The Darkest Heart (34 page)

She stirred the laundry angrily. Her breath made vapors in the air. Her nose was red, and she sneezed. Her hands were frozen and redder than her nose. She needed to bring in wood before nightfall if Louis Santana failed to show up again today. She needed to feed the stock. She needed to bring a side of venison in from the smokehouse Jack had built. And she wanted to bake a loaf of bread.

His declaration of love for her had come a little bit late, she thought angrily, tucking wisps of hair back into her kerchief. What man loved a woman then left her pregnant and alone? Damn him. She had the insane urge to weep—something that was quite common these days. If he really loved her he wouldn’t have left her to go to war. To go to war on the wrong side. Even now, as she was thinking, was he scalping whites, torturing them? Dear God, what kind of man had she married? How could he talk of honor and loyalty in the same breath with the Apache? What about her? What about her and her baby?

“Howdy, Candice.”

Candice straightened and turned eagerly, to face Corporal Lewis. “Henry—is there any news? From Apache Pass?”

His eyes moved over her. They were laced with a combination of admiration—she knew he found her attractive despite how she was looking—and pity. It had only been two weeks, but everyone in town knew her husband had disappeared. Candice had not confided in anyone. It was all she needed—to be lynched by the Apache-hating townsfolk now that emotions were running so nigh. Henry pitied her, she thought, because she was working so hard, living in poverty, deserted by her husband. He admired her because he was hoping she would let him in her bed—just like ail the other soldiers. It was why she always carried the derringer Jack had given her—even when she locked the door at night and went to bed.

Thank God her pregnancy wasn’t showing yet, and that Doc Harris was a decent man and not a gossip.

“Lots of news. You look tired, Candice. How about inviting me in for a cup of coffee?”

She smiled wearily. “Of course. I see you’ve brought me some laundry.”

He smiled too. “Sure thing.”

Candice wasn’t afraid of Henry Lewis, not like some of the other soldiers who brought her laundry. He was from New York, the third son of an upper-class merchant family. He was young, well educated, but just plain starved for a white woman. She knew he hated the army and would leave the instant his tour was over. She didn’t blame him.

As she poured coffee, Henry unfolded a square of linen, revealing fresh, still-warm pastries. Candice began to salivate. She was always hungry these days, and never had time to make something sweet. He saw her expression and laughed. “Oh, Henry,” she said, turning away to get some plates. She had the insane urge to cry again.

“You work too hard,” he said when she sat, taking one of her callused hands in his.

Candice gently withdrew it. She smiled slightly but didn’t answer. “Tell me about Apache Pass.”

“Good news,” Henry told her, his face lightening. “Cochise’s rancheria has been burned to the ground.”

Candice went white and felt faint.
Jack
.

“Candice? Are you all right?”

She closed her eyes and hung on to the table. Please,
God, no. I love him, I do, let him be all right. She opened her eyes and blinked through tears. “What happened?

“Troops from Fort Breckenridge made it through. Two companies of dragoons under the command of Lieutenant Morris. It was real quiet. Turns out the ranchería had been abandoned …”

Candice didn’t hear any more. Abandoned.
Thank God
. “Abandoned? They were gone? The Apaches were gone?”

“Every last one. What we did find was three badly mutilated bodies. Poor bastards,” he said, his face darkening.

Candice was too relieved that the Apaches had deserted the rancheria before it was burned to think of the American prisoners who’d been murdered. Henry continued. “Oury identified one of the corpses as the Stationkeeper, Wallace, from his gold teeth. They hanged all the Indian prisoners, including three Coyoteros they’d run into on their way to the pass. Except for the squaw and the boy, who were taken to Fort Buchanan. They hanged them over the graves of the dead men.” He paused, sipping. “Three of the hanged Apaches were related to Cochise, or so it’s said. They also say the squaw and boy are his.”

Candice couldn’t eat, and she couldn’t drink. The enormity of what had happened sank in. She raised her eyes to Henry’s. “There won’t be any turning back now, will there?”

I doubt it,” Henry said. “Looks like we’re in the middle of a damn war with the Apaches.”

Later, at the door, Henry took her hand and squeezed it, looking into her eyes with unmistakable urgency. “Candice,” he said, his tone too hoarse.

