The Darkest Heart (47 page)

Jack looked at her, absorbing her words, watching as Candice freed her breasts, moving Christina closer to one soft nipple. A fine Christian lady, he thought, the words echoing disturbingly. Then his attention became fastened on his daughter as she found her mother’s nipple and began to suck. He felt incredibly proud watching this scene. His beautiful wife, his beautiful daughter. He sat behind her and propped her head up on his leg. “Better?”

She smiled contentedly.

Jack watched Candice grinding the seeds into flour from wild berries, which would then be made into bread. He didn’t smile. The sight of her like that, their daughter in the cradleboard on her back, asleep, should have made him smile—at the very least with the warmth he felt for them, or even because she looked so adept, as if she had become a squaw.

But Candice would never look like a squaw. Her hair was plaited in a thick, fat braid, which she had draped over one shoulder carelessly. Wisps of golden-yellow hair curled around her golden face. He felt a pang of desire, but refused to entertain it. It was still too soon. And something was wrong. He could sense it. He wondered if there was such a thing as a woman becoming melancholy after having a child.

He left, striding rapidly through the camp, his mind made up. The resolve had formed on that last disastrous war party up the Araviapa Valley. So close to Fort Breckenridge … what if Morris was no longer there?

Cochise greeted him with a smile. “What brings my brother and causes him to leave such a joy-filled family?”

Jack frowned.

“How are your wives, your children?” Cochise asked with some concern.

“Fine. I’m riding out,” he said smoothly, although abruptly. “Up to Fort Breckenridge. I intend to kill Lieutenant Morris and give my brother’s spirit the peace he needs to leave this world.”

If Cochise was startled, he hid it. “That is a very dangerous mission for one man. How will you get into the fort?”

“I considered using treachery, being white-skinned, but I decided against it. At night I will scale the wall. I will slip into Morris’s quarters and slit his throat as he sleeps. I will leave the same way I came in.” He shrugged. His face was grim.

“What you do is a good thing, for all our people. I think, if anyone could do it, you can.”

“If I do not return, I wish you to see that Candice and Christina return to the High C under escort.”

“It will be done, if you do not return.”

“Also, I do not want anyone to know of my mission. I do not want Candice to find out and worry. I’ll tell her I’m scouting, nothing more.”

Cochise nodded, then embraced him. “Tonight, and until you return, the g
ans
will dance and offer many prayers. The people will think it is for another war party, but I shall know it is for you.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

He strode back to his
gohwah
with only his mission on his mind. He hadn’t told Cochise the rest of it. That if he returned, he was intending to leave the Apaches and never return. Shozkay would be avenged. It was the best he could do. His staying and fighting in the Apache cause was no longer something he could do, nor was it fair to the warriors he rode with. And it wasn’t fair to Candice, or Christina.

He refused to think about leaving Shoshi behind with Datiye. It would just have to be done.

He was clad in his buckskin pants and shirt, and he wore no warpaint. He saddled up the black, taking only his rifle, his Colt and knife, and his bow and arrows. The latter wasn’t for the purpose of his mission, but because it was a convenient way to kill game without being heard if the need arose. He finished and went around the
gohwah
, to where Datiye was pounding a rawhide she was tanning, Shoshi on her back.

He said a brief good-bye to her, not bothering to tell her anything except that he would be back in a few days. He patted Shoshi on the head, his hand lingering. The baby woke up to look at him out of silvery eyes, then started crying. Datiye began to nurse him.

“Where are you going?” Candice asked, her voice very still.

He straightened, taking one last look at his son, and moved to her. “Scouting. I’ll be back in a few days, three probably, maybe four.”

She stared, her eyes huge and stricken, and he thought she was afraid for him. “Come here,
shijii,”
he said, pulling her into his arms. She rested there a moment, then clung to him with a touch of panic.

“Jack,” she whispered, pulling his head down so she could kiss him. They kissed for a long time.

“It’s only for a few days,” he teased. “When I get back you should be ready for some proper lovemaking.”

