The Darkest Heart (6 page)

Hard hands grabbed her from behind and sent her stumbling out of the way. She looked up just as the shot rang out. Jack turned to her with a black, murderous expression as he slammed his gun back into its holster. He reached out, pushing her toward the black, sending her stumbling forward. His footsteps, usually soundless, were hard on the ground behind her.

He didn’t look at her—he didn’t trust himself to.

He was aware of her stumbling behind him, then running doggedly to catch up, but he didn’t slow his long, hard strides. The sun was very high now, and blazing in its intensity. It was late September, probably a hundred degrees, and without a cloud in the sky. There was no shade offered by the saguaro that was giving way slowly to juniper and chaparral as they ascended the foothills. He heard her fall. He didn’t stop.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. She was revolted by him and all his “kind, yet he had been moved enough to give in to her will and show mercy to the dying
pindah
. As he well knew, the man did not deserve mercy. Vengeance was preached by Usen, and he had been reared in it. He had never enjoyed torture, few men did—it was left to the women, as was right. He inflicted torture only in vengeance, which was also right. Even then, it was not something he did lightly or enjoyed. It was something that had to be done, like leaving the man in his agony to be broiled by the sun, craving water, eaten by ants, and bleeding to death inch by slow inch.

But Jack had put him out of his misery.

He wasn’t sure if he was furious with himself or her, or both of them.

They covered another mile, the ascent getting rocky, pinyons joining the juniper to offer shade and respite. He heard her fall again and stiffened himself against her. But she didn’t cry out, didn’t ask him to wait. She got to her feet and continued to stumble after him.

Hours later when the sun was starting to touch the mountain ridges, turning heavy and orange, he stopped. He didn’t look at her, and he didn’t have to, to know what she was doing. She sank gasping onto the ground. He untied the bundled corpse and removed it from the black, very gently.

The boy had recognized and called him by name, asking Jack to send him into the other world. Jack, of course, could not refuse. For one, it was not the Apache way. And also, the boy had called him Niño Salvaje, and the Apache never called
each other by their names unless it was a special or dire occasion. At such a time, the person named could not refuse whatever was asked of him. Jack had been only too glad to obey.

He hadn’t recognized the boy.

It was three years since he had last seen his people, but that wasn’t why. It was because the boy was unrecognizable.

He had left the People—
nnee
—so he wouldn’t have to take part in the killing or the White Eyes. Now he had only just returned, and it was the same vicious cycle. This time the killing had been just, but the lesson was old, weary, and blatant. He was a fool to have returned.

As Jack slowly unrolled the blanket, Candice found herself watching. She was badly out of breath, and her feet hurt terribly—her boots were fashioned for riding, not walking. But she watched as his big, callused hands moved over the dead body. His touch was whisper soft and very gentle, as if he were handling china. She didn’t understand now he could handle the dead boy like that after killing so many in cold blood.

She stood. There was a stream nearby, and she was desperately thirsty. He hadn’t offered her water, and just as she hadn’t asked him to slow his pace, she hadn’t asked him for a drink, either. She stumbled to the bank and sank down, tossing the hat aside. She drank unabashedly with her hands, then rinsed her face the best she could. She dried her skin on the edge of her shirt, then turned slightly, too tired to get up, to see what he was doing now. She stared.

He had shed his pants and moccasins, his guns and knife belt, and was wearing only a loincloth and the turquoise and silver necklace. For a moment she couldn’t move, or even breathe. He was bending over the corpse, doing something. She watched his body, the powerful thighs, the flat stomach, the bulging biceps in his arms. Then she went very red and looked at her feet. What in God’s name was he doing?

She consciously averted her gaze, until she saw his bare feet moving past her silently. She looked up and realized he was carrying the corpse, which was now naked, into the stream.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“He must be washed.”

Candice was standing. He was lowering the body, and she saw it and gagged. She averted her head, her heart thumping. How could anybody inflict such torture on another human body? She fought to keep the rising bile down.

