed face.

She gave him a bright smile. “Okay.”

“What are you washing, anyway? All my things are buckskins. You look tired.”

“Just a bit achy,” she said, biting her lip and averting her glance. It wasn’t that she was hiding what she was doing from Jack, but she knew he was proud, and she didn’t think he’d approve. He wasn’t even supposed to be back until later.

“Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes,” Jack said.

“All right.” She flashed a smile, relieved he’d forgotten his question.

Her image lingered with him, long after he’d gone. Even dressed like a washerwoman, she was beautiful—it made him ache right to his soul. He hated seeing her in homespun and rags, hated seeing her hair hidden beneath that gray kerchief. He hated the feel of her work-roughened hands. Candice was a lady. There was no doubt in his mind, as, in truth, there had never been. She didn’t deserve this kind of life. She deserved a rancher like Judge Reinhart who could afford maids and cooks and laundrywomen. She deserved the finest silks and lace-edged underwear. But just what in hell was he supposed to do?