The Darkest Heart (42 page)

The mescal were roasted or pit-baked, Datiye preferring the latter, before being sun-dried and preserved with mescal juice. This reminded Candice of the afternoon she had helped Luz wrap cakes made of ground mescal at Shozkay’s camp, and it saddened her. There was no change in Luz. As for Datiye and Candice, their duties threw them together gradually, and while they never spoke to each other, they found themselves working side by side on more than one occasion.

Candice slept with Savage every night in his bedroll. They seemed to be in another delicate truce. She longed for his touch. She was a woman meant to be loved, in all senses of the word, and at night her need for him kept her up long past their bedtime. But he didn’t make love to her. In fact, he would not even hold her until after she had fallen asleep, and Candice knew that he sometimes did so only because if she ever awoke in the middle of the night they were firmly ensconced in each other’s embrace. Yet, when she awoke in the morning, he was always up and. gone.

She hadn’t exactly forgiven him for forcing her to live with his people, or for Datiye, but she had come to accept what could not be changed, for the time being. Then, about ten days after her arrival in the Apache camp, Luz died.

Jack was relieved. It had been so hard watching Luz slip away bit by bit, day after day. She passed on in her sleep. It was Datiye who found her that way. Two women, Luz’s cousin and sister-in-law, came to help Datiye prepare her for burial. They took her away to bathe and dress her.

“Are you all right?”

He turned to look at Candice. He wanted comforting, wanted her to hold him, love him. Instead he nodded abruptly and walked away. To think and grieve, although in truth he had little grief left to give.

He wandered down to a secluded glade by the creek, clad only in a loincloth and moccasins, and perched on a boulder, the sun warming his bare torso. It was still hard to accept that Shozkay was gone—that was harder than accepting Luz’s self-willed death. He thought of his wife. Incredibly, she had adapted, or appeared to have adapted. He knew she hadn’t forgiven him for getting Datiye pregnant, but she seemed to have accepted it, and he was hopeful that that was the first step in the direction of understanding and forgiveness. Somehow, someday, he wanted them to be able to put all this behind them and live as friends and lovers, man and wife. And he wondered if it would ever be possible.

Of course, she still hated Datiye. Or maybe hate was too strong a word. He always felt uneasy when he left the two of them alone at some task, dreading that he would return to find a dead woman and a battered victor. He wondered how long they could go on not speaking to each other.

And, of course, Datiye hated Candice. Even more than vice versa, although Candice didn’t realize it. Datiye knew her position as Jack’s wife was solely because of the child, while Candice was his wife because he loved her. There was also the fact that Candice chose to make blatant her claim on him by sleeping with him in his bedroll every night. Now, that was torture. And getting worse day by day. He was afraid one night he’d wake up and find himself Coupling with his wife in the middle of the camp. It would be the height of bad taste, worse, a loss of face.

Just thinking about it made him hard.

He had carefully kept away from several divorced women who had made it known they would be only too happy to cheer him up while he was burdened with two pregnant wives. Not that he wanted any of them, he truly didn’t, but the last thing he needed was for Candice to stumble across him while he was being propositioned, as he had been yesterday by Gaage. She was very young, recently widowed, but apparently not grieving. She had given him
coy
looks on several occasions. Yesterday she had intercepted him on his way back from bathing and had engaged him in a conversation. When he had cut it short, she had grabbed him and rubbed herself against him. There were some things a man couldn’t avoid, especially after a couple of weeks of denial, and a physical reaction to a warm female body was one of them. Thank all the
gans
Candice had not chosen that moment to appear. He had sent Gaage away with unequivocal words, but he had the unhappy feeling she would be back.

He heard a noise behind him and felt himself grow grim. He was sure it was her, come to tempt him again. He started when he saw Candice.

She paused uncertainly at the base of an ancient oak. He tried not to look at her as if he were starving, but she was incredibly beautiful, and he could not be unaffected looking at her. Especially when she was carrying his child.

“Jack?” She came forward.