“Thank you for bringing me the news,” Candice said politely. He didn’t release her hand.

“Candice—he’s gone.” It was a statement and question all at once.

Instantly Candice froze and removed her hand from his. “I’m tired, Henry, it’s been a long day and I’ve still got a dozen things to do before dark.”

He stared at her for one more moment with obvious longing. “You deserve better,” he finally said. “Better than a husband who’d leave you here, like this, alone. Better than a ha—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Candice warned. “Good-bye,
Henry. Your laundry will be ready in three days, if the weather holds.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it.

Candice closed the door and leaned against it, waiting until she heard him riding out. All she could think of was Jack. It was all she could think of the entire time Henry had been there, and the visit had seemed interminable. Jack was riding with the Apaches. Was he holed up in some secret canyon, preparing for another strike against the white man? Or was he ambushing some innocent wagon train, right now? Was he all right? Even if he wanted to come see her, how could he do so now? God only knew where he was—and how far away.

She closed her eyes and prayed for his safety.

Then she went out to finish the laundry.

Scouts had been left behind when the Apaches abandoned the camp in Goodwin Canyon for Cochise’s eastern stronghold deep in the Chiricahua Mountains. One returned with grim but not unexpected news of the hangings. Jack had ridden out with Cochise and a dozen other warriors to cut down and bury the bodies. There was little danger, for they knew the troops and passengers had all left the pass.

The six bodies swung gently in a whispering winter breeze beneath a huge oak, over the fresh graves of the three Americans. The party approached, and they came close enough to make out the fact that the bodies looked untouched except for their broken necks. Jack’s glance swept over the six Apaches, grimly, sadly, then his gaze was drawn like a bolt to the third man.

Shozkay
.

No!

He stared, frozen.
Not! It couldn’t be!

But it was. There was no mistake. Shozkay, his brother, twirled in the breeze—his head tilted completely to one side, so his chin touched his shoulder. His eyes were open, staring, unseeing, lifeless. The breeze lifted his shoulder-length hair, and strands of it touched his face, catching on his mouth.

Jack made a sound. It came from deep inside, tearing its way upward, a pain so unbearable, so vast, that for a moment he wondered if he might not die and join his brother. He fought to steady himself. He couldn’t move. He was not even aware that everyone else was slipping off their mounts. My brother, he screamed inwardly. My brother!
Not my brother!

He dismounted. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. He went to Shozkay, his breathing labored, his vision skewed from blinding tears. He cut the rope, catching Shozkay in his arms, and went down to his knees, cradling him gently. He sobbed, huge animallike sounds that burst free of their own accord. He sat there and held him for a long, long time.

He didn’t know how long he sat before the tears finally
stopped. He took a few deep breaths, still holding his brother on his lap, and regained a precarious degree of control.

He removed the noose from Shozkay’s neck and smoothed the raw red welts with his trembling fingers, as if to take away the blemish. His skin was already cold, lifeless.
No! The
huge pain welled from deep within again, choking him, exploding. He put his arms around Shozkay and held him, closing his eyes, pressing his cheeks against his hair, unable to move. So cold, so stiff … he had to move, had to bury him. He looked up, blinking, to see that he was alone. The morning was very white and very quiet, marked with the silence of death. He stood unsteadily and lifted his brother, very gently, despite his great size and weight. He carried him to his horse.

He rode to the springs where the burial preparations were already underway. No one looked at him, or in any way intruded upon his grief. Numbly but tenderly, for it would be the last time he would be with his brother until they met in the afterlife, Jack washed him. He could not believe it. He could not believe Shozkay was dead. Hanged. Not even a warrior’s death. Shozkay, whom he had grown up with. Whom he had wrestled with and run with and played with and loved better than a brother, as a best friend. Shozkay, whom he would have gladly exchanged his own life for. Shozkay, whom he loved more than anyone else in the world, except his wife and their mother. A different kind of love. A love that ran so deep it made them a part of each other.

