The Darkest Heart (5 page)

The line of his lips tightened. “I see.”

“I’ll kill myself before I let them touch me,” she whispered, staring into the coldest eyes she had ever seen.

“I wonder if you would, Miss Carter.”

She was taken aback.

“What is this fascination of yours?”

Her eyes went wide.

He reached out, rubbed her chin with his knuckles, and she couldn’t move. “If I weren’t Apache,” he said, “I would find out.”

She made a sound.

His fist opened, the fingers closing over her jaw. “All Indians are not alike. Has that thought ever occurred to your lily-white mind? Apaches are not Comanches. We revere women and children. We adopt them—absorb them into our tribes. And we never rape.”

She stared.

“Not unless invited to, of course,” he added.

She found her voice. “You’re lying. Everyone knows that’s not the truth.”

He stiffened, then relaxed with effort. He turned his back to her. “Make a fire while I clean the game.”

She didn’t know where the courage came from; maybe his words had reassured her. She ran alter him, grabbing his sleeve. “Wait! If you’re not going to make me a slave, then what are you going to do with me?”

He stopped. “The civilized, white thing to do, of course. I’m taking you to the High C—and if you make that fire we can eat and be on our way.”

She rode, he walked.

Apaches could make seventy miles a day on foot if they chose, and Jack was no exception. Of course, that was at a ground-eating dogtrot, not at the pace they were now traveling. For some reason he was not in a rush, although he refused to examine his motivation. He kept one hand on the black’s thick neck to keep him calm—the horse wasn’t used to other riders. He was very much aware of the woman’s gaze on his back all morning.

She had changed. She was no longer in abject terror of him, which was fortunate, because it more than irritated him. Still, the few times he had looked at her (and she had quickly averted her wide eyes) he had seen wariness, mingled with tempered fear. She was ready at the least sign of aggression on his part to take flight. His disgust grew.

They had had one exchange earlier in the morning. Jack had said, “What happened after your husband’s murder?”

There was no immediate response, and he had felt her tension, turned to look, saw her pale face under his battered rawhide cowboy hat, which he had given her to wear. There was no mistaking the look on her face. Guilt. And then, abruptly, it was gone. What is she hiding? he wondered.

“I—I was in shock with grief,” she answered. “I wasn’t thinking right. I hired a horse—and left. I wanted to get home to my family.”

He was studying her because she wasn’t being honest. “That wasn’t the smartest thing to do.”

“No.”

“What happened to the horse?”

“A rattlesnake.”

End of conversation, and that had been four hours ago. Still, he was very much aware—too aware—of the woman in man’s clothes on his horse.

The clothes hadn’t seemed indecent when she was dying. This morning he had looked at her legs, completely revealed—long and beautiful and strong from riding, the kind of legs to wrap around a man’s waist, he thought, while he plunges
into her. And it wasn’t his fault for thinking that, he reassured himself—not with the way the trousers were divided, molding the plumpness of her buttocks.

He had never seen a woman with a figure like this in pants before. It was the most blatant and suggestive sight he had ever seen—and that included when she had been naked under the buckskin hide.

He almost wanted to ask her if she was tired or needed to stop. He didn’t. He had only to think of how she saw him—as a dangerous half-breed—and he grew angry. She wanted to get home? Well, they would just push on. The sooner he got her there the better, anyway, because from the High C he was heading north, into the mountains. Anticipating that part of the trip filled him with a fierce joy.

“Mr.… uh,
hmmch.”
She coughed, as if she couldn’t speak his name.

He stiffened his back and didn’t stop or look at her.

“Mr. uh, Mister …” She coughed again. “Savage. Please.”

He stopped, taking the reins and looking at her unhelpfully. She was red. I, ah, could we stop for a few minutes?”

He lifted one brow.

When she saw that he was waiting, she slid off the stallion, and he tried not to look too long and hard and hungrily at her. She kept her shoulders back and straight and her head high, and walked into the shade of some mesquite trees, then beyond. He thought: Be careful. But didn’t say anything. He took a sip of water.

