The Darkest Heart (51 page)

She wet the cloth and carefully, very carefully, began to clean his face. She wiped off the blood and was relieved to see that he didn’t need stitches. She was as gentle as she could be. He watched her, without expression. But not warily.

His nose was crooked. Candice set aside the rag, giving him a falsely assuring smile. Then, in one motion, she
snapped it back into place. He grunted, but when he looked at her she thought there was a faint glint of humor in his gaze. It was hard to tell.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, stroking his thick, dust-coated hair. She wanted to know why they had been given this respite and had the awful, instinctive feeling that Bradley was about to close the steel jaws of another trap. She wondered if this was all for nothing, to keep him well enough to be able to talk, so that he could be hanged properly later. The feeling of sick fear increased.

“I will try not to hurt you,” she said, moving aside the edge of the bandage and wishing she had lard to soothe his burned body.

He said nothing.

So far there was no sign of infection, the one blessed part of this whole ordeal. Jack was looking at her, and she realized finally that she saw trust and relief in his eyes. It overwhelmed her with the desire to weep.

He knew. He knew she would never betray him.

She touched his hair. She wanted to tell him she loved him, that she always had and always would, but Bradley was behind her, so interested in everything she was doing.

“Come here, Candice,” he said. “I didn’t bring him here for your ministrations.”

She started, standing slowly. She looked into his eyes for a clue. Coldly gleaming. She looked at Jack, lying prostrate, but attentive on the bed. “What now? Can’t you please bring me some lard?”

Bradley gave her a small smile, went to Jack, and in the blink of an eye cuffed one red wrist to the bedpost. He straightened. “Never underestimate your enemy,” he said conversationally. “Take off your clothes, Candice.”

“What?”

“Perhaps your husband enjoys voyeurism? Perhaps not. We shall see. In any case, undress.”

She stared, unsure. Jack was rigid, expressionless, un-moving, “If I sleep with you, will you release Jack?”

“Your charms are not that great. I expect him to speak up before I actually have to rape you. Of course, we can avoid much unpleasantness if he speaks up now. Where is the stronghold?”

Jack stared impassively.

“Undress,” the major said, removing his own jacket casually. “And after I’m through I’ll let my soldiers at you—every woman-starved one.”

Candice sucked in her breath. “Jack will never tell you what you want. Even if you do rape me.”

“I think you’re wrong,” the major said. “I think even a man reared by the Apaches would eventually break down. Especially as my men will more likely than not tear you apart—literally.”

Candice looked at Jack. “It’s all right,” she told him, unbuttoning her blouse. “It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter. Don’t say anything.” Their gazes met. She saw that his mouth was clamped hard together. She tried to reassure him silently. She pulled off her shirt, letting it drop to the floor. She let her skirt drop to her ankles. Her petticoat followed. She was wearing nothing underneath—she had no pantalets. She shrugged out of her chemise.

“Incredibly beautiful,” Bradley said, a touch of huskiness creeping into his tone. He smiled, stepped closer, and reached out to cup her breasts. “Incredibly beautiful.”

Candice looked briefly at Jack, and saw that he was trying to control his breathing and his anger. She tried to ignore the major’s caressing hand. “I won’t give you the satisfaction of raping me. I won’t fight you.”

“Has he tasted your mother’s milk?” Bradley murmured, and he bent his head, taking her nipple in his mouth.

Jack lunged upward against the cuff. If he hadn’t been so weak and hurt, he would have gotten to his feet and dragged the bed with him. Candice looked wildly around the room for a weapon. Her eyes lit on Bradley’s gun, but it was in a buttoned-down holster. He doesn’t really know me, she thought with sudden hope. She was his enemy too.

She looked frantically at Jack. He was gesturing at the tray where her dinner plate had been, on the table by the bed. What did he think? There was no knife there, they hadn’t given her one. Then she saw the lead paperweight, in the shape of a bear.

“Good God.” Bradley gasped, coming up for air. “Your milk is so sweet.” He was shaking.

Candice pulled him a step toward the bed, sinking onto
the floor, the table with the paperweight not far from her head. She smiled, lips parted, as if she were highly aroused, and beckoned for him, legs and arms spread.

