The Darkest Heart (38 page)

“I haven’t bathed you since the fever broke,” she said.

He closed his eyes and let her bathe him. There was nothing like a sponge bath by a woman, he decided, which of course made him think of his wife. As soon as he was able, he
would go to see her. He missed her. But damn, he didn’t want to fight with her. He knew she hadn’t meant it when she said he should never come back. At least, he didn’t think she had meant it. And even if she had, she was his wife. He would merely give her no choice in the matter.

It had hurt when she said it.

He asked Datiye about the rest of the battle, and she began telling him about the exploits of different warriors, many of whom he knew. She wrung out the cloth and wiped down his chest, his abdomen. She told him of how Cochise’s oldest son, Tahzay, had taken thirty warriors, covered the major party’s tracks, and led the troops following into a box canyon. There they disappeared up a steep, seemingly impassable slope of rock and pinyon. She flicked the blanket down to his feet. “It was very bad. They had to lead the ponies up what was nearly a cliff on foot, and three broke their legs and had to be shot and hidden so the troops would not see. But even if they did see, no White Eyes would dare to climb that mountain. Except you.”

Jack didn’t smile. She was bathing his genitals, and he knew he was better because he was having an unavoidable reaction. She sucked in her breath and looked at him. He sighed. “It’s been too long,” he said.

“There are many widows and divorced women. As soon as you are stronger, you should take one to your bed. It is not right you deny yourself.” She spoke matter-of-factly. Jack was relieved when she moved to his thigh, but the fullness in his groin did not go away. Datiye could be objective about his taking another woman because Apache men did not sleep with their wives from the time of pregnancy until they had finished nursing, and Apache women nursed their children until they were two. It was expected that widows no longer in mourning—and divorced women—would pleasure themselves, and men, in Jack’s situation. Usually such casual, out-of-wedlock couplings occurred during victory celebrations.

The Apache believed in moderation in all things, including sex. An Apache man, in fact, was supposed to show the height of good judgment and not impregnate his wife more than once every four years. A man whose wife had children spaced less far apart was considered unbalanced because of an obviously too lusty nature. Two pregnant wives at once was
even more of an indication, and remembering Nahilzay’s carefully guarded expression when Jack had fold him that his first wife was also pregnant, he smiled.

He would not tell Datiye he had no intention of bedding a divorced squaw. Instead, he would ride out and visit Candice, the only woman he wanted.

Besides, he wanted to make sure she was all right.

“Candice, I’d be a bit happier if you put on more weight.”

Candice sighed. “I’m eating quite a lot, Doc.”

“Try to slow down,” Doc Harris said, glancing pointedly out the window at the Confederate gray uniforms hanging to dry in the sun. Fort Bliss had surrendered to the Confederacy on March 31, with little ado, but it meant nothing to Candice, not as long as she still had soldiers who needed their laundry done. The War between the States seemed very remote and very far away.

“I’ll try, Candice said, thinking bitterly that if her husband were there she wouldn’t have to be pushing so hard; she wouldn’t have to be preparing to pack herself and her baby up to start a new life. Then she realized her slip. He wasn’t her husband anymore.

Oh, Jack
.

“Have you heard from him at all?”

Candice didn’t mind Doc Harris’s question. It was asked out of concern, not malicious prying. “Not in almost a month, since he came to visit.” She saw the pity in the doctor’s eyes too.

After the doctor left, Candice sat down heavily and thought about Jack. Every week there was news of attacks. So far, all the activity had been east of the High C, and while she knew the Apaches would be foolish to attack that ranch, it was inevitable that they would start marauding in the Santa Cruz Valley. Candice was waiting with dread and apprehension for the worst, and every time a soldier brought her laundry she prayed he wouldn’t be bringing her news of an attack upon her family’s home.

By now rumor in town had it that Jack was riding with Cochise. He was considered a traitor. When she went to the general store for supplies, townspeople made a point of letting her overhear them discussing Jack with venom in their voices. She was openly shunned, and still called the “breed’s woman.” And she was more than a little afraid when she left the safety of her house. More often than not, her hand was
on the little gun in her apron. She hated this town. It was another reason to leave as soon as her baby was born. Back East no one would be able to call her baby a breed and a bastard. East—they would head east, and if they didn’t have enough money to get to St. Louis they would go as far away as the money she was saving would take them.