She reappeared a few minutes later, long-legged and slim-hipped, the shirt tight over full breasts, and he handed her the canteen. She took a few modest sips and handed it back. “Excuse me,” she said, blushing again. “But at this rate it will take us a week to reach Tucson.”

“So eager to get home? Or just to leave my company?” he mocked.

“Maybe we could, uh, share the horse?” Her voice tipped precariously upward on the question mark.

He was stunned. There were several reasons why he wasn’t riding with her. But—he had to face it, the prime one was his untrustworthy male member, which was stirring too
easily and too frequently these days. He could easily imagine what would happen with them riding together—his uncontrollable reaction would probably horrify her. He would rather avoid it at all costs. Still, she had actually suggested it.

“Is this a change of heart?” he asked, eyes smoking. When she didn’t answer, his mouth tightened. He lifted her into the saddle, picked up the reins, and trudged on.

A few hours later he saw light glinting a short distance away. They had company. The flashing light was caused by the sun’s reflection—either on field glasses or gunmetal. He worried that it might be soldiers from Fort Buchanan. After decoying them the other day and leading them away from the Apache raiding party, he imagined they would be only too glad to nab him, assuming it was the same patrol and they would recognize him. It was an assumption he would go by, because his horse was unforgettable. Not to mention that he was a half-breed. In one lightning movement, he catapulted onto the stallion behind her, catching her when she started in surprise.

“Someone’s up ahead past those saguaro,” he said quietly. She stiffened in his arms. He knew she was worried about any number of things—more Apache, Pima, Papago, outlaws, banditos from south of the border. He almost reassured her. Instead he urged the stallion into a lope and angled discreetly around toward the spot where he was sure they were.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Checking to see who it is.”

“Why don’t we just circle around them?”

“Because they may have seen us too.”

Candice was not reassured. She was worried, yes, but not enough so to take her mind off the more imminent problem—how to ride in front of him without being physically intimate. He had one arm wrapped around her waist, a firm anchor, and it supported the underside of her breasts. That made her very nervous. It was also making her nipples hard and sensitive. Or maybe it was his hard chest against her back, because it was impossible to keep distance between them no matter how rigidly she sat. She shifted her bottom, meaning to get closer to the pommel. The morion only set her higher on rock-hard thighs.

“Just relax,” he growled.

She, of course, went stiffer. And her face flamed. She was very aware of his body behind hers, touching hers. She could even smell him—it was a distinctive scent and, if she was honest, not at all unpleasant. In fact, her heart was thudding a bit too quickly and, for some reason, her pants had become tight, making her uncomfortable.

He pulled the stallion up and slid off, pulling her down abruptly, one arm around her. “Be quiet and just do as I do.”

She nodded. She knew he didn’t trust her, or else he’d leave her alone with the stallipn while he went to investigate. And he was right. If she had the opportunity, she would be on his horse and galloping across the desert in one split second. In a semicrouch, his arm holding her clamped to his side, he pulled her toward a thick stand of saguaro and boulders. Then he pushed her into a crevice of rock, growling, “Stay there.”

Candice watched him duck away. She could hear male voices and laughter. She hesitated. It was just possible the men were hands from one of her neighbor’s ranches, or, please God even better, troops. She followed him.

He was on his stomach, peering down an incline, shielded by thick octillo clusters. Candice got to her hands and knees and scrambled down to join him. She was ten yards away when he whipped onto his back, drawing one Colt so fast she wouldn’t have believed it if she didn’t see the gun pointing right at her chest. She cried out, freezing.

He lunged up and grabbed her, throwing her down.

She gasped for breath.

He reared up and started firing. Three fast, rapid shots in near succession. Then a long pause, and Candice twisted to stare and saw him taking a long, careful bead even as she heard the galloping beat of a departing rider. He fired. The horse’s stride never faltered. Jack straightened to his full height and began scrambling down the slope.

Candice sat up, wiping sweat out of her eyes. She stood cautiously and looked down the slope, then cried out. Three bodies lay sprawled in blood on the ground. Three riderless horses were cantering away. The dead men—and she did not for a minute doubt they were dead—were cowboys clad in
thick chaps and range clothes. She cringed at the sight of the cold-blooded murders. Then she heard another shot.