“How can you think about that now?” she muttered, her heart beating wildly. This was her chance, and she knew it. He was riding out, and she could be gone before he ever came back to camp. She felt panicky, sick, guilty, and terrified. She couldn’t let go of him.

“Let me say good-bye to Christina,” he said gently, tearing her hands away. With something that sounded suspiciously like a choked-off sob, Candice turned her back so Jack could smile at his daughter, stroking her tiny face with one forefinger. She didn’t even wake up.

“I’ll see you soon, Candie,” he said, wondering why she looked so stricken. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“Good-bye, Jack,” she whispered, fighting tears. She watched him swing gracefully into the saddle, flash her a warm, devastating smile, and lope away. Oh, God!

This was it. She had to think of Christina. Because if it was just her, she would stay. She would never be able to leave Jack, as long as he kept good his promise to marry off Datiye. Now he wouldn’t even have to do that. She felt a terrible jealousy at the thought of leaving the two of them together. She strode to Datiye with grim resolution.

“Datiye, I need your help.” It was the first time she had spoken to her since she had had her child.

Datiye stared, startled.

“You owe me,” Candice said. “I’m running away. I want to leave at dawn. I need a pony, a rifle, supplies. And I need a guide out of the stronghold. From the entrance I can find my way home.” Home. The High C. She was too sick at heart to dwell on what her family’s reactions to her arrival with Christina would be, but at least she knew she could count on Luke to help her go East.

“I do not understand,” Datiye said, standing. “You love him. He loves you. Why do you leave?”

“Because of my daughter. Christina is not an Indian, and I won’t have her turned into a squaw.”

“He will come after you.”

“By the time he does, I will be safe at the ranch. He won’t be able to talk his way in. And, Datiye, Cochise must not know. No one must know. I want you to cover for me
while I’m gone. If someone asks for me, which is unlikely, say I am bathing or something.”

Datiye nodded, smiling. “No one will notice your absence.”

“Don’t look so pleased,” Candice snapped.

“Why should I not be pleased? Our husband is Apache, more than white. He needs a woman who understands him. And I have given him a boy—a son. In time he will forget you. I will comfort him so that he does.”

“He will never love you,” Candice cried. She had an untimely vision of Datiye naked in Jack’s arms, and it made her sick. “Never. He loves me. He may take your body, but he will never give you his heart.” They stood and glared at each other.

“I would like to leave before dawn, so no one sees. I want to be outside the stronghold as the sun rises.”

“I will arrange everything.”

Candice watched Datiye walk away. She went and found a piece of charcoal and began to compose a note, one that she hoped would be cruel enough to deter him from coming after her.

She would no longer think about the man she was leaving.

He leaned against the wall, straining to hear. Above, on the parapet, he could hear the sentry snoring. There was no sound from within the fort, which was a small area enclosed by ten-foot stone walls, ridiculously easy to scale. He could make out the forms of the few buildings within the walls. There were two long, low log buildings, which were the soldiers’ and noncommissioned officers’ quarters. Infantry and cavalry. Behind that was the mess hall; across the courtyard the adjutant’s office; and near that the larger residence of the commanding officer. To the right were five small, separate buildings housing the officers, including Lieutenant Morris. He had watched all day and had not only identified Morris, but his quarters as well

Knife in hand, he ran in a creeping position, keeping low to the ground and in the shadows. He slipped past the adjutant’s office, then two of the buildings for the commissioned officers. He didn’t pause at the third. He slipped through an open window to stand inside, adjusting to the even dimmer light within. Perspiration beaded his face. It was no cooler this far north than it was in the stronghold.

Without even a backward glance, for his ears were attuned to every sound around him, Jack stepped across the small chamber to the bed and leaned over the sleeping man, pressing the long blade of his knife against the lieutenant’s throat. Morris stirred, then suddenly his eyes flew open. He started to rise, his hands flinching prior to coming up to grasp for the knife. One word from Jack stopped him, that and the increasing pressure of the blade. “Don’t.”

Morris’s eyes bulged, but he lay so still, staring up at Jack, that he didn’t seem to be breathing. A long, hushed silence was finally broken. “Who are you?” Morris whispered.

