The Darkest Heart (43 page)

He avoided her.

It was hard enough to prepare to do battle this time, without her accusing gaze and silent condemnation. Or not so silent condemnation. He tried not to think of the woman he had killed at Warden’s—but it was impossible. She was haunting his waking moments and his sleep. He made sure not to bed down for the night until after Candice was asleep, surprised she should still be sharing his bedroll, but he knew she was stubbornly doing so only to defy Datiye and keep her in her place. If it weren’t for Datiye, Savage was sure he would never get near her at night.

There was another reason why this time it was even harder to prepare for battle than it had been before. Their target was the Santa Cruz Valley. They would bypass Tucson, which would be too well defended, and hit the ranches down-valley. Savage was grim. That meant the TR—Judge Reinhart’s spread, as well as Henderson’s, ranches that belonged to Candice’s old friends. The two places were close enough together that they would attack both simultaneously, dividing their force. Then they would run for the mountains.

He reminded himself that this was war. He reminded himself of his brother’s death, which helped steady his resolve. He thought of all the Apaches, who numbered an anthill among the mountains of the whites. This was war for survival—for a way of life, for freedom. It was probably the last chance for his people.

But my people are white too
.

This was a time when a man needed his wife’s gentle touch, her love, and her support. He had none of those things. If he gave her a choice she would leave him without hesitation, and he knew it.

After the fourth night of ceremonial dances and prayers, Savage returned to his
gohwah
with a strange sadness. When going into battle there was always the prospect of death. He was not afraid of death, for he had the Apache attitude, which was somewhat fatalistic. He did not think his time had come but one could never be sure. In any case, there was
always the possibility that he might never return—might not see his sons born, or see his wife, ever again.

She was sleeping on her side. Her rounded abdomen was hidden by the blanket, but he longed to stroke their child, encased in her flesh. He wanted to make love to his wife too, and be given some sign that she cared for him, even worried about his departure into battle. With a sigh, he slipped into the bedroll beside her. Lying on his side, he pulled her against him, nestling the curve of her buttocks against his groin, her back against his chest. He closed his eyes.

He would never be able to sleep that night, this he knew. The heat from her body was inflaming him, and his loins were already full, tight, achingly so, his penis stiff and throbbing with life. He shifted onto his back to stare up at the starless night. He could hear a baby begin to cry, then silence as its mother fed him. A man’s voice, inaudible, drifted on the breeze, and with it, a feminine tinkle of laughter. Excited laughter—at least one husband was saying a fond good-bye to his wife.

Candice rolled against him, full breasts pressing against his arm. She was wearing only her chemise, and a bare knee touched his thigh beneath his loincloth. Then, taking him by surprise, she moved her hand and lightly touched the length of his arousal.

He had thought she was asleep.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

She closed her fingers over him, while freeing him of his loincloth. He grabbed the roving culprit. “Candice,” he began, a feeble protest. Datiye was sleeping nearby and there were still people up. The mountain air carried sounds—the nearest g
ohwah
was only thirty feet away and occupied by a family of five.

She threw her thigh over his and mounted him gracefully, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him. He relaxed. He wanted her. He was thrilled she wanted him. He held her head, coiling her hair around his wrist, and accepted her prodding tongue.

They should not be doing this there, he thought, but didn’t care. This could be the last time. Her chemise had ridden up, and she was wet and moist on his belly. “Turn
onto your side,” he whispered in her ear. “No, your other side.”

She obeyed in some confusion, so her back was to his chest. “Jack,” she protested in a soft breath.

He pressed his hardness against her buttocks and, with a creeping hand, found her breast. He nibbled the nape of her neck as he rolled a nipple into hardness between his thumb and forefinger. Then his hand swept down, over the delicious curve of her belly, and lower still, into the warm, wet delta where she throbbed in invitation. She gasped and bit off the sound. He stroked her rhythmically. She arched against his hand.