She walked hurriedly away, limping a bit. She busied herself with removing her boots and inspecting her blisters, anything to occupy her attention, but found herself compelled to watch. He was bathing every inch of the boy’s body, even his hair. After Savage carried the brave back out, he redressed him in the pants, leggings, and elaborately feathered war bonnet that he had been wearing. The boy hadn’t been wearing a shirt, and Candice blinked when Jack went to his own saddlebags and pulled a buckskin blouse out and dressed the body in it. She had an inane thought: So he did own a shirt—and then a valid one: Why is he giving it to the boy? She grew even more amazed when he tucked one of his Colts and one of his knives into the boy’s belt.

“What are you doing?” she said again.

He didn’t look up. “Burying him.”

“Why did you give him your shirt and gun and your knife?”

Jack lifted the boy and carried him to a rock outcropping, placing him in a natural crevice. He began to pile rocks over it. “He had no shirt, no weapons,” he said simply.

She had heard that this was the way Apaches buried their kin, in natural crevices, but she hadn’t believed it. She watched him pile on the stones until the body was no longer visible, the sight making her feel cold and clammy. “I don’t understand.”

He lifted a large boulder and heaved it on top. When he turned to face her he was sweating freely. “It might be cold.”

“What?”

“It’s a four-day journey to the afterworld,” Jack said, gazing at her. “He had no shirt. He could get cold. And he might encounter spirits—evil ones. He had no weapons.” He walked past her.

Candice just stared.

He began collecting firewood. Once he had a blaze going he added green juniper and, from his saddlebags, sprigs of what looked to be sage and thyme. Then he strode to the stream, saying “Come here.”

Still stunned by the entire afternoon, it took Candice a moment to respond. She approached cautiously while he stood impatiently, hands on his hips. “Strip.”

“What?”

“Strip. Then get in the water and bathe.”

Her mouth opened, and she was so affronted and incredulous that for an instant no sound came out. “You have got to be kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, casually removing his loincloth.

Candice instantly glanced at his groin, at the flaccid member nestled there, and then she went beet red, turning on her heel. He grabbed her and spun her around. “Just get out of your clothes and into the goddamn water.”

“What are you going to do?” Her tone was fearful.

He smiled, not with amusement. “I am not going to do what I’m beginning to think you want me to do,” he said. “Either you take off those clothes or I will.”

Candice looked away and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse. She dared look at him. He was washing the loincloth with sand and water. She hesitated, reluctant to remove her blouse. She darted another look at him—he was now scrubbing his foot, his ankle. “Take it off,” he said.

She took it off. “I’m not taking off my underwear,” she stated, removing her jeans.

He didn’t look up. “Fine.”

She waded as quickly as she could into the water and began washing without looking at him. She heard him splash out and started to relax. The water was delicious. She had been dirty. This wasn’t so bad, and using the sand as a scrub was an innovative idea. She dunked her head and began to rinse her long hair. Her gaze strayed to the bank.

She tensed, while something hot flamed inside her.

His buttocks were high and hard and tight, a pale bronze color, a stunning contrast to his darkly bronzed back and arms. She quickly looked down, anywhere but at him. Didn’t he care that he was standing there nude? And what had he been doing, immersing himself in the smoke from the fire like that?

“Wash your clothes and come here,” he called.

Her glance strayed. “What are we doing?”

He didn’t turn to face her. The smoke was thick and
fragrant. “The dead carry disease. It’s bad to touch them, to be near them. The smoke is purifying.”

She washed her clothes and didn’t tell him what she thought about such primitive beliefs. Then, clad in her wet underthings, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, she hesitantly approached—pausing behind him and careful not to look at his nudity. He stepped to the left, she stepped forward. The smoke was awful. She coughed.

“Just relax,” he said. “Do as I do.”

He bent and picked up the canteen and began dousing the fire. Thick steam rose, blanketing them with its warmth. She could hear his breathing, deeper and louder than normal. He had told her to do as he did. In their precarious state of undress, she didn’t want to attract his attention by not obeying. She began imitating his deep, uneven breathing, matching the sound, careful not to look at him. It was a ragged duet. He said, “What in hell are you doing?”