He came, unbuttoning his pants and freeing his member. He knelt, moving on top of her. Candice felt a stab, both of fear and a tentative thrust that could not penetrate past her dry skin. Jack! Could he reach the damn paperweight? Normally that would be easy. But he was so weak. And Bradley was battering her, trying to enter, with all the clumsiness of a schoolboy.

And then she saw Jack’s hand, heard his grunt of pain, and she averted her own head as the paperweight came crashing onto Bradley’s skull, not a perfect shot by any means, skimming the side and his temple. He stared wildly at her for an instant, his movements stopping, stunned and not comprehending.

Like a snake, Candice had her hand on his holster, was unsnapping it and releasing the gun. She sent it crashing against the same temple, and he slumped on top of her with a breath of exhaled air.

She lay very still, her heart pounding. Then she shoved him up and rose, to collapse on the bed at Jack’s side. He was panting, eyes closed. “We have to get you out of here,” she said.

He opened his eye. “Get the key,” he said hoarsely.

She scrambled to obey. She found it in one of Bradley’s pockets, then unlocked the handcuffs. Jack sat, staring at her. On the floor, the major stirred.

Jack stood, picking up the gun, moving to the window. There were two soldiers at the front door. He went to the other window. It was just around the corner from the major’s quarters, but it was the only way out. He paused, then, to regard her steadily. Grimly.

“You’re leaving me!” She gasped. “You’re leaving me and Christina?”

“You’ll be all right,” he said. “I hit the major, not you.” It was a warning.

“Jack! But—” She stopped, unable to believe it as he cuffed her wrist to the bedpost. Then he climbed through the window, naked, gun in hand, and dropped silently and stiffly
to the other side. She clapped her free hand over her mouth.
He was leaving without her
. The major groaned.

Jack paused for the barest of seconds, and his gaze locked with hers. His was filled with resolution. Candice watched helplessly, feeling as if her heart were breaking, again. “Please don’t.” She gasped.

And then he was gone. She sat shaking, naked, her right wrist handcuffed to the bedpost. He was free, but she felt only an agonizing pain in her heart.

He had left without her
.

He wasn’t coming.

Candice stared out of her bedroom window, not even seeing the dusty yard, the corrals, the barns, the walls surrounding the High C. Instead, she saw Jack, squatting by the fire in front of the
gohwah
, Datiye and Shoshi by his side. Tears came into her eyes. But this was what she had wanted, wasn’t it?

No! All along, maybe not even consciously, she had wanted him to follow her, declare his undying love for her, and join her in making a new fife, even if it meant leaving the Territory. But that wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t understand why he had come after her at Fort Buchanan almost a month ago if he wasn’t coming after her now.

The major had still been groggy when the two soldiers had burst in, after she had been inspired to call out for help. They’d gaped at her sitting naked, cuffed to the bed, their major on the floor, pants unbuttoned, the prisoner gone. Because the situation was so embarrassing, Corporal Tarnower had immediately been sent for and had taken charge. Both guards were threatened with court-martial if a word of what they’d seen got around. And, of course, because no one could think otherwise when she had been found naked and cuffed to the bed, Tarnower believed that Jack had knocked Bradley out with the paperweight, stolen his gun, forced Candice to free him, then cuffed her to the bed in malicious spite. Even Bradley believed it. The major, who had a serious concussion, had sent her home with his apologies two days later with a small military escort.

Candice knew she had been a sight in her worn, ragged clothes with her peeling nose. And the cradleboard with Christina on her back. There had been a long moment of absolute silence while her father, Luke, Mark, and John-John had stared in shocked speculation. Candice had lifted her chin high. She had calmly removed the cradleboard and picked up Christina, smiling at her baby—then she’d looked at Luke. “Don’t you want to say hello to your niece?”

He’d come out of his trance with a quick stride and a
sudden smile to knuckle Christina’s cheek. Then he looked at Candice. “Hello, Sis. You look awful.”

“Thank you, Luke, I love you too.”

He kissed her cheek, smiling.