“Niño Salvaje.”

“What do you want?” It was a croak.

Jack smiled grimly. “Your life.”

Morris gasped, and the movement of his throat made the knife cut skin. A dark, black stream appeared by the cutting edge of the blade. “Please,” Morris whispered desperately.
Sweat gleaned on his forehead; his eyes teared. He was panting.

“For my brother,” Jack said. “For the hangings of six Apaches.” With one swift movement, he slit Morris’s throat from ear to ear. Blood gushed with a feint gurgling sound. He moved quickly, then, to the window and back out. Shortly after, he was on his stallion and riding back the way he had come.

This time he felt no sickness, no guilt. Retribution had been just in the Apache way. It had to be done. He could not have lived without avenging his brother’s death. His brother would have done the same for him.

His brother. His family was gone—Machu, Nalee, Shozkay, Luz. But now he had Candice and Christina. He felt a flooding relief. They were his family, his priority, and all he wanted was to provide for them in peace. Was that too much to ask?

There had been enough killing. He knew it wouldn’t stop, that it would go on and on, and only Usen might foresee how many years of bloodshed and warfare there would be. He should have known that he couldn’t participate in this war. He had exiled himself once before for the very same weakness—his inability to kill whites. In truth, it was not his fault. He was half white. But not completely. And there was a part of his heart and soul that was Apache, and it would always be that way.

He felt uplifted. Eager. To see his wife, take her and his daughter away. To start over. He knew he and Candice would be happy away from all this. Although things hadn’t been so bad, despite the war and Datiye. Candice had changed, he realized. Motherhood agreed with her. She had matured. They would go away, maybe to Texas, where there were few Apaches, or to California, and they would build a fine ranch, raise many children. His desire to see her and share his plans with her was overwhelming. He rode faster. In a day or two he would be back at the stronghold.

He tried not to think of his son. He loved him, there was no doubt, but the boy belonged with his mother. He
would leave him behind because he had to, in fairness to Datiye. The decision was made, and he would not think about it.

He would think only about Candice and their future.

Christina started to cry.

Candice was awake, unable to sleep, staring up at the glittering stars, listening to every rustle of sage and mesquite, feeling every whisper of air. She shifted Christina, opening her blouse and bringing her to her breast. She wondered what time it was. After midnight, she guessed. She hadn’t dared to make a fire. She was afraid of Indians, other Apaches, whites, Jack. It would be the height of irony if he stumbled across them.

Close by, an owl hooted. Candice had been among the Apaches long enough to know that they would think it was some spirit haunting the earth. Despite herself, she shivered. It was cool out. Compared to the heat of the day, the night air seemed colder than it was. Christina finished and Candice tucked her into the crook of her arm, nestling back down. She wished she could fall asleep.

This was only their first night on the trail. There would probably be three more. Candice had kept the pony to a steady trot all day, stopping only to feed Christina and change her. Christina was a wonderful traveler. But, Candice supposed, it might be because she was still so young, not even a month old.

She finally fell asleep, until the brightness of the early-morning sun awoke her—that, and Christina gurgling against her side. Candice fed her, ate some jerky, nuts, and berries, then placed Christina in her cradleboard and slipped it onto her back. She had devised a buckskin flap over the headpiece when Christina was first born, to shade her from the sun. Her baby had a tawny complexion, shades darker than her own but lighter than Jack’s, and Jack’s sable hair. Candice was very relieved that she didn’t have a dark complexion to mark her Indian blood, so she would be spared the bigotry of society when she was old enough to understand.

Images of Jack tugged at her heart.

Don’t think about him, she told herself sternly, and mounted and set off.

They approached Dragoon Springs later that morning.
They were actually following the Butterfield Overland Trail, although that stage, she knew, was no longer in service here. The Apache wars had made it too dangerous.

She watered the pony thoroughly, fed Christina again, and bathed her and her own face and chest with a wet cloth. She set Jack’s Stetson back on her head, and was about to put the cradleboard with her daughter on her back when her pony snorted, then neighed, making her look up.