He wanted her touch. He stiffened. “Candice, I need to be alone,” he said, but his voice was husky. He stared out at the creek, but was intensely aware of her having stopped behind him. He felt her hands on his shoulders. They slid up to his neck, firm, kneading, then dropped. She walked around the rock to his side. Her eyes were big, navy blue, sad.

“I feel sad too,” she murmured.

He looked at her. Then, simultaneously, he reached out for her and she leaned against him, wrapping her arms around him. They held each other, rocking slightly, hearts beating together. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her silken hair. Somehow she was standing between his thighs. She leaned fully into him, her thigh pressing against his thick arousal.

She looked up.

He caught her face in his hands and kissed her. The first touch was soft, then exploded into urgent need. His lips tore hers. Biting, nipping, pulling, and slanting down with an insatiable possessiveness. She moaned. He invaded with his tongue. He needed her … now.

He picked her up effortlessly and carried her away from the creek, into the woods, deeper and deeper, until he was sure no one would stumble across them. She was clinging to him, her face against his bare chest, her lips moving, caressing his skin, finding a nipple and teasing it with her tongue. With a groan, he sank to lus knees, lowering her on a natural bed of pine needles, and with trembling fingers he began to unbutton her blouse.

She strained toward him, catching his face in her hands, kissing him hard, demandingly.

“Damn.” He groaned, rumbling with her buttons while she poured kisses on his mouth and jaw and throat. He pulled away, finally getting the last button open to reveal her white, swollen, blue-veined breasts. With shaking hands he pulled off her shirt, then her chemise, clutching her lush flesh and lifting it up for his intent gaze. “Candice,” he said, “God, Candice.”

She whimpered.

He took a large, darkening nipple in his mouth and tugged with his teeth.

She reached out and deftly untied the loincloth, letting it drop, exposing the swollen length of him. She stared for one long moment, then lifted her eyes to his. When she looked back down it was to reach out one forefinger and touch the quivering tip, removing a drop of semen. She touched it to her lips. Jack groaned.

She lifted her skirt up to her waist, spreading her thighs to reveal glistening pink flesh.

He was breathing too loudly, too raggedly. He rolled onto his back, pulling her up on top of him in one movement. He held her hips immobile as he thrust upward, deeply, while she eased down fully on his length, trembling, the sensation of fullness exquisite. He reached for her breasts.

She moved.

He slipped one hand beneath her skirt, finding her moist, slick flesh, sliding his finger over her clitoris, around
it, beneath it, lifting it. She whimpered, and he watched her, knowing she was close, so close … She fell forward with a cry. He surged up into her, letting himself go, exploding harshly, uncontrollably, ecstatically. Then he sank into bliss, with Candice embraced firmly in his arms.

“Oh, Jack,” she said.

He stroked her face. Then he cupped the back of her head with one large hand and pulled her closer, kissing her. When he opened his eyes he saw that hers were closed. He kissed her again. “I love you,” he told her hoarsely, then felt himself go tense with expectation.

She looked at him solemnly. Then she smiled slightly, brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead. “No need to deny ourselves, just because the Apaches do.”

He kept the hurt from showing in his eyes.

But he wanted to know, had she fallen out of love with him? Or had she ever even loved him? They were not thoughts he liked. “We should try,” he said, then pulled her closer and began moving slowly inside her again.

After they returned from the woods, Jack disappeared. It was not unusual. The men were always preparing for war. The cleaning, replenishing, and mending of weapons were constant duties. Hunting was even more important. Game was always being supplied to the camp, and what was not consumed was dried and stored. Jack had told Candice that the Apaches had hidden caches of food throughout the Territory in caves, for emergency purposes. But it was even more important that the ranchería be adequately supplied. “The women and children of the Apaches are the future,” he had said.

Jack often kept counsel with Cochise and the other leaders of the Chiricahua. Candice could not believe that all the time he spent with the great chief was in deliberations over war.

Now she carried with her the pleasant aftermath of their exquisite lovemaking. It had been too long. And it was more than that. The intimacy between them had been something that she had missed sorely before. She needed the reassurance of his need for her, even if only expressed in the physical act of union.