He raised her upper leg, then slipped his hand between her thighs from the rear, fingers invading her moistness, showing her the way he would enter her. She whimpered in understanding. He removed his hand, clasped her hips firmly, and slowly prodded toward his goal. He plunged into her. Gripping her tightly, moving with growing rapidity, he brought them both to a stunningly quick and intense climax. He managed to clasp his hand over her mouth as she cried out, while he drained himself into her, riding her to the end of their surging crest.

He held her in his arms and needed to find the right words. He nuzzled her neck, thinking desperately. At the very least she should know she would be taken care of if he didn’t come back. “Candice,” he whispered softly. “I want you to know you don’t have to worry.”

She didn’t answer. Because she still had her back to him, he didn’t know what her expression was. He ran his hands over the firm curve of her belly, then up to her breast. “If I don’t come back, Cochise will see that you return to the High C.”

There was still no answer.

He sighed. Did she even care at all about him? Or was it only the pleasure he could give her? His thumb touched her jaw and stroked it idly. Tonight he would keep her in his arms all night, and make love to her again and again. It was such a small yet such a large token. His thumb moved higher, then stopped, paralyzed. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Ya-tethla?”
Then, realizing he’d spoken in Apache, he said softly, “What’s the matter,
shijii?”

She shook her head wordlessly.

He turned her over despite her attempts to remain facing away from him, and peered at her face. The dying fire not far from them shed little light. He tasted the salty tears with his mouth, kissing them away.

“Love me again, Jack,” she said brokenly.

The past three days had been a nightmare, filled with nothing but anxiety. She couldn’t help it. The war was there, filling up her life with the possibility that Jack would be hurt or killed. Three days. What had taken them so long? A day and a half of restrained riding to reach the Santa Cruz Valley (Datiye had told her their destination), several hours of battle, a day of pell-mell galloping back. Where were they? Had they encountered troops? And was Jack all right?

She didn’t want to live this way.

Worse, what about after the baby was born?

She had been thinking about that a lot lately.

Almost overnight, the physical signs were becoming pronounced. She didn’t think she was due until August, but if she had conceived the first few times they had lain together, she could be due in mid-July. And what if she gave birth early? She realized, then, that she could go into labor as early as the end of June. Less than two months away.

Having a baby became as real as the war and the danger Jack faced when he rode out to go into battle.

And her resolve to leave Jack and take the baby East and make a new life for them was stronger than ever. She fully realized her predicament now; that she would need help from her family. There was a dark, bitter sadness at the eventuality of leaving Jack. But she had no choice. She was determined to avoid thinking about never seeing him again.

In the late afternoon of the third day that they had been gone, a cry went up from the sentries left behind to guard the entrance to the stronghold. They had returned.

For days the camp had been preparing for the return of the war party. A huge feast had been in the making. Now the women hurried to don their best, most elaborately decorated buckskins to greet their men. Children ran screaming with delight up the canyon to greet their fathers. Candice stood by the
gohwah
in tense anticipation, waiting.

Datiye came out clad in a white deerskin dress that, despite her bulky form, was beautiful, beaded and fringed. Her moccasins matched. She wore a necklace of colored beads,
and a silver and leather bracelet, beaded earrings. Candice was dismayed. The woman had decked herself out in finery to greet Jack, while she stood clad in her single woolen skirt, which was brown and ugly, and a plain white blouse, which was ragged from being washed so many times. She felt dowdy and unattractive as Datiye hurried off.

She refused to be outdone. She changed her clothes furiously. Her petticoats were clean and white, lace-trimmed and ruffled. She slipped on two with a lacy camisole that buttoned down the front and was trimmed with pink ribbons. She felt a smug satisfaction. The Apaches would not even know the difference, would probably think she was wearing a fine dress. And Datiye would be green with envy. Candice unbraided her hair and brushed it with a wood comb until it gleamed. She removed a white ribbon from her underpetticoat carefully and tied it around her throat. She wished she had a mirror. She placed a hand on her belly for a moment. She was obviously pregnant, but she no longer felt like a cow. She felt beautiful. She smiled, thinking about how she had felt like a cow when her belly had barely protruded, months ago.