He was standing over an Indian who was staked out Apache style and sheathing his gun. Candice saw the red flower blossoming on the Indian’s chest and knew Savage had killed him too, and she felt sick. For a minute she just stood there, fighting nausea, barely aware of how he was standing motionless, his head hanging. Then he straightened, turned slightly, raised his eyes and looked at her. The timing was perfect. Candice was already falling to her knees and retching.

She stayed on her hands and knees for a long time after the heaves had stopped, trembling and numb. She realized she was clawing the dirt, and she sat back on her heels, taking a few deep breaths. That was when she thought she heard a man’s moan. She looked up.

Savage was wrapping the Indian in his buckskin bedroll. Candice watched him and was stunned. He folded the blanket over the brave’s face and body as if he were bundling up a fragile infant. Then she heard the moan again, and saw one of the prostrate cowboys move his head. She was standing without realizing it.

Jack whistled, a sharp sound, and the black came galloping down the slope. He lifted the corpse and settled it on the saddle, speaking softly as the animal shied uneasily. Candice ran down the slope, falling, skinning her palm and running again. She ran past Jack, who was tying the corpse to the saddle. She stopped and knelt. The man’s eyes were open. His face was white and wet with sweat. She saw that he had been gut-shot. She knew enough to know that it was fatal—and that he would take hours and hours to die. She rose. “Mr. Savage! He’s alive!”

His back was to her, and he continued to tie the Indian corpse to the saddle, as if he hadn’t heard.

“Mr. Savage! He’s alive! This man is still alive!”

“Help me,” the man gasped, a barely audible whisper.

Candice was frantic. Jack hadn’t turned, hadn’t even responded or given any sign that he had heard. She ran to him and grabbed his arm. “He’s alive! Are you deaf? For God’s sake—”

“I know,” he said tonelessly, not glancing at her.

She dropped his arm, stunned, and backed away. “He’s gut-shot,” she croaked.

No response. He patted the stallion.

“Are you just going to let him die like an animal?”

Jack turned to face her. “He is an animal.”

Her eyes widened.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“What kind of man are you?” She gasped. “You’re the animal, not that poor dying man—you killed his friends in cold blood …”

“Let’s go,” he said again. Taking the stallion’s reins, he started walking away.

“You can’t leave him like that!” Candice screamed, running after him and grabbing his arm and hanging on to it, pulling him up short. To her total shock, he threw her off violently, and she fell on her backside onto the ground. He took one stride toward her, and she cringed, half frightened, half furious. He towered over her, his words low and enraged. “The Apache was only a boy,” he rasped. “Fourteen winters, that’s all. A Child of the Water—a novice in training to be a warrior. His status is sacred, special, protected. He was left behind by the raiding party so he wouldn’t be put in danger, because he is unproven and untried. Do you know what they were doing to him?”

Candice didn’t say a word.

He knelt. His eyes sparked. “What kind of courage does it take for four grown men to capture an unarmed boy who is all alone, and tie him up and stake him out and carve him up, then watch the ants crawl into his raw flesh?”

She was gasping, unable to breathe.

“There was no skin left on his chest,” Jack said. “Even his face was crawling with ants—his eyes, nose, his mouth.”

She sucked in her breath, and it sounded like half a sob.

He leaned closer. “That pig will die—slowly. In great pain. Just like the boy was dying.”

Her voice was very faint. “It’s wrong.”

“Vengeance is our way.” He stood. His bare chest was rising and falling rapidly.

Candice pushed herself up into a sitting position. “That doesn’t make it right.”

He turned his back on her and started toward the black.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, and got to her feet, her eyes tearing. She brushed the moisture away and stumbled to one of the dead men. More moisture came, blinding her. She was weeping. She took a revolver out of one man’s limp hand. It weighed more than any gun she had ever held, and it was cold, so very cold, in her grip. She stumbled toward the dying man. She had to brush at her eyes so she could see.

“Please.” The words were so faint, barely audible, with a gurgling quality.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and raised the gun. Her hands were snaking uncontrollably. He was dying and in great pain—she had to do it. But she couldn’t pull the trigger. Her hand fell against her leg and she fought to control tears and to find the strength to put the man out of his pain.