She remembered his declaration of love. It had taken her completely by surprise, and had thrilled her. Candice, however, could not forget easily. Jack’s words did not wipe everything out between them and expunge him of the wrongs he had done. But she knew that he had meant it, and his words left a tingling warmth wrapped around her heart.

That night was the first of four nights of ceremonial dances by the masked men who, Candice was told, impersonated the
gans
.

“Would you like to attend?” Jack asked.

Some or the tension was back, Candice could see it in the cautiously formal manner he used to address her. “I suppose so. Who are these ga
ns
again?”

“Mountain People, Savage said easily, as they walked toward a huge clearing in the center of the camp, already surrounded with Apaches clad in their best buckskins, which
were painted and beaded heavily. “The ga
ns
are very, very powerful. They can move mountains if they wish. Some are more dangerous than others. There are regular gans. But the clown is dangerous, and the Black One very dangerous.”

She gave a snort.

“If you see the Black One tonight, do not touch him or talk to him, Candice. I mean it.”

She laughed. “What will he do—strike me dead?”

“Just obey me,” he muttered in exasperation.

“But these are Apaches impersonating the so-called Mountain People,” Candice objected later. Four men wearing blackened buckskin masks with slits for their eyes, woven floor-length skirts, and elaborate headdresses made of wood slats with pointed ends, some two feet wide and high, were dancing in what to her was a typically Indian fashion. Drums beat, and there was a strange whistling noise.

Savage frowned.
“The gans
come and join in their human forms—if they feel like it.”

“Jack, be honest, do you believe in the
gans?”
He smiled slightly. “Mountain spirits exist.”

The dance was interesting, and it was entertainment, Candice decided. She was enjoying Jack’s company, though, even more than the dance. His shoulder pressed against hers in the throng of Indians surrounding the dancers. She remembered the afternoon. After that first, frantic joining, he had taken her gently and tenderly, as if to prove there was substance behind his unexpected declaration. She glanced at his handsome profile out of the corner of her eyes. He was so handsome, his presence so commanding. Her heart swelled with love, even if her mind tried—unsuccessfully—to rebel. He glanced at her, saw her regard, and smiled, taking her hand and squeezing it. When he released it, she clung to it, felt his surprise, and then his large warm hand closed over hers again. They stood that way, hand in hand, watching the dancers for close to an hour.

“What is this dance for?” Candice asked, leaning against him.

He hesitated, and she felt it clearly. “One of the shaman had a powerful dream last night. The time for the Apaches is now. These four nights we pray for strength and victory.”

She pulled away. “You’re going on the warpath.”

“Yes.”

The delight of the evening crumbled into shreds around them. “When? After the fourth night of dancing?”

He nodded, watching her closely, if not a bit grimly.

She looked at the
gans
dancers without seeing them. She had been there almost two weeks, wondering, but afraid to ask when they would finally take to the warpath again. In four days Jack was going to ride away, into battle, against her people. It was too incredible, too distasteful to believe. Why? Why did it have to be this way? Would he attack her home? Fight her family? Kill someone she loved?

“Look, Candice, there’s the Black One,” Jack said, trying to distract her.

She didn’t care, automatically glancing at the figure ominously garbed in black buckskin who stood apart, forbiddingly. Where are you riding? Who are you attacking?”

“Lower your voice,” he said. “The High C will not be attacked.”

She felt an immense relief. “Are you sure?”

“Cochise knows it’s your home, and I married into your family.”

She was confused and he saw it. “Candice, typically a man marries into his wife’s family, and not the other way around. Cochise has promised the High C will not be touched. Besides, it could never be taken, not unless it was besieged until the inhabitants were starved out. That is not the Apache way.”

Her relief was short-lived. “Then who?”

“I do not know,” he said tersely.

She had the feeling he did but would not tell her. She turned away. She was almost glad this had happened to remind her of where she was and what he had done. This afternoon had made her forget and forgive too easily. Nothing had changed. If anything, she realized something now that she had not realized before. He was her enemy. Her husband was her enemy, and this was war.