Jack redressed him, then gave him, from his own person, everything he needed for his journey to the other world—for Shozkay was unarmed and possessed nothing except his clothes, his necklace and war amulet. Jack armed him with his own Colt and knife and gave him his jacket and a blanket. He buried him carefully, in a crevasse on a hilltop shaded by juniper, killing the horse that had been brought for just that purpose. The tears had come again, sometime as he was burying Shozkay. He wasn’t sure exactly when. He walked away, desperately seeking numbness.

Much later, bathed, steamed with herbed smoke, his hair cut, and his anger rising, he rode back to the stronghold with the rest of the party. He had one coherent thought emerging through the heavy mists of his grief:
revenge
.

Revenge.

It nourished his heart, body, and soul and kept him sane through a week of isolated mourning. Jack spoke to no one, stayed apart, could not eat, and grieved deeply. The camp was quiet except for the intermittent sobbing and wailing of women whose kin had been buried. Everyone waited for Cochise’s period of mourning to pass, wondering how long it would last. The chief saw no one, spoke to no one, and no one saw him.

Exactly one week after Shozkay’s burial, Jack came out of his shell or grief. He was still alive. There were other things he had to do. He ate for the first time in days, almost becoming ill from the shock to his system. Then he found Nahilzay and told him he was taking the bad news to Shozkay’s kin. He rode out of the stronghold at first light.

He reached the San Pedro River the next morning, after stopping to sleep and rest that night. He was sorely tempted to head east—he was only two and a half days from El Paso. From Candice. He needed her. He needed her so much it was like an ache. He wanted to lose himself and his grief in her. Just for a little while. But he turned north and rode up the San Pedro Valley. Using smoke signs, he located Shozkay’s band that afternoon, camped in a creek in a canyon west of the valley.

He knew Luz would be hoping for the best, but aware of the worst. The rest of the raiding party would have returned over a week ago. Had they seen Shozkay and the others captured? There was no way of knowing. There was also no way of breaking the news gently. He rode into camp with the sun hanging golden just over the hills, spreading the day’s last warming rays.

A cry went up that he had arrived. He dismounted, looking past the men who converged, shouting greetings and eager to hear the news of war. The Apaches communicated with each other over long distances through smoke sent up by scouting party after scouting party, like a chain letter. By now Apaches from the New Mexico Territory to west Texas, as far south as Mexico and north as the Jicarilla and Kiowa in Colorado, knew that Cochise had taken the warpath against the White Eyes. But Jack merely responded to the greeting by rote. He saw Datiye approaching, then saw Luz, behind her.

Luz froze and stared. Their gazes met. Jack reached inside himself for strength and courage, Luz paled. Her mouth opened. He couldn’t hear the words, but he knew it was a denial. He strode through the crowd to reach her and grab her shoulders.

“No! Do not tell me … do not!” Tears swam in her eyes. She shook in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, a fresh wave of his own grief rising in him. “He’s dead … I’ve buried him, Luz.”

She screamed and twisted, Jack let her go. She turned and ran, and, after briefly meeting Datiye’s worried gaze, he went after her. He found her on the ground beside her
gohwah
, beating it, clawing herself, her cheeks and arms, tearing out hunks of hair. He knelt beside her, placing his hand on her back. He did not stop her from inflicting pain upon herself, because it was the Apache way to grieve. When her beautiful face was gouged and bloody, she crumpled onto the dirt, weeping wildly. Jack knelt there beside her for a long time.

She cried for hours, then fell into an exhausted sleep. Jack carried her into the
gohwah
and laid her upon the bed of hides she had shared with her husband, his brother. He was once again choked with his own grief. He looked up as Datiye entered, carrying a woven pitcher of water. She knelt beside Luz and began to bathe her face and arms. Jack went outside.

He sat at the cooking fire and was left alone. Other women in the village were already wailing for the loss of their leader and their relatives. It had been too short a time since he had heard that anguished female wailing, and he hated it.

Luz would mourn the full year. Of that he was certain. A year was a long time away, but then it would be his duty to marry her and provide for her—unless, of course, she chose a different man, A lot could happen between now and a year, but what
if
he was still with Cochise, Candice still in El Paso? And he were to marry Luz? He knew Candice would not understand, just as she hadn’t understood his having to ride with Cochise. He wouldn’t even think of it until the time came.