She pulled oft her boots, refusing to spoil the effect, then washed her feet, her hands and face. She stepped outside.

The ranchería was alive with excitement and welcomings. A heavy, frightened anxiety was strangely interwoven, though, with the excitement, which Candice understood as she made her way across the camp. Not toward the entrance to the stronghold, which was already jammed with the throngs, but toward a knoll from which she could overlook their arrival. She sat down on an outcropping of boulders, watching the riders walking in single and double file down the canyon.

She saw the black first, then Jack, sitting easily, tall and magnificent, and her heart tightened with relief. A parade of five hundred warriors took some time, but once in the stronghold the men dispersed, rushing to greet their waiting families, lifting shrieking children in the air, kissing beaming wives.

And then there were those who did not see the men they were looking for, and turned away, crying and tearing at their hair.

Candice moved down the knoll toward the g
ohwah
after Jack had ridden ahead in that direction. She moved easily through a section of woods, then paused when their
gohwah
was in sight. Datiye was handing Jack a gourd filled with
tiswin
, which he drained. Her hand lingered on his shoulder. He still wore the warpaint, now smudged, and his body gleamed with grease. Candice did not like the familiar intimacy between them. She gritted her teeth and moved forward.

He saw her, but gave no sign that he was glad to see her. She realized he was exhausted. He didn’t even speak, but took the clothing Datiye handed him and went toward the creek. Relief warred with anger at his failure to greet her.

Datiye stared at her clothes, and Candice flashed her a warning glance. Damn Jack, she was thinking. Tired or not, he could at least say hello. Or didn’t he care that she was there anymore? Or had he expected her to be waiting, like every other squaw in the rancheria? His presumptions were too much. She strode back into the woods, back up to the knoll. This was the last time she would go out of her way to greet him, or even show him that she was worried. He didn’t deserve her concern.

Already the celebrations had started. Warriors were drinking and bragging about their exploits, flirting with their women, being waited on by their wives. There was much laughter and shouting. Children ran playing, dodging adults. Drums beat, and rattles shook. Men and women were dancing. Candice watched it all with a brooding interest.

Cochise came, resplendent in full dress, with two eagle feathers in his headband, his face repainted, carrying his weapons. He sat in a spot clearly reserved for him, elevated by hides, and his best warriors surrounded him. Candice straightened when she saw Jack join the central group on the dais, sitting cross-legged on a single blanket at the edge of the group. Someone spoke to him, slapping his back and handing him a gourd, and even from this distance Candice could see his white teeth flash.

She was angry. She was up here, alone, on this damn knoll, and he was down there, surrounded by men, enjoying himself thoroughly.

It was getting dark, but huge bonfires made it easy to see
everything and everyone. From where she sat she had a better view than if she was down on the flat with the huge crowd-she could even make out the expressions of Cochise, Jack, and their cohorts if she concentrated. Jack hadn’t even seen her, or looked her way, not once.

She didn’t know how he could miss her, not when she was sitting up there alone and clad in white like some virginal, golden-haired bride.

The revelry ceased abruptly, and a man Candice recognized as one of the shamans came into the center of the crowd, walking first to the east, then to the west, then north and south. He said something, a prayer of thanks, Candice supposed. He sprinkled pollen in the four directions, then Cochise rose, and was blessed by the shaman with more pollen. The shaman left and Cochise remained standing.

The crowd started to roar. Candice didn’t know what they said, but they were shouting Cochise’s name in a chant, over and over. They grew silent. Cochise moved.

He was dancing.

As she watched his lithe, graceful movements, Candice realized he was enacting a story. The dance was a pantomime of the battle. It was hard for her to follow, but the crowd was going wild, apparently having no trouble interpreting his movements. And then, with a twisting movement and a downward plunge of his hand, which Candice understood as an act of stabbing a man, he returned to his elevated seat.