Her father reacted next, wanting to know where Kincaid was and if she was all right. She met his eye, then everyone else’s, as calmly as she could. “Kincaid is dead, honest-to-goodness dead.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Mark exclaimed, while her father and John-John came over to hug her and inspect the baby.

“Jack Savage killed Kincaid,” Candice stated. “For what he did to me. And this is our daughter.”

No one moved.

“Kincaid’s daughter?” Luke asked levelly.

“No, Jack’s daughter. He’s my husband.”

A shocked, incredulous silence ensued. Mark went white, then red. Her father stared. Luke began rolling a cigarette casually. John-John broke the silence. “I don’t believe it!”

“Jack is my husband and I love him, and if you love me, you’ll try to understand.”

“I’ll never understand,” Mark rasped. “You’d lie with that breed willingly?” He turned and stalked to the door.

“Mark,” Candice cried, “please try to understand. Jack didn’t kill Linda!”

He slammed the door behind him.

Candice looked up, starting to tremble. Christina started to whimper and move restlessly. Candice held her tighter. She looked at her father. She could see the shock in his eyes. He still hadn’t moved. “I’m very tired,” Candice said. “Pop? Do you want me to leave?”

John sat down heavily. “Candice, my God, do you know what you’ve done?”

“I love him,” she said simply. “He’s brave and strong and he’s got integrity of steel. Even if I never see him again, I’ll always love him. There’ll never be anyone else for me.”

John rubbed his face with his hands.

Luke came to her, taking her arm, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as his gaze went to his niece. “Why don’t
you lie down upstairs,” he said softly. “I think everyone needs some time to adjust.”

“Will Mark ever adjust?” she heard herself ask bitterly.

He still hadn’t. Mark would give her long, condemning looks, but he wouldn’t talk to her. He never looked at Christina; he ignored his niece as if she didn’t exist. Her father seemed ten years older from the impact of the truth. Funny enough, John-John had eased back into their old relationship in the past few weeks, being too young to seriously hold a grudge. Once Candice even caught him lying on the floor and playing with Christina.

God bless Luke. If it wasn’t for him she might have gone insane from the condemnation of her father and Mark, the cowboys and their neighbors. She’d finally confided the entire story to him and ended up weeping in his arms while he held her close and stroked her hair. The only thing she didn’t tell him was that the preacher who had married them had not been real.

And every day she listened for the sentry’s shout, “Rider approaching,” waiting for Jack.

Troops had been sent out the night of his escape to find him. For the two days she had remained at the fort, she had been breathless with fear for his safety. But she had hoped, and even thought, that he had holed up somewhere in a cave full of cached supplies until he was stronger. Even then, once he set out for the stronghold, he would probably travel only by night, to protect himself both from farther burning and from the patrols. But what if an infection had set in? What if he’d had an accident in his condition—or died?

She could not give up hoping that he would come for her.

She had told him not to come, had told him he couldn’t give her and their child what they needed. Had he come to believe that ridiculous note with the passage of time? Or did he now understand, finally, how important it was to her to raise Christina as a white woman? As a lady? And had he chosen, irrevocably, the Apache over her and their child?

She tried to tell herself that it was for the best, but the words rang hopelessly hollow and false in her mind.

“So, the time has come,” Cochise remarked, his gaze unwavering.

“Yes, it has,” Jack returned. He felt that he should say something, explain why he was leaving, why he would never come back. He groped for words Cochise would understand. “It’s been too difficult for my heart,” he finally said, feeling that the words were totally inept.

“I understand,” Cochise said. It was that simple.

Jack turned, then, and walked away, feeling sad. It wasn’t the kind of sadness that the thought of never seeing Candice again induced—that was gut-wrenching. Soon, he thought—his heart leaping at the thought of seeing her again.

But the sight of Datiye and Shoshi made him very, very grim. This sadness was more like a pain. He loved his son. He knew Shoshi belonged with his mother, but he did not want to leave him behind. There was no other way.

Datiye looked at him with great control. Her eyes were red. Last night she had obviously been crying. It was yesterday that he’d told her he was leaving, for good. But now her chin was thrust forward, her mouth set in a tight line. She forced a smile. “Wherever you ride, I know my prayers will follow. The
gans
love you, will still protect you.”