She stretched and rubbed her back. It ached—more than ever. And the discomfort had become steady. So had her crying. She had become incredibly emotional. The littlest thing set her off, mostly thinking about her husband—or rather, Jack.

She heard the horse’s hooves and went to the window, thinking Doc Harris had forgotten something. She stiffened and nearly fainted.

So he had come. So he had finally come.

He sat very still and erect on his stallion, looking pale and thinner. As the light-headedness eased, a warm flush stole over her. She was not and would never be impervious to him. He was magnificent, and angry as she was, she was glad he had come—not that she would ever let him know. He was staring at the gray uniforms waving in the breeze like so many banners.

He dismounted.

Candice opened the door.

Jack looked at her steadily, his gaze hard and angry, and Candice braced herself. As she watched, she saw the changes—the cold hard light warming as he stared at her, silvery points of light glittering in his irises, becoming hot and bright. She swallowed and took a step back, knowing she was already lost. It didn’t take much—his presence, a look. Why did she have to love this man?

He approached slowly, steadily. “Candice.”

She took another step back. “Dammit, Jack. You can’t just come riding in here …”

His hands closed over her shoulders, and the look he gave her was so poignant, all words fled. “Ahh, God,” he said, and kissed her.

She closed her eyes and let him do as he would, not returning his kiss, not opening, but her heart was beating madly. When he lifted his face she opened her eyes and saw
the burning, the aching in his. “Is this my greeting?” he asked huskily.

“You don’t deserve a greeting,” she said tersely, meaning it.

He hesitated, his hands still clasping her shoulders. “I’m doing the best I can,” he said, a raw edge to his voice.

And in that instant she felt his pain and wanted only to comfort him, hold him, chase it away. “Jack.”

But he was looking at the uniforms. “Is that what I think it is?”

She twisted free of him. “Yes.”

“That’s why that corporal was here before,” Jack stated, his eyes cold and hard again.

“Yes.”

A murderous look crossed his face, and she was frightened. She stepped back again, this time hitting the door.

He grabbed her chin firmly, without hurting her. “What should I do with my disobedient wife?” The question was level.

“I’m not your wife.”

If she’d slapped him, she couldn’t have made his face drain so suddenly of color. “What?” And he was thinking:
She got a divorce. She’s left me
.

Candice bit her lip. This wasn’t how she had meant to tell him, in the middle of a fight.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

“Damn you!” she cried. “We’re not married, we never were. That preacher was arrested a few weeks ago by the Rangers for a murder. He wasn’t a preacher, Jack, it was a disguise. He was an outlaw.”

Jack released her and stared.

Candice turned and ran into the house, fighting tears. She brushed at them wildly, then heard his slow footfall as he entered. “Is this a joke?” he said, dazed.

“No,” she shouted, turning. “It’s no joke, it’s the truth, ask anyone!”

Jack’s mouth tightened. “You are my wife, Candice, just like that’s my child you’re carrying.”

“No! I don’t want to be your wife, not anymore!” She began sobbing.

Jack turned to stare out the window. There was a long
pause, silent except for the sound of her weeping. He looked at her shaking back. “I’m not giving you any choice,” he finally said.

“How dare you,” she cried, whirling to face him. “How dare you abandon me—
us
—and then tell me you’re not giving me a choice?”

“Do you think I wanted to leave you?” he demanded.

“You left me here
alone.”

“I offered to take you to the High C and you refused.”

“I didn’t want them, I wanted you.”

They stared at each other with fiery eyes.

“Are you going back to Cochise?” Candice finally demanded.

“Yes.”

“Fine,” she said, and flung her back at him. She started to cry again.

He moved to her. She tried to shrug him off when his hands tightened on her shoulders. “But this time you’re coming too,” he said.

Candice froze. She turned to face him slowly. “What?”