She looked at him without thinking. His jaw was clenched. He was looking at her—specifically, he was looking at her breasts with their hard nipples. Candice instantly covered her chest with her arms—unsuccessfully. “You told me to do what you do.”

He exhaled loudly, his eyes moving to her guileless face. Candice reddened and looked down, then quickly away.

Too late—nothing would chase away the image of his thick, swollen shaft impaling the air. So thick, so big. She decided she didn’t care about contamination. She ran to her clothes and struggled into them. He didn’t say another word.

At dawn, he awoke.

The world was still gray, with the faintest pink blush in the east. Last night they had moved a half mile downstream and made a camp for the night. Jack got soundlessly to his feet, his gaze instantly searching her out. She lay curled on the other side of the dead fire beneath the buckskin hide. He looked at her for one long moment, then turned and left the camp.

Many images assailed him. How she had looked standing in the steam of the fire clad in her thin, wet undergarments; her expression when she had seen him. He almost smiled. Of course he hadn’t meant the erection to happen, as he didn’t mean it now, but he needed a woman—and he wanted her.

They were only about thirty hours from the High C, and he couldn’t get there too soon. It was the enforced intimacy, he was sure. If she had been just another beautiful white woman he had seen in passing, ne would have forgotten her. His body wouldn’t be going crazy with impossible, hopeless need.

Of course, there were so few white women in these parts, and even fewer pretty ones, much less a woman like Candice Carter.
Kincaid
, he corrected. Candice Carter Kincaid. He resolved to take care of his needs as soon as possible, and knew he was only kidding himself if he thought some whore’s arms were going to erase her image.

He was angry again—a dark, frustrated anger of the heart.

The growl sounded above him.

The instant he heard it he had many thoughts in one split second. The mountain lion was belligerent. He hadn’t been aware of it because he was so preoccupied with her. The woman was going to be the death of him.

He pulled his Colt, but too late. From above on the rock, the tawny cat was flying through the air. The force of the contact sent him backward before he could even fire, twenty claws cinching through his skin, the gun falling from his grasp as his hands came up instinctively between them.

It was like the burning of hellfire. They rolled, a mass of human flesh and furred beast. The claws lifted, sank in, contracted—but he did not scream. He knew he could not get the cat off with brute force. His hand closed over his knife. He pulled it from his sheath and plunged it upward with desperation and sheer intent.

For an instant he thought he had failed, then the cat’s eyes went wider and its mouth formed a screaming growl of fury. The claws embedded in his flesh stretched and pulled. The big body went rigid, then limp. The animal relaxed and Jack pushed him off, freezing up at the agony of those claws scorching through his flesh as the cat rolled aside. His knife protruded from its heart.

Jack lay very still.

He was panting, sweat streaming down his face, down his body. He had been trained to withstand pain, but the agony was close to unbearable. He needed a few moments to find the strength to move. His heart slowed, his breathing became less rapid. His hands found the dirt beneath him and he levered himself up with difficulty. The pink and gray morning darkened, spinning, and he fought not to pass out. He succeeded.

He looked at the cat, which must have weighed over 150 pounds, and he looked at his knife. He got to his knees, every movement causing shots of searing pain, then pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, panting and fighting more waves of dizziness, then took two steps toward the cat, where he promptly fell to his knees again.

It took a few moments to get enough strength, but he finally reached out and pulled the blade from the tawny chest, automatically wiping it in the dirt and sheathing it. The world was still spinning, and he thought, It’s only a few scratches, get up.

He knew he could not take care of himself properly. The girl was only twenty yards away. There was more pain at that thought, a pain of the heart, of the soul. Now she could kill him and ride away. He couldn’t trust her. He needed his strength and his wits. He would have to force her to clean his back.

He rested for an eternity that went too fast, then pushed himself to his feet again. He walked carefully, so as not to
stagger, one foot in front of the other. The camp wasn’t far; there was no question in his own mind of not making it. But he paused once, holding on to a branch of scrub oak, willing strength, not weakness. Then he pulled his Colt, the handle strangely clammy in his hand, the weight of it surprisingly heavy, forcing the nose down. He pushed himself away from the tree. The ground was still spinning, but slowly, manageably.