“I was a fool,” he said bitterly. “A woman belongs with her man. I should have never left you. I thought I was doing what was best, but I wasn’t. You’re coming with me.”

“To live in an Apache camp?”

His face tightened. “Yes.”

“No.”

His smile was bitter. “I told you—I’m not giving you a choice.”

Her eyes widened. Her heart was pounding. “The Apaches are murdering my people. And you expect me to live with them just because you have some kind of insane notion of loyalty and honor?”

Jack turned away. He went to a small straw chest, opened it, and dumped the contents on the bed. He began going through her things.

“I’m not going,” Candice said again with real apprehension. “First you make me your mistress, now you want me to be your squaw? I won’t have this child in an Apache camp!”

Jack didn’t answer. He bundled a few of her things into a blanket. He placed the blanket by the door. “We have a half
day of light left,” he said, looking at her. “We may as well start now.”

Candice didn’t move. “I changed my mind,” she said. “I want you to take me to the High C.”

He ignored her. “Let’s go, Candice.”

“I’m not going, Jack. I’m not going to be a part of this—I’m not going to live with the enemy.”

He walked toward her. “Do I have to tie you up?” He said it painfully.

She drew her derringer and trained it on his chest. “Yes,” she said. “Because kidnapping is the only way you’ll get me to go.”

He stopped, looked at the little gun, then at her flashing eyes. “Do you hate me enough to hurt me, Candice?” he asked softly.

“I don’t hate you,” she said, her face cracking with the threat of more tears.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, and started toward her again.

“Jack, don’t make me shoot you,” she pleaded. “I won’t have my baby in that camp.”

“If you have the hardness in your heart to shoot me,” Jack said, stopping in front of her, “then go ahead—I don’t want to live.”

She emitted an anguished sound, half a sob.

He took the gun from her drooping hand, then placed it back in her apron. “Let’s go, Candice,” he said gently. “From now on, you’ll be where you belong, where you should have been this whole time—with me.”

They weren’t halfway down Main Street, riding double, when they saw the mob.

Candice saw the guns and knew, with clawing, icy terror, that they wanted Jack.

Jack saw the guns and knew with cool certainty that he would do whatever it took to protect his wife and their unborn child.

He halted the stallion.

“What are we going to do?” Candice whispered.

Jack drew his rifle out of the scabbard. He looked over his shoulder. More townspeople, the men with more guns, the women with stones.

“Drop it,
breed,”
a big burly man called. “Drop it right now.”

“My wife is pregnant,” Jack said calmly. “Leave her out of this.”

“Pregnant with your Injun kid!” someone shouted.

“A white woman who beds a breed deserves to die.”

“Let’s string her up too!”

The crowd roared its approval.

Candice was afraid.

Jack leaned against her. “When I hit the ground and start shooting, you ride like hell dead west. If I can, I’ll find you.”

“No, Jack. You don’t have a chance.”

But he was already sliding off the horse, shouting “Ride, dammit!” and slapping the animal’s flanks.

The stallion took off.

Jack was diving for a water trough as someone shouted, “Stop the whore, she’s getting away!”

Candice, taken by surprise, clung to the horse as it galloped down the street, scattering the people in their path. She regained the reins and began to try to bring the powerful horse to a stop as gunshots sounded. She had to go back. She heard shouting. The stallion had the bit in his teeth and fought her, still running as Candice sawed futilely on the
reins. She glanced back, but could only see the blurred figures of the townsmen firing, the women having run to shelter.

The stallion slowed, shaking his head in frustration. Once he was under control, Candice instantly turned him down a side street, doubling back, the sound of gunfire intermittent and growing louder. There was a lot of shouting. She reined up two blocks behind Main Street, panting, her heart thudding, a cramp taking her unaware and making her gasp from pain. She had to help Jack. She had to. She couldn’t leave him alone to be murdered.

Someone screamed, “He’s making a run for it!” and there was a barrage of gunfire, a simultaneous booming.

Candice jammed her heels into the stallion and he shot forward, toward the shooting.

It was at that precise instant that she saw Jack, running like lightning down the side street, the mob a half block behind, firing on his heels. He was an open target. It was suicide.